Project Gutenberg's Yorkshire Ditties, First Series, by John Hartley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Yorkshire Ditties, First Series To Which Is Added The Cream Of Wit And Humour From His Popular Writings Author: John Hartley Release Date: February 10, 2006 [EBook #17472] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YORKSHIRE DITTIES, FIRST SERIES *** Produced by David Fawthrop Yorkshire Ditties, First Series to which is added the Cream of Wit and Humour from his popular writings. by John Hartley, Born 1839, Died 1915. London W. Nicholson & Sons, Limited, 26, Paternoster Square, E.C and Albion Works, Wakefield. [entered at stationers' hall] Introduction As the First Volume of the Yorkshire Ditties has been for some time out of print, and as there is a great demand for the very humorous productions of Mr. Hartley's pen, it has been decided to reprint that Volume, and also a Second One; both to be considerably enlarged and enriched by Selections from Mr. Hartley's other humorous writings. The Publishers would also intimate that for this purpose they have purchased of Mr. Hartley the copyright of the DITTIES, and other Pieces appended to each Volume. The Publishers presume that both Volumes will, on account of their great humour, be favourably received by the Public. Contents. Poetry. Bite Bigger. To th' Swallow. Plenty o' Brass. Th' Little Stranger. Babby Burds. Wayvin Mewsic. That's a Fact. Stop at Hooam. The Short Timer. Th' First o'th' Soart. Lines on Finding a Butterfly in a Weaving Shed. Uncle Ben. The New Year's Resolve. The Old Bachelor's Story. Aght o' Wark. Another Babby. The Little Black Hand. Lily's Gooan. My Native Twang. Shoo's thi' Sister. Persevere. To a Roadside Flower. Prose. Hartley's Cream of Wit and Humour The New Year. Valentine Day. March Winds. April Fooils. Policeman's Scrape. Information. Watterin' Places. Flaar Shows. October Ale. Force of Example. Gunpaader Plot. Th' Last Month. Meditated Strike. New Year's Parties. Smiles, Tears, Getting on. Mysterious Disappearance. Sam it up. Fooils. Cleanin' Daan Month. Hay-making. Hollingworth Lake. Plagues. End o'th' Year. Scientific. Valentine Dream. Poetry. Bite Bigger. As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark, (Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,) Aw happen'd to hear a remark, 'At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan— It wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd, An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck, An' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd, It saanded like nowt but ill luck; When two little lads, donn'd i' rags, Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet, Coom trapesin away ower th' flags, Booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet.— Th' owdest mud happen be ten, Th' young en be hauf on't,—noa moor; As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen, God help fowk this weather 'at's poor! Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand, An' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be; 'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand, An' they seem'd to ha fill'd him wi glee: An' he sed, "Come on, Billy, may be We shall find summat else by an by, An' if net, tha mun share thease wi me When we get to some spot where its dry." Leet-hearted they trotted away, An' aw follow'd, coss 'twur i' mi rooad; But aw thowt awd nee'er seen sich a day— It worn't fit ta be aght for a tooad. Sooin th' big en agean slipt away, An' sam'd summat else aght o'th' muck, An' he cried aght, "Luk here, Bill! to-day Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck? Here's a apple! an' th' mooast on it's saand: What's rotten aw'll throw into th' street— Worn't it gooid to ligg thear to be faand? Nah booath on us con have a treat." Soa he wiped it, an' rubb'd it, an' then Sed, Billy, "thee bite off a bit; If tha hasn't been lucky thisen Tha shall share wi' me sich as aw get." Soa th' little en bate off a touch, T'other's face beamed wi' pleasur all throo, An' he said, "Nay, tha hasn't taen much, Bite agean, an' bite bigger; nah do!" Aw waited to hear nowt noa moor,— Thinks aw, thear's a lesson for me! Tha's a heart i' thi breast, if tha'rt poor: Th' world wur richer wi' moor sich as thee! Tuppince wur all th' brass aw had, An' awd ment it for ale when coom nooin, But aw thowt aw'll goa give it yond lad, He desarves it for what he's been dooin; Soa aw sed, "Lad, here's tuppince for thee, For thi sen,"—an' they stared like two geese, But he sed, woll th' tear stood in his e'e, "Nah, it'll just be a penny a piece." "God bless thi! do just as tha will, An' may better days speedily come; Tho' clam'd, an' hauf donn'd, mi lad, still Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nur some." To th' Swallow. Bonny burd! aw'm fain to see thee, For tha tells ov breeter weather; But aw connot quite forgi thee, Connot love thee altogether. 'Tisn't thee aw fondly welcome— 'Tis the cheerin news tha brings, Tellin us fine weather will come, When we see thi dappled wings. But aw'd rayther have a sparrow, Rayther hear a robin twitter; Tho' they may net be thi marrow, May net fly wi' sich a glitter; But they niver leeav us, niver— Storms may come, but still they stay; But th' first wind 'at ma's thee shiver, Up tha mounts an' flies away. Ther's too mony like thee, swallow, 'At when fortun's sun shines breet, Like a silly buzzard follow, Doncin raand a bit o' leet. But ther's few like Robin redbreast, Cling throo days o' gloom an' care; Soa aw love mi old tried friends best— Fickle hearts aw'll freely spare. Plenty o' Brass. A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! It's grand to be able to spend A trifle sometimes on a glass For yorsen, or sometimes for a friend To be able to bury yor neive Up to th' shackle i' silver an' gowd An', 'baght pinchin', be able to save A wee bit for th' time when yor owd. A'a! it's grand to ha', plenty o' brass! To be able to set daan yor fooit Withaght ivver thinkin'—bith' mass! 'At yor wearin' soa mitch off yor booit; To be able to walk along th' street, An' stand at shop windows to stare, An' net ha' to beat a retreat If yo' scent a "bum bailey" i' th' air. A'a I it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! To be able to goa hoam at neet, An' sit i'th' arm-cheer bith' owd lass, An' want nawther foir nor leet; To tak' th' childer a paper o' spice, Or a pictur' to hing up o' th' wall; Or a taste ov a summat 'at's nice For yor friends, if they happen to call. A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! Then th' parsons'll know where yo' live: If yo'r' poor, it's mooast likely they'll pass, An' call where fowk's summat to give. Yo' may have a trifle o' sense, An' yo' may be both upright an' true But that's nowt, if yo' can't stand th' expense Ov a hoal or a pairt ov a pew. A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' brass! An' to them fowk at's getten a hoard, This world seems as smooth as a glass, An' ther's flaars o' boath sides o'th' road; But him 'at's as poor as a maase, Or, happen, a little i' debt, He mun point his noas up to th' big haase, An' be thankful for what he can get. A'a! it's grand to ha' plenty o' chink! But doan't let it harden yor heart: Yo' 'at's blessed wi' abundance should think An' try ta do gooid wi' a part! An' then, as yor totterin' daan, An' th' last grains o' sand are i'th glass, Yo' may find 'at yo've purchased a craan Wi' makkin gooid use o' yor brass. Th' Little Stranger. Little bonny, bonny babby, How tha stares, an' weel tha may, For its but an haar, or hardly, Sin' tha furst saw th' leet o' day. A'a! tha little knows, young moppet, Ha aw'st have to tew for thee; May be when aw'm forced to drop it, 'At tha'll do a bit for me. Are ta maddled, mun, amang it? Does ta wonder what aw mean? Aw should think tha does, but dang it! Where's ta been to leearn to scream? That's noa sooart o' mewsic, bless thee! Dunnot peawt thi lip like that! Mun, aw hardly dar to nurse thee, Feared awst hurt thee, little brat. Come, aw'll tak thee to thi mother; Shoo's moor used to sich nor me: Hands like mine worn't made to bother Wi sich ginger-breead as thee. Innocent an' helpless craytur, All soa pure an' undefiled! If ther's ought belangs to heaven Lives o'th' eearth, it is a child. An its hard to think, 'at some day, If tha'rt spared to weather throo, 'At tha'll be a man, an' someway Have to feight life's battles too. Kings an' Queens, an' lords an' ladies, Once wor nowt noa moor to see; An' th' warst wretch 'at hung o'th' gallows, Once wor born as pure as thee. An' what tha at last may come to, God aboon us all can tell; But aw hope 'at tha'll be lucky, Even tho aw fail mysel. Do aw ooin thee? its a pity! Hush! nah prathi dunnot freat! Goa an' snoozle to thi titty Tha'rt too young for trouble yet. Babby Burds. Aw wander'd aght one summer's morn, Across a meadow newly shorn; Th' sun wor shinin' breet and clear, An' fragrant scents rose up i'th' air, An' all wor still. When, as my steps wor idly rovin, Aw coom upon a seet soa lovin! It fill'd mi heart wi' tender feelin, As daan aw sank beside it, kneelin O'th' edge o'th' hill. It wor a little skylark's nest, An' two young babby burds, undrest, Wor gapin wi' ther beaks soa wide, Callin' for mammy to provide Ther mornin's meal; An' high aboon ther little hooam, Th' saand o' daddy's warblin coom, Ringin' soa sweetly o' mi ear, Like breathins thro' a purer sphere, He sang soa weel. Ther mammy, a few yards away, Wor hoppin' on a bit o' hay, Too feard to come, too bold to flee; An' watchin me wi' troubled e'e, Shoo seem'd to say: "Dooant touch my bonny babs, young man! Ther daddy does the best he can To cheer yo with his sweetest song; An' thoase 'll sing as weel, ere long, Soa let 'em stay." "Tha needn't think aw'd do 'em harm— Come shelter 'em and keep 'em warm! For aw've a little nest misel, An' two young babs, aw'm praad to tell, 'At's precious too; An' they've a mammy watching thear, 'At howds them little ens as dear, An' dearer still, if that can be, Nor what thease youngens are to thee, Soa come,—nah do! "A'a well!—tha'rt shy, tha hops away,— Tha doesn't trust a word aw say; Tha thinks aw'm here to rob an' plunder, An' aw confess aw dunnot wonder— But tha's noa need; Aw'll leave yo to yorsels,—gooid bye! For nah aw see yor daddy's nigh; He's dropt that strain soa sweet and strong; He loves yo better nor his song— He does indeed." Aw walk'd away, and sooin mi ear Caught up the saand o' warblin clear; Thinks aw, they're happy once agean; Aw'm glad aw didn't prove so mean To rob that nest; For they're contented wi ther lot, Nor envied me mi little cot; An' in this world, as we goa throo, It is'nt mich gooid we can do, An' do awr best. Then let us do as little wrong To ony as we pass along, An' never seek a joy to gain At's purchased wi another's pain, It isn't reet. Aw shall goa hooam wi' leeter heart, To mend awr Johnny's little cart: (He allus finds me wark enough To piecen up his brocken stuff, For every neet.) An' Sally—a'a! if yo could see her! When aw sit daan to get mi teah, Shoo puts her dolly o' mi knee, An' maks me sing it "Hush a bee," I'th' rocking chear; Then begs some sugar for it too; What it can't ait shoo tries to do; An' turnin up her cunnin e'e, Shoo rubs th' doll maath, an says, "yo see, It gets its share.", Sometimes aw'm rayther cross? aw fear! Then starts a little tremblin tear, 'At, like a drop o' glitt'rin dew Swimmin within a wild flaar blue, Falls fro ther e'e; But as the sun in April shaars Revives the little droopin flaars, A kind word brings ther sweet smile back: Aw raylee think mi brain ud crack If they'd ta dee. Then if aw love my bairns soa weel, May net a skylark's bosom feel As mich consarn for th' little things 'At snooze i'th' shelter which her wings Soa weel affoards? If fowk wod nobbut bear i' mind How mich is gained by bein' kind, Ther's fewer breasts wi' grief ud swell, An' fewer fowk ud thoughtless mell Even o'th' burds. Wayvin Mewsic. Ther's mewsic i'th' shuttle, i'th' loom, an i'th frame, Ther's melody mingled i'th' noise, For th' active ther's praises, for th' idle ther's blame, If they'd hearken to th' saand of its voice; An' when flaggin a bit, ha refreshin to feel As yo pause an luk raand on the throng, At the clank o' the tappet, the hum o' the wheel, Sing this plain unmistakable song:— Nick a ting, nock a ting; Wages keep pocketing; Workin for little is better nor laiking; Twist an' twine, reel an' wind; Keep a contented mind; Troubles are oft ov a body's own making. To see workin fowk wi' a smile o' ther face As they labor thear day after day; An' hear 'th women's voices float sweetly throo 'th place, As they join i' some favorite lay; It saands amang th' din, as the violet seems 'At peeps aght th' green dockens among, An' spreading a charm over th' rest by its means, Thus it blends i' that steady old song; Nick a ting, nock a ting; Wages keep pocketing; Workin for little is better nor laiking; Twist an' twine, reel an' wind; Keep a contented mind; Troubles are oft ov a body's own making. An' then see what lessons are laid out anent us, As pick after pick follows time after time, An' warns us tho' silent, to let nowt prevent us From strivin by little endeavours to climb; Th' world's made o' trifles! its dust forms a mountain! Then niver despair as you're trudgin along; If troubles will come an' yor spirits dishearten, Yo'll find ther's relief i' that steady old song; Nick a ting, nock a ting; Wages keep pocketing; Working for little is better nor laiking; Twist an' twine, reel an' wind; Keep a contented mind; Troubles are oft ov a body's own making. Life's warp comes throo Heaven, th' weft's fun bi us sen; To finish a piece we're compell'd to ha booath. Th' warp's reight, but if th' weft should be faulty—ha then? Noa wayver i' th' world can produce a gooid clooath; Then let us endeavour, bi working and striving, To finish awr piece soa's noa fault can be fun; An' then i' return for awr pains an contriving, Th' takker in 'll reward us an' whisper' well done.' Clink a clank, clink a clank, Workin withaat a thank, May be awr fortun—if soa never mind it! Striving to do awr best, We shall be reight at last, If we lack comfort nah, then shall we find it. That's a Fact. A'a Mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee! Aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure; Aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see, Aw wor never i' this way afoor, Aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo; Aw've been twirling abaght like a worm, An' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too— Tha niver saw cloas i' sich form. Aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght— But promise tha'll keep it reight squat, For aw wodn't for th' world let it aght; But aw can't keep it in—tha knows that. We'd a meetin at the schooil yesterneet, An' Jimmy wor thear,—tha's seen Jim? An' he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit, To ax me for th' number o'th' hymn; Aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick, For he heeard it geen aght th' same as me; An' he just did th' same thing tother wick,— It made fowk tak noatice, dos't see. An' when aw wor gooin towards hooam Aw heeard som'dy comin behund: 'Twor pitch dark, an' aw thowt if they coom, Aw should varry near sink into th' graund. Aw knew it wor Jim bi his traid, An' aw tried to get aght ov his gate; But a'a! tha minds, lass, aw wor flaid, Aw wor niver i' sich en a state. Then aw felt som'dy's arm raand my shawl, An' aw said, "nah, leave loise or aw'll screeam! Can't ta let daycent lasses alooan, Consarn thi up! what does ta mean?" But he stuck to mi arm like a leach, An' he whispered a word i' mi ear; It took booath my breeath an' my speech, For aw'm varry sooin thrown aght o' gear. Then he squeezed me cloise up to his sel, An' he kussed me, i' spite o' mi teeth: Aw says, "Jimmy, forshame o' thisel!" As sooin as aw'd getten mi breeath: But he wodn't be quiet, for he said 'At he'd loved me soa true an' soa long— Aw'd ha' geen a ear off my yed To get loise—but tha knows he's so a strong— Then he tell'd me he wanted a wife, An' he begged 'at aw wodn't say nay;— Aw'd ne'er heeard sich a tale i' mi life, Aw wor fesen'd whativer to say; Cos tha knows aw've a likin' for Jim; But yo can't allus say what yo mean, For aw tremeld i' ivery limb, But at last aw began to give way, For, raylee, he made sich a fuss, An aw kussed him an' all—for they say, Ther's nowt costs mich less nor a kuss. Then he left me at th' end o' awr street, An' aw've felt like a fooil all th' neet throo; But if aw should see him to neet, What wod ta advise me to do? But dooant spaik a word—tha's noa need, For aw've made up mi mind ha to act, For he's th' grandest lad iver aw seed, An' aw like him th' best too—that's a fact! Stop at Hooam. "Tha wodn't goa an leave me, Jim, All lonely by mysel? My een at th' varry thowts grow dim— Aw connot say farewell. Tha vow'd tha couldn't live unless Tha saw me every day, An' said tha knew noa happiness When aw wor foorced a way. An th' tales tha towld, I know full weel, Wor true as gospel then; What is it, lad, 'at ma's thee feel Soa strange—unlike thisen? Ther's raam enuff, aw think tha'll find, I'th taan whear tha wor born, To mak a livin, if tha'll mind To ha' faith i' to-morn. Aw've mony a time goan to mi wark Throo claads o' rain and sleet; All's seem'd soa dull, soa drear, an' dark, It ommust mud be neet. But then, when braikfast time's come raand, Aw've seen th' sun's cheerin ray, An' th' heavy lukkin claads have slunk Like skulkin lads away. An' then bi nooin it's shooan soa breet Aw've sowt some shade to rest, An' as aw've paddled hooam at neet, Glorious it's sunk i'th west. An' tho' a claad hangs ovver thee, (An' trouble's hard to bide), Have patience, lad, an' wait an' see What's hid o'th' tother side. If aw wor free to please mi mind, Aw'st niver mak this stur; But aw've a mother ommust blind, What mud become o' her? Tha knows shoo cared for me, when waik An' helpless ivery limb, Aw'm feeard her poor owd heart ud braik If aw'd to leave her, Jim. Aw like to hear thee talk o' th' trees 'At tower up to th' sky, An' th' burds 'at flutterin i'th' breeze, Lie glitterin' jewels fly. Woll th' music of a shepherd's reed May gently float along, Lendin its tender notes to lead Some fair maid's simple song; An' flaars 'at grow o' ivery side, Such as we niver see; But here at hooam, at ivery stride, There's flaars for thee an' me. Aw care net for ther suns soa breet, Nor warblin melody; Th' clink o' thi clogs o' th' flags at neet Saands sweeter, lad, to me. An' tho' aw wear a gingham gaan, A claat is noa disgrace; Tha'll niver find a heart moor warm Beat under silk or lace. Then settle daan, tak my advice, Give up this wish to rooam! An' if tha luks, tha'll find lots nice Worth stoppin' for at hooam." "God bless thee, Jenny! dry that e'e, An' gi'e us howd thi hand! For words like thoase, throo sich as thee, What mortal could withstand! It isn't mich o'th' world aw know, But aw con truly say, A faithful heart's too rich to throw Withaat a thowt away. So here aw'll stay, and should fate fraan, Aw'll tew for thine and thee, An' seek for comfort when cast daan, I'th' sunleet o' thi e'e." The Short-Timer. Some poets sing o' gipsy queens, An' some o' ladies fine; Aw'll sing a song o' other scenes, A humbler muse is mine: Jewels, an' gold, an' silken frills, Are things too heigh for me, But woll mi harp wi' vigour thrills, Aw'll strike a chord for thee. Poor lassie wan, Do th' best tha can, Although thi fate be hard; A time ther'll be When sich as thee Shall have yor full reward. At hauf-past five tha leaves thi bed, An' off tha goes to wark; An' gropes thi way to mill or shed, Six months o'th' year i'th' dark. Tha gets but little for thi pains, But that's noa fault o' thine; Thi maister reckons up his gains, An' ligs i' bed till nine. Poor lassie wan, &c. He's little childer ov his own 'At's quite as old as thee; They ride i' cushioned carriages 'At's beautiful to see; They'd fear to spoil ther little hand, To touch thy greasy brat: It's wark like thine 'as maks 'em grand They niver think o' that. Poor lassie wan, &c. I' summer time they romp an' play Where flowers grow wild and sweet; Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay, They thrive throo morn to neet. But tha's a cough, aw hear tha has; An' oft aw've known thee sick; But tha mun work, poor little lass, For hauf-a-craan a wick. Poor lassie wan, &c. Aw envy net fowks' better lot— Aw should'nt like to swap. Aw'm quite contented wi'mi cot; Aw'm but a warkin chap. But if aw had a lot o' brass Aw'd think o' them 'at's poor; Aw'd have yo' childer workin' less, An' mak yor wages moor. Poor lassie wan, &c. "There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign, Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain." Noa fact'ry bell shall greet thi ear, I' that sweet home ov love; An' those 'at scorn thi sufferins here May envy thee above. Poor lassie wan, &c. Th' First o'th Sooart. Aw heeard a funny tale last neet— Aw could'nt howd fro' laffin— 'Twor at th' Bull's Heead we chonced to meet, An' spent an haar i' chaffin. Some sang a song, some cracked a joak, An' all seem'd full o' larkin; An' th' raam war blue wi' bacca smook, An' ivery e'e'd a spark in. Long Joa 'at comes thro th' Jumples cluff, Wor gettin rayther mazy; An' Warkus Ned had supped enuff To turn they're Betty crazy;— An Bob at lives at th' Bogeggs farm, Wi' Nan throo th' Buttress Bottom, Wor treating her to summat wanm, (It's just his way,—"odd drot em!") An' Jack o'th' Slade wor theear as weel, An' Joa o' Abe's throo Waerley; An' Lijah off o'th' Lavver Hill, Wor passing th' ale raand rarely.— Throo raand and square they seem'd to meet, To hear or tell a stoory; But th' gem o' all aw heard last neet Wor one bi Dooad o'th' gloory. He bet his booits 'at it wor true, An' all seem'd to believe him; Tho' if he'd lost he need'nt rue— But 't wodn't ha done to grieve him His uncle lived i' Pudsey taan, An' practised local praichin; An' if he 're lucky, he wor baan To start a schooil for taichin. But he wor takken varry ill; He felt his time wor comin: (They say he brought it on hissel Wi' studdyin his summin.) He call'd his wife an' neighbors in To hear his deein sarmon, An' tell'd 'em if they liv'd i' sin Ther lot ud be a warm en. Then turin raand unto his wife, Said—"Mal, tha knows, owd craytur, If awd been bless'd wi' longer life, Aw might ha' left things straighter. Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence— Aw lent it him last lovefeast." Says Mal—"He has'nt lost his sense— Thank God for that at least!" "An Ben o'th' top o'th' bank tha knows, We owe him one paand ten.".— "Just hark!" says Mally, "there he goas! He's ramellin agean! Dooant tak a bit o' noatice, fowk! Yo see, poor thing, he's ravin! It cuts me up to hear sich talk— He spent his life i' savin! "An, Mally, lass," he said agean, "Tak heed o' my direction: Th' schooil owes us hauf a craan—aw mean My share o'th' last collection.— Tha'll see to that, an have what's fair When my poor life is past."— Says Mally, "listen, aw declare, He's sensible to th' last." He shut his een an' sank to rest— Deeath seldom claimed a better: They put him by,—but what wor th' best, He sent 'em back a letter, To tell 'em all ha he'd gooan on; An' ha he gate to enter; An' gave 'em rules to act upon If ever they should ventur. Theear Peter stood wi' keys i' hand: Says he, "What do you want, sir? If to goa in—yo understand Unknown to me yo can't sir.— Pray what's your name? where are yo throo? Just make your business clear." Says he, "They call me Parson Drew, Aw've come throo Pudsey here." "You've come throo Pudsey, do you say? Doant try sich jokes o' me, sir; Aw've kept thease doors too long a day, Aw can't be fooiled bi thee, sir." Says Drew, "aw wodn't tell a lie, For th' sake o' all ther's in it: If yo've a map o' England by, Aw'll show yo in a minit." Soa Peter gate a time-table— They gloored o'er th' map together: Drew did all at he wor able, But could'nt find a stiver. At last says he, "Thear's Leeds Taan Hall, An thear stands Braforth mission: It's just between them two—that's all: Your map's an old edition. But thear it is, aw'll lay a craan, An' if yo've niver known it, Yo've miss'd a bonny Yorksher taan, Tho mony be 'at scorn it." He oppen'd th' gate,—says he, "It's time Some body coom—aw'll trust thee. Tha'll find inside noa friends o' thine— Tha'rt th' furst 'at's come throo Pudsey." Lines on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed. Nay surelee tha's made a mistak; Tha'rt aght o' thi element here; Tha may weel goa an' peark up oth' thack, Thi bonny wings shakin wi fear. Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms Saand queer sooart o' music to thee; An' tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes O' miln-grease,—what th' quality be. Maybe' tha'rt disgusted wi' us, An' thinks we're a low offald set But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, For ther's hooap an' ther's pride in us yet. Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, An' as humble as humble could be; An' tho we nah are like tha wor then, We may yet be as nobby as thee. Tha'd to see thi own livin when young, An' when tha grew up tha'd to spin; An' if labor like that worn't wrong, Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.' But tha longs to be off aw con tell; For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content: Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window—farewell! Off tha goas, bonny fly!—An' it went. Uncle Ben. A gradely chap wor uncle Ben As iver lived ith' fowd: He made a fortun for hissen, An' lived on't when he'r owd. His yed wor like a snow drift, An' his face wor red an' breet, An' his heart wor like a feather, For he did the thing 'at's reet. He wore th' same suit o' fustian clooas He'd worn sin aw wor bred; An' th' same owd booits, wi' cappel'd tooas, An' th' same hat for his yed; His cot wor lowly, yet he'd sing Throo braik o' day till neet; His conscience niver felt a sting, For he did the thing 'at's reet. He wod'nt swap his humble state Wi' th' grandest fowk i' th' land; He niver wanted silver plate, Nor owt 'at's rich and grand; He did'nt sleep wi' curtained silk Drawn raand him ov a neet, But he slept noa war for th' want o' that, For he'd done the thing 'at's reet. Owd fowk called him "awr Benny," Young fowk, "mi uncle Ben,"— An' th' childer, "gronfather," or "dad," Or what best pleased thersen. A gleam o' joy coom o'er his face When he heeard ther patterin feet, For he loved to laik wi' th' little bairns An' he did the thing 'at's reet. He niver turned poor fowk away Uncared for throo his door; He ne'er forgate ther wor a day When he hissen wor poor; An' mony a face has turned to Heaven, All glistenin wi' weet, An' prayed for blessins on owd Ben, For he did th' thing 'at's reet. He knew his lease wor ommost spent, He'd sooin be called away; Yet he wor happy an' content, An' waited th' comin day; But one dark neet he shut his e'en, An' slept soa calm an' sweet, when mornin coom, th' world held one less, 'At did the thing 'at's reet. The New Year's Resolve. Says Dick, "ther's a' notion sprung up i' mi yed, For th' furst time i' th' whole coorse o' mi life, An' aw've takken a fancy aw'st like to be wed, If aw knew who to get for a wife. Aw dooant want a woman wi' beauty, nor brass, For aw've nawther to booast on misel; What aw want is a warm-hearted, hard-workin' lass, An' ther's lots to be fun, aw've heeard tell. To be single is all weel enuf nah an' then, But it's awk'ard when th' weshin' day comes; For aw nivver think sooapsuds agree weel wi' men; They turn all mi ten fingers to thumbs. An' awm sure it's a fact, long afoor aw get done, Aw'm slopt throo mi waist to mi fit; An' th' floor's in' a pond, as if th' peggy-tub run, An' mi back warks as if it 'ud split. Aw fancied aw'st manage at breead-bakin' best; Soa one day aw bethowt me to try, But aw gate soa flustered, aw ne'er thowt o'th' yeast, Soa aw mud as weel offered to fly. Aw did mak a dumplin', but a'a! dear a me! Abaght that lot aw hardly dar think; Aw ne'er fan th' mistak' till aw missed th' sooap, yo see, An' saw th' suet i'th' sooap-box o'th' sink. But a new-year's just startin', an' soa aw declare Aw'll be wed if a wife's to be had; For mi clooas is soa ragg'd woll aw'm ommost hauf bare, An' thease mullucks, they're drivin' me mad. Soa, if yo should know, or should chonce to hear tell, Ov a lass 'at to wed is inclined, Talegraft me at once, an' aw'll see her misel Afoor shoo can alter her mind." The Old Bachelor's Story. It was an humble cottage, Snug in a rustic lane, Geraniums and fuschias peep'd From every window-pane;