Folk of Elmet

Famous and Infamous

& some of their writings.

This page last updated 25/04/06

This area has a history of great and varied characters.

We will try to paint a picture of some of them here.

Fairfax's Gascoine's Despencers Hicklam Vavasour's

Commoners of note. Highwaymen. Etc.

If any group or individual has further information, additions or differing evidence and would like to share it here then please get in touch by email on tykes@boozer.co.uk. Any support we can offer such groups or individuals is available for the asking.

My thanks to Michael Watson for this extract from Bede

Ernest Brown

Saxton Grange Farm

A 35 year old groom who made his employer's wife his mistress and murdered her husband in a fit of jealousy. Brown worked for Frederick Ellison Morton, a wealthy cattle farmer who lived with his wife and child at Saxton Grange Farm aside London Road south of Towton.

Dorothy Morton became Brown's mistress but their passion was soured by his violent jealousy. Following a disagreement about his duties Brown left the Morton household but within days asked for his old job back. Morton agreed, but far from being grateful he threatened to wreck the place. Tension reached a peak on 5th September 1933 when Mr. Morton went out for a day in one of his cars. Early in the evening an argument occurred when Brown struck Dorothy and she fell to the ground. Thus began a night of terror for Dorothy and her companion Ann Houseman.

Brown fired a shotgun outside the house, saying he was shooting at rats. The two women, already aware that the telephone had gone dead, locked themselves in upstairs rooms. At 3:30am there was a loud explosion and the garage across the yard was set ablaze. Mrs Morton and Ann ran terrified from the house and hid in nearby fields.

The fire was so fierce that it was not until 9:00am next morning that the ruins could be examined. The garage contained the wrecks of Morton's two cars, in one of them was his charred body. A post mortem showed that he had been shot in the chest before being burned.

Brown was charged with murder and sent to Leeds assizes for trial. The prosecution contended that he had shot Morton and set fire to the garage. He fuelled the fire with petrol which caused the explosion heard by the women. Brown had taken a knife from the kitchen just before the phone went dead. Forensic evidence showed that the wires had been cut by this knife.

The jury found him guilty and he was hanged at Armley prison on the 6th of February 1934.

It was suggested that Brown might also be the murderer of one Evelyn Foster in a separate unsolved case. Aked if he wanted to make a confession while on the gallows he is alleged to have said "ought to burn" or "otterburn".

Article source unknown.

Job the Hermit

On Romilies Moor a Hermit dwells,

Who is unfirm and old;

His sod-built cot, so poor and mean,

Will scarce keep out the cold.

He seems contented with his lot,

Though scanty is his fare,

And health sits smiling on his cheek,

Fanned by the mountain air.

He joins the lark in cheerful song,

Which scales the mountains high,

And floats along the lonely plain,

and echoes thro' the sky.

From every quarter thousands come,

To visit where he dwells;

Entranced they sit upon the turf,

And list the tale he tells.

The moor-game linger in the broom,

As if his voice they knew,

The peewits whistle round the spot,

Likewise the wild curlew.

The plovers float around the place,

And whirl in circles light,

The Hermit views them as they pass,

And gazes with delight.

Hard was the fate of poor old Job,

They pulled his cottage down;

I do not know the reason why,

Perhaps it was some clown.

How hard and callous was that heart

Of adamant or steel;

A bed of straw is now his lot,

And sad his scanty meal.

All ye that dwell in splendid halls,

And rest on beds of down,

Remember Job before too late,

For he is quite forlorn.

He's hastening fast unto his grave,

For seventy years he's past;

And when he leaves the moorland cot,

And when he breathes his last,

May some kind angel guard him home,

And waft him thro' the sky,

To join the heavenly choir above,

No longer here to sigh.

Kind friends and neighbours round this place,

Can read these verses o'er,

And then remember poor old Job,

The Hermit of the Moor.

When he is carried to his tomb,

And storms roll round the spot,

Many will gaze, and then exclaim,

"This was the Hermit's cot".

But like the seed of Adam's race,

We all must pass away,

Those that live long, how short their time,

And transient is their day!

After the destruction of his stead, Job cast a meal sack on his shoulders, fastened his girdle upon his loins, and went long journeys, leaning heavily on two staves, one in each hand, calling at many steads and singing many staves at the drinkings, and was made much of: so that many men rode to Burley to see him, and so he increased his substance; but was unlike other hermits in that he chanted merry staves and drank much ale to his own hurt, which, indeed, in the end, proved the death of him, in that when faring one day to Sheeptown, and feeling weary he drank ale in which men for a trick upon him did mix mischievous potions which wrough him much ill; and his strength departing, he was carried to a house of refuge in Otley, in Wharfedale, where he died age 77, and was buried at Burley. His kinsmen took possession of the stead, and sold the piece of land, which is now planted with trees, and the heritage of Job passed from his house forever. Now the rest of his mighty acts; how that he always drank his water and buttermilk warm, and did eat the potatoes he grew, and never washed his body, of his four voices and the wonders he wrought therewith, his apparel, and what disreputable old vagabond he must have been, are all told in the saga of S. Baring Gould. Here endeth this story.

Poems.

A Yorkshire Dialogue between an Aud Wife a Lass and a butcher. (1673)

Anonymous

Printed at York as a broadside by Stephen Bulkley in 1673. The original broadside is lost, but a manuscript transcript of it
was purchased by the late Professor Skeat at the sale of Sir F. Madden's books and papers, and published by him in volume xxxii. of the Dialect Society's Transactions, 1896.

   AWD WIFE. Pretha now, lass, gang into t' hurn(1)
An' fetch me heame a skeel o' burn(2);
Na, pretha, barn, mak heaste an' gang,
I's mar my deagh,(3) thou stays sae lang.
   LASS. Why, Gom,(4) I's gea, bud, for my pains,
You's gie me a frundel(5) o' your grains.
   AWD WIFE. My grains, my barn! Marry! not I;
My draugh's(6) for t' gilts an' galts(7) i' t' sty.
Than, pretha, look i t' garth and see
What owsen(8) i' the stand-hecks(9) be.
   LASS. Blukrins! they'll put,(10) I dare not gang
Oute'en(11) you'll len' me t' great leap-stang.(12)
   AWD WIFE. Tak t' frugan,(13) or t' awd maulin-shaft,(14)
Coom tite(15) agean an' be not daft.
   LASS. Gom, t' great bull-segg(16) he's brokken lowse,
An' he, he's hiked(17) your broad-horned owse;
An' t' owse is fall'n into t' swine-trough,
I think he's brokken his cameril-hough.(18)
   AWD WIFE. Whaw! Whaw! lass, mak heaste to t' smedy,(19)
He's noo dead, for he rowts(20) already;
He's boun; oh! how it bauks an' stangs!(21)
His lisk(22) e'en bumps an' bobs wi' pangs.
His weazen-pipe's(23) as dry as dust,
His dew-lap's swelled, he cannot hoast.(24)
He beals(25); tak t' barghams(26) off o' t' beams
An' fetch some breckons(27) frae the clames.(28)
Frae t' banks go fetch me a weam-tow(29)
My nowt's(30) e'en wrecken'd, he'll not dow.(31)
E'en wellanerin!(32) for my nowt,
For syke a musan(33) ne'er was wrowt.
Put t' wyes(34) amell(35) yon stirks an' steers
I' t' owmer,(36) an' sneck the lear-deers.(37)
See if Goff Hyldroth be gain-hand (38)
Thou helterful,(39) how dares ta stand!
  LASS. He'll coom belive,(40) or aibles titter,(41)
For when he hard i' what a twitter(42)
Your poor owse lay, he took his flail
An' hang'd 't by t' swipple(43) on a nail;
An' teuk a mell(44) fra t' top o' t' wharns(45)
An' sware he'd ding your owse i' t' harns.(46)
He stack his shak-fork up i' t' esins(47)
An' teuk his jerkin off o' t' gresins.(48)
Then teuk his mittens, reached his bill,
An' off o' t' yune-head(49) teuk a swill(50)
To kep t' owse blude in. Leuk, he's coom.
   AWD WIFE. Than reach a thivel(51) or a strum(52)
To stir his blude; stand not to tauk.
Hing t' reckans(53) up o' t' rannel-bauk.(54)
God ye good-morn, Goff; I's e'en fain
You'll put my owse out o' his pain.
   BUTCHER. Hough-band him, tak thir(55) weevils hine(56)
F'rae t' rape's end; this is not a swine
We kill, where ilkane hauds a fooit.
I's ready now, ilkane leuk to it.
Then "Beef!" i' God's name I now cry.
Stretch out his legs an' let him lie
Till I coom stick him. Where's my swill?(57)
Coom hither, lass; haud, haud, haud still.
   LASS. What mun I do wi' t' blude?  BUTCHER. Thou fool,
Teem(58) 't down i' t' garth, i' t' midden-pool.
Good beef, by t' mass! an' when 'tis hung
I's roll it down wi' tooth an' tongue,
An' gobble 't down e'en till I worry.
An' whan neist mell(59) we mak a lurry(60)
A piece o' this frae t' kimlin(61) browt
By t' Rood! 't will be as good as owt.
   AWD WIFE. Maut-hearted(62) fool, I e'en could greet(63)
To see my owse dead at my feet.
I thank you, Goff; I's wipe my een
An', please, you too. BUTCHER. Why, Gom Green?

1. Corner.  2. Bucket of water.  3. Dough. 4. Grand-mother.
5. Handful.  6. Draff.   7. Sows and boars.  8. Oxen.  9. Stalls.
10. Gore.  11. Unless.  12. Pole.  13. Oven-fork.
14. Handle of oven-mop.  15. Quickly.  16. Bullock.  17. Gored.
18. Bend of hind.leg.  19. Smithy.  20. Snorts.  21. Swells and stings.
22. Flank.  23. Windpipe.  24. Cough.  25. Bellows.  26. Horse-collars.
27. Bracken.   28. Heaps.  29. Belly-band.  30. Ox.  31. Recover.
32. Alas!   33. Wonder.  34. Heifers.  35. Among.  36. Shade.
37. Barn-doors.  38. Near at hand.  39. Halter-full.   40. Soon.
41. Perhaps sooner.  42. Perilous state.   43. Flap-end.  44. Mallet.
45. Hand-mill.  46. Brains.  47. Eaves.  48. Stairs.  49. Oven-top.
50. Bucket.  51. Porridge-stick.  52. Stick.
53. Iron chains for pot-hooks.  54. Chimney cross-beam.  55. Those.
56. Away.  57. Bucket.  58. Pour.  59. Next harvest-supper.
60. Merry feast.  61. Tub.  62. Maggot-hearted.  63. Weep.
 

An Honest Yorkshireman

Henry Carey (Died 1748)

I is i' truth a coontry youth,
   Nean used to Lunnon fashions;
Yet vartue guides, an' still presides
   Ower all my steps an' passions.
Nea coortly leer, bud all sincere,
   Nea bribe shall iver blinnd me ;
If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike,
   A rogue thoo'll niver finnd me.

Thof envy's tongue, so slimly hung,
   Would lee aboot oor coonty,
Nea men o' t' earth boast greater worth,
   Or mair extend their boonty.
Oor northern breeze wi' us agrees,
   An' does for wark weel fit us ;
I' public cares, an' love affairs,
   Wi' honour We acquit us.

Sea great a maand(1) is ne'er confaand(2)
   'Tiv onny shire or nation,
They gie un meast praise whea weel displays
   A larned eddication;
Whaal rancour rolls i' laatle souls,
   By shallow views dissarnin',
They're nobbut wise at awlus prize
   Good manners, sense, an' larnin'.

1. Mind   2. Confined
 

From "Snaith Marsh" (1754)

Anonymous

This was written at the time of the Enclosure Acts
which robbed the peasent farmer of his rights to use Commons.

Alas! will Roger e'er his sleep forgo,
Afore larks sing, or early cocks 'gin Crow,
As I've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done,
To help thee milking, e'er day wark begun?
And when thy well-stripp'd kye(1) would yield no more,
Still on my head the reeking kit(2) I bore.
And, Oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome talk
We've held together, ganging down the balk,
Maund'ring(3) at time which would na for us stay,
But now, I ween, maes(4) no such hast away.
Yet, O! return eftsoon and ease my woe,
And to some distant parish let us go,
And there again them leetsome days restore,
Where, unassail'd by meety(5) folk in power,
Our cattle yet may feed, tho' Snaith Marsh be no more.
   But wae is me! I wot I fand(6) am grown,
Forgetting Susan is already gone,
And Roger aims e'er Lady Day to wed;
The banns last Sunday in the church were bid.
But let me, let me first i' t' churchyard lig,
For soon I there must gang, my grief's so big.
All others in their loss some comfort find;
Though Ned's like me reduc'd, yet Jenny's kind,
And though his fleece no more our parson taks,
And roast goose, dainty food, our table lacks,
Yet he, for tithes ill paid, gets better land,
While I am ev'ry o' t' losing hand.
My adlings wared,(7) and yet my rent to pay,
My geese, like Susan's faith, flown far away;
My cattle, like their master, lank and poor,
My heart with hopeless love to pieces tore,
And all these sorrows came syne(8) Snaith Marsh was no more

1. Well-milked kine (cattle)  2. Pail  3. Finding Fault
4. Makes  5. Mighty  6. Fond, Foolish  7. Earnings spent
8. Since
 

When at Hame wi' Dad

Anonymous

When at hame wi' dad,
   We niver had nae fun, sir,
Which meade me sae mad,
   I swore away I'd run, sir.
I pack'd up clease(1) sae smart,
   Ribbed stockings, weastcoats pretty;
Wi' money an' leet heart,
   Tripp'd off to Lunnon city,
      Fal de ral de ra.

When I did git there
   I geap'd about quite silly,
At all the shows to stare
   I' a spot call'd Piccadilly.
Lord! sike charmin' seights:
   Bods(2) i' cages thrive, sir',
Coaches, fiddles, feights,
   An' crocodiles alive, sir,
      Fal de ral de ra.

Then I did gan to see
   The gentry in Hyde Park, sir,
When a lass push'd readely(1) by,
   To whom I did remark, sir:
"Tho' your feace be e'en sae fair,
   I've seen a bear mair civil."
Then, the laatle clease they wear!
   God! Lunnon is the divil,
      Fal de ral de ra.

To t' play-house then I goes,
   Whar I seed merry feaces,
An' i' the lower rows
   Were sarvants keepin' pleaces.
The players I saw sean,
   They managed things quite funny;
By gock! they'd honey-mean
   Afore they'd matrimony.
      Fal de ral de ra.

Now havin' seen all I could
   An' pass'd away my time, sir,
If you think fit an' good,
   I'll e'en give up my rhyme, sir.
An', sud my ditty please,
   The poppies in this garden
To me would be heart's-ease;
   If not, I axe your pardon.
      Fal de ral de ra.

1. Clothes   2. Birds  3. Rudely
 

I'm Yorkshire too

Anonymous

From A Garland of New Songs, published by W. Appleton,
Darlington, 1811.

By t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook,
   I was sent betimes to school;
I went wi' the stream, as I studied my book,
   An' was thought to be no small fool.
I never yet bought a pig in a poke,
   For, to give awd Nick his due,
Tho' oft I've dealt wi' Yorkshire folk,
   Yet I was Yorkshire too.

I was pretty well lik'd by each village maid,
   At races, wake or fair,
For my father had addled a vast(1) in trade,
   And I were his son and heir.
And seeing that I didn't want for brass,
   Poor girls came first to woo,
But tho' I delight in a Yorkshrre lass,
   Yet I was Yorkshire too!

To Lunnon by father I was sent,
   Genteeler manners to see;
But fashion's so dear, I came back as I went,
   And so they made nothing o' me
My kind relations would soon have found out
   What was best wi' my money to do:
Says I, "My dear cousins, I thank ye for nowt,
   But I'm not to be cozen'd by you!
   For I'm Yorkshire too."

1. Earned a lot.
 

The Wensleydale Lad

Anonymous

When I were at home wi' my fayther an' mother,
   I niver had na fun;
They kept me goin' frae morn to neet,
   so I thowt frae them I'd run.
Leeds Fair were coomin' on,
   an' I thowt I'd have a spree,
So I put on my Sunday cooat
   an' went right merrily.

First thing I saw were t' factory,
   I niver seed one afore;
There were threads an' tapes, an' tapes an' silks,
   to sell by monny a score.
Owd Ned turn'd iv'ry wheel,
   an' iv'ry wheel a strap;
"Begor!" says I to t' maister-man,
   "Owd Ned's a rare strong chap."

Next I went to Leeds Owd Church--
   I were niver i' one i' my days,
An' I were maistly ashamed o' misel,
   for I didn't knaw their ways;
There were thirty or forty folk,
   i' tubs an' boxes sat,
When up cooms a saucy owd fellow.
   Says he, "Noo, lad, tak off thy hat."

Then in there cooms a great Lord Mayor,
   an' over his shooders a club,
An' he gat into a white sack-poke,(1)
   an gat into t' topmost tub.
An' then there cooms anither chap,
   I thinks they call'd him Ned,
An' he gat into t' bottommost tub,
   an' mock'd all t' other chap said.

So they began to preach an' pray,
   they prayed for George, oor King;
When up jumps t' chap i' t' bottommost tub.
 Says he, "Good folks, let's sing."
I thowt some sang varra weel,
   while others did grunt an' groan,
Ivery man sang what he wad,
   so I sang " Darby an' Joan."(2)

When preachin' an' prayin' were over,
   an' folks were gangin' away,
I went to t' chap i' t' topmost tub.
   Says I, "Lad, what's to pay?"
"Why, nowt," says he, "my lad."
   Begor! I were right fain,
So I click'd hod(3) o' my gret club stick
   an' went whistlin' oot again.

1. Corn-sack  2. Another reading is "Bobbing Joan."
3. Took hold
 

A Song  1.

Thomas Browne (1771-1798)

Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,
Y' are all ower slow by hauf for me,
   That wait impatient for the mornin';
To-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair,
I'll try to shine the fooremost there,
   Misen in finest claes adornin',
      To grace the day.

I'll put my best white stockings on,
An' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon,
   My clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton;
Aboot my neck a muslin shawl,
A new silk handkerchee ower all,
   Wi' sike a careless air I'll put on,
      I'll shine this day.

My partner Ned, I know, thinks he,
He'll mak hiss en secure o' me,
   He's often said he'd treat me rarely;
But I's think o' some other fun,
I'll aim for some rich farmer's son,
   And cheat oor simple Neddy fairly,
      Sae sly this day.

Why mud not I succeed as weel,
An' get a man full oot genteel,
   As awd John Darby's daughter Nelly?
I think misen as good as she,
She can't mak cheese or spin like me,
   That's mair 'an(1) beauty, let me tell ye,
      On onny day.

Then hey! for sports and puppy shows,
An' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows,
   An' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin';
An' thousand other pratty seets,
An' lasses traul'd(2) alang the streets,
   Wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin'
      To drink this day.

Let's leuk at t' winder, I can see 't,
It seems as tho' 't was growin' leet,
   The cloods wi' early rays adornin';
Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,
Y' are all ower slow be hauf for me,
   At(3) wait impatient for the mornin'
      O' sike a day.

1. Than   2. Trailed  3. That
 

A Song 2.

Thomas Browne (1771--1798)

When I was a wee laatle totterin' bairn,
   An' had nobbud just gitten short frocks,
When to gang I at first was beginnin' to lairn,
   On my brow I gat monny hard knocks.
For sae waik, an' sae silly an' helpless was I
   I was always a tumblin' doon then,
While my mother would twattle me(1) gently an' cry,
   "Honey Jenny, tak care o' thisen."

When I grew bigger, an' got to be strang,
   At I cannily ran all about
By misen, whor I liked, then I always mud gang
   Bithout(2) bein' tell'd about ought;
When, however, I com to be sixteen year awd,
   An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men,
My mother would call o' me in an' would scaud,
   An' cry--" Huzzy, tak care o' thisen."

I've a sweetheart cooms noo upo' Setterday nights,
   An' he swears at he'll mak me his wife;
My mam grows sae stingy, she scauds an' she flytes,(3)
   An' twitters(4) me oot o' my life.
Bud she may leuk sour, an' consait hersen wise,
   An' preach agean likin' young men;
Sen I's grown a woman her clack(5) I'll despise,
   An' I's--marry!--tak care o' misen.

1. Prattle to me.  2. Without.  3. Argues,
4. Worries.  5. Talk
 

The Invasion: An Ecologue

Thomas Browne (1771--1798)

Impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit?--Virgil.

A wanton wether had disdain'd the bounds
That kept him close confin'd to Willy's grounds;
Broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray,
He knew not whither on the public way.
As Willy strives, with all attentive care,
The fence to strengthen and the gap repair,
His neighbour, Roger, from the fair return'd,
Appears in sight in riding-graith adorn'd;
Whom, soon as Willy, fast approaching, spies,
Thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries.

WILLY
How dea ye, Roger? Hae ye been at t' fair?
How gangs things? Made ye onny bargains there?

ROGER
I knaw not, Willy, things deant look ower weel,
Coorn sattles fast, thof beas'(1) 'll fetch a deal.
To sell t' awd intak(2) barley I desaagn'd,
Bud couldn't git a price to suit my maand.
What wi' rack-rents an' sike a want a' trade,
I knawn't how yan's to git yan's landloords paid.
Mair-ower(3) all that, they say, i' spring o' t' year
Franch is intarmin'd on 't to 'tack us here.

WILLY
Yea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for?
Depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4)

ROGER
True, Willy, nobbud Englishmen 'll stand
By yan another o' their awwn good land.
They'll niver suffer--I's be bun' to say ­
The Franch to tak a single sheep away.
Fightin' for heame, upo' their awn fair field,
All power i' France could niver mak 'em yield.

WILLY
Whaw! seer(5) you cannot think, when put to t' pinch,
At onny Englishmen 'll iver flinch!
If Franch dea coom here, Roger, I'll be hang'd
An' they deant git theirsens reet soondly bang'd.
I can't bud think--thof I may be mistean ­
Not monny on 'em 'll git back agean.

ROGER
I think nut, Willy, bud some fowk 'll say,
Oor English fleet let t' Franch ships git away,
When they were laid, thou knaws, i' Bantry Bay;
At(6) they could niver all have gien 'em t' slip,
Bud t' English wanted nut to tak a ship.

WILLY
Eh! that's all lees!

ROGER
                      I dinnot say it's true,
It's all unknawn to sike as me an' you.
How do we knaw when fleets do reet or wrang?
I whope it's all on't fause, bud sea talks gang.
Howsiver this I knaw, at when they please,
Oor sailors always beat 'em upo' t' seas.
An' if they nobbut sharply look aboot,
T'hey needn't let a single ship coom oat.
At least they'll drub 'em weel, I dinnot fear,
An' keep 'em fairly off frae landin' here.

WILLY
I whope sea, Roger, bud, an' if they dea
Coom owerr, I then shall sharpen my awd lea.(7)
What thof(8) I can bud of a laatle boast,
You knaw van wadn't hae that laatle lost.
I's send our Mally an' all t' bairns away,
An' I misen 'll by the yamstead(9) stay.
I'll fight, if need; an' if I fall, why, then
I's suffer all the warst mishap misen.
Was I bud seer my wife an' bairns were seafe,
I then sud be to dee content eneaf.

ROGER
Reet, Willy, mon, what an' they put us tea 't
I will misen put forrad my best feat.(10)
What thof I's awd, I's nut sae easily scar'd;
On his awn midden an awd cock fights hard.
They say a Franchman's torn'd a different man,
A braver, better soldier, ten to yan.
Bud let the Franch be torn'd to what they will,
They'll finnd at Englishmen are English still.
O' their awn grund they'll nowther flinch nor flee,
They'll owther conquer, or they'll bravely dee.

1. Beasts, cattle.  2 Enclosure.  3. Besides.
4. Stir.  5. Surely.  6. That.
7. Scythe.  8. Though.  9. Homestead.  10 Foot.
 

Elegy on the Death of a Frog (1815)

David Lewis

Ya summer day when I were mowin',
When flooers of monny soorts were growin',
Which fast befoor my scythe fell bowin',
      As I advance,
A frog I cut widout my knowin'--
      A sad mischance.

Poor luckless frog, why com thoo here?
Thoo sure were destitute o' fear;
Some other way could thoo nut steer
      To shun the grass?
For noo that life, which all hod dear,
      Is gean, alas!

Hadst thoo been freeten'd by the soond
With which the mowers strip the groond,
Then fled away wi' nimble boond,
      Thoo'd kept thy state:
But I, unknawin', gav a wound,
      Which browt thy fate.

Sin thoo com frae thy parent spawn,
Wi' painted cooat mair fine than lawn,
And golden rings round baith ees drawn,
      All gay an' blithe,
Thoo lowpt(1) the fields like onny fawn,
      But met the scythe.

Frae dikes where winter watters steead(2)
Thoo com unto the dewy mead,
Regardless of the cattle's treead,
      Wi' pantin' breeath,
For to restore thy freezin' bleead,
      But met wi' deeath.

A Frenchman early seekin' prog,(3)
Will oftentimes ransack the bog,
To finnd a sneel, or weel-fed frog,
      To give relief;
But I prefer a leg of hog,
      Or roond o' beef.

But liker far to the poor frog,
I's wanderin' through the world for prog,
Where deeath gies monny a yan a jog,
      An' cuts them doon;
An' though I think misen incog,
      That way I's boun.

Time whets his scythe and shakes his glass,
And though I know all flesh be grass,
Like monny mair I play the ass,
      Don't seem to know;
But here wad sometime langer pass,
      Befoor I go.

Ye bonnie lasses, livin' flooers,
Of cottage mean, or gilded booers,
Possessed of attractive pooers,
      Ye all mun gang
Like frogs in meadows fed by shooers,
      Ere owt be lang.

Though we to stately plants be grown,
He easily can mow us doon;
It may be late, or may be soon,
      His scythe we feel;
Or is it fittin' to be known?
      Therefore fareweel.

1. Leaped.  2. Stood. 3. Food.
 
 

Sheffield Cutler's Song (1887)

Abel Bywater

Coom all you cutlin' heroes, where'ersome'er you be,
All you what works at flat-backs,(1) coom listen unto me;
      A basketful for a shillin',
      To mak 'em we are willin',
Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin',
Or swap 'em for red herrin's, aar bellies to be fillin'.

A baskitful o' flat-backs, I'm sure we'll mak, or more,
To ger(2) reight into t' gallery, wheer we can rant an' roar,
      Throw flat-backs, stones an' sticks,
      Red herrin's, bones an' bricks,
If they don't play "Nancy's fancy," or onny tune we fix,
We'll do the best at e'er we can to break some o' their necks.

Hey! Jont, lad, where art ta waddlin' to?
Does ta work at flat-backs yit, as tha's been used to do?
      Ha! coom, an' tha' s go wi' me,
      An' a sample I will gie thee,
It's one at I've just forged upon Geoffry's bran-new stiddy.(3)
Look at it well, it does excel all t' flat-backs i' aar smithy.

Let's send for a pitcher o' ale, lad, for I'm gerrin' varry droy,
I'm ommost chok'd wi' smithy sleck,(4) the wind it is so hoigh.
      Gie Rafe an' Jer a drop,
      They sen(5) they cannot stop,
They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop,
They're i' sich a moighty hurry to get to t' penny hop.

Here's Steem at lives at Heeley, he'll soon be here, I knaw,
He's larnt a new maccaroni step, the best you iver saw;
      He has it so complete,
      He troies up ivery street,
An' ommost breaks all t' pavors(6) wi' swattin'(7) daan his feet.
An' Anak troies to beat him, wheniver they doon(8) meet.

We'll raise a tail by Sunda, Steem; I knaw who's one to sell,
We'll tee a hammer heead at t' end to mak it balance well.
      It's a reight new Lunnon tail,
      We'll wear it kale for kale,(9)
Aar Anak browt it wi' him, that neet he coom by t' mail.
We'll drink success unto it--hey! Tout, lad, teem(10) aat t' ale.

1 Knives. 2 Get.  3. Anvil.  4. Dust.  5. Say.  6. Paving Stones.
7. Hammering.  8. Do.  9. Turn and about. 10. Pour.
 

Address to Poverty

Anonymous

Scoolin' maid o' iron broo,
Thy sarvant will address thee noo,
   For thoo invites the freedom
By drivin' off my former friends,
To leak to their awn private ends,
   Just when I chanc'd to need 'em.

I've had thy company ower lang,
Ill-lookin' wean,(1) thoo must be wrang,
   Thus to cut short my jerkin.
I ken thee weel, I knaw thy ways,
Thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes,
   An' foorc'd me to hard workin'.

To gain o' thee a yal(2) day's march
I straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch.
   For all I still straave faster,
Thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop,
By some slain corn, or failin' crop,
   Or ivery foul disaster.

If I my maand may freely speak,
I really dunnot like thy leak,
   Whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on;
Thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd,
A fiend afoore, a freight behinnd,
   An' foul as Mother Shipton.

Folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth,
Thoo has been wi' me frae my youth,
   An' gien me monny a thumper;
Bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight,
Fast fallin' frae a fearful height,
   A doonreet Milton plumper.

Sud plenty frae her copious horn,
Teem(1) oot to me good crops o' corn,
   An' prosper weel my cattle,
An' send a single thoosand pund,
'T wad bring all things completely roond,
   An' I wad gie thee battle.

Noo, Poverty, ya thing I beg,
Like a poor man withoot a leg,
   Sea, prethee, don't deceive me;
I knaw it's i' thy power to grant
The laatle favour at I want ­
   At thoo wad gang an' leave me.

1. Child.   2. Whole.
 

The Collingham Ghost

Anonymous

I'll tell ye aboot the Collingham ghost,
   An' a rare awd ghost was he;
For he could laugh, an' he could talk,
   An' run, an' jump, an' flee.

He went aboot hither an' thither,
   An' freeten'd some out o' their wits,
He freeten'd the parson as weel as the clerk,
   An' lots beside them into fits.

The poor awd man wha teak the toll
   At Collingham bar for monny a year,
He dursn't coom out to oppen his yat(2)
   For fear the ghost sud be near.

He teak to his bed an' there he laid,
   For monny a neet an' day;
His yat was awlus wide oppen thrown,
   An' nean iver stopp'd to pay.

Awd Jerry wha kept the public hoose,
   An' sell'd good yal to all,
Curs'd the ghost wi' hearty good will,
   For neabody stopp'd to call.

It made sike a noise all roond aboot,
   That folks com far to see;
Some said it was a dreadful thing,
   An' sum said 't was a lee.

Gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns,
   Thinkin' 't was some comical beast;
An' they wad eyther kill him or catch him,
   Or drive him awa at least.

Sea into Lady wood right they went
   Ya beautiful meenleet neet;
A lot o' great men an' a lot o' rough dogs,
   Enew(3) a poor ghost to eat.

They waited lang, the ghost didn't come,
   They began to laugh an' rail,
"If he coom oat of his den," says yan,
   "We'll clap a bit o' saut of his tail."

"Nay, he knows better than turn oot,
   When we are here to watch him,
He'd git a bullet through his lug,
   Or Mungo there wad catch him."

When close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter
   The ghost went whirrin' up,
An' owerr the woods he laughed an' shouted,
   "Bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!"

The gamkeepers all tummled doon,
   Their hair thrast off their hat,
They gaped an' grean'd(4) an' roll'd aboot,
   An' their hearts went pit-a-pat.

Their feaces were white as onny clout,
    An' they said niver a word,
T'hey couldn't tell what the ghost was like,
   Whether 'twas a beast or a bird.

They stay'd nea langer i' t' wood that neet,
   Poor men were niver dafter,
They ran awa hame as fast as they could,
   An' their dogs ran yelping after.

The parson then, a larned man,
   Said he wad conjure the ghost;
He was sure it was nea wandrin' beast,
   But a spirit that was lost.

All languages this parson knew
   That onny man can chat in,
The Ebrew, Greek, an' Irish too,
   As weel as Dutch an' Latin.

O! he could talk an' read an' preach,
   Few men knew mair or better,
An' nearly all the bukes he read
   Were printed in black letter.

He read a neet, he read a day,
   fo mak him fit for his wark,
An' when he thowt he was quite up,
   He sent for the awd clerk.

The clerk was quickly by his side,
   He took but little fettlin',
An' awa they went wi' right good will
   To gie the ghost a settlin'.

Aye off they set wi' all their might,
   Nor stopp'd at thin or thick,
The parson wi' his sark(5) an' buke,
   The clerk wi' a thick stick.

At last by t' side o' t' bank they stopp'd,
   Where Wharfe runs murmurin' clear,
A beautiful river breet an' fine,
   As onny in wide Yorkshire.

The parson then began to read,
   An' read full loud an' lang,
The rabbits they ran in an' oot,
   An' wonder'd what was wrang.

The ghost was listnin' in a hole,
   An' oat he bang'd at last,
The fluttrin' o' his mighty wings,
   Was like a whirlwind blast.

He laughed 'an shooted as he flew,
   Until the wild woods rang;
His who-who-whoop was niver heard
   Sea load an' clear an' strang.

The parson he fell backwards ower
   Into a bush o' whins,
An' lost his buke, an' rave(6) his sark,(7)
   An' prick'd his hands an' shins.

The clerk he tried to run awa,
   But tumml'd ower his stick,
An' there he made a nasty smell
   While he did yell an' fick.(8)

An' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd
   That here I darn't tell,
For if I did, folks wad declare
   I was as ill as hissel.

For eighteen months an' mair he stay'd,
   An' just did as he thowt ;
For lord nor duke, parson nor clerk,
   He fear'd, nor cared nowt.

Efter that time he went awa,
   Just when it pleas'd hissel;
But what he was, or whar he com fra,
   Nea mortal man can tell.

1. Pour.  2. Gate.  3. Enough.  4. Groaned.
5. Surplice.  6. Tore. 7. Surplice.  8. Kick.
 

The Yorkshire Horse Dealers

Anonymous

Bain(1) to Clapham town-end lived an owd Yorkshire tike,
Who i' dealing i' horseflesh had ne'er met his like;
'T were his pride that i' all the hard bargains he'd hit,
He'd bit a girt monny, but niver bin bit.

This owd Tommy Towers (by that name he were known)
Had an owd carrion tit(2) that were sheer skin an' bone;
To have killed him for t' curs wad have bin quite as well,
But 't were Tommy's opinion he'd dee on himsel!

Well! yan Abey Muggins, a neighborin cheat,
Thowt to diddle owd Tommy wad be a girt treat;
He'd a horse, too, 't were war(3) than owd Tommy's, ye see,
For t' neet afore that he'd thowt proper to dee !

Thinks Abey, t' owd codger 'll niver smoke t' trick,
I'll swop wi' him my poor deead horse for his wick,(4)
An' if Tommy I nobbut can happen to trap,
'T will be a fine feather i' Abraham cap!

So to Tommy he goes, an' the question he pops:
"Betwin thy horse and mine, prithee, Tommy, what swops?
What wilt gie me to boot? for mine's t' better horse still?"
"Nowt," says Tommy, "I'll swop even hands, an' ye will!"

Abey preached a lang time about summat to boot,
Insistin' that his were the liveliest brute;
But Tommy stuck fast where he first had begun,
Till Abey shook hands, an' said, Well, Tommy I done!

"O! Tommy," said Abey, "I's sorry for thee,
I thowt thou'd hae hadden mair white i' thy ee;
Good luck's wi' thy bargain, for my horse is deead."
"Hey!" says Tommy, "my lad, so is mine, an' it's fleead(5)!"

So Tommy got t' better o' t' bargain a vast,
An' cam' off wi' a Yorkshireman's triumph at last;
For thof 'twixt deead horses there's not mich to choose,
Yet Tommy were richer by t' hide an' fower shooes.

1 Near. 2 Nag. 3 Worse.  4. Quick, living  5. Flayed.
 

The Lucky Dream

John Castillo (1792-1845)

Ya Kessmas neet, or then aboot,
When measons all were frozzen oot,
I went to see a country friend,
An hospitable hoor to spend.
For gains, I cut across o' t' moor,
Whoor t' snaw sea furiously did stoor.(1)
The hoose I gain'd an' enter'd in,
An' were as welcome as a king.
The storm agean t' windey patter'd,
An' hail-steans doon t' chimley clatter'd.
All hands were in, an' seem'd content,
An' nean did frost or snaw lament.
T' lasses all were at their sewing,
Their cheeks wiv health an' beauty glowing.
Aroond the hearth, in cheerful chat,
Twea or three friendly neighbours sat,
Their travels telling, whoor they'd been,
An' what they had beath heeard an' seen.
Till yan did us all mich amuse,
An' thus a story introduce.
"I recollect lang saan,"(2) says he,
"A story that were tell'd to me,
At seems sea strange i' this oor day
That true or false I cannot say.
A man liv'd i' this neighbourhood,
Nea doot of reputation good,
An' lang taame strave wi' stiddy care,
To keep his hoosehod i' repair.
At length he had a curious dream,
For three neets runnin' 't were the seame,
At(3) if on Lunnon Brig he stood,
He'd hear some news would dea him good,
He labour'd hard, beath neet an' day,
Tryin' to draave those thowts away;
Yet daily grew mair discontent
Till he at last to Lunnon went.
Being quite a stranger to that toon,
Lang taame he wander'd up an' doon,
Till, led by some mysterious hand,
On Lunnon Brig he teak his stand.
An' there he waited day by day,
An' just were boun(4) to coom away,
Sea mich he thowt he were to bleame
To gang sea far aboot a dream,
When thus a man, as he drew near,
Did say, "Good friend, what seek you here,
Where I have seen you soon and late?"
His dream tiv him he did relate.
"Dreams," says the man, " are empty things,
Mere thoughts that flit on silver'd wings;
Unheeded we should let them pass.
I've had a dream, and thus it was,
That somewhere round this peopled ball,
There's such a place as Lealholm Hall(5);
Yet whether such a place there be,
Or not, is all unknown to me.
There in a cellar, dark and deep,
Where slimy creatures nightly creep,
And human footsteps never tread,
There is a store of treasure hid.
If it be so, I have no doubt,
Some lucky wight will find it out.
Yet so or not is nought to me,
For I shall ne'er go there to see."
The man did slyly twice or thrice
The Cockney thenk for his advice;
Then heame agean withoot delay
He cherfully did tak his way.
An' set aboot the wark, an' sped,
Fun' ivvery thing as t' man had said;
Were iver efter seen to flourish
T' fanest gentleman iv all t' parish.
Folks wonder'd sair, an' ,weel they might,
Whoor he gat all his guineas bright.
If it were true, i' spite o' fame,
Tiv him it were a lucky dream."

1. Drive.  2. Long ago.  3. That.  4. Ready.
5. In the neighbourhood of Whitby.
 

The Milkin'-Time

J. H. Dixon (1803-1876)

Meet me at the fowd at the milkin'-time,
Whan the dusky sky is gowd at the milkin'-time;
   Whan the fog(1) is slant(2) wi' dew,
   An' the clocks(3) go hummin' thro'
The wick-sets(4) an' the branches of the owmerin'(5) yew.

Weel ye knaw the hour of the milkin'-time,
The girt bell sounds frev t' tower at the milkin'-time;
   Bud as gowd sooin turns to gray,
   An' I cannot have delay,
Dunnot linger by the way at the milkin'-time.

Ye'll find a lass at's true at the milkin'-time,
Shoo thinks of nane bud you at the milkin'-time;
   Bud my fadder's gittin' owd,
   An' he's gien a bit to scowd,
Whan I's ower lang at the fowd at the milkin'-time.

Happen ye're afeard at the milkin'-time;
Mebbe loike ye've heerd at the milkin'-time
   The green fowk shak their feet,
   Whan t' moon on Heeside's breet,
An' it chances so to-neet, at the milkin'-time.

There's yan, an' he knaws weel whan it's milkin'-time;
He'd feace the varra de'il at the milkin'-time.
   He'd nut be yan to wait
   Tho' a barguest(6) war i' t' gate,(7)
If the word I'd nobbud say 't at the milkin'-time.

1. Aftermath.  2. Wet.  3. Beetles  4. Quick-sets.  5. Overshadowing
6. The barguest is an apparition, taking usually the form of a big
black dog with saucer eyes.  7. Way, road.
 

I Niver can call Her my Wife

Ben Preston (1819-1902)

I'm a weyver, ye knaw, an' awf deead,
   So I do all at iver I can
To put away aat o' my heead
   The thowts an' the aims of a man.
Eight shillin' i' t'wick's what I arn,
   When I've varry gooid wark an' full time,
An' I think it's a sorry consarn
   For a fella at's just in his prime.

Bud aar maister says things is as weel
   As they have been or iver can be,
An' I happen sud think so misel
   If he'd nobbud swop places wi' me.
Bud he's welcome ta all he can get,
   I begrudge him o' noan of his brass,
An' I'm nowt bud a madlin(1) to fret,
   Or to think o' yon beautiful lass.

I niver can call her my wife,
   My love I sal niver mak knawn,
Yit the sarra that darkens her life
   Thraws its shadda across o' my awn.
When I knaw at her heart is at eease,
   Theer is sunshine an' singin' i' mine;
An' misfortunes may come as they pleease,
   Yit they seldom can mak me repine.

Bud that Chartist wor nowt bud a slope(2)--
   I were fooild by his speeches an' rhymes,
For his promises wattered my hope,
   An' I leng'd for his sunshiny times;
Bud I feel at my dearest desire
   Within me 'll wither away;
Like an ivy-stem trailin' i' t' mire,
   It's deein for t' want of a stay.

When I laid i' my bed day an' neet,
   An' were geen up by t' doctors for deead,
God bless her! shoo'd coom wi' a leet
   An' a basin o' grewil an' breead.
An' I once thowt I'd aat wi' it all,
   Bud so kindly shoo chatted an' smiled,
I were fain to turn ovver to t' wall,
   An' to bluther an' roar like a child.

An' I said, as I thowt of her een,
   Each breeter for t' tear at were in 't,
It's a sin to be niver forgeen,
    To yoke her to famine an' stint;
So I'll e'en travel forrad throo life,
   Like a man throo a desert unknawn;
I mun ne'er have a home nor a wife,
   Bud my sorras 'll all be my awn.

So I trudge on alone as I owt,
   An' whativer my troubles may be,
They'll be sweetened, poor lass, wi' the thowt
   At I've niver browt trouble to thee.
Yit a bird has its young uns to guard,
   A wild beast a mate in his den,
An' I cannot bud think at it's hard­
   Nay, deng it, I'm roarin' agen!

1. Fool   2. Impostor.
 

Come to thy Gronny, Doy(1)

Ben Preston

Come to thy gronny, doy, come to thy gronny,
Bless thee, to me tha'rt as pratty as onny;
Mutherlass barn of a dowter unwed,
Little tha knaws, doy, the tears at I've shed;
Trials I've knawn both for t' heart an' for t' heead,
Shortness o' wark, ay, an' shortness o' breead.

These I could bide, bud tho' tha'rt noan to blame,
Bless thee, tha browt me both sorra an' shame;
Gronny, poor sowl, for a two month or more
Hardly could feshion to lewk aat. o' t' door;
T' neighbours called aat to me, "Dunnot stand that,
Aat wi' that hussy an' aat wi' her brat."

Deary me, deary me! what could I say?
T' furst thing of all, I thowt, let me go pray;
T' next time I slept I'd a dream, do ye see,
Ay, an' I knew at that dream were for me.
Tears of Christ Jesus, I saw 'em that neet,
Fall drop by drop on to one at His feet.

After that, saw Him wi' barns raand His knee,
Some on 'em, happen, poor crayturs like thee;
Says I at last, though I sorely were tried,
Surely a sinner a sinner sud bide;
Neighbours may think or may say what they will,
T' muther an' t' dowter sal stop wi' me still.

Come on 't what will, i' my cot they sal caar,(2)
Woe be to them at maks bad into waar(3);
Some fowk may call thee a name at I hate,
Wishin' fra t' heart tha were weel aat o' t' gate;
Oft this hard world into t' gutter 'll shove thee,
Poor little lamb, wi' no daddy to love thee.

Dunnot thee freeat, doy, whol granny hods up,
Niver sal tha want a bite or a sup;
What if I work these owd fingers to t' boan,
Happen tha'll love me long after I'm goan;
T' last bite i' t' cupboard wi' thee I could share't,
Hay! bud tha's stown(4) a rare slice o' my heart.

Spite of all t' sorra, all t' shame at I've seen,
Sunshine comes back to my heart throo thy een;
Cuddle thy gronny, doy,
Bless thee, tha'rt bonny, doy,
Rosy an' sweet fra thy braa to thy feet,
Kingdoms an' craans wodn't buy thee to-neet.

1 Darling. 2. Cower, take shelter.  3. Worse.  4. Stolen.
 

Owd Moxy

Ben Preston

Owd Moxy wrowt hard for his morsil o' breead,
   An' to keep up his courage he'd sing,
Tho' Time wi' his scythe hed mawn t' crop on his heead
   An' then puffed it away wi' his wing.

Reight slavish his labour an' little his wage,
   His path tuv his grave were bud rough,
Poor livin' an' hardships, a deal more nor age,
   Hed swealed(1) daan his can'le to t' snuff.

One cowd winter morn, as he crept aat o' bed,
   T' owd waller felt dizzy an' sore:-
"Come, frame(2) us some breykfast, Owd Duckfooit, he said,
   "An' I'll finish yond fence up at t' moor;

"I'll tew(3) like a brick wi' my hammer an' mall,(4)
   An' I'll bring home my honey to t' hive,
An' I'll pay t' bit o' rent an' wer(5) shop-score an' all,
   An' I'll dee aat o' debt if I live."

So Peg made his pobs(6) an' then futtered(7) abaat,
   An' temm'd(8) him his tea into 't can,
Then teed up some bacon an' breead in a claat,
   For dearly shoo liked her owd man.

Then Moxy set aat on his wearisome way,
   Wadin' bravely throo t' snaw-broth i' t' dark;
It's a pity when fellas at's wakely an' grey
   Hes to walk for a mile to their wark.

Bud summat that mornin' made Moxy turn back,
   Tho' he hardly knew what it could meean,
So, cudlin' Owd Peggy, he gave her a smack,
   An' then started for t' common ageean.

All t' day a wild hurricane wuther'd(9) throo t' glen,
   An' then rush'd like a fiend up to t' heeath;
An' as Peggy sat knittin' shoo said tuv hersen,
   "Aw dear! he'll be starruv'd to t' deeath."

An' shoo felt all that day as shoo'd ne'er felt afore,
   An' shoo dreeaded yit hunger'd for neet ;
When harknin' an' tremlin' shoo heeard abaat t' door
   A mutterin, an' shufflin o' feet.

Five minutes at after,(10) Owd Peg, on her knees,
   Were kussin' a forehead like stone;
An' to t' men at stood by her wi' tears i' their ees,
   Shoo said, "Go, lads, an' leave me alone."

When they straightened his body, all ready for t' kist,(11)
   It were seen at he'd thowt of his plan;
For t' shop-score an' t' rent war safe locked in his fist,
   So he deed aat o' debt, like a man.

1. Melted.  2. Prepare.  3. Toil.  4. Mallet.  5. Our.
6. Porridge.  7. Bustled.  8. Poured.  9. Roared.
10. Afterwards,  11. Coffin.
 

Dean't mak gam o' me (1875)

Florence Tweddle

I went last week to Stowslay(1) Fair,
   My sweetheart for to see;
She promis'd she would meet me there-
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

I rigg'd misel' all i' my best,
   As fine as fine could be;
An' little thowt how things would to'n(2);
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

I walk'd to t' toon, an' bowt a cane,
   To cut a dash, ye see;
An' how I swagger'd up an' doon!
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

I thowt, if nobbut Poll would come,
   How happy we sud be!
I'd treat her into t' penny show,
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me :
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

At last I saw her coomin' in;
   Bud what else did I see?
Jack Hodge was walkin' biv her saade!
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

Stright up I went, an' "Poll!" says I,
   "I's waiting, lass, for thee!"
"Then thoo mun wait!" was all she said,
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

She teak Jack's airm, an' there I stead
   Quite flabbergash'd, ye see:
I thowt I sud hav dropt to t' grund,
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

Poor Nancy Green com seaglin'(3) up,
   "What's matter, Dick?" says she:
"Jack Hodge is off wi' Poll!" says I,
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me:
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

"Why, niver maand her; let her gan ;
   She's better gean!" said she:
Bud I thowt nut; an' then I cried,
   Bud dean't mak gam o' me :
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

I's nobbut a poor country lad
   At's lost my heart, ye see:
I'll gan nea mair to t' Pomesun Fair,(4)
   Sea dean't mak gam o' me :
      Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!

1. Stokesley.  2. Turn out.  3. Sauntering.
4. The fair held at Stokesley on the
   Saturday before Palm Sunday
 

Coom, stop at yam to-neet Bob

Florence Tweddle

"Coom, stop at yam(1) to-neet, Bob,
   Dean't gan oot onnywhere:
Thoo gets thisel t' leeast vex'd, lad,
   When thou sits i' t' awd airm-chair.

"There's Keat an' Dick beath want thee
   To stop an' tell a teale:
Tak little Keatie o' thy knee,
   An' Dick 'll sit on t' steal.

"Let's have a happy neet, Bob,
   Tell all t' teales thoo can tell;
For givin' pleeasure to the bairns
   Will dea thee good thisel.

"I knaw it's sea wi' me, Bob,
   For oft when I've been sad,
I've laik'd an' laugh'd wi' them, mon,
   Untel my heart's felt glad.

"An' sing that laatle sang, Bob,
   Thoo used to sing to me,
When oft we sat at t' river saade,
   Under t' awd willow tree.

"What happy taames them was, Bob,
   Thoo niver left me then
To gan to t' yal-hoose neet be neet
   Amang all t' drunken men.

"I does my best for thoo, Bob,
   An' thoo sud dea t' seame for me:
Just think what things thoo promised me
   Asaade t' awd willow tree!"

"I prithee say nea mair, lass,
   I see I ain't dean reet;
I'll think of all thoo's said to me,
   An' stop at yam to-neet."

"I'll try to lead a better life-
   I will, an' that thoo'll see!
Fra this taame fo'th I'll spend my neets
   At yam, wi' t' bairns an' thee!"

1. Home.
 

Ode to t' Mooin

J. H. Eccles (1824-1883)

I like to see thy quaint owd face
   Lewk softly daan on me,
E'en though I ne'er could find thy nose
   Nor catch thy watchful ee.

Full monny times I've seen thee rise,
   When busy day were done,
When daan behint t' owd maantain tops
   Had passed t' breet evenin' sun.

I like to see thee when sweet spring
   Cooms back to hill an' vale;
When odours rise through t' hawthorn bush,
   An' float on t' evenin' gale.

When lovers walk on t' primrose benks,
   An' whisper soft an' low;
Dreamin' just same as me an' t' wife
   Did monny years ago.

I like to see thee when t' June rose
   Is wet wi' fallin' dew,
When t' nightingale maks t' owd woods ring
   Wi' music fresh an' new

When fairies dance on t' top o' t' flaars
   An' roam through t' pleasant dells,
Like monarchs i' their marble halls,
   I' t' lilies' virgin bells.

I like to see thee when t' ripe corn
   Is wavin' to an' fro;
When t' squirril goes a-seekin' nuts
   An' jumps thro' bough to bough.

When t' purple heather covers t' hills,
   An' t' hunters, tired and worn,
Back through the fairy-haunted glens
   Unto their homes return.

I like to see thee when all raand
   Is white wi' drivven snow,
When t' streams are stopp'd by owd Jack Frost
   An' foaks slip as they go.

I like to see thee all t' year raand,
   When t' sky is fair an' breet,
An' allus hail wi' fond delight
   The noble queen o' t' neet.

I used to think at I could reach
   Up to thy face wi' ease,
If I had but a big long stick;
   For tha were but green cheese.

But naa I've got far different thowts,
   An' learnt to understand
At tha art one o' t' wondrous works
   Formed by t' gert Maker's hand.
 

Aunt Nancy

J. H. Eccles

Aunt Nancy's one o' t' savin' sort,
   At niver lets t' chonce pass;
Yet wouldn't do owt mean or low
   For t' sake o' gettin' t' brass.

Her home's as clean as need be seen,
   Whoiver may go in;
An' as for Nancy, dear-a-me!
   Shoo's like a new-made pin.

Shoo's full o' thrift an' full o' sense,
   An' full o' love beside;
Shoo rubs an' scrubs thro' morn to neet
   An' maks t' owd haase her pride.

Her husband, when his wark is doon,
   Sits daan i' t' owd arm chair ;
Forgets his troubles as he owt,
   An' loises all his care.

Wi' pipe an' book i' t' chimley nook
   Time flies on noiseless wing;
Shoo sits an' knits wi' pleasant face,
   He's happy as a king.

Wi' tattlin' folks shoo's niver seen
   I' alley, loin(1) or street,
But goes her way wi' modest step,
   Exact an' clean an' neat.

Her neighbours soomtimes watch her aat,
   An' say shoo's praad an' stiff;
But all their gossip cooms to nowt,
   Aunt Nancy's reight enif.

Wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad
   To some poor lonely elf;
To ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way
   At's poorer nor(2) herself.

Shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives,
   Kind, gentle-hearted sowl;
I' charity her hands find wark,
   Shoo's good alike to all.

He niver tells her what he thinks,
   Nor flatters nor reproves;
His life is baand wi' gowlden bands
   To t' woman at he loves.

God bless her, shoo's a dimond breet,
   Both good i' mind an' heart;
An angel spreeadin' light an' love,
   That plays a noble part.

Shoo's worthy of a monarch's choice,
   Her worth can ne'er be towld ;
Shoo cam to mak folks' hearts feel glad,
   Shoo's worth her weight i' gowld.

1 Lane. 2 Than.
 

Coom, don on thy Bonnet an' Shawl (1867)

Thomas Blackah

Coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl,
   An' straighten thy cap an' thy hair;
I's really beginnin' to stall(1)
   To see thee sit dazzin'(2) i' t' chair.

Sea coom, let us tak a walk oot,
   For t' air is as warm as a bee;
I hennot(3) a morsel o' doot
   It'll help beath lile Willy an' thee.

We'll gan reet throo t' Middle Toon,
   As far as to Reavensgill Heead(4);
When thar, we can sit wersens doon
   On t' crags close at side o' t' becksteead.

An' then, oh! hoo grand it'll be
   To pass a few minutes away,
An' listen t' birds sing on each tree
   Their carols for closin' the day.

An' all aboot t' green nobby hills,
   T' lile daisies their beauties will show;
An' t' perfume at Flora distils
   Like breath o' the mornin' will blow.

Then don on thy bonnet an' shawl,
   An' coom let's be walkin' away;
I's fairly beginnin' to stall
   To see thee sit dazzin' all t' day.

1 Grow tired.  2. Dozing.  3. Have not.
4. Near Pateley Bridge.
 

My awd hat

Thomas Blackah

I'll wear thee yet awhile, awd hat,
   I'll wear thee yet awhile;
Though time an' tempest, beath combined,
   Have changed thy shap an' style.
For sin we two togither met,
   When thoo were nice an' new,
What ups an' doons i' t' world we've had,
   Bud awlus braved 'em through.

That glossy shade o' thine, awd hat,
   That glossy shade o' thine,
At graced thy youthful days is gean,
   Which maks me noo repine.
Fra monny a gleam an' monny a shoor
   Thoo's sheltered my awd heead;
Bud sean a smarter, tider hat
   Will shelter 't i' thy steead.

Though friends have proved untrue, awd hat,
   Though friends have proved untrue,
An' vanished in adversity,
   Like mist or mornin' dew;
Yet when fierce storms or trials com
   I fand a friend i' thee;
Sea noo, when thoo's far on, awwd hat,
   Thoo 'st finnd a friend i' me.

Some nail or crook 'll be thy heame
   O' t' joists, or back o' t' door;
Or, mebbe, thoo'l be bunched(1) aboot
   Wi' t' barns across o' t' floor.
When t' rain an' t' wind coom peltin' through
   Thy crumpled, battered croon,
I'll cut thee up for soles to wear
   I' my awd slender shoon.

1. Kicked
 

Reeth Bartle Fair(1) (1870)

John Harland

This mworning as I went to wark,
   I met Curly just coomin' heame;
He had on a new flannin sark(2)
   An' he saw at I'd just gitten t' seame.
"Whar's te been?" said awd Curly to me.
   "I've been down to Reeth Bartle Fair."
"Swat(3) te down, mun, sex needles,"(4) said he,
   An' tell us what seets te saw there."

"Why, t' lads their best shoon had put on,
   An' t' lasses donn'd all their best cwoats;
I saw five pund of Scotch wether mutton
   Sell'd by Ward and Tish Tom for five grwoats.
Rowlaway had fine cottons to sell,
   Butteroy lace an' handkerchers browt;
Young Tom Cwoats had a stall tuv hissel,
   An' had ribbins for varra near nowt.

"Thar was Enos had good brandy-snaps,
   Bill Brown as good spice as could be;
Potter Robin an' mair sike-like chaps
   Had t' bonniest pots te could see.
John Ridley, an' awd Willy Walls,
   An' Naylor, an' twea or three mar,
Had apples an' pears at their stalls,
   An' Gardener Joe tea was thar.

"Thar was scissors an' knives an' read(5) purses,
   An' plenty of awd cleathes on t' nogs,(6)
An' twea or three awd spavin'd horses,
   An' plenty o' shoon an' new clogs.
Thar was plenty o' good iron pans,
   An' pigs at wad fill all t' deale's hulls(7);
Thar was baskets, an skeps, an' tin cans,
   An' bowls, an' wood thivles for gulls.(8)

"Thar was plenty of all maks(9) o' meat,
   An' plenty of all sworts o' drink,
An' t' lasses gat monny a treat,
   For t' gruvers(10) war all full o' chink.
I cowp'd(11) my black hat for a white un,
   Lile Jonas had varra cheap cleath;
Jem Peacock an' Tom talk'd o' feightin',
   But Gudgeon Jem Puke lick'd 'em beath.

"Thar was dancin' an' feightin' for ever,
   Will Wade said at he was quite griev'd;
An' Pedlety tell'd 'em he'd never
   Forgit 'em as lang as he leev'd.
They knock'd yan another about,
   Just warse than a sham to be seen,
Charlie Will look'd as white as a clout,
   Kit Puke gat a pair o' black een.

"I spied our awd lass in a newk,
   Drinkin' shrub wi' grim Freesteane, fond lad;
I gav her a varra grow(12) leuk;
   O, connies,(13) but I was just mad.
Sea I went to John Whaites's to drink,
   Whar I war'd(14) twea an' seempence i' gin;
I knaw not what follow'd, but think
   I paddl'd through t' muck thick an' thin.

"For to-day, when I gat out o' bed,
   My cleathes were all sullied sea sar,
Our Peggy and all our fwoak said
   To Reeth Fair I sud never gang mar.
But it's rake-time,(15) sea I mun away,
   For my partners are all gain' to wark."
Sea I lowp'd up an bade him good day,
   An' wrowt at t' Awd Gang(16) tell 't was dark."

1. The fair held at Reeth in Swaledale on
   St. Bartholomew's Day, August 24.
2. Shirt.  3. Sit.
4. "Sex needles" is literally the interval of time during
    which a knitter would work the loops off six needles.
5. Red.  6. Pegs.  7. Sties.
8. Sticks for stirring hasty puddings.
9. Sorts.  10. Miners.  11. Bartered.  12. Ugly.
13. Mates.  14. Spent.   15. Time for the next shift.
16. A lead mine 
17. Now held on the nearest Wednesday to this date.
 

The Christmas Party (1876)

Tom Twistleton

When cowd December's sturdy breeze
   In chimley-tops did grumble,
Or, tearing throug'h the leafless trees,
   On lang dark neets did rumble,
A lot o' young folks, smart an' gay,
   An' owds uns, free an' hearty,
Agreed amang thersels at they
   Would have a Christmas party
      At hame some neet

They kicked up sich a fuss an' spreead,
   An' made sich preparations;
They baked grand tarts an' mixed their breead
   Wi' spices frae all nations.
To drive away baith want an' cowd
   It seem'd their inclination;
An' t' neebours round, baith young an' owd,
   All gat an invitation
      To gang that neet.
 

Smart sprigs o' spruce an' ivy green
   Were frae the ceiling hinging,
An' in their midst, conspicuous seen,
   The mistletoe was swinging.
The lamp shone forth as clear as day,
   An' nowt was there neglected;
An' t' happy, smiling faces say,
   Some company is expected
      To coom this neet.

An' first com Moll wi' girt lang Jack,
   A strapping, good-like fella;
An' following closely at their back
   Com Bob and Isabella.
With "How's yoursel?" an' "How d'ye do?"
   They sit down i' their places,
Till t' room sae big, all through an' through,
   Wi' happy smiling faces
      Was filled that neet.

A merrier lot than this I name
   Ne'er met at onny party;
All girt grand balls they put to shame,
   They were sae gay an' hearty.
Here yan had made hersel quite fine,
   Wi' lace an' braid's assistance;
An' there a girt grand crinoline,
   To keep t' lads at a distance,
      Stood out that neet.

The lads draw up to t' fire their chairs,
   An' merrily pass their jokes off;
The lasses all slip off upstairs,
   To pu' their hats an' cloaks off.
Befoor a glass that hings at t' side
   They all tak up their station,
An' think within theirsels wi' pride
   They'll cause a girt sensation
      'Mang t' lads that neet.

An' now the lusty Christmas cheer
   Is browt out for t' occasion;
To pies an' tarts, an' beef an' beer,
   They git an invitation.
An' some, i' tune to put it by,
   Play havoc on each dainty,
Whal some there is, sae varra shy,
   Scarce let theirsels have plenty
      To eat that neet.

Against the host o' good things there
   They wage an awful battle;
They're crying out, "A lile bit mair!"
   An' plates an' glasses rattle.
Here, yan's nae time a word to pass,
   Thrang(1) supping an' thrang biting;
There, simpering sits a girt soft lass
   That waits for mich inviting
      An' fuss that neet.

An' when this good substantial fare
   Has gien 'em satisfaction,
They side(2) all t' chairs, an' stand i' pairs,
   Wi' heels i' tune for action.
See-sawing, t' fiddler now begins
   The best that he is able;
He rosins t' stick an' screws up t' pins
   An' jumps up on to t' table,
      To play that neet.

There, back an' forrad, in an' out,
   His elbow it gaas silting,(3)
An' to an' fro, an' round about,
   The dancers they are lilting.
Some dance wi' ease i' splendid style,
   Wi' tightly-fitting togs on,
Whal others bump about all t' while,
   Like drainers wit their clogs on,
      Sae numb'd that neet.

An' when they've reel'd an' danc'd their fling,
   Their chairs all round are ranged;
They tell droll tales, they laugh, they sing,
   An' jokes are interchanged.
A merry tune t' girt kettle sings,
   An' t' fire is blazing breetly ;
Wi' cheerful din t' owd farmhouse rings,
   An' hours fly ower them sweetly
       An' swift that neet.

T' owd women preach an' talk about
   Their claes being owd an' rotten,
An' still being forc'd to speck an' clout,(4)
   It's sich a price is cotton.
T' owd men sit round, wi' pipe an' glass,
   In earnest conversation;
On t' ways an' means o' saving brass,
   An' t' rules an' t' laws o' t' nation,
      They talk that neet.

Now girt lang Jack, that lives on t' moor,
   Wi' cunning an' wi' caution,
Is beckoning Moll to gang to t' door
   Wi' sly mischievous motion.
Moll taks the hint, nor thinks it wrang,
   Her heart that way inclining;
She says to t' rest she thinks she'll gang
   To see if t' stars are shining
      Out clear that neet.

Then down a field they tak a walk,
   An' then they wend their way back;
To have a bit o' pleasant talk
   They shelter under t' haystack.
She did not say "For shame!" not she,
   Though oft-times Johnny kiss'd her;
She said she just would run an' see
   If t' other folks had missed her
      Frae t' room that neet.

A chap that had two watchful een,
   Of which they waren't thinking,
When peeping round that neet, had seen
   Long Jack at Molly winking.
Says he, "Now's t' time to have a stir,
   Let's just gang out an' watch her;
We's have some famous fun wi' her,
   If we can nobbut catch her
      Wi' him this neet.

Then two or three, bent on a spree,
   Out to the door gang thungein',(5)
But hauf a yard they scarce could see,
   It was as dark as dungeon.
Jack hears their footsteps coming slow,
   An' frae her side he slinks off;
Runs round t' house-end, jumps ower a wa',
   An' up ower t' knee i' t' sink-trough
      He splash'd that neet.

Now, ye young men, be who ye may,
   That's bent on fun an' sportin',
Whare'er ye be, by neet or day,
   Remember Jack's misfortin.
Though things unlook'd for on ye creep,
   Don't do owt in a splutter;
But learn to look befoor ye leap,
   Lest ye in some deep gutter
      Stick fast some neet.

1. Busily.  2. Clear away.  3. Rising up.
4. Mend and patch.   5. Thumping.
 

Nelly o' Bob's

John Hartley (1839-1915)

Who is it at lives i' that cot on the lea,
Joy o' my heart an' leet o' my ee?
Who is that lass at's so dear unto me?
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it goes trippin' ower dew-spangled grass,
Singin' so sweetly? Shoo smiles as I pass,
Bonniest, rosy-cheek'd, gay-hearted lass!
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it I see i' my dreams of a neet ?
Who lovingly whispers words tender an' sweet,
Till I wakken to find shoo's nowheer i' t' seet?
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it at leads me so lively a donce,
Yet to tawk serious ne'er gies me a chonce,
An' niver replied when I begged on her once?
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it at ivery chap's hankerin' to get,
Yet tosses her heead an' flies off in a pet,
As mich as to say, "You've not getten me yet"?
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it could mak life a long summer's day,
Whose smile would drive sorrow an' trouble away,
An' mak t' hardest wark, if for her, seem like play?
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it I'll have if I've iver a wife,
An' love her, her only, to th' end o' my life,
An' nurse her i' sickness, an' guard her from strife?
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

Who is it at's promised, to-neet if it's fine,
To meet me at t' corner o' t' mistal(1) at nine?
Why, it's her at I've langed for so long to mak mine-
   Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.

1. Cow-Shed
 

Bite Bigger

John Hartley

As I hurried through t' taan to my wark,
   -I were lat,(1) for all t' buzzers had gooan-
I happen'd to hear a remark
   At 'ud fotch tears thro' th' heart of a stooan.

It were rainin', an' snawin', an' cowd,
   An' th' flagstones were cover'd wi' muck,
An' th' east wind both whistled an' howl'd,
   It saanded like nowt bud ill luck.

When two little lads, donn'd(2) i' rags,
   Baat(3) stockin's or shoes o' their feet,
Com trapsin' away ower t' flags,
   Boath on 'em sodden'd wi' t' weet.

Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
   T' young un be haulf on't, no more;
As I look'd on, I said to misen,
   "God help fowk this weather at's poor!"

T' big un samm'd(4) summat off t' graand,
   An' I look'd just to see what 't could be,
'T were a few wizen'd flaars he'd faand,
   An' they seem'd to hae fill'd him wi' glee.

An' he said, "Coom on, Billy, may be
   We sal find summat else by an' by;
An' if not, tha mun share these wi' me,
   When we get to some spot wheer it's dry."

Leet-hearted, they trotted away,
   An' I follow'd, 'cause t' were i' my rooad;
But I thowt I'd ne'er seen sich a day,
   It wern't fit to be aat for a tooad.

Sooin t' big un agean slipp'd away,
   An' samm'd summat else aat o' t' muck;
An' he cried aat, "Look here, Bill, to-day
   Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck?

"Here's a apple, an' t' mooast on it's saand,
   What's rotten I'll throw into t' street.
Wern't it gooid to lig theer to be faand?
   Naa boath on us can have a treat."

So he wip'd it an' rubb'd it, an' then
   Said, "Billy, thee bite off a bit;
If tha hasn't been lucky thisen,
   Tha sal share wi' me sich as I get."

So t' little un bate off a touch,(5)
   T' other's face beam'd wi' pleasure all through,
An' he said, "Nay, tha hasn't taen mich,
   Bite agean, an' bite bigger, naa do."

I waited to hear nowt no more;
   Thinks I, there's a lesson for me;
Tha's a heart i' thy breast, if tha'rt poor;
   T' world were richer wi' more sich as thee.

Two pence were all t' brass at I had,
   An' I meant it for ale when com nooin ;
Bud I thowt, I'll go give it yond lad,
   He desarves it for what he's been doin'.

So I said, "Lad, here's twopence for thee,
   For thisen." An' they star'd like two geese;
Bud he said, whol t' tear stood in his ee,
   "Naa, it'll just be a penny apiece."

"God bless thee! do just as tha will,
   An' may better days speedily come;
Though clamm'd(6) an' hauf donn'd,(7) my lad, still
   Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nor(8) some."

1. Late.  2. Dressed. 3. Without. 4. Picked.
5. Small piece.  6. Starved  7. Dressed  8. Than
 

Rollickin' Jack

John Hartley

   I know a workin' lad,
      His hands are hard an' rough,
   His cheeks are red an' braan,
      But I like him weel enough.
   His ee's as breet 's a bell,
      An' his curly hair is black,
An' he stands six foot in his stockin' feet,
      An' his name is Rollickin' Jack.

   At morn, if we should meet,
      He awlus has a smile,
   An' his heart is gay an' leet,
      When trudgin' to his toil.
   He whistles, or he sings,
      Or he stops a joke to crack;
An' monny a lass at he happens to pass
      Looks shyly at Rollickin' Jack.

   His mother's old an' gray;
      His father's deead an' gooan;
   He'll niver move away
      An' leave her all alooan.
   Choose who(1) should be his wife,
      Shoo'll mak a sad mistak,
For he's ivery inch a mother's lad,
      Is this rough an' rollickin' Jack.

   An' still I think sometimes
      Th' old woman wants a nurse;
   An' as for weddin' Jack,
      Why, there's monny a lass done worse.
   Of coorse it's not for me
      To tell him who to tak,
But there's one I could name, if I could but for shame,
      Just the lass to suit Rollickin' Jack.

1. Whoever.
 

Jim's Letter

James Burnley (Born 1842)
 

Whats this? A letter thro'(1) Jim?
   God bless him! What has he to say?
Here, Lizzie, my een's gettin' dim,
   Just read it, lass, reight straight away.
Tha trem'les, Liz. What is there up?
   Abaat thy awn cousin tha surely can read;
His ways varry oft has made bitter my cup,
   But theer--I forgive him--read on, niver heed

That's it--"as it leaves me at present "--
   His father's expression to nowt!
Go on, lass, t' beginnin's so pleasant
   It couldn't be mended wi' owt.
What's that? He has "sent a surprise"?
   What is 't, lass? Go on! a new gaan, I'll be bun',
Or happen a nugget o' famous girt size;
   Whativer it is it's t' best thing under t' sun.

Ay, lad, I dare say, "life is rough,"
   For t' best on 't is nut varry smooth;
I' England it's hilly enough,
   Niver name wi' them diggers uncouth.
But theer, Liz, be sharp an' let's have his surprise.
   I'm capt(2) wheer tha's gotten that stammerin' cough,
Tha reads a deal better nor that when tha tries.
   Good gracious! What's t' matter? Shoo's fainted reight off!

Hey! Lizzie, tha flays(3) me; coom here,
   An' sit wheer tha'll get some fresh air:
Tha'rt lookin' so bad at I fear
   Tha's much war(4) nor I were aware.
That's reight, lass, get tul it once more,
   Just read reight to t' end on 't, an' then
We'll just tak a walk for a bit aat o' t' door,
   Whol tha feels rayther more like thisen.

What! Bless us! Aar Jim gotten wed!
   It is a surprise, on my word.
Who is she? That's all at he's said?
   I wish then I niver had heard.
At one time I thowt happen thee he'd admire,
   An' that's haa we all sud have liked it to be.
Bud, sithee! What's that, Liz, at's burnin' on t' fire?
   It's t' ribbin Jim bowt thee! Ay, ay, lass, I see.

1. From.  2. Puzzled. 3. Frightenest.  4. Worse.
 

A Yorkshire Farmer's Address to a Schoolmaster

George Lancaster (Born 1846)

Good day to you, Misther skealmaisther,
   the evenin' is desperate fine,
I thowt I wad gie ye a call aboot
   that young sonnie o' mine.
I couldn't persuade him to come,
   sea I left him behont(1) me at yam,(2)
Bud somehoo it's waintly(3) possess'd me
   to mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.
He's a kind of a slack-back, ye knaw,
   I niver could get him to work,
He scarcelins wad addle(4) his saut
   wiv a ploo, or a shovel, or fork.
I've tried him agean an' agean,
   bud I finnd that he's nea use at yam,
Sea me an' my missus agreed
   to mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.
If I sends him to wark, why, he'll chunther(5)
   an' gie me the a awfullest leaks,
He'd a deal rayther lig upo' d' sofy
   wi' novels an' them soort o' beaks.
Sea I thowt a skealmaisther wad suit him,
   a lowse soort o' job, do ye see,
Just to keep a few bairns oot o' mischief,
   as easy as easy can be.
Of coorse you've to larn 'em to coont,
   an' to figure a bit, an' to read,
An' to sharpen 'em up if they're numskulls,
   wiv a lalldabber(6) ower their heead,
Bud it's as easy as easy, ye knaw,
   an' I think it wad just suit oor Sam,
An' my missus, she's just o' my mind,
   for she says that he's nea use at yam.
It was nobbut this mornin' I sent him
   to gan an' to harrow some land,
He was boamin'(7) asleep upo' d' fauf,(8)
   wiva rubbishly beak iv his hand;
I gav him a bunch(9) wi' my feat,
   an' rattled him yarmin'(10) off yam.
Sea I think that I'll send him to you,
   you mun mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.
He's a stiff an' a runty(1) young fellow,
   I think that' he'll grow up a whopper,
He'd wallop the best lad you've got,
   an' I think he wad wallop him proper;
Bud still he's a slack-back, ye knaw,
   an' seein' he's nea use at yam,
I think I shall send him to you,
   you mun mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.

1. Behind.  2. Home.  3 Strangely.  4.Earn.
5. Grumble.  6. Cuff.  7. Trailing along.
8. Fallow.  9. Kick.  10. Whining.
 

The Window on the Cliff Top (1888)

W. H. Oxley

"What! Margery, still at your window
   In this blinding storm and sleet!
Why, you can't see your hand before you,
   And I scarce could keep my feet.

"Why, even the coast-guards tell me
   That they cannot see the sand;
And we know, thank God, that the cobles
   And yawls have got to land.

"There's five are safe at Scarbro',
   And one has reach'd the Tyne,
And two are in the Humber,
   And one at Quay,(2) makes nine."

"Aye, aye, I'd needs be watchful,
   There's niver a soul can tell,
An' happen 'twixt yan o' t' snaw-blints(3)
   Yan mud catch a glimpse o' t' bell.

"I reckon nowt o' t' coast-guards!
   What's folks like them to say?
There's neer a yan amang 'em
   Knaws owt aboot oor bay.

"I's niver leave my winder
   Whiles there's folks as has to droon;
An' it wadna be the first time
   As I've help'd ta wakken t' toon.

"I isn't good for mich noo,
   For my fourscore years is past;
But I's niver quit my winder,
   As long as life sal last.

"'Twas us as seed them Frenchmen
   As wreck'd on Speeton sands;
'Twas me as seed that schooner
   As founder'd wi' all hands.

"'Twas me first spied oor cobles
   Reight ower t' end o' t' Brig,
That time when all was droonded;
   I tell'd 'em by there rig.(4)

"Aye, man, I's neen sae drowsy,
   Don't talk o' bed to me;
I's niver quit my winder,
   Whiles there's a moon to see.

"Don't talk to me o' coast-guards!
   What's them to sike as me?
They hasn't got no husbands,
   No childer, lost i' t' sea.

"It's nobbut them at's felt it,
   As sees as I can see;
It's them as is deead already
   Knaws what it is to dee.

"Ye'd niver understan' me;
   God knaws, as dwells above,
There's hearts doon here, lives, broken,
   What's niver lost their love.

"But better noo ye'd leave me,
   I's mebbe not misen;
We fisher-folks has troubles
   No quality can ken."

1. Thick-set.  2. Bridlington.
3. Snow-storms.  4. Dress.
 

Aar Maggie

Edmund Hatton

I believe aar Maggie's coortin',
   For shoo dresses hersen so smart,
An' shoo's allus runnin' to t' window
   When there's ony o' t' chaps abaat:
Shoo willent wear her owd shawl,
   Bud dons a bonnet atstead,(1)
An' laps her can in her gaan
   As shoo goes to t' weyvin' ,shed.

Of a neet wi' snoddened(2) hair,
   An' cheeks like a summers cherry,
An' lips fair assin'(3) for kisses,
   An' een so black an' so merry,
Shoo taks her knittin' to t' meadows,
   An' sits in a shad