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Title: Yorkshire Ditties, First Series
Author: John Hartley
Release date: January 6, 2006 [eBook #17472]
Most recently updated: February 26, 2006
Language: English
Credits: Produced by David Fawthrop
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YORKSHIRE DITTIES, FIRST SERIES ***
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!