A hunderd years hence
What a chaange ’ll be maade
I’ politics, morals, religion an’ traade.
I’ statesmen whau wrang’l
Or rahd upo’ t’ fence
Maist things ’ll be diff’rent
A hunderd years hence.
T’ heeads ov oor lasses
Sike changes ’ll show;
It’s nut ov ther mahnds
‘At wa aim ti speeak noo,
Bud ov three-bishel bonnets,
Ther gypsies an’ flats,
Ther scoops, navarinoes,
Ti snug lahtle hats
Wi’ furs an’ wi’ ribbons,
Wi’ feathers an’ flooers,
Sum feshioned byv artists
An’ sum plucked fra t’ booers.
Bud heeads ’ll be chaang’d teea,
Far larnt an’ i’ sense,
Afoor wa’ ‘ev coonted
A hunderd years hence.
Oor laws ’ll be then
Nivver maade, mun, by feeals,
An’ prisons Ah aim
‘Ll be to’n’d inti skeeals;
Foor t’ pleasurs o’ vice
Are a feealish pretence,
Bud Ah doot if tha’ll awn it
A hunderd years hence.
Noo vice ’ll be kenn’d,
When at last fau’k awakken,
Ti be t’ warst kind o’ daftness,
Or else Ah ’s mistakken.
T’ lawyers an’ t’ doctors
And t’ parsons wi’ sense
Will ’ev altered ther waays
A hunderd years hence.
An’ you an’ me, reader,
Wheer s’all wa be fund?—
It’s wer souls ’at Ah meean,
Nut wer bodies i’ t’ grund.
S’all wa be wheer it’s joy,
Or i’ sorrow intense?
Wa s’all all on uz knaw
A hunderd years hence.
Anon.

THE SWEEPER AN’ THIEVES.

By D. Lewis.

[Date about 1800-15. Published at Bedale.]

A sweeper’s lad war late o’ t’ neet,
His slaape-shod shoon ’ed leeam’d his feet;
He call’d ti see a good au’d deeam
‘At monny a tahm ’ed trigg’d his wame84
(Foor he war then fahve mile fra yam).
He ax’d i’ t’ lair85 ti let him sleep,
An’ he’d t’ next daay the’r chim’lies sweep.
Tha supper’d him weel wi’ country fare,
Then show’d him tul his hoal i’ t’ lair.
He crept intul his streahy86 bed,
His pooak o’ seeat87 beneath his heead;
He war content, ner cared a pin,
An’ his good frien’ then lock’d him in.
T’ lair fra t’ hoos a larl piece stood,
Atween ’em grew a lahtle wood.
Aboot midneet, ur nigher morn,
Tweea rogues brak in ti steeal ther corn.
‘Eving a leet i’ lantern dark,
Tha seean ti winder fell ti wark;
An’ wishing tha’d a lad ti fill,
Young brush (wheea yet ’ed ligg’d quite still),
Thinkin’ ‘at t’ men belang’d ti t’ hoos,
An’ that he noo mud be ov ewse,
Jump’d doon directly on ti t’ fleear,
An’ t’ thieves then baith ran oot o’ t’ deear,
An’ stopp’d at nowther thin na thick—
Fully tha aim’d it war Au’d Nick.
T’ sweeper lad then ran reet seean
Ti t’ hoos, an’ tell’d ’em what war deean.
Maister an’ men then quickly raase,
An’ ran ti t’ lair wi’ hauf ther clais88;
Tweea hosses, secks, an’ leet tha fand,
Which ’ed been left by t’ thievish band.
Theease all roond t’ countrysahd tha cry’d,
Bud nut an awner e’er apply’d,
Foor neean dast t’ hosses awn na t’ secks,
Tha war seea freeten’d o’ ther necks.
Yah hoss an’ seck war judged ez t’ sweeper’s share,
Acoz he’d kept baith t’ farmer’s corn an’ lair.

The following note is appended to the original:—‘This tale is founded on fact, and happened at Leeming Lane a few years ago.’

The student will find the above and four following pieces interesting, as showing the alteration in the pronunciation of certain words which has locally taken place during the last eighty years in the Bedale district.

DARBY AN’ JOAN AN’ THEIR DAUGHTER NELL.

A Dialogue by W. Hird.

[Date 1800-15. Published at Bedale.]

Darby.
Joan! Ah noo ’ev thowt seea mich about it,
Ah seearly nivver mair s’all doot it;
At moorn an’ neet, an’ neet an’ moorn,
Ah sumtahms wish Ah’d ne’er been born.
Joan.
Whya, Darby, prethee, let ma see,
Ah whoap it’s nowt ’at’s bad o’ me.
Darby.
Thee, Joan! neea, marry, neea sike thing.
Think bad o’ thee! ’twad be a sin.
Ah think, indeed, Ah war a feeal
Ti send oor Nell ti t’ Boordin’-skeeal.
Sike mauky feeals ez them, Ah think,
‘Ev filled her heead wi’ prahd an’ stink,
Foor, sin’ sha went, sha’s grown seea fine,
Sha caan’t deea nowt wi’oot her wine,
When t’ dinner’s owered, an’ sha’s seea neyce,
Sha weean’t eat puddin’ meead o’ rice,
Thoff when at skeeal an’ put ti t’ pinch,
Fra sike good stuff sha’d nivver flinch.
An’ all her notions are seea raased,
It’s fit ti to’n her feyther crazed,
Fer leyke a toon wench, Ah declare,
Sha walks abroad wi’ breasts all bare—
To show her shoon, an’ hosen clocked,
Sha lifts her sket whahl Ah’s fair shocked;
Nut ’at Ah care aboot t’ fond lass,
Neea mair ’an this—it taks mah brass,
An’ wiv her fine lang labbering tail,
Sha’ll git her fathther inti jail.
Joan.
Whya, Darby, bud thoo knaws ther ’s t’ Squire,
An’ he, mayhap, will Nell admire,
An’ efter all ther noise an’ strife,
Thoo knaws t’ young Squire he wants a weyfe.
Then let ’s be seear ti mak her smairt,
An’ teeach her hoo ti plaay her pairt;
Sha seean ’ll mak him towards her leean,
An’ then thoo knaws ’at t’ wark is deean.
Ez fer her breasts an’ bare at t’ airms,
It’s feshion noo ti show yan’s chairms.
Men leyke ti knaw, Ah’ve heeard it sed,
What’s real an’ fause afoor they wed;
Hoose’er, Ah’ll try an’ deea mah best,
An’ leeave ti thee ti mannish t’ rest.
Darby.
Bud, then, suppooase oor plot s’u’d fail,
An’ me foor debt be sent ti jail,
Poor Nell wad nivver be a weyfe,
An’ ‘ev ti laabur all her leyfe;
Foor efter sha’s seea browten up,
Hoo can sha ivver bahd ti stoop
Ti gan ti sarvice, ur ti spin,
Or ivver ti deea onnything?
Joan.
Whya, Darby, leeave it all ti me,
Ah’ll mannish ’t weel, an’ that thoo’ll see;
Ah’ll be her pilot all mah leyfe,
An’ mak her sum rich farmer’s weyfe.
Then ez tha gan ti chetch, doon t’ toon,
Ah’s seear thoo’ll saay, ‘Weel deean, oor Joan.’

T’ DEEATH OV AWD DEEASY.

An Eclogue.

GEOORGY AND ROBIN.

[Date about 1800.]

Geoorgy.
Weel met, good Robin. Seed ya my au’d meer?
Ah’ve laated her an hoor i’ t’ looaning here,
Bud hoosumivver, spite ov all mah care,
Ah caan’t spy her, nowther heead na hair.
Robin.
Whah, Geoorgy, Ah’ve ti tell ya dowly news,
Sike ez varra leyke ’ll mak ya muse.
Ah just this minit left yer poor au’d tike,
Deead ez a steean, i’ Johnny Dobson’s dyke.
Geoorgy.
Wheer! What’s that, Robin? Tell uz ower agaan.
Thoo’s jokin’—ur ya’ve mebbe been mistaan.
Robin.
Neea, marry, Geoorgy; Ah’s seear Ah caan’t be wrang.
Ya knaw Ah’ve kenn’d au’d Deeasy noo seea lang.
Her breead-ratch’d feeace, an’ tweea white hinder legs
Preeav’d it war her, as seear ez eggs is eggs.
Geoorgy.
Poor thing! What, deead then? ’ed sha ligg’d theer lang?
Wheeraboot is sha? Robin, will ta gan?
Robin.
Ah care nut, Geoorgy; Ah ’a’en’t mich ti deea—
A good hoor’s laabor, or mayhappen tweea;
Bud ez Ah nivver leyke ti hing behinnd
When Ah[89] can deea a kahndness tiv a frinnd,
An Ah89 can help ya wi’ mah hand or teeam
Ah’ll help ti skin her, ur t’ fetch her heeam.
Geoorgy.
Thank ya, good Robin. Ah caan’t think, belike,
Hoo t’ poor au’d creature tumm’l’d inti t’ dyke.
Robin.
Ya mahnd, sha’d fun hersel just boon ti dee,
An’ seea laid doon byv t’ sahd (ez ’t seeams ti me),
An’ when sha felt, mun, t’ paans o’ deeath wi’in,
Sha stakker’d, tumm’l’d, fick’d, then toupled in.
Geoorgy.
Maist leykly—bud—what, war sha deead ootreet
When fo’st thoo fand her, when ta gat t’ fo’st seet?
Robin.
Ya s’ hear, ez Ah war gahin doon t’ looan, Ah spy’d
A scoore or mair o’ creeaks byv t’ gutter sahd,
All seea thrang, hoppin’ in an’ hoppin’ oot,
Ah wunder’d what i’ t’ wo’lld tha war aboot.
Ah leeaks, an’ then Ah sees t’ au’d yode90 leead,
Gaspin’ an’ pantin’ sair, an’ ommaist deead.
An’ ez tha pick’d it een, an’ pick’d ageean,
It just could lift it leg, an’ give a greean;
Bud when Ah fand au’d Deeasy war ther prey,
Ah wav’d mah hat, an’ shoo’d ’em all awaay.
Poor Deeas’! Ya mahnd, sha ’s noo worn fairly oot,
Sha’s lang been quite hardset ti traail aboot—
Bud yonder, Geoorgy, leeak ya, wheer sha’s leead,
An’ tweea ’r three nanpies chatt’rin’ ower her heead.
Geoorgy.
Hey, marry! This Ah nivver wished ti see;
Sha’s been seea good—seea trew a frinnd ti me.
An’ ‘ez ta cum’d ti this, mah poor au’d meer?
Thoo’s been a trusty sarvant monny a yeear;
An’ better treeatment thoo ’s desarv’d fra me,
‘An thus neglected iv a dyke ti dee.
Monny a good day’s wark wa’ve wrowt tigither,
An’ bodden monny a blast o’ wind an’ weather;
Monny a lang dree mahle, ower moss an’ moor,
An’ monny a hill an’ deeal wa’ve toddled ower.
Bud noo, wae’st91 me! thoo’ll nivver trot neea mair,
Ti nowther kirk, na market, spoort, na fair;
An’ noo foor t’ futur’, thoff Ah’s au’d an’ leeam,
Ah s’all be forced ti walk, ur stay at heeam.
Neea mair thoo’ll bring ma cooals fra Blakey-Broo,
Ur sticks fra t’ wood—Ah s’ ‘a’e ti drag ’em noo.
Ma poor au’d Deeas’! afoor Ah dig thi greeave,
Thi weel-worn shoon Ah will foor keepseeaks seeave;
Thi hide, poor lass! Ah’ll ’ev it tann’d wi care,
‘T’ll mak a cover ti mah au’d airm-cheer,
An’ pairt an appron foor mah weyfe ti weear
When cardin’ woul ur weshin’ t’ parlour fleear.
Deep i’ t’ cau’d yeth Ah will thi carcase pleeace,
‘At thi poor beeans maay lig an’ rist i’ peeace;
Deep i’ t’ cau’d yeth, ’at t’ dogs mayn’t scrat tha oot,
An’ rahve thi flesh an’ trail thi beeans aboot.
Thoo ’s been seea faithful foor seea lang ti me,
Thoo s’annot at thi deeath neglected be.
Seldom a Christian ’at yan noo can finnd,
Wad be mair trusty ur mair trew a frinnd.
Anon.

THE INVASION.

An Eclogue.

[Date 1810.]

A wanton wether had disclaimed its bonds
‘At kept him cleease wivin Au’d Willie’s grunds,
Brakt thruff t’ hedge an’ wander’d far astraay,
He kenn’d nut whither, alang t’ au’d to’npik waay.
Ez Willie wrowt wi’ neea larl care
T’ fence wi’ stake an’ thorns t’ gap ti repair,
His neighbour Roger, heeam fra t’ fair reto’n’d,
Then cam i’ seet, i’ rahding graith92 weel don’d93,
Wheea seean ez Willy, fast drawing nigh he spies,
Thus tiv his frinnd fra t’ back o’ t’ hedge he cries.
Willy.
Noo, then; what, Roger! ‘ ya been ti t’ fair?
Hoo gans things? Maad ya onny bargaans theer?
Roger.
Ah knaw nut, Willy, things deean’t leeak ower weel;
Coorn sattles fast, thoff beeas ’ll fetch a deeal.
Ti sell t’ au’d intak barley, Ah desaund94,
Bud c’u’dn’t git a bid ti suit mah mahnd95.
What wi’ rack rents, an’ sike a want o’ traad,
Ah knawn’t hoo yan’s ti git yan’s landloord paad;
Mairower an’ that, tha saay i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year
T’ Franch is intarmin’d96 ti ’tack uz here.
Willy.
Yea, mun! What are tha cummin’ hither foor?
Depend on ’t, they’d far better nivver stor.
Roger.
True, Willy—nobbut Inglishmen ’ll stand
By yan anuther; o’ ther awn good land
Tha’ll nivver suffer, Ah s’ be bun ti saay,
T’ Franchmen ti tak a sing’l sheep awaay;
Feightin’ foor heeam upo’ ther awn fair field,
All t’ poo’r o’ France c’u’d nivver mak ’em yield.
Willy.
Whya, seear yan cannot think, when put ti t’ pinch,
‘At onny Inglishmen ’ll iwer flinch.
If t’ Franch deea cum, wha, Roger, Ah’ll be hang’d,
An tha deean’t git thersens reet soondly bang’d,
Ah can’t bud think—thoff Ah may be misteean—
Nut monny on ’em ’ll git back ageean.
Roger.
Ah think nut, Willy; bud sum fau’k ’ll say
Oor Inglish fleet let t’ Franch ships git awaay
When tha war laid—thoo knaws—i’ Bantry Bay,
‘At tha c’u’d nivver all ’a’e gi’en ’em t’ slip,
Bud t’ Inglish wanted nut ti tak a ship.
Willy.
Eah! that ’s all lees!
Roger.
Ah dunnot saay it’s trew,
It’s all unknawn ti sike ez me an’ yow.
Hoo deea wa knaw when t’ fleets deea reet ur wrang?
Ah whooap it ’s all on ’t fause97—bud seea talks gan.
Hoosivver, this Ah knaw, ’at when tha pleease,
Oor sailors allus beeat ’em upo’ t’ seeas,
An’ if tha nobbut sharply leeak aboot,
Tha needn’t let a sing’l ship cum oot;
At leeast, tha’ll drub ’em weel, I dunnot fear,
An’ keep ’em fairly off fra landing here.
Willy.
Ah whooap seea, Roger; bud an’ if tha deea
Cum ower, Ah then s’all sharpen mah au’d leea98.
What thoff Ah can bud ov a lahtle boast,
Ya knaw yan wadn’t ’a’e that lahtle lost.
Ah s’ send oor Molly an’ all t’ bairns awaay,
An’ Ah mysen ’ll byv t’ au’d yamsteead staay.
Ah’ll feight, if need; an’ if Ah fall, wha, then
Ah s’ suffer all t’ warst mishap mysen.
War Ah bud seear my weyfe an’ bairns war seeaf,
Ah then s’u’d be ti dee content eneeaf.
Roger.
Reet, Willy, mun! What an tha put uz teea ’t,
Ah will mysen put forrad mah best feeat;
What thoff Ah ’s au’d, Ah ’s nut seea easily scar’d—
On his awn middin, an au’d cock feights hard.
Tha saay a Franchman ’s to’n’d a different man,
A braver, better sojer ten ti yan;
Bud let t’ Franch be to’n’d ti what he will,
Tha’ll finnd ’at Inglishmen are Inglish still—
O’ ther awn grund tha’ll nowther flinch na flee,
Tha’ll owther conger, or tha’ll bravely dee.
Anon.

COMIC SONG.

A Beautiful Boy.

[Date about 1750.]

‘Twar yance on a tahm, aboot six i’ t’ morn,
When fo’st Ah saw leet—Ah meean, Ah war born.
Ther war t’ doctor an’ t’ nuss, an’ a gert monny mair,
Bud neean on ’em ’ed seen sike a babby afoor.
Ah’d t’ neease o’ mah dad, an’ t’ een o’ mah mam,
Seea wi’ sleet alterations Ah varra seean cam
Wivoot onny doot or the sleetest o’ sham
Ti be a maist beautiful boy.
Ti mak ma a beauty, skriked oot Mrs. Sneer,
‘He’ll be t’ taal end o’ nowt, bidoot a sweet leer.’
Seea ti gi’e ma this leer, yan on ’em shoots oot,
‘When he’s tumm’l’d asleep, lig a weight on his snoot.’
Which maad ma ti wink an’ ti blink O!
Whahl t’ ladies kenn’d nut what ti think O!
Bud tha mannish’d ti gi’e ma a squint O!
An’ maad ma a beautiful boy.
Ti finish ma off, Ah needed yah thing.
My gob ower-straight war—Ah meean for ti sing—
Seea ti lug it an’ tug it all t’ lot on ’em tried,
Whahl they stritched mah poor gob ommaist hauf a yard wide,
Shooting, ‘Pull awaay, noo, Mrs. Ryder,
It’s stritching a lahtle bit wider,’
An’ Dolly, wheea stood just ashad her,
Sed, ‘Oh! what a beautiful boy!’
When they’d finish’d ma off, tha sent ma ti skeeal.
T’ lads an’ t’ lasses all gen’d ez Ah sat o’ mah steeal,
An’ when they went yam tha sed ’at tha’d seen
T’ fresh lad at skeeal wi’ sike beautiful een.
‘He can leeak onny road, an’ that’s handy,
His gob ’s reetly shapp’d ti suck candy,
Whahl his legs are what tha call bandy—
Gocks! bud he’s a beautiful boy!’
T’ uther daay Ah war ax’d i’ t’ city ti dine,
When t’ lasses i’ rapters all thowt ma divine;
An’ t’ lot, whahl admiring mah elegant grace,
Let ther dinners aleean ti gaze i’ mah feeace,
Then sigh’d, ‘Ah s’all swound wi’ surprise O!
T’ sunleet caan’t match his dear eyes O!
He’s sike a neyce mooth foor mince-pies O!
Oh! kiss uz, you beautiful boy!’
Ah sed, ‘Lasses, beware o’ love’s piercing darts,
Foor feearful Ah be Ah s’all steeal all yer hearts;
An’ then, mah deear lasses, ya’ll sob an’ ya’ll sigh,
When you think o’ mah charms, whahl ya’ll langwish an’ dee.
Ah can kiss, bud Ah caan’t wed ya all,
Bud Ah wad if Ah mud, gert an’ small;
Ah lang for ti cuddle ya all,
For, ya ken, Ah’s a beautiful boy.’

Mr. Fossick, of Carthorpe, kindly gave me the above (and several others). He tells me it was sung when his grandfather was a boy. As Mr. Fossick was born in the early years of this century, I am not in the least antedating it. Though turned eighty, the last time I saw Mr. Fossick, for two hours he recited poetry without having to halt for a single word. It is in a great measure owing to the wonderful memories possessed by our old people that I have been able to collect the matter for this work.