Front matter (continued 3)

Lines, on finding a butterfly in a weaving shed.

Nay surelee tha's made a mistak; Tha'rt aght o' thi element here; Tha may weel goa an peark up o'th' thack, Thi bonny wings shakin wi' fear.

Aw should think 'at theease rattlin looms Saand queer sooart o' music to thee; An tha'll hardly quite relish th' perfumes O' miln-greease,—what th' quality be.

Maybe tha'rt disgusted wi' us, An thinks we're a low offald set, But tha'rt sadly mistaen if tha does, For ther's hooap an ther's pride in us yet.

Tha wor nobbut a worm once thisen, An as humble as humble could be; An tho we nah are like tha wor then, We may yet be as nobby as thee.

Tha'd to see thi own livin when young, An when tha grew up tha'd to spin; An if labor like that wornt wrong, Tha con hardly call wayvin 'a sin.'

But tha longs to be off aw con tell: For tha shows 'at tha ar'nt content; Soa aw'll oppen thee th' window—farewell Off tha goas, bonny fly!—An it went.

Rejected.

Gooid bye, lass, aw dunnot blame, Tho' mi loss is hard to bide! For it wod ha' been a shame, Had tha ivver been the bride Of a workin chap like me; One 'ats nowt but love to gie.

Hard hoof'd neives like thease o' mine. Surely ne'er wor made to press Hands so lily-white as thine; Nor should arms like thease caress One so slender, fair, an' pure, 'Twor unlikely, lass, aw'm sure.

But thease tears aw cannot stay,— Drops o' sorrow fallin fast, Hopes once held aw've put away As a dream, an think its past; But mi poor heart loves thi still, An' wol life is mine it will.

When aw'm seated, lone and sad, Wi mi scanty, hard won meal, One thowt still shall mak me glad, Thankful that alone aw feel What it is to tew an' strive Just to keep a soul alive.

Th' whin-bush rears o'th' moor its form, An' wild winds rush madly raand, But it whistles to the storm, In the barren home it's faand; Natur fits it to be poor, An 'twor vain to strive for moor.

If it for a lily sighed, An' a lily chonced to grow, When it found the fair one died, Powerless to brave the blow Of the first rude gust o' wind, Which had left its wreck behind.

Then 'twod own 'twor better fate Niver to ha' held the prize; Whins an' lilies connot mate, Sich is not ther destinies; Then 'twor wrang for one like me, One soa poor, to sigh for thee.

Then gooid bye, aw dunnot blame, Tho' mi loss it's hard to bide, For it wod ha' been a shame Had tha iver been mi bride; Content aw'll wear mi lonely lot, Tho' mi poor heart forgets thee not.

Persevere.

What tho' th' claads aboon luk dark, Th' sun's just waitin to peep throo; Let us buckle to awr wark, For ther's lots o' jobs to do: Tho' all th' world luks dark an drear, Let's ha faith, an persevere.

He's a fooil 'at sits an mumps 'Coss some troubles hem him raand! Man mud allus be i'th dumps, If he sulk'd 'coss fortun fraand; Th' time 'll come for th' sky to clear:— Let's ha faith, an persevere.

If we think awr lot is hard, Nivver let us mak a fuss; Lukkin raand, at ivvery yard, We'st find others war nor us; We have still noa cause to fear! Let's ha faith, an persevere.

A faint heart, aw've heeard 'em say, Nivver won a lady fair: Have a will! yo'll find a way! Honest men ne'er need despair. Better days are drawin near:— Then ha faith, an persevere.

Workin men,—nah we've a voice, An con help to mak new laws; Let us ivver show awr choice Lains to strengthen virtue's cause, Wrangs to reighten,—griefs to cheer; This awr motto—'Persevere.'

Let us show to foreign empires Loyalty's noa empty booast; We can scorn the thirsty vampires If they dar molest awr cooast: To awr Queen an country dear Still we'll cling an persevere.

The printed version in Yorkshire Lyrics finishes here These two extra verses are from Yorkshire Ditties First Series.

But as on throo life we hurry, By whativver path we rooam, Let us ne'er forget i'th' worry, True reform begins at hooam: Then, to prove yorsens sincere, Start at once; an persevere.

Hard wark, happen yo may find it, Some dear folly to forsake, Be detarmined ne'er to mind it! Think, yor honor's nah at stake. Th' gooid time's drawin varry near! Then ha faith, an persevere.

A Pointer.

Just listen to mi stooary lads, It's one will mak yo grieve; It's full ov sich strange incidents; Yo hardly can believe. That lass aw cooarted, went one neet Aght walkin wi' a swell; They ovvertuk me on mi way, An this is what befell.

They tuk me for a finger pooast; Aw stood soa varry still; An daan they set beside me, Just at top o' Beacon Hill. He sed shoo wor his deary; Shoo sed he wor her pet; 'Twor an awkward sittiwation Which aw shall'nt sooin forget.

Aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill,— They set daan at mi feet; He hugged her up soa varry cloise, Aw thowt ther lips must meet. He sed he loved wi' all his heart, Shoo fainted reight away; Aw darsn't luk,—aw darsn't start, But aw wished misen away.

They tuk me for, &c.

He bathed her temples from the brook; He sed shoo wor his life, It made me queer, becoss aw'd sworn To mak that lass mi wife. Shoo coom araand, an ligg'd her heead, Upon his heavin breast; An then shoo skriked, an off aw ran, But aw cannot tell the rest.

They tuk me for, &c.

They wedded wor, sooin after that, Aw thowt mi heart wod braik;— It didn't,—soa aw'm livin on, An freeatin for her sake. But sweet revenge,—it coom at last, For childer shoo had three, An they're all marked wi' a finger pooast Whear it didn't owt to be.

They tuk me for, &c.

An Acrostic.

H a! if yo'd nobbut known that lass, A w'm sure yo'd call her bonny; N oa other could her charms surpass, N oa other had as monny. A n ha aw lost mi peace o' mind, H ark! an aw'll tell if yor inclined. C awered in a nook one day aw set, R aand which wild flaars wor growin; O, that sweet time aw'st ne'er forget, S oa long as aw've mi knowin. T hear aw first saw this lovely lass; I n thowtful mood shoo tarried, "C ome be mi bride, sweet maid!" aw cried: "K eep off!" shoo skriked, "aw'm married!"

Help Thisen.

"Come, help thisen, lad,—help thisen!" Wor what mi uncle sed. We'd just come in throo makkin hay, To get some cheese an breead. An help misen aw did,—yo bet! Aw wor a growin lad; Aw thowt then, an aw fancy yet, 'Twor th' grandest feed aw'd had.

When aw grew up aw fell i' love,— Shoo wor a bonny lass! But bein varry young an shy, Aw let mi chonces pass. Aw could'nt for mi life contrive A thing to do or say, For fear aw should offend her, soa Aw let her walk away.

But what aw suffered nooan can tell;— Aw loved her as mi life! But dursn't ax her for the world To be mi darlin wife. Aw desperate grew,—we met,—aw ax'd For just one kuss,—an then, Shoo blushed, an shook her bonny curls, But let me help misen.

It's varry monny years sin then,— Mi hair's nah growin gray; But oft throo life aw've thowt aw've heeard That same owd farmer say,— When in some fix aw've vainly sowt For aid from other men,— "Tha'rt wastin time,—if tha wants help Pluck up, an help thisen."

If th' prize yo long for seems too heigh, Dooant let yor spirits drop; Ther may be lots o' thrustin, but Yo'll find ther's room at th' top. Yo connot tell what yo can do Until yo've had a try; It may be a hard struggle, but Yo'll get thear, by-an-bye.

Nah, young fowk, bear this in yor mind An let it be yor creed, For sooin yo'll find fowk's promises Are but a rotten reed. Feight yor own battles bravely throo, Yo'll sewerly win, an then Yo'll find ther's lots will help yo, When yo con help yorsen.

Bless 'em!

O, the lasses, the lasses, God bless 'em! His heart must be hard as a stooan 'At could willingly goa an distress 'em, For withaat 'em man's lot 'ud be looan.

Tho' th' pooasies i' paradise growin For Adam, wor scented soa sweet, He ne'er thank'd 'em for odour bestowin, He trampled 'em under his feet.

He long'd to some sweet one to whisper; An wol sleepin Eve came to his home; He wakken'd, an saw her, an kuss'd her, An ne'er ax'd her a word ha shoo'd come.

An tho' shoo, like her sex, discontented, An anxious fowk's saycrets to know, Pluck'd an apple,—noa daat shoo repented When shoo saw at it made sich a row.

Tho' aw know shoo did wrang, aw forgie her; For aw'm fairly convinced an declare, 'At aw'd rayther ha sin an be wi' her, Nor all th' world an noa woman to share.

Then let us be kind to all th' wimmin, Throo th' poorest to th' Queen up oth' throne, For if, Eve-like, they sometimes goa sinnin, It's moor for th' chaps' sakes nor ther own.