Yorkshire Dialect Poems Part 3

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 s.h.i.+ne 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 s.h.i.+ne 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' la.s.ses 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 n.o.bbud 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 t.w.a.ttle 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 w.i.l.l.y's grounds; Broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray, He knew not whither on the public way.

As w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y, fast approaching, spies, Thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries.

w.i.l.l.y How dea ye, Roger? Hae ye been at t' fair?

How gangs things? Made ye onny bargains there?

ROGER I knaw not, w.i.l.l.y, 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.

w.i.l.l.y Yea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for?

Depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4)

ROGER True, w.i.l.l.y, n.o.bbud 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.

w.i.l.l.y 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.