Yorkshire Ditties, First Series eBook

John Hartley (poet)
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 64 pages of information about Yorkshire Ditties, First Series.

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! 
Ther daddy does the best he can
To cheer yo with his sweetest song;
An’ thoase ’ll sing as weel, ere long,
   Soa let ’em stay.”

“Tha needn’t think aw’d do ’em harm—­
Come shelter ’em and keep ’em warm! 
For aw’ve a little nest misel,
An’ two young babs, aw’m praad to tell,
   ’At’s precious too;
An’ they’ve a mammy watching thear,
’At howds them little ens as dear,
An’ dearer still, if that can be,
Nor what thease youngens are to thee,
   Soa come,—­nah do!

Copyrights
Project Gutenberg
Yorkshire Ditties, First Series from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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