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

I’ summer time they romp an’ play
   Where flowers grow wild and sweet;
Ther bodies strong, ther spirits gay,
   They thrive throo morn to neet. 
But tha’s a cough, aw hear tha has;
   An’ oft aw’ve known thee sick;
But tha mun work, poor little lass,
   For hauf-a-craan a wick. 
         Poor lassie wan, &c.

Aw envy net fowks’ better lot—­
   Aw should’nt like to swap. 
Aw’m quite contented wi’mi cot;
   Aw’m but a warkin chap. 
But if aw had a lot o’ brass
   Aw’d think o’ them ’at’s poor;
Aw’d have yo’ childer workin’ less,
   An’ mak yor wages moor. 
         Poor lassie wan, &c.

“There is a land of pure delight,
   Where saints immortal reign,
Infinite day excludes the night,
   And pleasures banish pain.” 
Noa fact’ry bell shall greet thi ear,
   I’ that sweet home ov love;
An’ those ’at scorn thi sufferins here
   May envy thee above. 
         Poor lassie wan, &c.

Th’ First o’th Sooart

Aw heeard a funny tale last neet—­
Aw could’nt howd fro’ laffin—­
‘Twor at th’ Bull’s Heead we chonced to meet,
An’ spent an haar i’ chaffin. 
Some sang a song, some cracked a joak,
An’ all seem’d full o’ larkin;
An’ th’ raam war blue wi’ bacca smook,
An’ ivery e’e’d a spark in.

Long Joa ‘at comes thro th’ Jumples cluff,
Wor gettin rayther mazy;
An’ Warkus Ned had supped enuff
To turn they’re Betty crazy;—­
An Bob at lives at th’ Bogeggs farm,
Wi’ Nan throo th’ Buttress Bottom,
Wor treating her to summat wanm,
(It’s just his way,—­“odd drot em!”)

An’ Jack o’th’ Slade wor theear as weel,
An’ Joa o’ Abe’s throo Waerley;
An’ Lijah off o’th’ Lavver Hill,
Wor passing th’ ale raand rarely.—­
Throo raand and square they seem’d to meet,
To hear or tell a stoory;
But th’ gem o’ all aw heard last neet
Wor one bi Dooad o’th’ gloory.

He bet his booits ’at it wor true,
An’ all seem’d to believe him;
Tho’ if he’d lost he need’nt rue—­
But ’t wodn’t ha done to grieve him
His uncle lived i’ Pudsey taan,
An’ practised local praichin;
An’ if he ’re lucky, he wor baan
To start a schooil for taichin.

But he wor takken varry ill;
He felt his time wor comin: 
(They say he brought it on hissel
Wi’ studdyin his summin.)
He call’d his wife an’ neighbors in
To hear his deein sarmon,
An’ tell’d ’em if they liv’d i’ sin
Ther lot ud be a warm en.

Then turin raand unto his wife,
Said—­“Mal, tha knows, owd craytur,
If awd been bless’d wi’ longer life,
Aw might ha’ left things straighter. 
Joa Sooitill owes me eighteen pence—­
Aw lent it him last lovefeast.” 
Says Mal—­“He has’nt lost his sense—­
Thank God for that at least!”

“An Ben o’th’ top o’th’ bank tha knows,
We owe him one paand ten.".—­
“Just hark!” says Mally, “there he goas! 
He’s ramellin agean! 
Dooant tak a bit o’ noatice, fowk! 
Yo see, poor thing, he’s ravin! 
It cuts me up to hear sich talk—­
He spent his life i’ savin!

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