“An, Mally, lass,” he said agean,
“Tak heed o’ my direction:
Th’ schooil owes us hauf a craan—aw mean
My share o’th’ last collection.—
Tha’ll see to that, an have what’s fair
When my poor life is past.”—
Says Mally, “listen, aw declare,
He’s sensible to th’ last.”
He shut his een an’ sank to rest—
Deeath seldom claimed a better:
They put him by,—but what wor th’ best,
He sent ’em back a letter,
To tell ’em all ha he’d gooan on;
An’ ha he gate to enter;
An’ gave ’em rules to act upon
If ever they should ventur.
Theear Peter stood wi’ keys i’ hand:
Says he, “What do you want, sir?
If to goa in—yo understand
Unknown to me yo can’t sir.—
Pray what’s your name? where are yo throo?
Just make your business clear.”
Says he, “They call me Parson Drew,
Aw’ve come throo Pudsey here.”
“You’ve come throo Pudsey, do you say?
Doant try sich jokes o’ me, sir;
Aw’ve kept thease doors too long a day,
Aw can’t be fooiled bi thee, sir.”
Says Drew, “aw wodn’t tell a lie,
For th’ sake o’ all ther’s in it:
If yo’ve a map o’ England by,
Aw’ll show yo in a minit.”
Soa Peter gate a time-table—
They gloored o’er th’ map together:
Drew did all at he wor able,
But could’nt find a stiver.
At last says he, “Thear’s Leeds Taan Hall,
An thear stands Braforth mission:
It’s just between them two—that’s all:
Your map’s an old edition.
But thear it is, aw’ll lay a craan,
An’ if yo’ve niver known it,
Yo’ve miss’d a bonny Yorksher taan,
Tho mony be ’at scorn it.”
He oppen’d th’ gate,—says he, “It’s time
Some body coom—aw’ll trust thee.
Tha’ll find inside noa friends o’ thine—
Tha’rt th’ furst ’at’s come throo Pudsey.”
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 oth’ 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-grease,—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 worn’t 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.