Project Gutenberg's Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series, by John Hartley This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Yorkshire Ditties, Second Series To Which Is Added The Cream Of Wit And Humour From His Popular Writings Author: John Hartley Release Date: February 26, 2006 [EBook #17799] Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK YORKSHIRE DITTIES, SECOND SERIES *** Produced by David Fawthrop
WAKEFIELD: WILLIAM NICHOLSON AND SONS. LONDON: S. D. EWINS JR. AND CO., 22, PATERNOSTER ROW. MANCHESTER: JOHN HEYWOOD, AND A. HEYWOOD AND SON. [ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL.]
We offer no apology for presenting this little book to the
feeling sure from our past experience, that it will be kindly welcomed
by a great many lovers of their "native twang."
My Gronfayther's Days.
To a Daisy,
A Bad Sooart.
All we Had.
Give it 'em Hot.
Th' Honest Hard Worker.
What aw Want.
What it is to be Mother.
What is It.
Come thi Ways!
Advice to Jenny.
Ther's mich Expected.
A Strange Stooary.
Did yo Iver.
An Old Man's Christmas Morning.
Billy Bumble's Bargain.
Th' Traitle Sop.
New Machinery &c.
It's a comfort.
None think Alike.
A poor owd man wi' tott'ring gait,
Wi' body bent, and snowy pate,
Aw met one day;—
An' daan o' th' rooad side grassy banks
He sat to rest his weary shanks;
An' aw, to wile away my time,
O'th' neighbouring hillock did recline,
An' bade "gooid day."
Said aw, "Owd friend, pray tell me true,
If in your heart yo niver rue
The time 'ats past?
Does envy niver fill your breast
When passin fowk wi' riches blest?
An' do yo niver think it wrang
At yo should have to trudge alang,
Soa poor to th' last?"
"Young man," he said "aw envy nooan;
But ther are times aw pity some,
Wi' all mi heart;
To see what troubled lives they spend,
What cares upon their hands depend;
Then aw in thoughtfulness declare
'At 'little cattle little care'
Is th' better part.
Gold is a burden hard to carry,
An' tho' Dame Fortune has been chary
O' gifts to me;
Yet still aw strive to feel content,
An' think what is, for th' best is meant;
An' th' mooast ov all aw strive for here,
Is still to keep mi conscience clear,
From dark spots free.
An' while some tax ther brains to find
What they'll be forced to leave behind,
When th' time shall come;
Aw try bi honest word an' deed,
To get what little here aw need,
An' live i' hopes at last to say,
When breath go as flickerin away,
'Awm gooin hooam.'"
Aw gave his hand a hearty shake,
It seem'd as tho' the words he spake
Sank i' mi heart:
Aw walk'd away a wiser man,
Detarmined aw wod try his plan
I' hopes at last 'at aw might be
As weel assured ov Heaven as he;
That's th' better part.
A'a, Jonny! a'a Johnny! aw'm sooary for thee!
But come thi ways to me, an' sit o' mi knee,
For it's shockin' to hearken to th' words 'at tha says:—
Ther wor nooan sich like things i' thi gronofayther's days.
When aw wor a lad, lads wor lads, tha knows, then,
But nahdays they owt to be 'shamed o' thersen;
For they smook, an' they drink, an' get other bad ways;
Things wor different once i' thi gronfayther's days.
Aw remember th' furst day aw went a coortin' a bit,
An' walked aght thi granny;—awst niver forget;
For we blushed wol us faces wor all in a blaze;—
It wor nooa sin to blush i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's nooa lasses nah, John, 'at's fit to be wed;
They've false teeth i' ther maath, an false hair o' ther heead;
They're a make up o' buckram, an' waddin', an' stays,
But a lass wor a lass i' thi gronfayther's days.
At that time a tradesman dealt fairly wi' th' poor,
But nah a fair dealer can't keep oppen th' door;
He's a fooil if he fails, he's a scamp if he pays;
Ther wor honest men lived i' thi gronfayther's days.
Ther's chimleys an' factrys i' ivery nook nah,
But ther's varry few left 'at con fodder a caah;
An' ther's telegraff poles all o'th edge o'th' highways,
Whear grew bonny green trees i' thi gronfayther's days.
We're teld to be thankful for blessin's at's sent,
An' aw hooap 'at tha'll allus be blessed wi' content;
Tha mun make th' best tha con o' this world wol tha stays,
But aw wish tha'd been born i' thi gronfayther's days.
Aw'd raythur face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin' at mi heead;
Aw'd raythur track a madman's steps,
Whearivei they may leead;
Aw'd raythur ventur in a den,
An' stail a lion's cub:
Aw'd raythur risk the foamin wave
In an old leaky tub;
Aw'd raythur stand i'th' midst o'th fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.
A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim;
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An' leave all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An' spare yo when they've past;
Yo' may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Make poverty yo'r friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.
Ther's malice in his kindest smile,
His proffered hand's a snare;
He's plannin deepest villany,
When seemingly mooast fair;
He leads yo' on wi' oily tongue,
Swears he's yo're fastest friend.
He get's yo' once within his coils,
An' crushes yo' ith' end.
Old Nick, we're tell'd, gooas prowlin' aat,
An' seeks whom to devour;
But he's a saint, compared to some,
'At's th' luk to be i' power.
What is it maks a crusty wife
Forget to scold, an' leeave off strife?
What is it smoothes the rooad throo life?
What is it maks a gaumless muff
Grow rich, an' roll i' lots o' stuff,
Woll better men can't get enough?
What is it, if it worn't theear,
Wod mak some fowk feel varry queer,
An' put 'em: i' ther proper sphere?
What is' it maks fowk wade throo th' snow,
To goa to th' church, becoss they know
'At th' squire's at hooam an' sure to goa?
What is it gains fowk invitations,
Throo them 'at live i' lofty stations?
What is it wins mooast situations?
What is it men say they detest,
Yet alus like that chap the best
'At gives 'em twice as mich as th' rest?
What is it, when the devil sends
His agents raand to work his ends,
What is it gains him lots o' friends?
What is it we should mooast despise,
An' by its help refuse to rise,
Tho' poverty's befoor awr eyes?
What is it, when life's wastin' fast,
When all this world's desires are past,
Will prove noa use to us at last?
O'er Wibsey Slack aw coom last neet,
Wi' reekin heead and weary feet,
A strange, strange chap, aw chonced to meet;
He made mi start;
But pluckin up, aw did him greet
Wi beatin heart.
His dress wor black as black could be,
An th' latest fashion aw could see,
But yet they hung soa dawderly,
Like suits i' shops;
Bith heart! yo mud ha putten three
Sich legs i'th' slops.
Says aw, "Owd trump, it's rather late
For one at's dress'd i' sich a state,
Across this Slack to mak ther gate:
Is ther some pairty?
Or does ta allus dress that rate—
Black duds o'th' wairty?"
He twisted raand as if to see
What sooart o' covy aw cud be,
An' grinned wi sich a maath at me,
It threw me sick!
"Lor saves!" aw cried, "an' is it thee
At's call'd ow'd Nick!"
But when aw luk'd up into th' place,
Whear yo'd expect to find a face;
A awful craytur met mi gaze,
It took mi puff:
"Gooid chap," aw sed, "please let me pass,
Aw've seen enough!"
Then bendin cloise daan to mi ear,
He tell'd me 'at aw'd nowt to fear,
An' soa aw stop't a bit to hear
What things he'd ax;
But as he spake his, teeth rang clear,
"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm capt 'wi thee
Net knowin sich a chap as me;
For oft when tha's been on a spree,
Aw've been thear too;
But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee,
Tha's just edged throo.
Mi name is Deeath—tha needn't start,
And put thi hand upon thi heart,
For tha ma see 'at aw've noa dart
Wi which to strike;
Let's sit an' tawk afoor we part,
O'th edge o'th dyke."
"Nay, nay, that tale weant do, owd lad,
For Bobby Burns tells me tha had
A scythe hung o'er thi' shoulder, Gad!
Tha worn't dress'd
I' fine black clooath; tha wore' a plad
Across thi breast!"
"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat
To find me' wanderin abaght;
But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat
A job to do;
Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat,
Mi arrows too."
"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,
'At fowk noa moor will ha' to dee?"
"Noa, hark a minit an' tha'll see
When th' truth aw tell!
Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,
Thev kill thersel.
They do it too at sich a rate
Wol mi owd system's aght o' date;
What we call folly, they call fate;
An' all ther pleasur
Is ha' to bring ther life's estate
To th' shortest measur.
They waste ther time, an' waste ther gains,
O' stuff 'at's brew'd throo poisoned grains,
Thro' morn to neet they keep ther brains,
For ever swimmin,
An' if a bit o' sense remains,
It's fun i'th wimmen.
Tha'll find noa doctors wi ther craft,
Nor yet mysen wi scythe or shaft,
E'er made as monny deead or daft,
As Gin an' Rum,
An' if aw've warn'd fowk, then they've lafft
At me, bi gum!
But if they thus goa on to swill,
They'll not want Wilfrid Lawson's bill,
For give a druffen chap his fill,
An sooin off pops he,
An teetotal fowk moor surely still,
Will dee wi th' dropsy.
It's a queer thing at sich a nation
Can't use a bit o' moderation;
But one lot rush to ther damnation
Through love o'th bottle:
Wol others think to win salvation
Wi being teetotal."
Wi' booany neive he stroked mi heead,
"Tak my advice, young chap," he sed,
"Let liquors be, sup ale asteead,
An' tha'll be better,
An' dunnot treat th' advice tha's heard
Like a dead letter."
"Why Deeath," aw sed, "fowk allus say,
Yo come to fotch us chaps away!
But this seems strange, soa tell me pray,
Ha wor't yo coom?
Wor it to tell us keep away,
Yo hav'nt room?"
"Stop whear tha art, Jack, if tha dar
But tha'll find spirits worse bi far
Sarved aght i' monny a public bar,
At's thowt quite lawful;
Nor what tha'll find i'th' places par-
Sons call soa awful."
"Gooid bye!" he sed, an' off he shot,
Leavin behind him sich a lot
O' smook, as blue as it wor hot!
It set me stewin!
Soa hooam aw cut, an' gate a pot
Ov us own brewin.
If when yo've read this stooary through,
Yo daat if it's exactly true,
Yo'll nobbut do as others do,
Yo may depend on't.
Blow me! aw ommost daat it too,
So thear's an end on't
Aw live in a snug little cot,
An' tho' poor, yet aw keep aat o' debt,
Cloise by, in a big garden plot,
Stands a mansion, 'at long wor to let.
Twelve month sin' or somewhear abaat,
A fine lukin' chap donned i' black,
Coom an' luk'd at it inside an' aat
An' decided this mansion to tak.
Ther wor whiteweshers coom in a drove
An' masons, an' joiners, an' sweeps,
An' a blacksmith to fit up a cove,
An' bricks, stooans an' mortar i' heaps.
Ther wor painters, an' glazzeners too,
To mend up each bit ov a braik,
An' a lot 'at had nowt else to do,
But to help some o'th 'tothers to laik.
Ther wor fires i' ivery range,
They niver let th' harston get cooiled,
Throo th' celler to th' thack they'd a change,
An' iverything all in a mooild.
Th' same chap 'at is th' owner o'th' Hall,
Is th' owner o'th' cot whear aw dwell,
But if aw ax for th' leeast thing at all;
He tells me to do it mysel.
This hall lets for fifty a year,
Wol five paand is all 'at aw pay;
When th' day come mi rent's allus thear,
An' that's a gooid thing in its way,
At th' last all th' repairers had done,
An' th' hall wor as cleean as a pin,
Aw wor pleased when th' last lot wor gooan,
For aw'd getten reight sick o' ther din.
Then th' furniture started to come,
Waggon looads on it, all spankin new,
Rich crimson an' gold covered some,
Wol some shone i' scarlet an' blue.
Ov sofas aw think hauf a scoor,
An' picturs enuff for a show?
They fill'd ivery corner awm sure,
Throo th' garret to th' kitchen below.
One day when a cab drove to th' gate,
Th' new tenant stept aat, an' his wife,
An' tawk abaat fashion an state!
Yo ne'er saw sich a spreead i' yor life.
Ther war sarvents to curtsey 'em in,
An' aw could'nt help sayin', "bi'th mass;"
As th' door shut when they'd booath getten in,
"A'a its grand to ha' plenty o' brass."
Ther wor butchers, an' bakers, an' snobs,
An' grocers, an' milkmen, an' snips,
All seekin' for orders an' jobs,
An' sweetenin th' sarvents wi' tips.
Aw sed to th' milk-chap tother day,
"Ha long does ta trust sich fowk, Ike?
Each wick aw'm expected to pay,"
"Fine fowk," he says, "pay when they like."
Things went on like this, day bi day,
For somewhear cloise on for a year,
Wol aw ne'er thowt o' lukkin' that way;
Altho' aw wor livin soa near.
But one neet when awd finished mi wark,
An' wor tooastin mi shins anent th' fire,
A chap rushes in aat 'o'th' dark
Throo heead to fooit plaistered wi' mire.
Says he, "does ta know whear they've gooan?"
Says aw, "Lad, pray, who does ta meean?"
"Them 'at th' hall," he replied, wi a grooan,
"They've bolted an' diddled us cleean."
Aw tell'd him 'aw'd ne'er heeard a word,
He cursed as he put on his hat,
An' he sed, "well, they've flown like a burd,
An' paid nubdy owt, an' that's what."
He left, an' aw crept off to bed,
Next day awd a visit throo Ike,
But aw shut up his maath when aw sed,
"Fine fowk tha knows pay when they like."
Ther's papers ith' winders, "to let,"
An' aw know varry weel ha 't 'll be;
They'll do th' same for th' next tenant awl bet,
Tho they neer' do a hawpoth for me.
But aw let 'em do just as they pleease,
Awm content tho' mi station is low,
An' awm thankful sich hard times as thease
If aw manage to pay what aw owe.
This precept, friends, niver forget,
For a wiser one has not been sed,
Be detamined to rise aat o' debt
Tho' yo go withaat supper to bed,—'
If ther's ony sooart o' fowk aw hate, it's them at's allus lukkin' aght for faults;—hang it up! they get soa used to it, wol they willn't see ony beauties if they are thear. They remind me ov a chap 'at aw knew at wed a woman 'at had a wart at th' end ov her nooas, but it war nobbut a little en, an' shoo wor a varry bonny lass for all that; but when they'd been wed a bit, an' th' newness had getten warn off, he began to fancy at this wart grew bigger ivery day, an' he stared at it, an' studied abaght it, wol when he luk'd at his wife he could see nowt else, an' he kept dinging her up wi' it wol shoo felt varry mich troubled. But one day, as they wor gettin' ther dinner, he said, "Nay, lass, aw niver did see sich a thing as that wart o' thy nooas is growing into; if it gooas on tha'll be like a rhynockoroo or a newnicorn or summat!"
"Well," shoo says, "when tha wed me tha wed th' wart an' all, an' if tha doesn't like it tha con lump it."
"Aw've noa need to lump it," he says, "for it's lumpin' itsen or aw'll gie nowt for it."
Soa they went on, throo little to moor, till they'd a regular fratch, an' as sooin as' he'd getten his dinner, he off to his wark, an' shoo to her mother's. When Jim coom back an' fan th' fire aght, an' noa wife, he felt rayther strange, but he wor detarmined to let her see 'at he could do baat her, soa he gate a bit o' summat to ait an' went to bed. This went on for two-o'-three days, an' he wor as miserable as iver he could be, but o'th' Setterdy he happened to meet her i'th' shambles, an' they booath stopped an' grinned, for they'd nowt agean one another i'th' bothem.
"Nah, lass," he said, "aw think it's abaat time for thee to come hooam."
"Nay, aw'll come nooan," shoo says, "till aw've getten shut o' this wart."
"Oh, ne'er heed that, lass; it doesn't luk hauf as big as it did, an' if tha wor all wart, aw'd rayther have thi nor be as aw am."
"Soa shoo went back wi' him, an' throo that time to this he's allus luk'd for her beauties asteead ov her faults, an they get on swimmingly. One day shoo axed him if he thowt th' wart wor ony bigger?" "A'a lass," he sed, "thi een are soa breet, aw didn't know tha had one!"————————
What aw want yo to do is to be charitable, an' if yo find ony faults, think—yo happen may have one or two yorsen. Ther's net monny on us 'at's killed wi sense, but he hasn't th' leeast at's enuff to know he's a fooil.This world wad be a better spot,
There's plenty o' room for us all to mend, an' them 'at set abaat it sooinest are likely to be perfect furst; at ony rate, if we try it'll show willin'.
Aw once knew a chap they called old Sammy; he used ta gaa wi a donkey, an th' mooast remarkable things abaat him wor his clogs an' his rags. Sammy had niver been wed, tho' he war fifty years old, but it wor allus believed he'd managed ta save a bit a' brass. One day he war gain up Hepenstull Bunk, Jenny o' Jooans a' th' Long Lover wor goin up befoor him, an' whether it wor at her clogs were made a' his favrite pattern, or her ancles had summat abaat 'em different to what he'd iver seen befoor, aw cannot tell, but it seems a feelin coom ovver him all at once, sich as he'd niver had befoor, an' when he'd managed ta overtak her, he sed, "It's loaning for heeat aw think, Jenny." "Eea, aw think its likely for bein wut," shoo sed. "Awve just been thinkin," sed Sammy, "at if I wornt na a single old chap, aw shouldn't have to trail up an' daan in a lot a' rags like thease, for awm sure this jacket has hardly strength to hing o' mi rig, an' mi britches are soa full o' hoils wol awm feeared sometimes when awm puttin em on, at awst tummel throo an braik my neck." "Well, reight enuff, a woife's varry useful at times," shoo sed, "but as tha hasn't one if tha'll learn mi thi jacket, aw'll see if it cannot be mended far thi a bit." "Aw allus thowt tha war a gooid sooart, Jenny, an' awl tak thi at thi word," he sed: so he pool'd off his coit an gave it her an' it were arranged 'at he should call for it next neet. You may bet yor life he didn't forget, an when he saw it mended up, an' brushed wol it luk'd ommost as gooid as new, he luk'd first at it an then at her, an at last he sed, "Aw think we should be able to get on varry weel together, what says ta?" Aw dooant know what shoo sed, but it wornt long befoor they wor wed, for Sammy thowt shoo'd be worth her mait if it wor nobbut for mendin up his old duds. They hadn't been wed long, when he axed her to mend his britches.— "A'a," shoo sed, "Aw cannot mend em, aw niver could sew i' mi life!" "Why that is a tale," he sed, "tha mended mi jacket all reight!" "Nay, indeed aw nawther!—Aw mended nooon on it! Aw sent it to th' tailor an paid for it doin." "Then awm dropt on," sed Sammy, "for aw expected tha'd be able to do all sich like wark." "Tha should niver expect owt an' then tha willnt get dropt on," shoo sed.—"That, wor a bit o' varry gooid advice.
It shows varry little sense for fowk to object to a new machine till they've tried it, or to fancy it'll be th' means o' smashin th' trade. Luk at th' paaer looms; when they I wor started all th' hand-loom weyvers struck wark, becoss they said it ud do 'em all up, an' ther'd be noa wark at all for weyvers in a bit; but it hasn't turn'd aat soa, for ther's moor weyvers i'th' country to-day, nor iver ther wor; and they addle moor brass, an' awm sure they've easier wark. For if this country doesn't get new machines, other countries will, an' when we're left behund hand an' connot meet 'em i'th' market, we'st be a deeal war off nor ony new invention can mak us. All at's been done soa far has helped to mak us better off. They connot mak a machine to think, they're forced to stop thear; an' aw dooant daat if we'd to live long enuff, ther'd be a time when chaps ud ha nowt to do but think-but it's to be hoaped 'at they'd have summat else to think abaat nor rattenin', or shooitin', or ruinin' fowk. Aw've tawk'd to some abaat it, an' they say they're foorced to do sum way to keep wages up, but if aw can tell em ha to mak brass goa farther, they'll be content to give up th' Union. But aw think it goas far enuff—what they want is to keep it nearer hooam, to let less on it goa to th' ale haase, to spend less o' dog feightin', pigeon flyin', an' rat worryin'; an' if they'd niver spend owt withaat think in' whether it wor for ther gooid or net, they'd find a deal moor brass i'th' drawer corner at th' month end, an' varry likely a nice little bit to fall back on i'th' Savings bank at th' year end. An a chap stands hauf an inch heigher when he's a bankbook in his pocket; an' butchers and grocers varry sooin begin to nod at him, an' ax if they can do owt for him. But if he goas on th'strap, an' happens to be a month behund, he's foorced to stand o' one side till iverybody else gets sarved, an' then if he doesn't like what's left they tell him to goa leave it. It isn't what a chap addles, it's what a chap saves 'at makes him rich.
Sellin' drink has made mony a chap rich, an suppin it has made thaasands poor. But still aw must honestly say 'at aw cannot agree wi' teetotalism altogether. If noa men gate drunken, ther'd be noa need for anybody to sign th' pledge;—an' aw dooant think they goa th' reight way to get fowk to be sober. They publish papers, but what use is made on em? Yo hardly iver see a midden emptied but what yo'll find two or three pieces o'th' "British Workman," or th' "Temperance Advocate" flyin' abaat; an' they hold meetings an' spend a sight o' brass o' printin' an' praichin', an' still they doant mak one teetotaller 'at ov a thaasand. Aw should advise em to try this way. Let em offer a £500 prize for him 'at can invent a drink as gooid takin' as ale—an' one, 'at willn't mak fowk drunk. Chaps mun sup summat when they're away throo hooam, an it is'nt iverybody's stumach 'at's strong enuff to tak watter, unless it's let daan wi summat; an' ther is noa teetotal drink invented yet 'at's any better nor Spenish- juice-watter. They're all like pap. Coffee an' tea are all weel enuff, but if yo want that yo munnot goa to a Temperance Hotel for it. Aw'ye tried it monny a scoor times, but aw niver gate owt fit to sup, an' if it hadn't been for th' drop o' rum aw gate 'em to put into it, aw couldn't ha swallowed it. Tea an' coffee are things 'at dooant mend wi' warmin up, an' yo connot allus wait woll fowk mak it, an' soa if yo want to sup yo mun awther goa an' beg a drop o' watter, or pay fourpence for a glass o' belly vengeance, or yo mun get a glass o' drink—but yo've noa need to get a dozzen. Teetotallers say it contains poison, an' noa daat it does—but it's of a varry slow mak, an' if yo niver goa to excess yo may live to be a varry owd man, an' dee befoor it begins to operate, Ther wor once a chap killed hissel wi' aitin traitle parkin, but that's noa reason we shouldn't have a bit o' brandy-snap at our fair. Aw allus think a teetotal lecturer is like a bottle o' pop. Ther's a bit ov a crack to 'start wi', an' a gooid deal o' fooamin, an' frothin', an' fizzin', but when it's all ovver, an' settled daan, what's left is varry poor stuff. Still aw think one teetotaller is worth moor nor a ship-load o' drunkards.
Blackberries are ripe in September, an' we may consider th' year's ripe, for when this month gets turned, things 'll begin o' gooin' th' back way. Its vany wonderful when we look reight at it. This world's a wonderful spot, an' ther's a deal o' wonderful things in it. Ther's some things at it's varry wonderful to see, an' ther's some things' at it's wonderful net to see. Aw thowt it wor varry wonderful, a week or two sin', when aw pass'd Stanninley Station, 'at ther worn't a chap wi' a dog under his arm; it's th' furst time aw iver pass'd an' didn't see one. But aw niver think it's wonderful for ther to be a fooil in a company; an' aw dooant think its wonderful when aw find 'at th' biggest fooil has allus th' mooast to say.
Nah, its a varry nice time o'th' year is this for fowk to have a bit of a pic-nic;—aw dooant know owt 'at's a better excuse for a chap to tighten his belly-band nor a pic-nic, becoss iverybody taks twice as mich stuff to ait as they know they'll want, for fear fowk might think they wor shabby. If yo get a invite to a doo o' that mak', be sure yo goa, if you've owt of a twist. But talkin' abaat invites maks me study a bit. When yo get an invitation, allus think it ovver befoor yo tak' it Ax yorsen one or two questions abaat it. If yo think it's becoss yo can play th' peanner, or becoss yo can sing—tell 'em yorterms. If yo think it's becoss some owd uncle is likely to dee an' leeav yo a lot o' brass, an' they've a dowter or two 'at isn't wed— tell 'em yor engaged (to a lady). If yo think it's becoss they fancy yor a shinin' leet—tell 'em yo're gooan aat. I yo think it's becoss they want to borrow some brass, an' yor daatful whether yo'll iver get it back agean—tell 'em yo've soa monny calls made on yo, wall yo're feeard yo connot call o' them at present. But if yo think it's just becoss they want yo, an' they'll be glad to see yo,' put on yor hat an' off in a minit.
Aw once knew a chap 'at had getten a invite to a doo, an' he wor gooin' to tak his wife wi' him; an' he wor tellin' some mates what a shimmer shoo wor gooin' to cut. "Mun," he says, "sho'll just luk like one o' them figures i'th' waxworks! Aw've bowt her a goold cheen as thick as my thum; it's cost ornmost a paand. An' tawk abaat a dress! why, yo' niver saw sich a dress it's a real Mary Antique! Th' chap 'at sell'd it me, said it had been made for th' Princess o' Wales, but it wor soa mich brass wol th' Prince couldn't affoord to pay for't, so he let me have it cheap; an' it's just like buckram—it'll stand ov an end." "Why," said one o'th' chaps, "the Princess willn't be suited if shoo hears tell 'at thy wife's gettin' it." "Noa," he said, "aw dooant think shoo wod, but awst noan tell her; an' if shoo gets to know, she mun try an' put up wi' a bit ov a trial nah an' then. Ther's allus troubles for th' rich as weel as th' poor." Well! all this gooas to prove what aw said at th' startin'—it's a wonderful world, an' ther's a deeal o' wonderful things in it;—an', to quote from the poet (Milton aw think), aw may say—It's a varry' gooid world that we live in
Hi, an' its th' best 'at iver wor known yet; an haiver mich fowk may say agean it, awve allus nooatised at' ther's varry few seem inclined to part wi' it.
Whear is thi' Daddy doy? Whear is thi' mam?
What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb?
Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face;
Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aat 'o place.
What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name;
Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame.
Here, tak this hawpny, an' buy thi some spice,
Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice.
Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can;
Thear,—thart all reight agean; run like a man.
He wiped up his tears wi his little white brat,
An' he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what;
But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo:—
A'a!—its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.
May is the month for Buttermilk! A doctor once tell'd me it wor worth a guinea a pint; he sed it licked cod liver oil, castor oil; or paraffin oil. Castor oil, he said, war varry gooid for ther bowels, cod liver oil for ther liver, an' paraffin oil for ther leets (whear they'd noa gas), but buttermilk wor better nor all three put together, an' he ad vised me to tak it. "Why," aw sed; "what's th' use o'. me takkin it when aw dooant ail owt?" "Ther's noa tellin' ha sooin yo may," he said, "an' an it's a varry simple remedy, yo'd better tak it whether yo do or net." "Reight enuff," aw sed, "simple things sometimes do th' best. Aw once knew a woman 'at had been confined to her bed for twelve year, an' her husband cured her in a minit, after all th' doctors at th' infirmary had gien her up." Th' doctor pricked his ears when aw sed soa, an' wanted to know all abaat it, soa aw at it an' tell'd him. "Sally an' her husband lived at th' Arred Well, but he oft used to goa as far as th' Coit Hill ova neet to have a pint an' enjoy an haar or two i' company, an' when he gate haoam he used to catch it, an' finely too, aw con assure yo, for altho shood ligg'd i' bed soa long, shoo had'nt lost th' use ov her tongue, an' her felly said 'at shoo hadn't lost th' use ov her teeth nawther, for shoo could ait as weel as iver shoo could. One neet as he wor gooin hooam, he bethowt him he'd try a bit ov a dodge on, for although he felt varry sooary for his wife, yet he could'nt help thinkin' it wor partly consait at shoo'd suffer'd throo; soa when he gate in, shoo began a blowin' into him i' fine style. 'Th' owd time, lad! It shows what tha cares for me! Aw hav'nt had a wick soul to spaik to sin tha went aat, but it's all one to thee! Tha'll come hooam some time an' find me ligg'd deead, an' then tha can spree abaat throo morm to neet.' 'Nay, lass, aw dooant think aw should spree abaat any moor nor aw do nah. But who does ta think aw met to neet?' he said. 'Ah know nowt abaat it, nor care nawther.' 'Why, but as aw war comin' up bith' Brayvet Gate, aw met Betty Earnshaw, an' soa aw went gaiterds wi her a bit, an' that's reason aw'm soa lat.' 'Oh! tha mud weel be lat! Shoo war an' owd sweetheart o' thine, wor Betty.' 'Eea, shoo war axin me ha tha wor gettin' on, shoo seems vany sooary for thi.' 'Sooary be hanged! aw want nooan ov her sooarys! If shoo could nobbut get me aat o' th' gate, shoo'd be all reight. Did shoo ax when tha thowt tha'd be at liberty?' 'Nay shoo did'nt, but shoo did say at shoo thowt tha lasted long, but shoo pitied thee an' me.' 'Pitied thee, did shoo! An' what did shoo pity thi for, aw should like to know? Shoo happen thowt shoo could do better for thee nor what aw've done, but if shoo wor as badly as me shood know summat. 'Eea, but shoo isn't, for aw nivver saw her luk better i' mi life, an' shoo talks abaat commin' i'th' morn in' to clean up for thi a bit; aw sed tha'd be fain to see her, an' tha sees if owt should happen thee, shadd be getten into th' way a bit, an' begin to feel moor used to th' haase.' 'Niver! wol my heart's warm, Tom. Aw'll niver have sich a huzzy i'th' haase, wheal' aw am! aw'm nooan done wi yet! aw'll live a bit longer to plague yo wi', an' as for cleanin', aw'll crawl abaat o' mi hands an' knees afoor shoo shall do owt for me! Yo think aw'm poorly an' soa aw'm to be trodden on, but aw'll let yo see awm worth a dozen deead uns yet; nasty owd ponse as shoo is!" An' as sure as yor thear, Doctor, shoo gate up th' next morn in' an' kinneld th' fair, an' when Tom coom hoam to his braikfast all wor ready, an' shoo wor set daan at th' table wi a clean cap on, an' lukkin as smart as smart could be. When th' chap saw this, he said, "Lass, aw think aw'd better send Betty backward," "Eea, aw think tha had," shoo sed, "an' th'a can send her word throo me 'at aw may live to donee on her gravestooan yet." Tom bafs in his sleeve a bit sometimes, an' if iver one ov her owd fits seems likely ta come on, he's nowt to do but say a word or two abaat Betty, an' shoo's reight in a minnit. That licks buttermilk, Doctor.
It's a comfort a chap can do withaat what he connot get. It feels hard to have to do wi' less nor what a body has at present, but if it has to be it will be, an' it's cappin' ha' fowk manage to pool throo haiver bad th' job is. It's naa use for a chap to keep longin' for sum mat better, unless he's willin' to buckle to, an' work for it; an' a chap wi' an independent mind ne'er freeats becoss he hasn't all he wants; he sets hissen to get it, an' if he's detarmined he oft succeeds, an' if net he doesn't sit daan an' mump, but up an' at it agean. Havin' a lot o' brass doesn't mak a chap happy, but spend in' it may do, an' if a chap's wise he'll try to spend it in a way 'at'll bring happiness for a long time to come. Ther's some fowk feeared 'at they con niver spend brass safely; they're allus freeten'd of loisin' it; but they've noa need, for if they spent it i' dooin' gooid, they'll allus be sure o' gooid interest, for they'll be pleased every time they think on it. Nah, ther's some things i' this world 'at yo connot looise. It's a varry easy thing to loise a cork aat ov a bottle, but it's impossible to loise th' hoil aat ov a bottle neck. Yo may braik th' bottle all to pieces, but th' hoil is somewhear; it nobbut wants another bit o' glass twistin' raand it, an' yo'll find it's as gooid as iver it wor, an' it's just soa wi' a gooid action; yo may loise th' seet on it, but it's somewhear abaat; it nobbut wants circumstances twistin' raand it, an' yo'll find it's thear—it's niver lost. If fowk 'ud get into this way o' thinkin', ther'd be a deal moor gooid done nor ther is. Haiver mich brass a chap has, if he's moor wants nor he con satisfy, he's poor enuff; an' aw think if fowk 'ud spend a bit less time i' tryin' to get rich, an' a bit moor i' tryin' to lessen ther wants, they'd be moor comfortable bi th' hauf. But yo' may carry things too far even i' savin'. Aw once knew a chap 'at wor a regular skinflint; he'd gie nowt—noa, net as mich as a crumb to a burd; an' if iver any wor seen abaat his haase they used to be sat daan to be young ens 'at hadn't le'nt wit. Well, he once went to buy a seck o' coils, an' to be able to get 'em cheaper he fetched 'em throo th' pit; it wor th' depth o' winter, but as he had to hug 'em two mile it made th' sweeat roll off him.. When he gate hooam he put 'em daan an' shook his heead. "By gow," he sed, "awm ommost done, but aw'll mak' yo' pay for this, for aw willn't burn another coil this winter." An' he stuck, to his word, an' wheniver he wor starved, he used to get th' seck o' coils ov his back an' walk raand th' haase till he gat warm agean—an' he says they're likely to fit him his bit o' rime aat. "Well," yo'n say, "that chap wor a fooil," an' aw think soa misen, an' varry likely if he'd seen us do some things he'd think we wor fooils. We dooant allus see things i'th' same leet—for instance, a pompus chap wor once tawkin' to me abaat his father. "My father," he said, "was a carver and gilder, an' he once carved a calf so naturally that you would fancy you could hear it bleat." "Well, aw didn't know thi father," aw sed, "but aw know thi mother once cauved one, for aw've heeard it bleat." Yo' should just ha' seen him when aw sed soa!—didn't he pull th' blinds daan, crickey!
This is the age of progress; and it is not slo progress nawther. The worst on it is, we're all forced to go on whether we like it or net, for if we stand still a minit, ther's somedy traidin' ov us heels, an' unless we move on they'll walk ovver us, an' then when we see them ommost at top o'th' hill, we shall find us sen grubbin' i'th' muck at th' bottom. A chap mun have his wits abaat him at this day or else he'll sooin' be left behund. Ther's some absent minded fowk think they get on varry weel i'th' owd way an' they're quite content, but its nobbut becoss they're too absent minded to see ha mich better they mud ha done if they'd wakken'd up a bit sooiner. Aw once knew a varry absent minded chap; he wur allus dooin' some sooart o' wrang heeaded tricks. Aw' remember once we'd booath to sleep i' one bed, an aw gate in fust, an' when aw luk'd to see if he wor commin', aw'm blow'd! if he hadn't put his cloas into bed an hung hissen ovver th' cheer back. Awm sure aw connot tell where all this marchin' is likely to lead us to at last, but aw hooap we shall be all reight, for aw do think ther's plenty o' room to mend even yet, but the deuce on it is,' ther's soa monny different notions abaat what is reight wol aw'm flamigaster'd amang it. Some say drink is the besetting sin; another says 'bacca is man's ruination. One says we're all goin' to the devil becoss we goa to church, an' another says we'st niver goa to heaven if we goa to th' chapel, but aw dooant let ony o' them things bother me. 'At ther is a deeal o' sin i'th' world aw dooant deny, an', aw think ther is one 'at just bears th' same relation to other sins as a split ring bears to a bunch o' keys; it's one 'at all t'other things on: an' that's selfishness, an we've all sadly too mich o' that. We follow that "number one" doctrine sadly too mich,—iverybody seems bent o' gettin, but ther's varry few think o' givin'—(unless its advice, ther's any on 'em ready enuff to give that; but if advice wor stuff 'at they could buy potatoes wi', ther' wodn't be as mich o' that knockin' abaat for nowt as ther' is).
We're all varry apt to know the messur o' ivrybody's heead but us own; we can tell when a cap fits them directly, but we con niver tell when ther's one 'at just fits us. Miss Parsnip said last Sunday, when shoo'd been to th' chapel, "at shoo wondered ha Mrs. Cauliflaar could fashion to hold her heead up, for shoo niver heeard a praicher hit onybody harder in all her life," An' Mrs. Cauliflaar tell'd me "'at if shoo wor Miss Parsnip shoo'd niver put her heead i' that chapel ageean, for iverybody knew 'at he meant her' when he wor tawkin' abaat backbitin'." An'soa it is; we luk at other fowk's faults through th' thin end o' th' spy glass, but when we want to look at us own, we turn it raand."O, wad some power the giftie gie us
Selfishness may do varry weel for this world, but we should remember it isn't th gooid one does to hissen 'at he gets rewarded for after— it's th' gooid he does to others, an' although we may be able to mak' a spreead here, wi' fine clooas, fine haases, an' sich like; unless we put selfishness o' one side an' practise charity it'll be noa use then."For up above there's one 'at sees
It wad be a poor shop, wad this world, if it worn't for love! But even love has its drawbacks. If it worn't for love ther'd be noa jaylussy—Shakspere calls jaylussy a green-eyed monster, an' it may be for owt aw know, an' aw dooan't think 'at them 'at entertain it have mich white i' theirs. If ther's owt aw think fooilish, it is for a husband an' wife to be jaylus o' one another; for it spoils all ther spooart, an' maks a lot for other fowk; an' aw'm allus a bit suspicious abaat 'em, for aw've fun it to be th' case 'at them 'at do reight thersens are allus th' last to believe owt wrang abaat others.
Aw once knew a chap 'at wor jaylus, an' his wife had a sore time wi' him. If shoo spake to her next-door neighbor, it wor ommost as mich as her life war worth, an' shoo wor forced to give ovver gooin' to th' chapel, becos if shoo luk'd at th' parson he used to nudge her wi' a hymn book. Th' neighbours pitied her, an' set him daan for a fooil; but he gate cured at last, an' aw'll tell ha.' Once he had to set off, an' as shoo worn't varry weel he couldn't tak her wi' him, but he gave her a lot o' directions afoor he went, an' tell'd her 'at he might be back ony minit. Well, if iver ther war a miserable chap it wor Jim, wol he wor away; but he coom back as sooin as he could, an' what should he see but a leet up stairs. His face went as white as chalk, an' he wor just creepin' to th' winder to harken, when a chap 'at knew him happened to pass. He knew how jaylus Jim war, soa he thowt he'd have a lark. "Halla, Jim!" he said, "coom here; aw've summat to tell thee. Tha munnot goa in yor haase just nah, for tha ar'nt wanted."
"What ammot aw wanted for, awst like to know?" said Jim.
"Well, keep cooil, an' aw'll tell thi. Tha knows tha's been away a day or two, an' aw think it's my duty to let thi know 'at last neet ther wor a young chap coom to yor haase to luk at thi mistress; an' shoo's niver been aat o; door sin', nor him nawther; an' my belief is they're in that room together just this minit."
"Aat o' my rooad!" sed Jim, "let me goa in If aw dooant pitch him aat a' that winder, neck an' crop, my name isn't Jim." Up stairs he flew. "Nah then, whear is he? whear is he?" he haw'led, an' seized hold o' th' pooaker.
"Aa, Jim," shoo sed, "Tha wodn't hurt th' child surelee?" an' shoo held up a bonny little lad abaat two days old, 'at stared at him as gaumless as gaumless could be, an' 'at had his father's nooas an' chin to nowt.
"By gingo, aw'm done this time!" said Jim, as he tuk it in his arms an' kust it. "Aa, what a fooil aw've been! tha'll forgie me, lass, weant ta?"
"Sure aw will, Jim," shoo sed. An' after that they lived happily together, as all dacent fowk should.
Winter's comin'! Top coits an' nickerbockers begin to be sowt up. A chap enjoys his bed a bit better, an' doesn't like gettin' up in a mornin' quite as weel. Tawkin' abaat enjoyin' bed makes me think ova young chap aat o' Midgley at' gate wed an' browt his wife to Halifax to buy a bed, an' nowt wod suit her but a shut-up en, like her father an' mother had allus had: an' they wor't long befoor they fun a second-hand en, 'at they gate cheap, an' as they knew a chap 'at coam wi' a milk cart throo near whear they lived, they gate him to tak it hooam for 'em, an' it worn't long befoor th' beddin' an' all wor nicely arranged, an' they war snoozelin' under th' blankets. They hadn't been asleep long befoor he wakken'd wi a varry uncomfortabie feelin', but as his wife wor hard asleep he didn't like to disturb her. He roll'd o' one side an' then o'th' tother, an' rub'd his legs an' scratched his back, but he couldn't settle do what he wod. In a bit summat made him jump straight up ov an end, an' if he hadn't been dacently browt up, it's very likely he mud ha' sed some faal words, Wi' him jumpin' up soa sudden, th' wife wakken'd, an' jumpt up as weel, but as th' bed heead war abaat six inch lower nor that shoo'd bin used to, shoo hit her neet cap agean th' top an' fell back wi a reglar sass. "Whativer is ther to do, Sammy," shoo sed, as sooin as shoo could spaik, "strike a leet' wi ta!" Sammy gate a leet, an' blushed an ovver his face, for it wor th' fust time onybody had seen him dressed that way sin he wor a little lad. "Aw dooant know what ther is to do," he sed, "but aw cannot bide i' that bed, an' that's a fact." "What!" shoo says, "are ta ruein' o' thi bargain bi nah? but tha's no need to freat, for aw con spare thee at ony time." "Nay, Jenny," he sed, it's nooan thee 'at maks me uneasy, but aw fancy ther's summat wick i' that bed besides thee an' me.' "Is ther," shoo said, an' shoo flew off one side; "why whativer is it, thinks ta?" Sammy turned daan th' clooas, an' it just luk'd as if sombdy had been aitin' spice cake an' letten all th' currans drop aat. Tawk abaat fleas! They worn't fleas! they wor twice as big, an' they wor marchin' away like a rigiment o' sodgers. He stared wi' all th' een in his heead, an' shoo started a cryin'. "A'a, to think 'at aw should iver come to this, to be walked over wi' a lot o' pouse like that! What mun we do?" "Do! we mun catch 'em, aw expect," he sed, an' he began wi pickin' 'em off one bi one, an' droppin' 'em into some water 'at wor cloise by. "Well, mi mother tell'd me," he sed, "'at when fowk gate wed they began o' ther troubles; an' it's true an' all, but aw didn't expect owt like this, for if aw'd known, aw'd ha' seen th' weddin' far enough; aw did think 'at a chap wad be able to get a neet's rest anyway." "Tha can goa back to thi mother," shoo sed, "an' stop wi' her for owt aw care, an' aw wish tha'd niver left her, for aw'st get mi deeath o' cold wi' paddlin' abaat wi' nowt on; but does ta think tha's catched 'em all?" "Aw think soa, an' if tha's a mind we'll get to bed agean." "Nay, tha can goa to thi mother as tha freats soa," shoo sed. "Tak noa noatice o' what aw sed," sed Sammy, "tha knows aw wor put abaat a bit, an' it war all for th' sake o' thee." "Tha'll tell me owt," shoo sed, "put th' leet aat, an' let's see if we con get a bit o' gradely sleep." They gate into bed once more, an' shoo wor off to sleep in a minit, but Sammy wor rubbin' an' scrattin' hissen. "Wen, aw've heeard tell abaat things bein' ball proof and bomb proof, but aw niver knew 'at anybody wor bug proof befoor." Wi' him knockin' abaat soa mich shoo wakken'd agean. "Nay, Sammy," shoo sed, "aw'm reight fair stawld, it's all consait, aw'm sure it is." "Consait be hanged!" he bawled aat, "just feel at that blister an' then tell me if it's all consait." Nowt could keep awther on 'em 'i bed after that, an' they paraded abaat all th' neet like two gooasts, wait in' for th' cock crow. Mornin' did come at last, an' Sammy worn't long befoor' he had th' bed aatside. "What are ta baan to do wi' it nah?" ax'd his wife. "Aw'm baan to leave it wheal' it is wol neet," he sed, "an' if they havn't forgetten which road they coom, aw think ther's as monny as'll be able to tak it back to Halifax." Next neet they made a bed o'th' floor, an' slept like tops, an' next mornin' when they gate up, th' bed wor off. Whether th' cumpny 'at wor in it had taen it or net, Sammy couldn't tell, but he niver went to seek it. Fowk 'at buy second-hand beds, tak warnin."
This place 'is nearly a mile from the good old town of Halifax.
Aa! ther wor a flare-up at Booith-Taan Hall that neet! It had been gein aat 'at they'd to be a meetin' held to elect a new Lord-Mayor, for New-Taan, Booith-Taan, an' th' Haley Hill, on which particular occashun, ale ud be supplied at Tuppence a pint upstairs. Ther wor a rare muster an' a gooid deeal o' argyfyin' tuk place abaat who shud be th' chearman. But one on 'em—a sly old fox—had kept standin' o' th' floor sidlin' abaat woll ivery other chear wor full, an' then after takkin a pinch o' snuff, he said, "Gentlemen, aw see noa reason aw shuddent tak this place mysen, as iverybody else has getten set daan." Two or three 'at wor his friends said "Hear, hear," an' two or three 'at worn't said "Sensashun!"
When iverybody's pint had getten fill'd, he blew his nooas, tuk another pinch o' snuff, an' stud ov his hind legs to oppen th' proceedins. "Bergers and Bergeresses," he began, "aw've a varry unpleasant duty to perform to-neet, which is, namely, to propooas 'at we have a fresh mayor," (Cries ov "Shame," "Gammon," "Th' mayor we have is ommost allus fresh!" (etsetra, etsetra etsetra.) "Gentlemen," he began agean, "what aw have to say is this,"—
"Luk sharp an get it said, then," said Stander, th' grocer.
"If tha doesn't hold thy noise, Stander, tha'll get noa moor snuff off me, aw con tell thi that; aw mayn't be as flaary a talker as thee, but what aw say is to'th' point, an' aw think 'at a constituency like Booith-Taan owt to be represented by somebody ov standin'."
"Better send th' chearman, he's stud den long enuft," said one.
"Prathi sit thi daan, if tha connot talk sense," said another.
"Its's time for sombdy to stand summat, for all th' pints is empty," said th' lanlord.
"Well, gentlemen," went on th' chearman, "th' question just dissolves itsel' into this: Who has it to be? Has it to be a Doctor sombdy, or a Professor sombdy, or a Squire sombdy, or has it to be a plain Maister?"
"Oh I let it be a Squire," said one. "E'ea, Squire Broadbent ul do," said another.
"Nah, lads, yo' 'Ie heeard th' chearman's resolushun, an' aw sit daan to call upon Mr. Stander, Esquire, grocer, to address yo."
Th' chearman doubled hissel' into th' shape ov his chear, an' after they'd gein ovver pawsin' th' table legs, an' knockin' pint pots, Stander gate up an' began.
"Fellow Municipallers (hear, hear), aw agree wi' what awr chearman says, 'at we owt to have sombdy o' standin' i' society to represent us for this subsequent year 'at's forthcomin'."
"Tha happen want's to get one o' thi own relations in," said Snittle.
"It ud seem thee better to keep thi maath shut, Snittle, till tha's paid me for yond Garman Yeast."—(Shame, shame.)
"Gentlemen, aw propooas 'at this meetin' dissolves itsel' into a depitation to visit Professor Holloway, to ax him if he'll represent us for th' next year. Aw dooant know him mysen, but we've all heeard tell on him, an' we've seen his pills an' ointment advertised, an' aw think he'd be a varry likely man to work awr business to th' best interest ov the whole communicants; an' noa daat he'd be able to heal up ony bits o' unpleasantness 'at's been caused wi' this election. Aw believe him to be a varry pushin' man, an' one ov a spyring natur; for as Elijah Barrett says (i' his book on leeanin' to blacksmith), 'One inch the heighest,' seems to be the motto he works on, for goa where yo will yo'll allus see one o' his bills a bit heigher nor onybody's else, an for that reason aw beg to propooas 'at he should be acceptted as a fit an' proper person.
The chearman stood up an' axed "ony chap to I say owt agean that 'at dar." Up jumped Billy Bartle, an' said, "Aw object to that in total; aw see noa reason to goa to Lunnon to find a mayor, soa long as we've professors at hooam, an aw propoosas 'at we ax—" ("Shut up! shut up!" "Ta' hold, an' sup." "Gooid lad, Billy,") etsetra, etsetra. etsetra.
Just then th' lanlord coom in an' turn'd off th' gas, for he said "they hadn't spent aboon eighteen pence all th' neet."
Th' chearman said he thowt they couldn't do better nor all have a pinch o' snuff wi' him, an' have a pint i'th' kitchen woll they talked things ovver; soa they went daan th' stairs, an' somha they managed to re-elect th' owd en afoor they went hooam, an' six on em hugged him o' ther heeads to th' top o' Ringby, an' niver heed if ther heeads didn't wark th' next mornin'.
Candidates at an election allus reminds me ov a lot o' bees turned aat, for they fly abaat th' country buzzin' an' hummin', wol yor fair capt what a din they con mak; but as sooin as they pop into th' hive o' St. Stephen's yo niver hear a muff—they're as quite as waxwark. Aw varrily believe 'at one hauf on 'em niver oppen the maath throo th' yaar end to year end, nobbut when they're sleepy, then they may gape a bit, but they do it as quiet as they can. As for them chaps 'at tawk soa mich befoor they goa, abaat passin' laws to give iverybody a paand a wick whether they work or laik, an' reducin' th' workin haars to three haars a day an' three days a wick: Why, its just gammon!
What suits one body doesn't suit another. Aw niver knew two fowk 'at allus thowt alike; an' if yo iver heard a poor chap talkin' abaat somebdy 'ats weel off, he's sure to say 'at if he'd his brass he'd do different throo what they do.
Aw once heeard a chap say 'at if he'd as mich brass as Baron Rothschild he'd niver do owt but ait beef-steaks an' ride i' cabs. Well, lad, aw thowt, it's better tha hasn't it. We're all varry apt to find fault wi' things at we know varry little abaat, an' happen if we knew mooar we shud say less. Aw once heeard two lasses talkin', an' one on 'em war tellin' tother 'at sin shoo saw her befoor, shoo'd getten wed, an' had a child, an' buried it. "Why, whativer shall aw live to hear? Aw didn't know 'at tha'd begun coortin'. Whoiver has ta getten wed to?" "Oh, awve getten wed to a forriner, at comes throo Staffordshur."
"Well, aw hooap, tha's done weel, lass; awm sure aw do. And what does he do for a livin'?" "Why, its rayther a queer trade; but he stails pots." "Stails pots, Betty! A'a aw wonder ha tha could bring thisen daan to wed a chap o' that sooart. Aw'll keep single for iver, woll awm green maald, afoor aw'll wed ony chap unless he gets his livin' honestly." "Aw should like to meet ony body 'at says he doesn't get his livin' honestly," says Betty; "nah thee mark that." "Well, Betty, that maks noa difference to me; but aw say agean 'at noa chap gets his livin' honestly 'at stails—noa matter whether he stails pots or parkins." "Why, Nancy, aw thowt tha'd moor sense, aw did for sure;— aw mean, his trade is to put stails on to pots." "Oh! A'a! E'e! tha mun forgi' mi this time, Betty, aw see what tha meeans; he puts hanels on to pots: that's it, isn't it." "E'ea." "Why, tha sees, aw didn't understond." "Ther's monny a one has a deeal to say abaat things 'at they dunnot understond, an' monny a one gets awfully put aat wi' what sich like do say; but it isn't advisable to be soa varry touchus at this day, an' as aw've read somwhear—Time to me this truth has towt,
An' aw believe that's true; but at th' same time it's as weel to be careful net to offend onybody if we con help it, for a chap's fingers luk a deeal nicer, an' moor agreeabler, when they're oppened aat to shake hands wi yo, nor what they do when doubled up i'th' front o' yor nooas. Soa yo see, yo connot be to careful o' yor words an' deeds, if yo want to keep straight wi' fowk; an' it's a wise thing to be at peeace. And if this is a unsettled time o' th' year, that's noa reason 'at yo should be unsettled. But as it isn't iverybody's lot to know ha to get on smoothly, aw'll just give yo a bit o' advice; an' if yo learn that, an' act on it, yo'll niver rue th' brass yo've spent, especially if yo tak into consideration at th' profits are devoted to a charitable institution (that's awr haase).If wisdom's ways you'd wisely seek,
Iverybody 'at is owt is awther just settin' off or just gettin' back throo th' spaws. Ther's nowt like th' sea breeze! But a chum o' mine says th' sea breeze is a fooil to Saltaire, but he cannot mak me believe it. Ther's nowt ever suits me as weel at Blackpool as to see a lot o' cheap trippers 'at's just com'd for a day—they mean to enjoy thersen. Yo can see that as sooin as iver th' train claps 'em daan, away they steer to have a luk at th' watter. Ther's th' fayther comes th' furst, wi' th' youngest child in his arms, an' one or two rayther bigger poolin' 'at his coit laps, an' just behund is his owd lass, puffin' and blowin' like a steam engine, her face as red as a rising sun, an' a basket ov her arm big enuff for a oyster hawker. At one corner on it yo con see a black bottle neck peepin' aat. At th' side on her walks th' owdest lass; an' isn't shoo doin' it grand for owt shoo knows! Luk what fine ribbons shoo has flyin' daan her back, an' a brass ring ov her finger, varry near big enuff to mak a dog's collar on, an' a cotton parasol 'at luks ivery bit as weel as a silk 'un; and yo con see as shoo tosses her heead first to one side an then to tother, 'at shoo defies awther yo or onybody else to tell 'at shoo's nobbut a calico wayver when shoo's at hooam. But they get aside o'th' watter at last. "Ha! what a wopper!" says one o'th' lads, as a wave comes rollin' ovver. "A'a! but that's a gurter!" says another. Then th' father an' th' mother puts th' young uns all in a row, an' tell 'em all to luk at th' sea—as if ther wor owt else to luk at i' Blackpool. But yo may see at th' owd lass isn't comfortable, for shoo keeps peepin' into her basket, an' at last shoo says, "Joa—aw believe sombdy's had ther fooit i'th' basket, for th' pasty's brusscn, an th' pot wi' th' mustard in is brockken all to bits." "Neer heed, if that's all, its noa war for being mix'd a bit; it's all to goa into one shop." As sooin as owt to ait is mentioned, th' childer's hungry in a minit-even th' lass' at's been peraidin' abaat an' couldn't fashion to stand aside ov her brothers an' sisters coss they wor soa short o' manners—draws a bit nearer th' mother's elbow. Daan they sit like a owd hen an' her chickens, an' dooant they put it aat o'th' seet? It means nowt if th' mustard an' th' pickled onions have getten on th' apple pasty or potted mait an' presarved tairts squeezed all into one—they're noan nasty nice; an' then th' bottle's passed raand: cold tea flavored wi rum, an sweetened, wol th' childer can hardly leave lawse when they've once getten hold. An' wol they're enjoyin' thersen this way, th' owd chap's blowin' his bacca, an' tak's a pool ivery nah and then at a little bottle, abaat th' size ov a prayer book, 'at he hugs in his side pocket. After this they mun have a sail i' one o'th' booats, an' in they get, tumellin' one over t'other, an' bargain wi' th' chap for a gooid haar. Th' owd chap pools his watch aat an mak's sure o'th' time when they start, an' away they goa like a burd. "Isn't it grand?" says furst one an' then another. But in a bit th' owd chap puts his pipe aat an' tak's another pool at th' little bottle, an' his wife's face grows a deeal leeter coloured, an' shoo axes him ha' long they've to goa yet? Aat comes th' watch, an' they're capt to find 'at they've nobbut been fifteen minutes, an' th' owdest lass lains ovver th' side, an' after coughin' a time or two begins to feed th' fish, an' th' little uns come to lig ther heeads o' ther mother's knees, but shoo tells 'em to sit o'th' seeat, for shoo connot bide to be bothered; then shoo tak's a fancy to luk ovver th' edge, an' ther's another meal for th' fish. Th' owd chap's detarmined to stand it aat, soa he shuts his e'en, an screws up his maath wol it's hardly as big as a thripny bit—then his watch comes aat agean, an' he sighs to find they've nobbut been one hauf ther time. Th' chaps i'th' boat see ha' matters stand, an' bring' em back as sooin as they con. Aat they get, an' th' brass is paid withaat a word; but th' owd woman shakes her heead an' says, "Niver noa moor! It's a dear doo! Sixpence a piece, an' all th' potted mait an' th' apple pasty wasted."
Census Records | Vital Records | Family Trees & Communities | Immigration Records | Military Records Directories & Member Lists | Family & Local Histories | Newspapers & Periodicals | Court, Land & Probate | Finding Aids