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She teak Jack's airm, an' there I stead Quite flabbergash'd, ye see: I thowt I sud hav dropt to t' grund, Bud dean't mak gam o' me: Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!
Poor Nancy Green com seaglin'(3) up, "What's matter, Dick?" says she: "Jack Hodge is off wi' Poll!" says I, Bud dean't mak gam o' me: Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!
"Why, niver maand her; let her gan ; She's better gean!" said she: Bud I thowt nut; an' then I cried, Bud dean't mak gam o' me : Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!
I's nobbut a poor country lad At's lost my heart, ye see: I'll gan nea mair to t' Pomesun Fair,(4) Sea dean't mak gam o' me : Oh, dean't mak gam o' me!
1. Stokesley. 2. Turn out. 3. Sauntering. 4. The fair held at Stokesley on the Saturday before Palm Sunday
Coom, stop at yam to-neet Bob
Florence Tweddell
"Coom, stop at yam(1) to-neet, Bob, Dean't gan oot onnywhere: Thoo gets thisel t' leeast vex'd, lad, When thou sits i' t' awd airm-chair.
"There's Keat an' Dick beath want thee To stop an' tell a teale: Tak little Keatie o' thy knee, An' Dick 'll sit on t' steal.
"Let's have a happy neet, Bob, Tell all t' teales thoo can tell; For givin' pleeasure to the bairns Will dea thee good thisel.
"I knaw it's sea wi' me, Bob, For oft when I've been sad, I've laik'd an' laugh'd wi' them, mon, Untel my heart's felt glad.
"An' sing that laatle sang, Bob, Thoo used to sing to me, When oft we sat at t' river saade, Under t' awd willow tree.
"What happy taames them was, Bob, Thoo niver left me then To gan to t' yal-hoose neet be neet Amang all t' drunken men.
"I does my best for thoo, Bob, An' thoo sud dea t' seame for me: Just think what things thoo promised me Asaade t' awd willow tree!"
"I prithee say nea mair, lass, I see I ain't dean reet; I'll think of all thoo's said to me, An' stop at yam to-neet."
"I'll try to lead a better life- I will, an' that thoo'll see! Fra this taame fo'th I'll spend my neets At yam, wi' t' bairns an' thee!"
1. Home.
Ode to t' Mooin
J. H. Eccles (1824-1883)
I like to see thy quaint owd face Lewk softly daan on me, E'en though I ne'er could find thy nose Nor catch thy watchful ee.
Full monny times I've seen thee rise, When busy day were done, When daan behint t' owd maantain tops Had passed t' breet evenin' sun.
I like to see thee when sweet spring Cooms back to hill an' vale; When odours rise through t' hawthorn bush, An' float on t' evenin' gale.
When lovers walk on t' primrose benks, An' whisper soft an' low; Dreamin' just same as me an' t' wife Did monny years ago.
I like to see thee when t' June rose Is wet wi' fallin' dew, When t' nightingale maks t' owd woods ring Wi' music fresh an' new
When fairies dance on t' top o' t' flaars An' roam through t' pleasant dells, Like monarchs i' their marble halls, I' t' lilies' virgin bells.
I like to see thee when t' ripe corn Is wavin' to an' fro; When t' squirril goes a-seekin' nuts An' jumps thro' bough to bough.
When t' purple heather covers t' hills, An' t' hunters, tired and worn, Back through the fairy-haunted glens Unto their homes return.
I like to see thee when all raand Is white wi' drivven snow, When t' streams are stopp'd by owd Jack Frost An' foaks slip as they go.
I like to see thee all t' year raand, When t' sky is fair an' breet, An' allus hail wi' fond delight The noble queen o' t' neet.
I used to think at I could reach Up to thy face wi' ease, If I had but a big long stick; For tha were but green cheese.
But naa I've got far different thowts, An' learnt to understand At tha art one o' t' wondrous works Formed by t' gert Maker's hand.
Aunt Nancy
J. H. Eccles
Aunt Nancy's one o' t' savin' sort, At niver lets t' chonce pass; Yet wouldn't do owt mean or low For t' sake o' gettin' t' brass.
Her home's as clean as need be seen, Whoiver may go in; An' as for Nancy, dear-a-me! Shoo's like a new-made pin.
Shoo's full o' thrift an' full o' sense, An' full o' love beside; Shoo rubs an' scrubs thro' morn to neet An' maks t' owd haase her pride.
Her husband, when his wark is doon, Sits daan i' t' owd arm chair ; Forgets his troubles as he owt, An' loises all his care.
Wi' pipe an' book i' t' chimley nook Time flies on noiseless wing; Shoo sits an' knits wi' pleasant face, He's happy as a king.
Wi' tattlin' folks shoo's niver seen I' alley, loin(1) or street, But goes her way wi' modest step, Exact an' clean an' neat.
Her neighbours soomtimes watch her aat, An' say shoo's praad an' stiff; But all their gossip cooms to nowt, Aunt Nancy's reight enif.
Wi' basket oft shoo walks abroad To some poor lonely elf; To ivery one shoo knaws t' reight way At's poorer nor(2) herself.
Shoo niverr speyks o' what shoo gives, Kind, gentle-hearted sowl; I' charity her hands find wark, Shoo's good alike to all.
He niver tells her what he thinks, Nor flatters nor reproves; His life is baand wi' gowlden bands To t' woman at he loves.
God bless her, shoo's a dimond breet, Both good i' mind an' heart; An angel spreeadin' light an' love, That plays a noble part.
Shoo's worthy of a monarch's choice, Her worth can ne'er be towld ; Shoo cam to mak folks' hearts feel glad, Shoo's worth her weight i' gowld.
1 Lane. 2 Than.
Coom, don on thy Bonnet an' Shawl (1867)
Thomas Blackah
Coom, don on thy bonnet an' shawl, An' straighten thy cap an' thy hair; I's really beginnin' to stall(1) To see thee sit dazzin'(2) i' t' chair.
Sea coom, let us tak a walk oot, For t' air is as warm as a bee; I hennot(3) a morsel o' doot It'll help beath lile Willy an' thee.
We'll gan reet throo t' Middle Toon, As far as to Reavensgill Heead(4); When thar, we can sit wersens doon On t' crags close at side o' t' becksteead.
An' then, oh! hoo grand it'll be To pass a few minutes away, An' listen t' birds sing on each tree Their carols for closin' the day.
An' all aboot t' green nobby hills, T' lile daisies their beauties will show; An' t' perfume at Flora distils Like breath o' the mornin' will blow.
Then don on thy bonnet an' shawl, An' coom let's be walkin' away; I's fairly beginnin' to stall To see thee sit dazzin' all t' day.
1 Grow tired. 2. Dozing. 3. Have not. 4. Near Pateley Bridge.
My awd hat
Thomas Blackah
I'll wear thee yet awhile, awd hat, I'll wear thee yet awhile; Though time an' tempest, beath combined, Have changed thy shap an' style. For sin we two togither met, When thoo were nice an' new, What ups an' doons i' t' world we've had, Bud awlus braved 'em through.
That glossy shade o' thine, awd hat, That glossy shade o' thine, At graced thy youthful days is gean, Which maks me noo repine. Fra monny a gleam an' monny a shoor Thoo's sheltered my awd heead; Bud sean a smarter, tider hat Will shelter 't i' thy steead.
Though friends have proved untrue, awd hat, Though friends have proved untrue, An' vanished in adversity, Like mist or mornin' dew; Yet when fierce storms or trials com I fand a friend i' thee; Sea noo, when thoo's far on, awwd hat, Thoo 'st finnd a friend i' me.
Some nail or crook 'll be thy heame O' t' joists, or back o' t' door; Or, mebbe, thoo'l be bunched(1) aboot Wi' t' barns across o' t' floor. When t' rain an' t' wind coom peltin' through Thy crumpled, battered croon, I'll cut thee up for soles to wear I' my awd slender shoon.
1. Kicked
Reeth Bartle Fair(1) (1870)
John Harland
This mworning as I went to wark, I met Curly just coomin' heame; He had on a new flannin sark(2) An' he saw at I'd just gitten t' seame. "Whar's te been?" said awd Curly to me. "I've been down to Reeth Bartle Fair." "Swat(3) te down, mun, sex needles,"(4) said he, An' tell us what seets te saw there."
"Why, t' lads their best shoon had put on, An' t' lasses donn'd all their best cwoats; I saw five pund of Scotch wether mutton Sell'd by Ward and Tish Tom for five grwoats. Rowlaway had fine cottons to sell, Butteroy lace an' handkerchers browt; Young Tom Cwoats had a stall tuv hissel, An' had ribbins for varra near nowt.
"Thar was Enos had good brandy-snaps, Bill Brown as good spice as could be; Potter Robin an' mair sike-like chaps Had t' bonniest pots te could see. John Ridley, an' awd Willy Walls, An' Naylor, an' twea or three mar, Had apples an' pears at their stalls, An' Gardener Joe tea was thar.
"Thar was scissors an' knives an' read(5) purses, An' plenty of awd cleathes on t' nogs,(6) An' twea or three awd spavin'd horses, An' plenty o' shoon an' new clogs. Thar was plenty o' good iron pans, An' pigs at wad fill all t' deale's hulls(7); Thar was baskets, an skeps, an' tin cans, An' bowls, an' wood thivles for gulls.(8)
"Thar was plenty of all maks(9) o' meat, An' plenty of all sworts o' drink, An' t' lasses gat monny a treat, For t' gruvers(10) war all full o' chink. I cowp'd(11) my black hat for a white un, Lile Jonas had varra cheap cleath; Jem Peacock an' Tom talk'd o' feightin', But Gudgeon Jem Puke lick'd 'em beath.
"Thar was dancin' an' feightin' for ever, Will Wade said at he was quite griev'd; An' Pedlety tell'd 'em he'd never Forgit 'em as lang as he leev'd. They knock'd yan another about, Just warse than a sham to be seen, Charlie Will look'd as white as a clout, Kit Puke gat a pair o' black een.
"I spied our awd lass in a newk, Drinkin' shrub wi' grim Freesteane, fond lad; I gav her a varra grow(12) leuk; O, connies,(13) but I was just mad. Sea I went to John Whaites's to drink, Whar I war'd(14) twea an' seempence i' gin; I knaw not what follow'd, but think I paddl'd through t' muck thick an' thin.
"For to-day, when I gat out o' bed, My cleathes were all sullied sea sar, Our Peggy and all our fwoak said To Reeth Fair I sud never gang mar. But it's rake-time,(15) sea I mun away, For my partners are all gain' to wark." Sea I lowp'd up an bade him good day, An' wrowt at t' Awd Gang(16) tell 't was dark."
1. The fair held at Reeth in Swaledale on St. Bartholomew's Day, August 24. 2. Shirt. 3. Sit. 4. "Sex needles" is literally the interval of time during which a knitter would work the loops off six needles. 5. Red. 6. Pegs. 7. Sties. 8. Sticks for stirring hasty puddings. 9. Sorts. 10. Miners. 11. Bartered. 12. Ugly. 13. Mates. 14. Spent. 15. Time for the next shift. 16. A lead mine
The Christmas Party (1876)
Tom Twistleton
When cowd December's sturdy breeze In chimley-tops did grumble, Or, tearing throug'h the leafless trees, On lang dark neets did rumble, A lot o' young folks, smart an' gay, An' owds uns, free an' hearty, Agreed amang thersels at they Would have a Christmas party At hame some neet
They kicked up sich a fuss an' spreead, An' made sich preparations; They baked grand tarts an' mixed their breead Wi' spices frae all nations. To drive away baith want an' cowd It seem'd their inclination; An' t' neebours round, baith young an' owd, All gat an invitation To gang that neet.
Smart sprigs o' spruce an' ivy green Were frae the ceiling hinging, An' in their midst, conspicuous seen, The mistletoe was swinging. The lamp shone forth as clear as day, An' nowt was there neglected; An' t' happy, smiling faces say, Some company is expected To coom this neet.
An' first com Moll wi' girt lang Jack, A strapping, good-like fella; An' following closely at their back Com Bob and Isabella. With "How's yoursel?" an' "How d'ye do?" They sit down i' their places, Till t' room sae big, all through an' through, Wi' happy smiling faces Was filled that neet.
A merrier lot than this I name Ne'er met at onny party; All girt grand balls they put to shame, They were sae gay an' hearty. Here yan had made hersel quite fine, Wi' lace an' braid's assistance; An' there a girt grand crinoline, To keep t' lads at a distance, Stood out that neet.
The lads draw up to t' fire their chairs, An' merrily pass their jokes off; The lasses all slip off upstairs, To pu' their hats an' cloaks off. Befoor a glass that hings at t' side They all tak up their station, An' think within theirsels wi' pride They'll cause a girt sensation 'Mang t' lads that neet.
An' now the lusty Christmas cheer Is browt out for t' occasion; To pies an' tarts, an' beef an' beer, They git an invitation. An' some, i' tune to put it by, Play havoc on each dainty, Whal some there is, sae varra shy, Scarce let theirsels have plenty To eat that neet.
Against the host o' good things there They wage an awful battle; They're crying out, "A lile bit mair!" An' plates an' glasses rattle. Here, yan's nae time a word to pass, Thrang(1) supping an' thrang biting; There, simpering sits a girt soft lass That waits for mich inviting An' fuss that neet.
An' when this good substantial fare Has gien 'em satisfaction, They side(2) all t' chairs, an' stand i' pairs, Wi' heels i' tune for action. See-sawing, t' fiddler now begins The best that he is able; He rosins t' stick an' screws up t' pins An' jumps up on to t' table, To play that neet.
There, back an' forrad, in an' out, His elbow it gaas silting,(3) An' to an' fro, an' round about, The dancers they are lilting. Some dance wi' ease i' splendid style, Wi' tightly-fitting togs on, Whal others bump about all t' while, Like drainers wit their clogs on, Sae numb'd that neet.
An' when they've reel'd an' danc'd their fling, Their chairs all round are ranged; They tell droll tales, they laugh, they sing, An' jokes are interchanged. A merry tune t' girt kettle sings, An' t' fire is blazing breetly ; Wi' cheerful din t' owd farmhouse rings, An' hours fly ower them sweetly An' swift that neet.
T' owd women preach an' talk about Their claes being owd an' rotten, An' still being forc'd to speck an' clout,(4) It's sich a price is cotton. T' owd men sit round, wi' pipe an' glass, In earnest conversation; On t' ways an' means o' saving brass, An' t' rules an' t' laws o' t' nation, They talk that neet.
Now girt lang Jack, that lives on t' moor, Wi' cunning an' wi' caution, Is beckoning Moll to gang to t' door Wi' sly mischievous motion. Moll taks the hint, nor thinks it wrang, Her heart that way inclining; She says to t' rest she thinks she'll gang To see if t' stars are shining Out clear that neet.
Then down a field they tak a walk, An' then they wend their way back; To have a bit o' pleasant talk They shelter under t' haystack. She did not say "For shame!" not she, Though oft-times Johnny kiss'd her; She said she just would run an' see If t' other folks had missed her Frae t' room that neet.
A chap that had two watchful een, Of which they waren't thinking, When peeping round that neet, had seen Long Jack at Molly winking. Says he, "Now's t' time to have a stir, Let's just gang out an' watch her; We's have some famous fun wi' her, If we can nobbut catch her Wi' him this neet.
Then two or three, bent on a spree, Out to the door gang thungein',(5) But hauf a yard they scarce could see, It was as dark as dungeon. Jack hears their footsteps coming slow, An' frae her side he slinks off; Runs round t' house-end, jumps ower a wa', An' up ower t' knee i' t' sink-trough He splash'd that neet.
Now, ye young men, be who ye may, That's bent on fun an' sportin', Whare'er ye be, by neet or day, Remember Jack's misfortin. Though things unlook'd for on ye creep, Don't do owt in a splutter; But learn to look befoor ye leap, Lest ye in some deep gutter Stick fast some neet.
1. Busily. 2. Clear away. 3. Rising up. 4. Mend and patch. 5. Thumping.
Nelly o' Bob's
John Hartley (1839-1915)
Who is it at lives i' that cot on the lea, Joy o' my heart an' leet o' my ee? Who is that lass at's so dear unto me? Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it goes trippin' ower dew-spangled grass, Singin' so sweetly? Shoo smiles as I pass, Bonniest, rosy-cheek'd, gay-hearted lass! Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it I see i' my dreams of a neet ? Who lovingly whispers words tender an' sweet, Till I wakken to find shoo's nowheer i' t' seet? Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it at leads me so lively a donce, Yet to tawk serious ne'er gies me a chonce, An' niver replied when I begged on her once? Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it at ivery chap's hankerin' to get, Yet tosses her heead an' flies off in a pet, As mich as to say, "You've not getten me yet"? Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it could mak life a long summer's day, Whose smile would drive sorrow an' trouble away, An' mak t' hardest wark, if for her, seem like play? Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it I'll have if I've iver a wife, An' love her, her only, to th' end o' my life, An' nurse her i' sickness, an' guard her from strife? Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
Who is it at's promised, to-neet if it's fine, To meet me at t' corner o' t' mistal(1) at nine? Why, it's her at I've langed for so long to mak mine- Nelly o' Bob's o' t' Crowtrees.
1. Cow-Shed
Bite Bigger
John Hartley
As I hurried through t' taan to my wark, -I were lat,(1) for all t' buzzers had gooan- I happen'd to hear a remark At 'ud fotch tears thro' th' heart of a stooan.
It were rainin', an' snawin', an' cowd, An' th' flagstones were cover'd wi' muck, An' th' east wind both whistled an' howl'd, It saanded like nowt bud ill luck.
When two little lads, donn'd(2) i' rags, Baat(3) stockin's or shoes o' their feet, Com trapsin' away ower t' flags, Boath on 'em sodden'd wi' t' weet.
Th' owdest mud happen be ten, T' young un be haulf on't, no more; As I look'd on, I said to misen, "God help fowk this weather at's poor!"
T' big un samm'd(4) summat off t' graand, An' I look'd just to see what 't could be, 'T were a few wizen'd flaars he'd faand, An' they seem'd to hae fill'd him wi' glee.
An' he said, "Coom on, Billy, may be We sal find summat else by an' by; An' if not, tha mun share these wi' me, When we get to some spot wheer it's dry."
Leet-hearted, they trotted away, An' I follow'd, 'cause t' were i' my rooad; But I thowt I'd ne'er seen sich a day, It wern't fit to be aat for a tooad.
Sooin t' big un agean slipp'd away, An' samm'd summat else aat o' t' muck; An' he cried aat, "Look here, Bill, to-day Arn't we blest wi' a seet o' gooid luck?
"Here's a apple, an' t' mooast on it's saand, What's rotten I'll throw into t' street. Wern't it gooid to lig theer to be faand? Naa boath on us can have a treat."
So he wip'd it an' rubb'd it, an' then Said, "Billy, thee bite off a bit; If tha hasn't been lucky thisen, Tha sal share wi' me sich as I get."
So t' little un bate off a touch,(5) T' other's face beam'd wi' pleasure all through, An' he said, "Nay, tha hasn't taen mich, Bite agean, an' bite bigger, naa do."
I waited to hear nowt no more; Thinks I, there's a lesson for me; Tha's a heart i' thy breast, if tha'rt poor; T' world were richer wi' more sich as thee.
Two pence were all t' brass at I had, An' I meant it for ale when com nooin ; Bud I thowt, I'll go give it yond lad, He desarves it for what he's been doin'.
So I said, "Lad, here's twopence for thee, For thisen." An' they star'd like two geese; Bud he said, whol t' tear stood in his ee, "Naa, it'll just be a penny apiece."
"God bless thee! do just as tha will, An' may better days speedily come; Though clamm'd(6) an' hauf donn'd,(7) my lad, still Tha'rt a deal nearer Heaven nor(8) some."
1. Late. 2. Dressed. 3. Without. 4. Picked. 5. Small piece. 6. Starved 7. Dressed 8. Than
Rollickin' Jack
John Hartley
I know a workin' lad, His hands are hard an' rough, His cheeks are red an' braan, But I like him weel enough. His ee's as breet 's a bell, An' his curly hair is black, An' he stands six foot in his stockin' feet, An' his name is Rollickin' Jack.
At morn, if we should meet, He awlus has a smile, An' his heart is gay an' leet, When trudgin' to his toil. He whistles, or he sings, Or he stops a joke to crack; An' monny a lass at he happens to pass Looks shyly at Rollickin' Jack.
His mother's old an' gray; His father's deead an' gooan; He'll niver move away An' leave her all alooan. Choose who(1) should be his wife, Shoo'll mak a sad mistak, For he's ivery inch a mother's lad, Is this rough an' rollickin' Jack.
An' still I think sometimes Th' old woman wants a nurse; An' as for weddin' Jack, Why, there's monny a lass done worse. Of coorse it's not for me To tell him who to tak, But there's one I could name, if I could but for shame, Just the lass to suit Rollickin' Jack.
1. Whoever.
Jim's Letter
James Burnley (Born 1842)
Whats this? A letter thro'(1) Jim? God bless him! What has he to say? Here, Lizzie, my een's gettin' dim, Just read it, lass, reight straight away. Tha trem'les, Liz. What is there up? Abaat thy awn cousin tha surely can read; His ways varry oft has made bitter my cup, But theer—I forgive him—read on, niver heed
That's it—"as it leaves me at present "— His father's expression to nowt! Go on, lass, t' beginnin's so pleasant It couldn't be mended wi' owt. What's that? He has "sent a surprise"? What is 't, lass? Go on! a new gaan, I'll be bun', Or happen a nugget o' famous girt size; Whativer it is it's t' best thing under t' sun.
Ay, lad, I dare say, "life is rough," For t' best on 't is nut varry smooth; I' England it's hilly enough, Niver name wi' them diggers uncouth. But theer, Liz, be sharp an' let's have his surprise. I'm capt(2) wheer tha's gotten that stammerin' cough, Tha reads a deal better nor that when tha tries. Good gracious! What's t' matter? Shoo's fainted reight off!
Hey! Lizzie, tha flays(3) me; coom here, An' sit wheer tha'll get some fresh air: Tha'rt lookin' so bad at I fear Tha's much war(4) nor I were aware. That's reight, lass, get tul it once more, Just read reight to t' end on 't, an' then We'll just tak a walk for a bit aat o' t' door, Whol tha feels rayther more like thisen.
What! Bless us! Aar Jim gotten wed! It is a surprise, on my word. Who is she? That's all at he's said? I wish then I niver had heard. At one time I thowt happen thee he'd admire, An' that's haa we all sud have liked it to be. Bud, sithee! What's that, Liz, at's burnin' on t' fire? It's t' ribbin Jim bowt thee! Ay, ay, lass, I see.
1. From. 2. Puzzled. 3. Frightenest. 4. Worse.
A Yorkshire Farmer's Address to a Schoolmaster
George Lancaster (Born 1846)
Good day to you, Misther skealmaisther, the evenin' is desperate fine, I thowt I wad gie ye a call aboot that young sonnie o' mine. I couldn't persuade him to come, sea I left him behont(1) me at yam,(2) Bud somehoo it's waintly(3) possess'd me to mak a skealmaisther o' Sam. He's a kind of a slack-back, ye knaw, I niver could get him to work, He scarcelins wad addle(4) his saut wiv a ploo, or a shovel, or fork. I've tried him agean an' agean, bud I finnd that he's nea use at yam, Sea me an' my missus agreed to mak a skealmaisther o' Sam. If I sends him to wark, why, he'll chunther(5) an' gie me the a awfullest leaks, He'd a deal rayther lig upo' d' sofy wi' novels an' them soort o' beaks. Sea I thowt a skealmaisther wad suit him, a lowse soort o' job, do ye see, Just to keep a few bairns oot o' mischief, as easy as easy can be. Of coorse you've to larn 'em to coont, an' to figure a bit, an' to read, An' to sharpen 'em up if they're numskulls, wiv a lalldabber(6) ower their heead, Bud it's as easy as easy, ye knaw, an' I think it wad just suit oor Sam, An' my missus, she's just o' my mind, for she says that he's nea use at yam. It was nobbut this mornin' I sent him to gan an' to harrow some land, He was boamin'(7) asleep upo' d' fauf,(8) wiva rubbishly beak iv his hand; I gav him a bunch(9) wi' my feat, an' rattled him yarmin'(10) off yam. Sea I think that I'll send him to you, you mun mak a skealmaisther o' Sam. He's a stiff an' a runty(1) young fellow, I think that' he'll grow up a whopper, He'd wallop the best lad you've got, an' I think he wad wallop him proper; Bud still he's a slack-back, ye knaw, an' seein' he's nea use at yam, I think I shall send him to you, you mun mak a skealmaisther o' Sam.
1. Behind. 2. Home. 3 Strangely. 4.Earn. 5. Grumble. 6. Cuff. 7. Trailing along. 8. Fallow. 9. Kick. 10. Whining.
The Window on the Cliff Top (1888)
W. H. Oxley
"What! Margery, still at your window In this blinding storm and sleet! Why, you can't see your hand before you, And I scarce could keep my feet.
"Why, even the coast-guards tell me That they cannot see the sand; And we know, thank God, that the cobles And yawls have got to land.
"There's five are safe at Scarbro', And one has reach'd the Tyne, And two are in the Humber, And one at Quay,(2) makes nine."
"Aye, aye, I'd needs be watchful, There's niver a soul can tell, An' happen 'twixt yan o' t' snaw-blints(3) Yan mud catch a glimpse o' t' bell.
"I reckon nowt o' t' coast-guards! What's folks like them to say? There's neer a yan amang 'em Knaws owt aboot oor bay.
"I's niver leave my winder Whiles there's folks as has to droon; An' it wadna be the first time As I've help'd ta wakken t' toon.
"I isn't good for mich noo, For my fourscore years is past; But I's niver quit my winder, As long as life sal last.
"'Twas us as seed them Frenchmen As wreck'd on Speeton sands; 'Twas me as seed that schooner As founder'd wi' all hands.
"'Twas me first spied oor cobles Reight ower t' end o' t' Brig, That time when all was droonded; I tell'd 'em by there rig.(4)
"Aye, man, I's neen sae drowsy, Don't talk o' bed to me; I's niver quit my winder, Whiles there's a moon to see.
"Don't talk to me o' coast-guards! What's them to sike as me? They hasn't got no husbands, No childer, lost i' t' sea.
"It's nobbut them at's felt it, As sees as I can see; It's them as is deead already Knaws what it is to dee.
"Ye'd niver understan' me; God knaws, as dwells above, There's hearts doon here, lives, broken, What's niver lost their love.
"But better noo ye'd leave me, I's mebbe not misen; We fisher-folks has troubles No quality can ken."
1. Thick-set. 2. Bridlington. 3. Snow-storms. 4. Dress.
Aar Maggie
Edmund Hatton
I believe aar Maggie's coortin', For shoo dresses hersen so smart, An' shoo's allus runnin' to t' window When there's ony o' t' chaps abaat: Shoo willent wear her owd shawl, Bud dons a bonnet atstead,(1) An' laps her can in her gaan As shoo goes to t' weyvin' ,shed.
Of a neet wi' snoddened(2) hair, An' cheeks like a summers cherry, An' lips fair assin'(3) for kisses, An' een so black an' so merry, Shoo taks her knittin' to t' meadows, An' sits in a shady newk, An' knits while shoo sighs an' watches Wi' a dreamy, lingerin' lewk.
Thus knittin', sighin' an' watchin', Shoo caars(4) aat on t' soft meadow grass, Listenin' to t' murmurin' brooklet, An' waitin' for t' sweethear't to pass; Shoo drops her wark i' her appron, An' glints aat on t' settin' sun, An' wonders if he goes a-courtin' When his long day's wark is done.
When shoo hears t' chap's fooitsteps comin', Shoo rises wi' modest grace; Ay, Mag, thou sly, lovin' lassie, For shame o' thy bashful face! Shoo frames(5) to be goin' home'ards, As he lilts ower t' stile, Bud when he comes anent(6) herr, Shoo gies him sich a smile.
Then he places his arm araand her, An' shoo creeps cloise to his side, An' leyns her heead on his waiscoit, An' walks wi' an air o' pride. Bud oh! you sud see her glances, An' oh! you sud hear 'em kiss, When they pairt thro' one another! If shoo isn't coortin', who is?
1. Instead. 2. Smoothed out. 3. Asking. 4. Cowers, lies. 5. Makes pretence. 6. Beside.
Parson Drew Thro' Pudsey (1st Ed) or T' First o' t' Sooart (2nd Ed)
John Hartley
From pp 135, 136, 75, 76 and 77 of second edition.
I heeard a funny tale last neet, I couldn't howd frae laughin' ; 'Twere at t' Bull's Head we chonced to meet, An' spent an haar i' chaffin'. Some sang a song, some cracked a joke, An' all seemed full o' larkin' ; An' t' raam were blue wi' bacca smoke, An' ivery ee 'd a spark in.
Long Joe at comes thro' t' Jumples Clough Were gettin' rayther mazy, An' Warkus Ned had supped enough To turn their Betty crazy, An' Bob at lives at t' Bogeggs farm, Wi' Nan thro' t' Buttress Bottom, Were treatin' her to summat warm- It's just his way. Odd drot 'em!
An' Jack o' t' Slade were theer as weel, An' Joe o' Abe's thro' Waerley, An' Lijah off o' t' Lavver Hill Were passin' th' ale raand rarely. Thro' raand an' square they seemed to meet To hear or tell a story, But t' gem o' all I heeard last neet Were one by Doad o' t' Glory.
He bet his booits at it were true, An' all seemed to believe him; Though if he lost he needn't rue, But 't wodn't done to grieve him. His uncle lived it Pudsey taan, An' practised local praichin'; An' if he 're lucky, he were baan To start a schooil for taichin'.
But he were takken vary ill, He felt his time were comin'; They say he browt it on hissel Wi' studyin' his summin. He called his wife an' neighbours in To hear his deein' sarmon, An' telled 'em if they lived i' sin Their lot 'd be a warm 'un.
Then, turnin' raand unto his wife, Said, "Mal, tha knaws, owd craytur, If I'd been blest wi' longer life I might hae left things straighter. Joe Sooithill owes me eighteen pence; I lent it him last love-feast." Says Mall, "He hasn't lost his sense, Thank God for that at least."
"An' Ben o' t' top o' t' bank, tha knows, We owe him one paand ten." "Just hark," says Mally, "theer he goes, He's ramellin' agean." "Don't tak a bit o' notice, folk; You see, poor thing, he's ravin'. It cuts me up to hear sich talk; He's spent his life i' savin'."
"An', Mally lass," he said agean, "Tak heed o' my direction, T' schooil owes me hauf a craan, I mean My share o' t' last collection. Tha'll see to that an' have what's fair, When my poor life is past." Says Mally, "Listen, I declare, He's sensible at last."
He shut his een and sank to rest, Death seldom claimed a better; They put him by, bud what were t' best, He sent 'em back a letter, To tell' em all haa he'd goan on, An' haa he gate to enter, An' gav 'em rules to act upon If iver they sud ventur.
Saint Peter stood wi' keys i' hand, Says he, "What do ye want, sir, If to go in, you understand, Unknown to me, you can't, sir. Pray what's your name? Where are ye thro'(3)? Just make your business clear?", Says he, "They call me 'Parson Drew,' I've come thro' Pudsey here."
"Ye've come thro' Pudsey, do ye say? Don't try sich jokes on me, sir; I've kept these doors too long a day, I can't be fooled by thee, sir." Says Drew; "I wodn't tell a lie For t' sake o' all there's in it, If ye've a map o' England by, I'll show you in a minute."
So Peter gate a time-table, They gloor'd(4) ower t' map together, An' Drew did all at he were able, But couldn't find it either. At last says he, "There's Leeds Taan Hall, An' there stands Bradford's Mission; It's just between them two—that's all, Your map's an old edition.
"Bud theer it is—I'll lay a craan;— An' if ye've niver knawn it, Ye've miss'd a bonny Yorkshire taan, Though monny be at scorn it." He oppen'd t' gate; says he, "It's time Somebody coom—I'll trust thee;— Tha'll find inside no friends o' thine, Tha'rt first at's coom thro' Pudsey."
1. Makes pretence. 2. Beside. 3. From. 4. Stared.
Pateley Reaces 1874
Anonymous
From The Nidderdill Olminao, 1875, edited by "Nattie Nidds" (Pateley Bridge).
Attention all, baith great an' small, An' doan't screw up your feaces; While I rehearse i' simple verse, A count o' Pateley Reaces.
Fra all ower moors they com by scores Girt skelpin'(1) lads an' lasses; An' cats an' dogs, an' coos an' hogs, An' horses, mules an' asses.
Awd foaks were thar, fra near an' far, At couldn't fairly hopple; An' laffin' brats, as wild as cats, Ower heeads an' heels did topple.
The Darley lads arrived i' squads, Wi' smiles all ower their feaces; An' Hartwith youths, wi' screwed-up mooths, In wonder watched the reaces.
Fra Menwith Hill, and Folly Gill, Thorngat, an' Deacon Paster, Fra Thruscross Green, an' t' Heets Were seen Croods coomin' thick an' faster.
'Tween Bardin Brigg and Threshfield Rig Awd Wharfedeale gat a thinnin'; An' Ger'ston plods(2) laid heavy odds On Creaven Lass for winnin'.
Sich lots were seen o' Hebdin Green, Ready sean on i' t' mornin', While Aptrick chaps, i' carts and traps, Were off to Pateley spornin'.(3)
All Greenho Hill, past Coddstone's kill,(4) Com toltherin'(5) an' singin', Harcastle coves, like sheep i' droves, Awd Palmer Simp were bringin'.
Baith short an' tall, past Gowthit Hall, Tup dealers kept on steerin', For ne'er before, roond Middles Moor, Had there been sich a clearin'.
All kinds and sorts o' games an' sports, Had Pateley chaps provided, An' weel did t' few their business do At ower 'em all persided.
'T'wad tak a swell a munth to tell All t' ins an' t' oots o' t' reaces, Hoo far they ran, which horses wan, An' which were back'd for pleaces.
Awd Billy Broon lost hauf a croon Wi' Taty-Hawker backin', For Green Crag flew, ower t' hurdles true, An' wan t' match like a stockin'.
An' Creaven Lass won lots o' brass, Besides delightin' t' Brockils, An' Eva danc'd, an' rear'd and pranc'd; An gif(6) she stood o' cockles.
But t' donkey reace were star o' t' pleace, For awd an' young observers; 'Twad meade a nun fra t' convent run An' ne'er again be nervous.
Tom Hemp fra t' Stean cried oot, "Weel dean," An' t' wife began o' chaffin'; Whal Kirby Jack stack up his back, An' nearly brast wi' laffin'.
Sly Wilsill Bin, fra een to chin, Were plaister'd up wi' toffy, An' lang-leg Jane, he browt frae t' Plain, Full bent on winnin' t' coffee.
Young pronsy(7) flirts, i' drabbl'd skirts, Like painted peeacocks stritches(8); While girt chignons like milkin'-cans On their top-garrits perches.
Fat Sal fra' t' Knott scarce gat to t' spot, Afore she lost her bustle, Which sad mishap quite spoil'd her shap, An' meade her itch an' hustle.
Lile pug-nosed Nell, fra Kettlewell, Com in her Dolly Vardin, All frill'd an' starch'd she proodly march'd Wi' squintin' Joe fra Bardin.
Tha're cuffs an' falls, tunics an' shawls, An' fancy pollaneeses, All sham displays, ower tatter'd stays, An' hard-worn ragg'd chemises.
Tha're mushroom fops, fra' fields an' shops, Fine cigarettes were sookin', An' lots o' youths, wi' beardless mooths, All kinds o' pipes were smookin'.
An' when at last the sports were past, All heamward turn'd their feaces; To ne'er relent at e'er they spent A day wi' Pateley Reaces.
1. Huge 2. Grassington labourers. 3. Spurring. 4. Kiln. 5. Hobbling. 6. If 7. Over-dressed. 8. Strut about.
Play Cricket (1909)
Ben Turner
Whativer task you tackle, lads, Whativer job you do, I' all your ways, I' all your days, Be honest through an' through: Play cricket.
If claads oppress you wi' their gloom, An' t' sun seems lost to view, Don't fret an' whine, Ask t' sun to shine, An' don't o' livin' rue: Play cricket.
If you're i' debt, don't growl an' grunt, An' wish' at others had T' same want o' luck; But show more pluck, An' ne'er mak others sad: Play cricket.
If in your days there's chonce to do Good deeds, then reight an' fair, Don't hesitate, An' wait too late, An' say you'n(1) done your share: Play cricket.
We've all a row to hoe, that's true, Let's do it best we can; It's nobbut once We have the chonce To play on earth the man: Play cricket.
1. You have.
The File-cutter's Lament to Liberty (1910)
E. Downing
Nay, I'm moithered,(1) fairly maddled,(2) What's a "nicker-peck"(3) to do? My owd brain's a egg that's addled, Tryin' to see this matter through.
Here's a strappin' young inspector— Dacent lad he is, an' all— Says all things mun be correct, or I shall have to climb the pole.
Says as all my bonny pigeons As I keep wi' me i' t' shop, Mun be ta'en to other regions; Here the law wain't ler 'em stop.
Says as how my little terrier Mun foind kennellin' elsewheer. I expect awst(4) have to bury 'er; Shoo'll rest nowheer else bur(5) here.
Says as I mun wear a appron Throo my shoulder to my knee; An' (naa, listen! this puts t' capper on) Says how cleanly it mun be.
Each ten men mun have a basin, Fastened, mark you, fixed and sure, For to wesh ther hands and face in; Not to throw it aat o' door.
There's to be two ventilators, In good order and repair; Us at's short o' beef an' taters, Has to fatten on fresh air.
Each shop floor mun be substantial- Concrete, pavement, wood, or brick- So that water from the branch'll Keep the dust from lyin' thick.
An' for iv'ry bloomin' stiddie(6) There's so many cubic feet, We'st(7) ha' room to play at hiddie(8) Us at isn't aat i' t' street.
Eh, I can't tell hauf o' t' tottle(9) Of these Regulations steep; I expect a suckin'-bottle Will be t' next we have to keep.
Eh! I know, mun! who knows better? It's for t' good of all, is this. Iv'rybody's teed to t' letter, 'Cause o' t' few at's done amiss.
Eytin' leead-dust brings leead-colic, Sure as mornin' brings the day. Does te think at iver I'll lick Thumb and fingers' dirt away?
Well, good-bye, my good owd beauty— Liberty, naa left to few! Since the common-weal's my duty, Dear owd Liberty—adieu!
1. Perplexed. 2. Bewildered. 3. File-cutter. 4. I shall. 5. But. 6. Stithy 7. We shall. 8. Hide and seek. 9. Total.
A Kuss (1912)
John Malham-Dembleby
Ye may bring me gowd bi t' bowlful, Gie me lands bi t' mile, Fling me dewy roses, Stoor(1) set on my smile. Ye may caar(2) ye daan afoor me, Castles for me build, Twine me laurel garlands, Let sweet song be trilled. Ye may let my meyt be honey, Let my sup be wine, Gie me haands an' hosses, Gie me sheep an' kine. Yit one flaid(3) kuss fra her would gie Sweeter bliss to me Nor owt at ye could finnd to name, Late(4) ye through sea tul sea.
I've seen her hair gleam gowden In t' Kersmas yollow sun, An' ivery inch o' graand she treeads Belang her sure it mun. Her smile is sweet as roses, An' sweeter far to me, An' praad she hods her heead up, As lass o' heigh degree. Bonnie are green laurel leaves, I'd sooiner my braa feel T' laughin' lips o' t' lass I love, Though bays be varry weel.
I'm varry fond o' singin', What bonnier could be Nor my fair lass hersen agate(5) A-singin' love to me? It's reight to live on spice an' sich, An' sup a warmin' glass, But sweet-stuff's walsh,(6) an' wine is cowd, Aside my lovely lass. Tak ye your haands an' hosses, Tak ye your sheep an' kine; To finnd my lass ower t' hills I'll ride, She sal be iver mine.
1. Value. 2. Cower. 3. Trembling. 4. Search. 5. Busy. 6. Insipid.
Huntin' Song
Richard Blakeborough
It's neet an' naa we're here, lads, We're in for gooid cheer, lads; Yorkshiremen we all on us are, Yorkshiremen for better or war(1); We're tykes an' we're ghast(2) uns, We're paid uns an' fast uns, Awther for better or awther for war!
All t' lot
Then shaat till ye've gor hooast,(3) lads, Sing, Yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads, Wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads, Wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans,(4) lads."
There's some at nooan are here, lads, Forger em we sal ne'er, lads; Yorkshiremen they all on 'em war, Yorkshiremen yit all on 'em are. There's thrang(5) uns an' looan(6) uns, There's wick uns an' gooan uns, They're all reight somewheer, an' we 'st be no war!
All t' lot
Then shaat till ye've gor hooast, lads, Sing, "Yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads, Wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads, Wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans, lads."
1. Worse. 2. Spirited. 3. Got hoarse. 4. Children. 5. Busy. 6. Lonely
Spring (1914)
F. J. Newboult
Owd Winter gat notice to quit, 'Cause he'd made sich a pigsty o' t' place, An' Summer leuked raand when he'd flit, An' she says, I"t's a daanreyt disgrace! Sich-like ways! I niver did see sich a haase to come intul i' all my born days!
But Spring says, "It's my job, is this, I'll sooin put things streyt, niver fear. Ye go off to t' Spaws a bit, Miss, An' leave me to fettle up here!" An' sitha! Shoo's donned a owd appron, an' tucked up her sleaves, an' set to, with a witha!
Tha can tell, when t' hail pelts tha like mad, At them floors bides a bit of a scrub; Tha knaws t' flegstuns mun ha' been bad, When she teems(1) aat all t' wotter i' t' tub. Mind thy eyes! When shoo gets hod o' t' long brush an' sweeps aat them chamers, I'll tell tha, t' dust flies!
Whol shoo's threng(2) tha'll be best aat o' t' gate(3): Shoo'll care nowt for soft tawk an' kisses. To tell her thy mind, tha mun wait Whol shoo's getten things ready for t' missis. When shoo's done, Shoo'll doff her owd appron, an' slip aat i' t' garden, an' call tha to come.
Aye, Summer is t' roses' awn queen, An' shoo sits i' her state, grandly dressed; But Spring's twice as bonny agean, When shoo's donned hersen up i' her best Gaan o' green, An' stands all i' a glow,- wi' a smile on her lips an' a leet i' her een.
To t' tips of her fingers shoo's wick.(4) Tha can see t' pulses beat i' her braa. Tha can feel her soft breath comin' quick, An' it thrills tha-tha duzn't knaw haa. When ye part, Them daffydaandillies shoo's kissed an' then gi'en tha—they'll bloom i' thy heart!
1. Pours. 2. Busy. 3 Way. 4. Alive.
Heam, Sweet Heam (1914)
A. C. Watson
When oft at neet I wanders heame To cosy cot an' busy deame, My hardest day's wark seems but leet, When I can get back heame at neet, My wife an' bairns to sit besaade, Aroond my awn bit firesaade. What comfort there's i' steep(1) for me, A laatle prattler on my knee! What tales I have to listen tea! But just at fost there's sike to-dea As niver was. Each laatle dot Can fain agree for t' fav'rite spot. Sike problems they can set for me 'T wad puzzle waaser heeads mebbe. An' questions hawf a scoor they ask, To answer' em wad prove a task; For laatle thowts stray far away To things mysterious, oot o' t' way. An' then sike toffer(2) they torn oot, An' pratty lips begin to poot, If iverything's nut stowed away To cumulate frae day to day. Sike treasures they could niver spare, But gether mair an' mair an' mair In ivery pocket. I've nea doot They've things they think the wo'ld aboot. An' when their bed-taame's drawin' nigh, Wi' heavy heead an' sleepy eye, It's vary laatle din they mak, But slyly try a nap to tak. An' when on t' lats(3) they've gone aboon, I fills my pipe an' sattles do on To have a comfortable smewk. An' then at t' news I has a lewk; Or hods a bit o' talk wi' t' wife, The praade an' comfort o' my life. Cawd winds may blaw, an' snaw-flakes flee, An' neets may be beath lang an' dree, Or it may rain an' rain agean, Sea lang as I've my day's wark dean, I wadn't swap my humble heame For bigger hoose or finer neame. If all could as contented be, There'd be mair joy an' less mis'ry.
1. In store. 2. Odds and ends. 3. Laths.
Then an' Nae
E. A. Lodge
Privately printed by Mr. E. A. Lodge in a volume entitled Odds an' Ends (n. d.).
When I were but a striplin' An' bare a scoor year owd, I thowt I'd gotten brains enew To fill all t' yeds(1) i' t' fowd.
I used to roor wi' laffin' At t' sharpness o' my wit, An' a joke I made one Kersmiss Threw my nuncle in a fit.
I used to think my mother Were a hundred year behund; An' my father—well, my father Nobbut fourteen aence to t' pund.
An' I often turned it ovver, But I ne'er could fairly see Yaeiver(2) sich owd cronies Could hae bred a chap like me.
An' whene'er they went to t' market, I put my fillin's in; Whol my father used to stop me Wi' "Prithee, hold thy din.
"Does ta think we're nobbut childer, Wi' as little sense as thee? When thy advice is wanted, We'st axe thee, does ta see."
But they gate it, wilta, shalta, An' I did my levil best To change their flee-blown notions, Whol their yeds were laid to t' west.
This happened thirty year sin; Nae I've childer o' my own, At's gotten t' cheek to tell me At I'm a bit flee-blown.
1. Heads. 2. However.
Owd England
From Tykes Abrooad (W. Nicholson, Wakefield, 1911).
Walter Hampson.
Tha'rt welcome, thrice welcome, Owd England; It maks my een sparkle wi' glee, An' does mi heart gooid to behold thee, For I know tha's a welcome for me. Let others recaant all thi failin's, Let traitors upbraid as they will, I know at thy virtues are many, An' my heart's beeatin' true to thee still.
There's a gladness i' t' sky at bends ower thee, There's a sweetness i' t' green o' thy grass, There's a glory i' t' waves at embrace thee, An' thy beauty there's naan can surpass. Thy childer enrich iv'ry valley, An' add beauty to iv'ry glen, For tha's mothered a race o' fair women, An' true-hearted, practical men.
There's one little spot up i' Yorkshire, It's net mich to crack on at t' best, But to me it's a kingdom most lovely, An' it holds t' warmest place i' my breast. Compared wi' that kingdom, all others Are worthless as bubbles o' fooam, For one thing my rovin' has towt me, An' that is, there's no place like hooam.
I know there'll be one theer to greet me At's proved faithful through many dark days, An' little feet runnin' to meet me, An' een at(1) howd love i' their gaze. An' there's neighbours both hooamly an' kindly, An' mates at are wor'thy to trust, An' friends my adversity's tested, At proved to be generous an' just.
An' net far away there's green valleys, An' greeat craggy, towerin' hills, An' breezes at mingle their sweetness Wi' t' music o' sparklin' rills; An' meadows all decked wi' wild-flaars, An' hedges wi' blossom all white, An' a blue sky wheer t' skylark is singin', Just to mak known his joy an' delight.
Aye, England, Owd England! I love thee Wi' a love at each day grows more strong; In my heart tha sinks deeper an' deeper, As year after year rolls along; An' spite o' thy faults an' thy follies, Whativer thy fortune may be, I' storm or i' sunshine, i' weal or i' woe, Tha'll allus be lovely to me.
May thy sons an' thy dowters live happy, An' niver know t' woes o' distress; May thy friends be for iver increeasin', An' thy enemies each day grow less. May tha niver let selfish ambition Dishonour or tarnish thy swoord, But use it alooan agean despots Whether reignin' at hooam or abrooad.
1. That.
Love and Pie
J. A. Carill
From Woz'ls Humorous Sketches and Rhymes in the East Yorkshire Dialect (n. d.).
Whin I gor hoired et Beacon Farm a year last Martinmas, I fund we'd gor a vory bonny soort o' kitchen lass; And so I tell'd her plooin' made me hungry—thot was why I awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie. And efther thot I thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin' large, And so I ate it for her sake—theer wasn't onny charge; Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why She awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.
I wasn't mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin', She had no chance o' goin' oot for armin' it and walkin'. But thin I knawed I gor her love whin I could see t' pies; I knawed her thowts o' me were big by bigness o' their size. The pies and gell I thowt thot geed,(1) they hardlins could be beaten, She knawed I'd awlus thowts on her by way t' pies were eaten; Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why She awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.
Noo just thoo wait a bit and see; I'm only thod-lad(2) noo, I moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two; And thin thoo'll see, or I'm a cauf, I'll mak 'em ring choch bell, And carry off et Martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin' gell. And whin thoo's buyin' coats and beats(3) wi' wages thot ye take, It's I'll be buyin' boxes for t' laatle bits o' cake; And whin I've gar a missus ther'll be no more askin' why She awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie.
1. Good. 2. Third lad on the farm. 3. Boots.
I's Gotten t' Bliss (1914)
George H. Cowling
I's gotten t' bliss o' moonten-tops to-neet, Thof I's i' bondage noo, an' blinnd an' deeaf. Brethren, I's stoun(1)! an' fand it varry sweet, Sea strike my neame off, if't be your belief I's slidin' back. Last neet, as I were shoggin'(2) on up t' street, I acted t' thief.
Ye think I's hardened. Ay! I see ye lewvk. I stell't,(3) it's true; bud, brethren, I'll repay. I'll pay back ten-foad iverything I tewk, An' folks may say whate'er they like to say. It were a kiss, An' t' lass has promised iv oar ingle-newk To neame t' day.
1. Stolen. 2. Jogging 3. Stole.
A Natterin' Wife
George H. Cowling
The parson, the squire an' the divil Are troubles at trouble this life, Bud each on em's dacent an' civil Compared wi' a natterin'(1) wife.
A wife at mun argie an' natter, She maks a man's mortal life hell. An' that's t' gospel-truth o' t' matter, I knaws, 'cause I's got yan misel.
1. Nagging.
O! What do ye Wesh i' the Beck
George H. Cowling
"O! What do ye wesh i' the beck, awd wench? Is it watter ye lack at heame?" It's nobbut a murderer's shrood, young man, A shrood for to cover his weam.(1)
"O! what do ye cut i' the slack, awd hag? Is it fencin' ye lack for your beas'(2)?" It's nobbut a murderer's coffin, sir, A coffin to felt(3) his feace."
"O! what do ye greaye(4) at the crossroads, witch? Is it roots ye lack for your swine?" "It's nobbut a murderer's grave, fair sir, A grave for to bury him fine."
"An' whea be-owes(5) coffin an' shrood, foul witch? An' wheas is the grave i' the grass?" "This spell I hae woven for thee, dear hairt, Coom, kill me, an' bring it to pass."
1. Belly. 2. Beasts, cattle.. 3. Hide. 4. Dig 5. Owns,
Part II
Traditional Poems
Cleveland Lyke-wake Dirge(1)
This ya neet, this ya neet, Ivvery neet an' all; Fire an' fleet(2) an' can'le leet, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
When thoo frae hence away art passed(3) Ivvery neet an' all; To Whinny-moor thoo cooms at last, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
If ivver thoo gav owther hosen or shoon, Ivvery neet an' all; Clap thee doon an' put 'em on, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Bud if hosen or shoon thoo nivver gav nean,(4) Ivvery neet an' all; T' whinnies 'll prick thee sair to t' bean,(5) An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Frae Whinny-moor when(6) thoo mayst pass, Ivvery neet an' all; To t' Brig o' Dreead thoo'll coom at last, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
If ivver thoo gav o' thy siller an' gowd, Ivvery neet an' all; At t' Brig o' Dreead thoo'll finnd foothod, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Bud if siller an' gowd thoo nivver gav nean, Ivvery neet an' all; Thoo'll doan, doon tum'le towards Hell fleames, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Frae t' Brig o' Dreead when thoo mayst pass, Ivvery neet an' all; To t' fleames o' Hell thoo'll coom at last, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
If ivver thoo gav owther bite or sup, Ivvery neet an' all; T' fleames 'll nivver catch thee up, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Bud if bite or sup thoo nivver gav nean, Ivvery neet an' all; T' fleames 'll bon(7) thee sair to t' bean, An' Christ tak up thy saul.
1. The text of this version of the "Lyke-wake Dirge" follows, with slight variations, that found in Mr. Richard Blakeborough's Wit, Character, Folklore, and Customs of the North Riding (p. 123), where the following account is given: "I cannot say when or where the Lyke Walke dirge was sung for the last time in the North Riding, but I remember once talking to an old chap who remembered it being sung over the corpse of a distant relation of his, a native of Kildale. This would be about 1800, and he told me that Lyke-wakes were of rare occurrence then, and only heard of in out-of-the-way places. ... There are other versions of the song; the one here given is as it was dictated to me. There is another version in the North Riding which seems to have been written according to the tenets of Rome; at least I imagine so, as purgatory takes the place of hellish flames, as given above." In the Appendix to this volume will be found the other version with the introduction of purgatory to which Mr. Blakeborough refers. I have taken it from Sir Walter Scott's Border Minstrelsy (ed. Henderson, vol. ii. pp. 170-2), but it also finds a place in John Aubrey's Remains of Gentilisme and Judaisme (1686-7), preserved among the Lansdowne MSS. in the British Museum. Aubrey prefixes the following note to his version of the dirge: The beliefe in Yorkeshire was amongst the vulgar (perhaps is in part still) that after the person's death the soule went over Whinny-moore, and till about 1616-24 at the funerale a woman came (like a Praefica) and sang the following song." Further information about this interesting dirge and its parallels in other literatures will be found in Henderson's edition of the Border Minstrelsy, p. 163) and in J. C. Atkinson's Glosary of the Cleveland Dialect, p. 595.
Cleveland Lyke-wake Dirge
Traditional Sir Walter Scott's version
From Appendix I of 1st Edition.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle; Fire and sleete and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.
When thou from hence away are paste, Every nighte and alle; To Whinny-muir thou comest at laste; And Christe receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon, Every nighte and alle; Sit thee down, and put them on; And Christe receive thye saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne'er gavest nane, Every nighte and alle; The whinnes shall pricke thee to the bare bane, And Christe receive thye saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle ; To Brigg o' Dread thou comest at laste, And Christe receive thye saul
(A stanza wanting)
From Brigg o' Dread when thou mayst passe, Every nighte and alle; To purgatory fire thou comest at laste; And Christ receive thye saule.
If ever thou gavest meat or drinke, Every nighte and alle; The fire shall never make thee shrinke; And Christ receive thye saule.
If meate or drinke thou never gavest nane, Every nighte and alle; The fire will burn thee to the bare bane; And Christe receive thye saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle; Fire and sleete, and candle lighte, And Christe receive thye saule.
A Dree Neet(1)
Traditional
'T Were a dree(2) neet, a dree neet, as t' squire's end drew nigh, A dree neet, a dree neet, to watch, an pray, an' sigh.
When t' streeam runs dry, an' t' deead leaves fall, an' t' ripe ear bends its heead, An' t' blood wi' lithin'(3), seems fair clogg'd, yan kens yan's neam'd wi' t' deead.
When t' een grows dim, an' folk draw nigh frae t' other saade o' t' grave, It's late to square up awd accoonts a gannin' sowl to save.
T' priest may coom, an' t' priest may gan, his weel-worn tale to chant, When t' deeath-smear clems a wrinkled broo, sike disn't fet yan's want.(4)
Nea book, nea can'le, bell, nor mass, nea priest iv onny lan', When t' dree neet cooms, can patch a sowl, or t' totterin' mak to stan'.
. . . . .
'T were a dree neet, a dree neet, for a sowl to gan away, A dree neet, a dree neet, bud a gannin' sowl can't stay.
An' t' winner shuts(5) they rattled sair, an' t' mad wild wind did shill, An' t' Gabriel ratchets(6) yelp'd aboon, a gannin' sowl to chill.
'T were a dree neet, a dree neet, for deeath to don his cowl, To staup(7) abroad wi' whimly(8) treead, to claim a gannin' sowl.
Bud laal(9) deeath recks hoo dree t' neet be, or hoo a sowl may pray, When t' sand runs oot, his sickle reaps; a gannin' sowl can't stay.
'T were a dree neet, a dree neet, ower Whinny-moor to trake,(10) Wi' shoonless feet, ower flinty steanes, thruf monny a thorny brake.
A dree neet, a dree neet, wi' nowt neaways to mark T' gainest trod(11) to t' Brig o' Deead; a lane lost sowl i' t' dark.
A dree neet, a dree neet, at t' brig foot theer to meet Laal sowls at(12) he were t' father on, wi' nea good-deame i' seet.
At t' altar steps he niver steead, thof monny a voo he made, Noo t' debt he awes to monny a lass at t' brig foot mun be paid.
They face him noo wiv other deeds, like black spots on a sheet, They noo unscape,(13) they egg him on, on t' brig his doom to meet.
Nea doves has sattled on his sill, bud a flittermoose(14) that neet Cam thrice taames thruf his casement, an' flacker'd roond his feet.
An' thrice taames did a raven croak, an' t' seame-like thrice cam t' hoot Frae t' ullets' tree; doon chimleys three there cam a shrood o' soot.
An' roond t' can'le twea taames there cam a dark-wing'd moth to t' leet, Bud t' thod(15), it swirl'd reet into t' fleame, wheer gans his sowl this neet.
'T were a dree neet, a dree neet, for yan to late(16) to pray, A dree neet, a dree neet, bud a gannin' sowl can't stay.
. . . . .
1, From R. Blakeborough's "Old Songs of the Dales," appended to his T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg, p. 37, second edition. 2. Gloomy. 3. Thickening. 4. The literal meaning of this line is, When the death-salve bedaubs a wrinkled brow, rites such as these do not fetch (i.e. supply) one's want. The reference is to extreme unction. 5. Window shutters. 6. The hounds of death. 7. Stalk. 8. Stealthy. 9. Little. 10. Wander. 11. Shortest path. 12. That. 13. Stir up memories. 14. Bat. 15. Third. 16. Attempt.
The Bridal Bands
Traditional
From R. Blakeborough's Wit, Character, Folklore, and Customs of the North Riding, p. 97.
Blushing, theer oor Peggy sits, Stitchin', faane stitchin', Love-knots roond her braadal bands, Witchin', bewitchin'.
T' braade's maids all mun dea a stitch, Stitchin', faane stitchin', An' they mun binnd it roond her leg, Witchin', bewitchin'.
Bud some bauf(1) swain at's soond o' puff, Stitchin', faane stitchin', Will claim his reet to tak it off, Witchin', bewitchin'.
An' he aroond his awn love's leg, Stitchin', faane stitchin', Will lap(2) it roond to binnd his love, Witchin', bewitchin'.
Whal she, sweet maid, 'll wear his troth, Stitchin', faane stitchin', Maanding each taame she taks it off, Witchin', bewitchin',
That day when she will hae to wear, Stitchin', faane stitchin', Nut yan, bud twea, a braadal pair, Witchin', bewitchin'.
Oh! happy day, when she sal stitch, Stitchin', faane stitchin', Her braadal bands, the wearin' which Maks maids bewitchin'.
1 Sturdy. 2. Wrap.
The Bridal Garter(1)
A Catch
Traditional
Here's health to t' lass whea donn'd this band To grace her leg, An' ivvery garter'd braade i' t' land: Sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.(2)
Aroond her leg it has been bun', I wish I'd bun' it. A trimmer limb could nut be fun': Sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.
May ivvery yan at lifts his glass To this faane band Uphod(3) he gans wi' t' best-like lass: Sae sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.
Frae wrist to wrist this band we pass, As han' clasps han'; I' turn we through it draw each glass: Sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.
An' here's tiv her at fast(4) did weer A braadal band Bun' roond her leg; gie her a cheer: Sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it doon your wizan.
An' here's to Venus; let us beg A boon at she Will gie each braade a pattern leg: Sea sip it, an' tip it, bud tip it do on your wizan.
1 From Mr. Richard Blakeborough's "Old Songs of the Dales," appended to his T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg, p. 57, 2nd edition.. 2 Throat. 3 Uphold, maintain. 4 First.
Nance and Tom
Traditional
From Mr. R. Blakeborough's "Old Songs of the Dales," appended to his T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg, p. 44, 2nd edition.
I' t' merry taame o' harvestin' Lang sen,(1) aye well a day! Oar Nancy, t' bonniest lass i' t' field Had varra laal to say. An' Tom whea follow'd, follow'd her, An' neigh as dumb were he, An' thof he wark'd some wiv his hands He harder wark'd his ee.
For Nan were buxom, Nan were fair, Her lilt were leet an' free; An' Tom could hardlins hod(2) his wits, He couldn't hod his ee Frae Nancy's face; an' her breet smaale Made Tom's heart lowp(3) an' thump; Whal Nancy awn'd t' fost kiss he gav, Her stays mun git a bump
Bud o' ya neet, Tom set her yam, " Noo, Nance,"tell'd he," I've gitten A cauvin' coo, an' twea fat pigs; Wi' thy fair charms I'm smitten. Thoo knaws I have a theak,(4) my lass, An' gear, baith gert an' small, I've fotty pund ligg'd by at yam, Tak me, lass, tak it all."
Nance hing'd her heead an' dropp'd her een, An' then she sighed, "Ah, dear! Noo hod thy whisht,(5) thoo's tell'd t' same tale To monny a maid, I fear." Bud Tom just bowdly sleev'd(6) her waist An chuck'd her unner t' chin. "O' Sunday neet," said he, " I'll wait To hug(7) thy milk-skeel(8) in.
(A verse is missing)
She bun' aboot her matchless cauf Four cletchin' streas,(9) did Nan, Twea wheaten an' twea oaten streas, Bud niver tell'd her man. She platted 'em when t' harvest mean Her colour'd cheek made pale, For nea lass plats her band for bairns And then blirts(10) out her tale.
An' t' mean for sham' ahint a clood Her smaalin' feace did hide; Sea nea hedge-skulker gat a peep At Nan's leg when 't were tied. An' nean i' t' village would have knawn, At roond her leg, like thack,(11) She'd bun' a band to gie her bairns, Bud she tummel'd offen(12) t' stack,
An' deaz'd she ligg'd, her shapely limb Laid oot for all to see; An' roond her leg a platted band Were bun' belaw her knee. Then up she sprang, an' laughin' said, "Noo, Tom warn't here to see; An' nean can say I's scrawmy(13) cauf'd, An' t' band still guards my knee."
1. Long ago. 2 .Hold. 3, Leap. 4. Thatched roof. 5. Hold thy tongue. 6. Encircled. 7. Carry. 8. Milk-pail. 9. Thatching straws. 10. Blurts. 11. Thatch. 12. Off. 13. Unshapely.
The Witch's Curse(1)
Traditional
Fire coom, Fire gan, Curlin' smeak Keep oot o' t' pan. Ther's a tead(2) i' t' fire, a frog on t' hob, Here's t' heart frev a crimson ask(3); Here's a teath fra t' heead O' yan at's deead, At niver gat thruf his task. Here's prick'd i' blood a maiden's prayer, At t' ee o' man maunt(4) see; It's prick'd upon a yet warm mask,(5) An' lapp'd(6) aboot a breet green ask, An' it's all fer him an' thee. It boils, Thoo'll drink; He'll speak, Thoo'll think: It boils, Thoo'll see; He'll speak, Thoo'll dee.
1 From R. Blakeborough's T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg, p. 12; see also the same author's Yorkshire Wit, Character, Folklore, and Customs, p. 169. 2. Toad. 3. Newt. 4. May not. 5, Brew. 6. Wrapped.
Ridin' t' Stang(1)
(Grassington Version)
Traditional
Hey dilly, how dilly, hey dilly, dang! It's nayther for thy part, nor my part, That I ride the stang. But it's for Jack Solomon, His wife he did bang. He bang'd her, he bang'd her, He bang'd her indeed, He bang'd t' poor woman Tho' shoo stood him no need. He nayther took stick, stain, wire, nor stower,(2) But he up wi' a besom an' knock'd her ower. So all ye good neighbours who live i' this raw, I pray ye tak warnin', for this is our law. An' all ye cross husbands Who do your wives bang, We'll blow for ye t' horn , An' ride for ye t' stang. Hip, hip, hip, hurrah!
1 From B. J. Harker's Rambles in Upper Wharfedale. Other versions, more or less similar to the above, are to be found in R. Blakeborough's Wit, Folklore, and Customs of the North Riding, and J. Nicholson's Folk Speech of the East Riding. In the Yorkshire Dialect Society's Transactions, vol. iii., part xvi., will be found a racy account, in the Beverley dialect, of the custom of "ridin' t' stang."
2. Pole.
Elphi Bandy-legs(1)
Traditional
Elphi bandy-legs, Bent, an' wide apart, Nea yan i' this deale Awns a kinder heart. Elphi, great-heead, Greatest iver seen, Nea yan i' this deale Awns a breeter een. Elphi, little chap, Thof he war so small, War big wi' deeds o' kindness, Drink tiv him yan an' all. Him at fails to drain dry, Be it mug or glass, Binnot woth a pescod, Nor a buss(3) frae onny lass.
1. Written in an old cook-book and signed "J. L. 1699"; from Gordon Home's 'The Evolution of an English Town, p208.
2. Is not worth. 3. Kiss
Singing Games
Traditional
I
Stepping up the green grass Thus and thus and thus; Will you let one of your fair maids Come and play with us.
We will give you pots and pans, We will give you brass; We will give you anything For a pretty lass.
We won't take your pots and pans, We won't take your brass, We won't take your "anything For a pretty lass."
We will give you gold and silver, We will give you pearl; We will give you anything For a pretty girl.
Come, my dearest Mary, Come and play with us; You shall have a young man Born for your sake. And the bells shall ring, And the cats shall sing, And we'll all clap hands together.
II
Sally made a pudden, Shoo made it ower sweet; Shoo dursn't stick a knife in 't, Till Jack cam home at neet.
John, wilta have a bit like? Don't say nay, For last Monday mornin' Was aar weddin'-day.
III
Sally Water, Sally Water, Come sprinkle your can, Why do you lie mournin' All for a young man? Come, choose o' the wisest, Come, choose o' the best, Come, choose o' the young men The one you love best.
IV
Diller a dollar, A ten o' clock scholar, What maks you coom sae soon? You used to coom at ten o'clock, Bud noo you coom at noon.
1. From S. O. Addy, A Sheffield Glossary, p. 239; current in other parts of England.
Hagmana Song(1)
Fragment of the Hagmana Song!
(As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the eve of the New Year, by the' Corporation Pinder.)
To-night it is the New-year's night, to-morrow is the day," And we are come for our right, and for our ray,(2) As we used to do in old King Henry's day. Sing', fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.
If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit; Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw; Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb, That me and my merry men may have some. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.
If you go to the Black-ark, bring me ten mark; Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground, That me and my merry men may have some. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.
1. Hagmena, or Hogmanay, is a north-country name for New Year's eve; the name is also applied to the offering for which children go round and beg on that evening. 2. A Portuguese coin of emall value.
Round the Year
New Year's Day
Lucky-bird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck! Maister an' mistress, it's time to git up. If you don't git up, you'll have nea luck; Lucky- bird, lucky-bird, chuck, chuck, chuck!
Candlemas
On Can'lemas, a February day, Throw can'le an' can'lestick away.
A Can'lemas crack Lays mony a sailor on his back.
If Can'lemas be lound(1) an' fair, Ya hauf o' t' winter's to coom an' mair. If Can'lemas day be murk an' foul, Ya hauf o' t' winter's gean at Yule.
1. Calm.
February Fill-Dike
February fill-dyke, Fill it wi' eyther black or white. March muck it oot, Wi' a besom an' a cloot.
Palm Sunday
Palm Sunday, palm away; Next Sunday's Easter-day.
Good Friday
On Good Friday rist thy pleaf,(1) Start nowt, end nowt, that's eneaf.
Lang Friday's niver dean, Sea lig i' bed whal Setterday nean. 1. Rest thy plough.
Royal Oak Day
It's Royal Oak Day, T' twenty-naanth o' May. An' if ye dean't gie us holiday, We'll all run away.
Harvest Home and the Mell-Sheaf(1)
1. The " mell " is the last sheaf of corn left in the field when the harvest is gathered in.
We have her, we have her, A coo iv a tether. At oor toon-end. A yowe(1) an' a lamb, A pot an' a pan. May we git seafe in Wiv oor harvest-yam, Wiv a sup o' good yal, An' some ha'pence to spend.
3. Ewe.
Here we coom at oor toon-end, A pint o' yal an' a croon to spend. Here we coom as tite as nip(1) An' niver flang ower(2) but yance iv a grip.(3)
1. Very quickly. 2. Tumbled. 3. Ditch.
Weel bun' an' better shorn Is Mr. Readheead's corn. We have her, we have her, As fast as a feather. Hip, hip, hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
John Metcalfe has gitten all shorn an' mawn, All but a few standards an' a bit o' lowse corn. We have her, we have her, Fast i' a tether Coom help us to hod her. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
Blest be t' day that Christ was born, For we've getten t' mell o' t' farmer's corn. It's weel bun', but better shorn. Mell! Shout, lads, Mell!
Guy Fawkes Day
A Stick and a stake, For King James's sake. Please give us a coil,(1) a coil. 1. Coal.
Awd Grimey sits upon yon hill, As black as onny awd craw. He's gitten on his lang grey coat Wi' buttons doon afoor. He's gitten on his lang grey coat Wi' buttons doon afoor.
Christmas
I wish you a merry Kessenmas an' a happy New Year, A pokeful o' money an' a cellar-full o' beer. A good fat pig an' a new-cauven coo; Good maisther an' misthress, hoo do you do?
Cleveland Christmas Song(1)
God rist you merry, gentlemen, Let nothin' you dismay, Remember Christ oor Saviour Was born o' Kessmas day, To seave wer sowls fra Sattan's power; Lang taam we've gean astray. This brings tidin's o' comfort an' joy.
Noo stright they went to Bethlehem, Wheer oor sweet Saviour lay; They fan' him iv a manger, Wheer oxen fed on hay, To seave wer sowls fra Sattan's power; Lang taam we've gean astray. This brings tidin's o' comfort an' joy.
God bliss t' maister o' this hoose, An' t' mistress also, An' all your laatle childeren That roond your teable go; An' all your kith an' kindered, That dwell beath far an' near; An' I wish you a Merry Kessamas An' a Happy New Year.
1. From Mrs. Tweddell's Rhymes and Sketches, p. 14.
A Christmas Wassail(1)
Here we coom a-wessellin(2) Among the leaves so green, An' here we coom a-wanderin' So fair as to be seen.
Chorus- An' to your' wessel An' to jolly wessel, Love an' joy be to you An' to your wessel-tree.
The wessel-bob(3) is made O' rosemary tree, An' so is your beer O' the best barley. An' to your wessel, etc.
Weare not beggars' childeren That begs from door to door, But we are neighbours' childeren That has been here before. An' to your wessel, etc.
We have got a little purse Made i' ratchin(4) leather skin, An' we want a little money To line it well within. An' to your wessel, etc.
Bring us out your table An' spread it wi' a cloth; Bring us out your mouldy cheese Likewise your Christmas loaf. An' to your wessel, etc.
God bless the master o' this house, Likewise the mistress too; An' all the little childeren That round the table go. An' to your wessel, etc.
Good master an' good' misteress, While you're sittin' by the fire Pray, think of us poor childeren That's wanderin' i' the mire. An' to your wessel, etc.
1. From Easther and Lees, Almondbury and Huddersfield Glossary (English Dialect Society Publications, vol. 39, pp. xvii.-xviii). 2. Wassailing. 3. Wassail-bough. 4. Urchin, hedgehog.
Sheffield Mumming Song(1)
Come all ye jolly mummers That mum in Christmas time. Come join with us in chorus Come join with us in rhyme. Chorus- And a-mumming we will go, we'll go, And a-mumming we will go ; With a white cockade in all our hats, We'll go to t' gallant show.
It's of St. George's valour So loudly let us sing; An honour to his country And a credit to his King. Chorus- And a-mumming we will go, we'll go, And a-mumming we will go ; We'll face all sorts of weather Both rain, cold, wet, and snow.
It's of the King of Egypt, That came to seek his son; It's of the King of Egypt, That made his sword so wan. Chorus- And a-mumming, etc.
It's of the black Morocco dog That fought the fiery battle; It's of the black Morocco dog That made his sword to rattle. Chorus- And a-mumming, etc.
1 From S. O. Addy, Sheffield Glossary (English Dialect Society Publications, vol. xxii. p. 153). The song is sung at Christmas time in the villages about Sheffield at the conclusion of the folkplay, "The Peace Egg." See S. O. Addy, Sheffield Glossary (English Dialect Society), p. 153.
Charms, "Nominies," and Popular Rhymes
Traditional
Wilful weaste maks weasome want, An' you may live to say: I wish I had that sharve(1) o' breead That yance I flang away.
1. Crust
A rollin' stone gethers no moss, A ram'lin' lad saves no brass; A whistlin' lass an' a crowin' hen Will fotch t' devil oot o' his den.
Than awn a crawin' hen, I seaner wad t' awd divil meet, Hickity O, pickity O, pompolorum jig! Or breed a whistlin' lass, I seaner wad t' awd divil treat, Hickity O, pickity O, pompolorum jig!
Nowt bud ill-luck 'll fester where There craws an' whistles sike(1) a pair; May hens an' women breed nea mair. Pompolorum jig.
1. Such.
Meeat maks, An' clease shaps, But that is nut t' man; For bonnie is that bonnie diz, Deny it if you can.
The Miller's Thumb
Miller, miller, mooter-poke, Teak a laid an' stale a stroke.(2)
2. Took a load of corn and stole a half-bushel; mooter, or multure, is the toll of meal taken by the miller for grinding the corn: mooter-poke, or multure-pocket, is accordingly a nickname for a miller.
Down i' yon lum(1) we have a mill, If they send more grist we'll grind more still. With her broad arm an' mighty fist Shoo rams it into t' mooter-chist.(2)
1. Wood. 2. The chest in which the toll of meal was kept.
Hob-Trush Hob
"Hob-Trush Hob, wheer is thoo?" "I's tryin' on my left-foot shoe, An' I'll be wi' thee—noo!"
Gin Hob mun hae nowt but a hardin' hamp, He'll co om nae mair nowther to berry nor stamp.(1)
1. The meaning seems to be, If Hob is allowed nothing more than a smock-frock of coarse hemp, he will not come again either to thresh corn or to beat flax.
Nanny Button-Cap
T' moon shines breet, T' stars give leet, An' little Nanny Button-cap Will coom to-morra neet.
The New Moon
A Setterday's mean Cooms yance i' seven year ower sean.
I see t' mean an' t' mean sees me, God bless t' sailors oot on t' sea.
New mean, new mean, I hail thee, This neet my true love for to see. Not iv his best or worst array, Bud iv his apparel for ivery day. That I to-morrow may him ken Frev amang all other men.
Eevein' red an' mornin' gray: Certain signs o' a bonnie day. Evenin' gray an' mornin' red Will send t' shepherd weet to bed.
Souther, wind, souther!(1) An' blaw my father heame to my moother.(2)
1. Veer to the south. 2. This is the lilt of the children of the east-coast fishermen when the boats are at sea.
Friday Unlucky
Dean't o' Friday buy your ring, O' Friday dean't put t' spurrins(1) in; Dean't wed o' Friday. Think on o' this, Nowther blue nor green mun match her driss.
1. Banns
An Omen
Blest is t' bride at t' sun shines on, An' blest is t' deead at t' rain rains on.
A Charm
Tak twea at's red an' yan at's blake,(1) O' poison berries three, Three fresh-cull'd blooms o' devil's glut,(2) An' a sprig o' rosemary.
Tak henbane, bullace, bummlekite,(3) An' t' fluff frev a deead bulrush, Naan berries shak frae t' rowan-tree, An' naan frae t' botterey-bush.(4)
1. Yellow. 2. Bindweed. 3. Blackberries. 4. Elder Tree
A gift(1) o' my finger Is seer to linger; A gift o' my thumb Is seer to coom.
1. White speck.
Sunday clipt, Sunday shorn, Better t' bairn had niver been born.
A Monday's bairn 'll grow up fair, A Tuesday's yan i' grace thruf prayer; A Wednesday's bairn has monny a pain, A Tho'sday's bairn wean't baade at heame. A Friday's bairn is good an' sweet, A Settherday's warks frae morn to neet. Bud a Sunday's bairn thruf leyfe is blist,. An' seer i' t' end wi' t' saints to rist.
A cobweb i' t' kitchen, An' feat-marks on t' step, Finnd nea wood i' t' yune(1) An' nea coals i' t' skep.(2)
1. Oven. 2. Scuttle.
Snaw, snaw, coom faster, White as allyblaster, Poor owd women, pickin' geese, Sendin' t' feathers daan to Leeds.
Julius Caesar made a law, Augustus Caesar sign'd it, That ivery one that made a sneeze Should run away an' find it.
A weddin', a woo, a clog an' a shoe, A pot-ful o' porridge, away they go!
Chimley-sweeper, blackymoor, Set o' t' top o' t' chapel door. Tak a stick an' knock him daan, That's the way to Chapeltaan.
The Lady-bird
Cow-lady, cow-lady, hie thy way wum,(1) Thy haase is afire, thy childer all gone; All but poor Nancy, set under a pan, Weyvin' gold lace as fast as shoo can.
1. Home.
The Magpie
I cross'd pynot,(1) an' t' pynot cross'd me. T' devil tak t' pynot an' God save me. .
1. Magpie.
Tell-pie-tit, Thy tongue's slit, An ivery dog i' t' toon 'll get a bit.
The Bat
Black-black-bearaway Coom doon by hereaway.
The Snail
Sneel, sneel, put oot your horn, Your fayther an' muthel'll gie ye some corn.
Hallamshire
When all the world shall be aloft, Then Hallamshire shall be God's croft. Winkabank and Templebrough Will buy all England through an' through.
Harrogate(1)
When lords an' ladies stinking water soss,(2) High brigs o' stean the Nidd sal cross. An' a toon be built on Harrogate moss.
1. Attributed to Mother Shipton. 2. Gulp.
The River Don
The shelvin', slimy river Don Each year a daughter or a son.(1)
1. Compare the Dartmoor rhyme:
River of Dart, oh! river of Dart, Every year thou claimest a heart.
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