Part 9 (1/2)

A New Devorse.

Says Pug o' Joans o' Haworth Brah, Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag- Are Nelly's tung's a yard too long, And, by't mess it can wag.

It's h.e.l.l at top o' t'earth we me, An' stand it I am forst; I'd give all t'bra.s.s at I possess, If I could get devors'd.

Then answer'd Rodge, I hev a dodge, Az gooid a plan az onny; A real devorse tha'll get of course- It willant cost a penny.

Then tell me what it iz, says Pug, I'm hommost brocken-hearted; We'll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad, Where man an woife are parted.

Gooise an' Giblet Pie.

A Kersma.s.s song I'll sing, me lads, If yoh'll bud hearken me; An incident e Kersma.s.s time, E eighteen sixty-three: Withaht a stypher e the world- I'd scorn to tell a lie- I dined wi a gentleman O' Gooise an' giblet pie.

I've been e lots o' feeds, me lads, An hed some rare tuck-aahts; Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs, Minch pies an' thumping taahts; But I wir'd in an reight a.n.a.ll, An' supp'd when I wor dry, Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ail'd me, lads, I felt so fearful praad; Me ears p.r.i.c.k'd up, me collar raise, Taards a hauf-a-yard; Me chest stood aaht, me charley in, Like horns stuck aaht me tie; Fer I dined wi a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I offan think o' t'feed, me lads, When t' gentleman I meet; Bud nauther on us speiks a word Abaht that glorious neet; In fact, I hardly can mesel, I feel so fearful shy; Fer I ate a deal o' t'roasted gooise, And warmed his giblet pie.

Ode to Wedlock!

Oh! Hymen, G.o.d of Wedlock! thou Companion of the lover's vow, Thy subjects they are fearful; If thou could n.o.bbut see the strife, There is sometimes 'tween man and wife, I think thou'd be more careful.

Oft has thou bound in durance vile, De fearful frown, and cheerful smile, And doubtless thought it famous; When thou the mind ov fancy sweet, Has knit the knot so nice and neat For some blessed ignoramous.

What nature, truth, and reason too, Has oft declared would never do, Thou'rt fool enough to do it; Thou's bound for better and for worse, Life's greatest blessing with a curse, And both were made to rue it.

But luve is blind, and oft deceived, If adage old can be believed, And suffers much abuses; Or never could such matches be, O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee, So thou has thy excuses.

Com Geas a Wag o' thee Paw.

[T'west Riding o' Yorks.h.i.+re is famed for different branches it fine art line, bud t'musick aw think licks t'lump, especially abaht Haworth an'

Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorks.h.i.+re in his toime. It is said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an' that wor just same as all tother Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an' that willant due up at London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood; there's oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an' oud Jim Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersma.s.s toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr warm e bed. Bud there's another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when there's sharps, flats, an' naturals;-'an t' best ale an' crotchets mixt, that's the time fer musick.]

Come, geas a wag o' thee paw, Jim Wreet, Come geas a wag o' thee paw; I knew thee when thi heead wor black, Bud nah its az white as snow; Yet a merry Kersma.s.s to thee, Jim, An' all thi kith an' kin; An' hoping tha'll a monny moar, For t' sake o' ould long sin, Jim Wreet, For t' sake o' ould long sin.

It's so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, Sin oud Joe Constantine- An' Daniel Ackroyd, thee an' me, An' other friends o' thine, Went up ta sing at Squire's haase, Net a hauf-a-mile fro' here; An' t' Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer, Jim Wreet; To his brown October beer.

An' oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, That kept the Old King's Arms; Whear all t' church singers used t' meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms; An' thee an' me amang um, Jim, Sometimes hev chang'd the string, An' with a merry chorus join'd, We've made yond tav'ren ring, Jim Wreet, We've made yond tav'ren ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, As past away sin then; When Keethlah in Appolo's Art, Cud boast her musick men; Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim, An' that tha's sense to knaw; Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake, Come geas a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, Jim Wreet, Com geas a wag o' thee paw.