Random Rhymes and Rambles - Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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me regiment.

      An nivver sin durst aw go see

         My native hill an glen,

      Whar aw mud now as well hev been

         The happiest ov all men;

      Bud me blessing – an aw wish yah all

         A merry Kersmas day;

      Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones,

         On Cheviot hills to lay.”

      “Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife,

         “Bud aw feel rather hurt;

      What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht,

         An finds t’oud chap a shirt.”

      Sho did an all, and stockins too;

         An tears stud in her e’e;

      An in her face the stranger saw

         Real Yorkshire sympathee.

      Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh,

         When he hed heard his tale,

      An spak o’ some oud trouses,

         At hung at chamer rail;

      Then aht at door ahr Harry runs,

         An back agean he shogs,

      He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair

         O’ my oud iron clogs.

      It must be feearful coud ta neet,

         Fer fouk ats aht at door;

      Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all,

         At’s thrown at chamer floor:

      And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate,

         At’s paused so up an dahn;

      It will be better ner his own,

         Tho’ its withaht a craan.”

      So when we’d geen him what we cud,

         (In fact afford to give,)

      We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,

         O’t poor oud fugitive;

      He thank’d us ower an ower agean

         And often he did pray,

      At barns mud nivver be like him;

         Then travelled on his way.

      Sall at Bog

      Me love is like the pashan dock,

         That grows it summer fog;

      And tho’ sho’s but a country lass,

         I like my Sall at Bog.

      I walk’d her aht up Rivock End,

         And dahn a bonny dale,

      Whear golden balls an kahslips grow,

         An butter cups do smell.

      We sat us dahn at top o’t grass,

         Cloyce to a runnin brook,

      An harkend watter wegtails sing

         Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.

      Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout

         Az t’sun shane in her een,

      Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar

         At ivver aw hed seen.

      ’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love,

         Beneath t’oud hazel tree;

      How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog,

         How dearly sho liked me.

      An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,

         Aw vow be all aw see,

      Aw wish that aw mud be a kah,

         An it belong ta thee.

      Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah

         What awther on us said;

      At onny rate we parted friends,

         An boath went home ta bed.

      Th’ Furst Pair o’ Briches

      Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button jacket,

         Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist,

      And my grand bellosed cap, – noan nicer I’ll back it, —

         Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste;

      Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling,

         An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair,

      An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden,

         It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware.

      Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice

         Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas,

      An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,

         Wi’ me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose.

      Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy,

         Thay both gav me pennys an off aw did steer:

      But aw heeard um say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy,

         It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver he ware.”

      Aw remember the time are Robin an’ Johnny

         Wor keeping ther hens an’ ducks e the yard,

      There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny

         An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor hard.

      But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin’

         An sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair,

      Aw then became maister at least o’ wun chicken,

         It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

      Aw remember wun Sabbath, an t’ sun it wor shining,

         Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth, to sing

      An t’ stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining;

         And childer e white made t’ village ta ring.

      We went ta auld Mecheck’s that day to wor drinking,

         Tho’ poor, ther wor plenty, an’ summat ta spare;

      Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m thinking,

         It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha ware.”

      Now them wor the days o’ grim boggards and witches,

         When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp,

      But nah is the days o’ cheating fer riches,

         And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp.

      Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary;

         O them wor the days aw knew no despair;

      O give me the time o’ the boggard and fairy,

         Wi’t furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

      And them wor the days aw sal allus remember,

         Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last;

      Them wor mi March days, but nah its September:

         Ne’er to return again – them days are past.

      But

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