sed God bless me father, an God bless mi mother,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.
Fra Haworth ta Bradford
Fra Hawarth tahn the other day,
Bi’t rout o’ Thornton height,
Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf,
Went inta Bradford streight.
Nah Joe i’ Bradford wor afoor,
But sho hed nivver been;
Bud assomivver thay arrived
Safe intat Bowling Green.
Thay gav a lad a parkin pig,
As on the street thay went;
Ta point um aht St. George’s Hall,
An Oastler’s Monument.
Bud t’ little jackanapes being deep,
An thought thay’d nivver knaw,
Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ iz wife
T’ furst monument he saw.
Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails,
Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead;
Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel
A goan an robb’d the deead.
Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn,
Away fra poor oud Dick,
Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin,
We a dahn gooid hazel stick.
T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath,
He sooin tuke to hiz heels,
Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument,
He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s.
O, Welcome, Lovely Summer
O! welcome, lovely summer,
With thi golden days so long,
When the throstle and the blackbird
Charm us with their song;
When the lark in early morning
Taks his aireal flight;
An’ the humming bat, an’ buzzard,
Frolic in the night.
O! welcome, lovely summer,
With her rainbow’s lovely form;
Her thunder an’ her leetnin,
An’ her grandeur in the storm:
With her sunshine and her shower,
And her wurlin of the dust;
An the maiden with her flagon,
To slack the mower’s thirst.
O! welcome, lovely summer,
When the woods wi music ring,
And the bees so hevvy laden,
To their hives their treasures bring:
When we seek some shady bower,
Or some lovely little dell,
Or bivock in the sunshine,
Besides some cooling well.
O! welcome, lovely summer,
With her roses in full bloom;
When the cowslaps an’ the lalack
Deck the cottage home;
When the cherry an’ the berry,
Gives a grandeur to the charm;
And the clover and the haycock
Scent the little farm.
O! welcome, lovely summer,
With the partridge on the wing;
When tewit an the moorgame,
Up fra the heather spring,
From the crowber an the billber,
An the bracken an the ween;
As from the noisey tadpole,
We hear the crackin din.
O! welcome, lovely summer.
Burns’s 113th Birthday
Go bring that tuther whisky in,
An put no watter to it;
Fer I mun drink a bumper off,
To Scotland’s darling poet.
Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah,
This Jenewary morn,
Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,
A rustic bard wor born.
He kettled up his moorland harp,
To ivv’ry rustic scene;
An sung the ways o’ honest men,
His Davey and his Jean.
Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew,
Bud what he could admire;
Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale,
That suited not his lyre.
At last ould Coilia sade enuff,
My bardy tha did sing,
Then gently tuke his moorland harp,
And brack it ivvery string.
An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,
We all its berries red,
Sho placed it on his noble brow,
An pensively sho said: —
“So long as Willies bru ther malt,
An Robs an Allans spree;
Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name,
Remember’d thay shall be.
Waiting for t’ Angels
Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina,
Ligging alone me own darling child,
Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom,
We features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.
Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny,
Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;
Asking for sommat withaht ever speaking,
Asking thee father to say tha wor fine.
Ligging here deead, the child that so loved me,
At fane wod ha’ hidden me faults if sho could,
Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee,
While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood.
Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee coffin,
Ligging alone in this poor wretched room,
Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom,
Waiting for t’angels to carry thee home.
Spring
There is hope in the time