Woll aw felt aw wor nobbut a fooill
An’ when aw’ve been gloomy an’ sad,
Shoo’s smiled an’ taen hold o’ mi hand,
An whispered, ’yo munnot freat, dad;
Aw’m gooin to a happier land;
An’ aw’ll tell Jesus when aw get thear,
’At aw’ve left yo here waitin his call;
An’ He’ll find yo a place, niver fear,
For ther’s room up i’ heaven for all. 
An’ this mornin, when watchin th’ sun rise,
Shoo said, ’daddy, come nearer to me,
Thers a mist comin ovver mi eyes,
An’ aw find at aw hardly can see.—­
Gooid bye!—­kiss yor Lily agean,—­
Let me pillow mi heead o’ yor breast! 
Aw feel now aw’m freed thro’ mi pain;
Then Lily shoo went to her rest.”

My Native Twang

They tell me aw’m a vulgar chap,
An owt to goa to th’ schooil
To leearn to talk like other fowk,
An’ net be sich a fooil;
But aw’ve a noashun, do yo see,
Although it may be wrang,
The sweetest music is to me,
Mi own, mi native twang.

An’ when away throo all mi friends,
I’ other taans aw rooam,
Aw find ther’s nowt con mak amends
For what aw’ve left at hooam;
But as aw hurry throo ther streets
Noa matter tho aw’m thrang,
Ha welcome if mi ear but greets
Mi own, mi native twang.

Why some despise it, aw can’t tell,
It’s plain to understand;
An’ sure aw am it saands as weel,
Tho happen net soa grand. 
Tell fowk they’re courtin, they’re enraged,
They call that vulgar slang;
But if aw tell ’em they’re engaged,
That’s net mi native twang.

Mi father, tho’ he may be poor,
Aw’m net ashamed o’ him;
Aw love mi mother tho’ shoo’s deeaf,
An tho’ her een are dim;
Aw love th’ owd taan; aw love to walk
Its crucken’d streets amang;
For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk
Mi own, mi native twang.

Aw like to hear hard-workin’ fowk
Say boldly what they meean;
For tho’ ther hands are smeared wi’ muck,
May be ther hearts are cleean,
An’ them ’at country fowk despise,
Aw say, “Why, let’ em hang;”
They’ll niver rob mi sympathies
Throo thee, mi native twang,

Aw like to see grand ladies,
When they’re donn’d i’ silks soa fine;
Aw like to see ther dazzlin’ e’en
Throo th’ carriage winders shine: 
Mi mother wor a woman,
An’ tho’ it may be wrang,
Aw love ’em all, but mooastly them
’At tawk mi native twang.

Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one;
Gooid luck to them ’ats brass;
Gooid luck an’ better times to come
To them ’ats poor—­alas! 
An’ may health, wealth, an’ sweet content
For iver dwell amang
True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,
At tawk mi native twang.

Shoo’s thi Sister

(Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.)

Gently, gently, shoo’s thi sister,
   Tho’ her clooas are nowt but rags;
On her feet ther’s monny a blister: 
   See ha painfully shoo drags
Her tired limbs to some quiet corner: 
Shoo’s thi sister—­dunnot scorn her.