Yorkshire Dialect Poems (1673-1915) and traditional poems

I Niver can call Her my Wife

     Ben Preston (1819-1902)

     I'm a weyver, ye knaw, an' awf deead,
        So I do all at iver I can
     To put away aat o' my heead
        The thowts an' the aims of a man.
     Eight shillin' i' t'wick's what I arn,
        When I've varry gooid wark an' full time,
     An' I think it's a sorry consarn
        For a fella at's just in his prime.

     Bud aar maister says things is as weel
        As they have been or iver can be,
     An' I happen sud think so misel
        If he'd nobbud swop places wi' me.
     Bud he's welcome ta all he can get,
        I begrudge him o' noan of his brass,
     An' I'm nowt bud a madlin(1) to fret,
        Or to think o' yon beautiful lass.

     I niver can call her my wife,
        My love I sal niver mak knawn,
     Yit the sarra that darkens her life
        Thraws its shadda across o' my awn.
     When I knaw at her heart is at eease,
        Theer is sunshine an' singin' i' mine;
     An' misfortunes may come as they pleease,
        Yit they seldom can mak me repine.

     Bud that Chartist wor nowt bud a slope(2)—
        I were fooild by his speeches an' rhymes,
     For his promises wattered my hope,
        An' I leng'd for his sunshiny times;
     Bud I feel at my dearest desire
        Within me 'll wither away;
     Like an ivy-stem trailin' i' t' mire,
        It's deein for t' want of a stay.

     When I laid i' my bed day an' neet,
        An' were geen up by t' doctors for deead,
     God bless her! shoo'd coom wi' a leet
        An' a basin o' grewil an' breead.
     An' I once thowt I'd aat wi' it all,
        Bud so kindly shoo chatted an' smiled,
     I were fain to turn ovver to t' wall,
        An' to bluther an' roar like a child.

     An' I said, as I thowt of her een,
        Each breeter for t' tear at were in 't,
     It's a sin to be niver forgeen,
        	To yoke her to famine an' stint;
     So I'll e'en travel forrad throo life,
        Like a man throo a desert unknawn;
     I mun ne'er have a home nor a wife,
        Bud my sorras 'll all be my awn.

     So I trudge on alone as I owt,
        An' whativer my troubles may be,
     They'll be sweetened, poor lass, wi' the thowt
        At I've niver browt trouble to thee.
     Yit a bird has its young uns to guard,
        A wild beast a mate in his den,
     An' I cannot bud think at it's hard­
        Nay, deng it, I'm roarin' agen!

     1. Fool   2. Impostor.