Th'Owd Verses've T'Dales

(Translation: Traditional Poetry of Yorkshire)

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 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
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!
 

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