Th'Owd Verses've T'Dales

(Translation: Traditional Poetry of Yorkshire)

Address to Poverty

Anonymous

Scoolin' maid o' iron broo,
Thy sarvant will address thee noo,
For thoo invites the freedom
By drivin' off my former friends,
To leak to their awn private ends,
Just when I chanc'd to need 'em.

I've had thy company ower lang,
Ill-lookin' wean, thoo must be wrang,
Thus to cut short my jerkin.
I ken thee weel, I knaw thy ways,
Thoo's awlus kept back cash an' claes,
An' foorc'd me to hard workin'.

To gain o' thee a yal day's march
I straave; bud thoo's sae varra arch.
For all I still straave faster,
Thoo's tripp'd my heels an' meade me stop,
By some slain corn, or failin' crop,
Or ivery foul disaster.

If I my maand may freely speak,
I really dunnot like thy leak,
Whativer shap thoo's slipp'd on;
Thoo's awd an' ugly, deeaf an' blinnd,
A fiend afoore, a freight behinnd,
An' foul as Mother Shipton.

Folks say, an' it is nowt bud truth,
Thoo has been wi' me frae my youth,
An' gien me monny a thumper;
Bud noo thoo cooms wi' all thy weight,
Fast fallin' frae a fearful height,
A doonreet Milton plumper.

Sud plenty frae her copious horn,
Teem oot to me good crops o' corn,
An' prosper weel my cattle,
An' send a single thoosand pund,
'T wad bring all things completely roond,
An' I wad gie thee battle.

Noo, Poverty, ya thing I beg,
Like a poor man withoot a leg,
Sea, prethee, don't deceive me;
I knaw it's i' thy power to grant
The laatle favour at I want ­
At thoo wad gang an' leave me.