A Yorksher Bite.

Bless all them bonny lasses,
I' Yorksher born an bred!
Ther beauty nooan surpasses,
Complete i'th' heart an th' heead.
An th' lads, - tho aw've seen monny lands,
Ther equal aw ne'er met;
For honest hearts an willin hands,
They nivver can be bet.
Aw nivver hold mi heead soa heigh,
Or feel sich true delight,
As when fowk point me aght an say,
"Thear gooas a Yorksher Bite."

John Hartley

John Hartley was an English poet who wrote in the Yorkshire dialect. Born on January 1, 1839, in Halifax, West Yorkshire, he was known for his humorous and dialectical poetry, which vividly captured the spirit and culture of Yorkshire. Hartley's works were extremely popular in the 19th century, and he remains a significant figure in regional English literature. He passed away on March 10, 1915.

John Hartley

Th' Last Month (Prose)

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

Mary Hanner's Peanner.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

Poetry and Prose.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

Rejected.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

English

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Bonny Yorksher.

Bonny Yorksher! how aw love thi!
Hard an rugged tho' thi face is;
Ther's an honest air abaat thi,
Aw ne'er find i' other places.
Ther's a music i' thi lingo,
Spreeads a charm o'er hill an valley,
As a drop ov Yorksher stingo
Warms an cheers a body's bally.
Ther's noa pooasies 'at smell sweeter,
Nor thy modest moorland blossom,
Th' violet's een ne'er shone aght breeter
Nor on thy green mossy bosom.
Hillsides deckt wi' purple heather,
Guard thy dales, whear plenty dwellin
Hand i' hand wi' Peace, together
Tales ov sweet contentment tellin.
On the scroll ov fame an glory,
Names ov Yorksher heroes glisten;
History tells noa grander stooary,
An it thrills me as aw listen.
Young men blest wi' brain an muscle,
Swarm i' village, taan an city,

John Hartley

Mi Bonny Yorksher Lass.

Aw've travelled East, West, North, an South,
An led a rooamin' life;
Aw've met wi things ov stirlin' worth,
Aw've shared wi joy an strife;
Aw've kept a gooid stiff upper lip,
Whativver's come to pass:
But th' captain of mi Fortun's ship,
Has been mi Yorksher Lass.

Storm-tossed, sails rent, an reckonin' lost,
A toy for wind an wave;
Mid blindin' fog an snow an frost,
Aw've thowt noa power could save;
But ivver in the darkest day,
Wi muscles strong as brass,
To some safe port shoo's led the way, -
Mi honest Yorksher Lass.

Shoo's fair, - all Yorksher lasses are, -
Shoo's bonny as the rest,
Her brow ne'er shows a line o' care,
Shoo thinks what is, is best.
Shoo's lovin', true, an full o' pluck,
An it seems as clear as glass,

John Hartley

That Lass.

Awm nobbut a poor workin man,
An mi wage leeavs me little to spare;
But aw strive to do th' best 'at aw can,
An tho' poor, yet aw nivver despair.
'At aw live bi hard wark is mi booast,
Tho' mi clooas may be shabby an meean;
But th' one thing awm langin for mooast,
Is that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

They may call me a fooil or a ass,
To tawk abaat wantin a wife;
But there's nowt like a true hearted lass,
To sweeten a workinman's life.
An love is a feelin as pure
In a peasant as 'tis in a queen,
An happy aw could be awm sewer,
Wi' that grand Yorksher lass 'at aw've seen.

Aw dreeam ov her ivvery neet,
An aw think o' nowt else durin th' day;
An aw lissen for th' saand ov her feet,
But its melted i'th' distance away.
At mi l...

John Hartley

My Lass.

Fairest lass amang the monny,
Hair as black as raven, O.
Net another lass as bonny,
Lives i'th' dales ov Craven, O.
City lasses may be fairer,
May be donned i' silks an laces,
But ther's nooan whose charms are rarer,
Nooan can show sich bonny faces.
Yorksher minstrel tune thy lyre,
Show thou art no craven, O;
In thy strains 'at mooast inspire,
Sing the praise ov Craven, O.

Purest breezes toss their tresses,
Tint ther cheeks wi' rooases, O,
An old Sol wi' warm caresses,
Mak 'em bloom like pooasies, O.
Others may booast birth an riches,
May have studied grace ov motion,
But they lack what mooast bewitches, -
Hearts 'at love wi' pure devotion.
Perfect limbs an round full bosoms,
Sich as set men ravin, O,
Only can be faand i' bl...

John Hartley

Bite Bigger.

As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark,
(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,)
Aw happen'd to hear a remark,
At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan. -
It wur raanin, an snawin, an cowd,
An th' flagstoans wur covered wi muck,
An th' east wind booath whistled an howl'd,
It saanded like nowt but ill luck;
When two little lads, donn'd i' rags,
Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet,
Coom trapesin away ower th' flags,
Booath on em sodden'd wi th' weet. -
Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
Th' young en be hauf on't, - noa moor;
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen,
God help fowk this weather at's poor!
Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand,
An aw luk'd just to see what 't could be;
'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand,
An they seem'd to ha fill'd ...

John Hartley

Bite Bigger

As aw hurried throo th' taan to mi wark,
(Aw wur lat, for all th' whistles had gooan,)
Aw happen'd to hear a remark,
'At ud fotch tears throo th' heart ov a stooan -
It wur raanin, an' snawin, and cowd,
An' th' flagstoans wur covered wi' muck,
An' th' east wind booath whistled an' howl'd,
It saanded like nowt but ill luck;
When two little lads, donn'd i' rags,
Baght stockins or shoes o' ther feet,
Coom trapesin away ower th' flags,
Booath on 'em sodden'd wi th' weet. -
Th' owdest mud happen be ten,
Th' young en be hauf on't, - noa moor;
As aw luk'd on, aw sed to misen,
God help fowk this weather 'at's poor!
Th' big en sam'd summat off th' graand,
An' aw luk'd just to see what 't could be;
'Twur a few wizend flaars he'd faand,
An' they seem'd to ...

John Hartley