Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca,(1) Mary Mecca,
    I'm fain to see thee here,
A Devon lass to fill my glass
    O' home-brewed Yorkshire beer.
I awlus said that foreigners
    Sud niver mel on me;
But sike a viewly face as thine
    I'd travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
    I'm sad to see thee here,
Wheer t' wind blaws hask(2) frae Norway
    I' t' spring-time o' the year.
I'd liever finnd thee sittin',
    Wi' a bowl o' cruds an' cream,
Wheer t' foxglove bells ring through the dells,
    Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
    The way thou snods thy hair,
It maks my heart go dancin'
    Like winnlestraws(3) i' t' air.
One neet I heard thee singin',
    As I cam home frae toon;
'Twas sweet as curlews makkin' love
    Agean a risin' moon.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
    I dream o' thy gray een;
I think on all I've wasted,
    An' what I might hae been.
I'm nowt but muck off t' midden,
    So all I axe is this:
Just blaw the froth from off my yal(4);
    'Twill seem most like a kiss.

Frederic William Moorman

Frederic William Moorman was a British poet, academic, and folklorist, best known for his works on Yorkshire dialect and folklore. Born on September 8, 1872, he made significant contributions to the study of English literature and dialects. Moorman was also a professor at the University of Leeds. He passed away on his 47th birthday, September 8, 1919. His work continues to be influential in the fields of dialect studies and folklore.

Frederic William Moorman

The Two Lamplighters

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

The Bells Of Kirkby Overblow

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

The Miller By The Shore. An East Coast Chanty

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

English

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My Mary

My Mary, O my Mary!
The simmer-skies are blue;
The dawnin' brings the dazzle,
An' the gloamin' brings the dew, -
The mirk o' nicht the glory
O' the moon, an' kindles, too,
The stars that shift aboon the lift. -
But nae thing brings me you!

Where is it, O my Mary,
Ye are biding a' the while?
I ha' wended by your window -
I ha' waited by the stile,
An' up an' down the river
I ha' won for mony a mile,
Yet never found, adrift or drown'd,
Your lang-belated smile.

Is it forgot, my Mary,
How glad we used to be? -
The simmer-time when bonny bloomed
The auld trysting-tree, -
How there I carved the name for you,
An' you the name for me;
An' the gloamin' kenned it only
When we kissed sae tenderly.

Speek ance to me...

James Whitcomb Riley

The Courting Gate

There's dew upon the meadows,
    An' bats are wheelin' high;
The sun has set an hour sin',
    An' evenin' leet's i' t' sky.
Swalows i' t' thack are sleepin ,
    Neet-hawks are swift on t' wing,
An' grey moths gethers honey
    Amang the purple ling    .
            O coom an' meet me, Mally,
            O coom an' greet me, Mally,
    Meet me, greet me, at the courtin' gate.

The fire-leet casts thy shadow
    Owerthwart the kitchen wall;
It's dancin' up an' doon, lass,
    My heart does dance an' all.
Three times I've gien oor love-call
    To bring my bird to t' nest.
When wilt a coom, my throstle,
    An' shelter on my breast?
            O coom an' meet me, Mally,
            O coom an' greet me, Mally,
    Meet me, greet m...

Frederic William Moorman

The Gardener And The Robin

Why! Bobbie, so thou's coom agean!
    I'm fain to see thee here;
It's lang sin I've set een on thee,
    It's ommost hauf a yeer.
What's that thou says? Thou's taen a wife
    An' raised a family.
It seems thou's gien 'em all the slip
    Now back-end's drawin' nigh.

I mun forgi'e thee; we're owd friends,
    An' fratchin's not for us;
Blackbirds an' spinks(1) I can't abide,
    At doves an' crows I cuss.
But thou'll noan steal my strawberries,
    Or nip my buds o' plum;
Most feather-fowl I drive away,
    But thou can awlus coom.

Ay, that's thy place, at top o' t' clod,
    Thy heead cocked o' one side,
Lookin' as far-learnt as a judge.
    Is that a worrm thou's spied?
By t' Megs! he's well-nigh six inch lang,
    An' r...

Frederic William Moorman

Fieldfares

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent,
Wheer the sun is shinin' through yon cloud's wide rent,
            Welcoom back to t' moorlands,
            Frae Norway's fells an' shorelands,
Welcoom back to Whardill,(1) now October's ommost spent.

Noisy, chackin' fieldfares, weel I ken your cry,
When i' flocks you're sweepin' ower the hills sae high:
            Oft on trees you gethers,
            Preenin' out your feathers,
An' I'm fain to see your coats as blue as t' summer sky.

Curlews, larks an' tewits,(2) all have gone frae t' moors,
Frost has nipped i' t' garden all my bonny floors;
            Roses, lilies, pansies,
            Stocks an' yallow tansies
Fade away, an' soon the leaves 'll clutter(3) doon i'    shoors.

Here i' bed...

Frederic William Moorman

Our Beck

I niver heerd its name; we call it just "Our beck."
    Mebbe, there's bigger streams down Ripon way;
But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck!
    Thou'll travel far for cleaner, ony day.

Clear watter! Why, when t' sun is up i' t' sky,
    I've seen yon flickerin' shadows o' lile trout
Glidin' ower t' shingly boddom. Step thou nigh,
    An' gloor at t' minnows dartin' in an' out.

Our beck flows straight frae slacks o' moorland peat,
    An' gethers sweetness out o' t' ling an' gorse;
At first its voice sounds weantly(1) saft an' leet,
    But graws i' strength wi' lowpin ower yon force.

Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks--
    Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn;
Dippers, that under t' watter play sike pranks,
    An' lang-nebbed...

Frederic William Moorman

Mary Smith

Away down East where I was reared amongst my Yankee kith,
There used to live a pretty girl whose name was Mary Smith;
And though it's many years since last I saw that pretty girl,
And though I feel I'm sadly worn by Western strife and whirl;
Still, oftentimes, I think about the old familiar place,
Which, someway, seemed the brighter for Miss Mary's pretty face,
And in my heart I feel once more revivified the glow
I used to feel in those old times when I was Mary's beau.

I saw her home from singing school--she warbled like a bird.
A sweeter voice than hers for song or speech I never heard.
She was soprano in the choir, and I a solemn bass,
And when we unisoned our voices filled that holy place;
The tenor and the alto never had the slightest chance,
For Mary's upper regi...

Eugene Field