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.

January 1, 1839

March 10, 1915

English

John Hartley

Page 1 of 17

A Bad Sooart.

Aw'd rayther face a redwut brick,
Sent flyin at mi heead;
Aw'd rayther track a madman's steps,
Whearivver they may leead;
Aw'd rayther ventur in a den,
An stail a lion's cub;
Aw'd rayther risk the foamin wave
In an old leaky tub.
Aw'd rayther stand i'th' midst o'th' fray,
Whear bullets thickest shower;
Nor trust a mean, black hearted man,
At's th' luck to be i' power.

A redwut brick may miss its mark,
A madman change his whim;
A lion may forgive a theft;
A leaky tub may swim.
Bullets may pass yo harmless by,
An leeav all safe at last;
A thaasand thunders shake the sky,
An spare yo when they've past.
Yo may o'ercome mooast fell disease;
Mak poverty yo're friend;
But wi' a mean, blackhearted man,
Noa mortal can contend.

John Hartley

A Breet Prospect.

As aw passed Wit'orth chapel 'twor just five o'clock,
Aw'd mi can full o' teah, an a bundle o' jock;
An aw thowt th' bit o' bacca aw puffed on mi way
Wor sweeter nor ivver aw'd known it that day.
An th' burds sang soa sweetly,
An th' sun shone soa breetly,
An th' trees lukt soa green; - it wor th' furst day i' May.

Aw wor lazy that mornin, an could'nt help thinkin,
As aw'd getten booath braikfast, an dinner, an drinkin,
An bacca, an matches, - 'at just a odd day
For a stroll, could'nt braik monny squares onnyway,
But it tuk me noa little,
To screw up mi mettle,
For if th' wife gate to know aw'd a guess what shoo'd say.

Soa aw thowt aw'll let wark goa to pot for a bit,
Its net once i'th' year 'at aw get sich a treeat;
But aw'll have a day aght just ...

John Hartley

A Brussen Bubble.

Bet wor a stirrin, strappin lass,
Shoo lived near Woodus Moor; -
An varry keen shoo wor for brass,
Tho little wor her stoor.
Shoo'd wed for love - and as luck let,
It proved a lucky hit;
A finer chap yo've seldom met,
Or one wi better wit.

His name awm net inclined to tell,
But he'd been kursend John;
An he wor rayther praad hissel,
An anxious to get on.
At neet they'd sit an tawk, an plan,
Some way to mend ther state;
"What one chap's done another can,"
Sed Bet, "let's get agate."

"This morn wol darnin socks for thee
This thowt coom i' mi nop,
An do't we will if tha'll agree; -
Let's start a little shop.
We'll sell all sooarts o' useful things
'At ivverybody needs;
Like scaarin-stooan, an tape an pins,
An buttons...

John Hartley

A Cold Dooas.

One neet aw went hooam, what time aw can't tell,
But it must ha been lat, for awd th' street to mysel.
Furst one clock, then t'other, kept ringin aght chimes,
Aw wor gaumless, a chap will get gaumless sometimes.
Thinks aw - tha'll drop in for't to-neet lad, tha will!
But aw oppen'd th' haase door an aw heeard all wor still;
Soa aw ventured o' tip toe to creep up to bed,
Thinkin th' less aw disturbed her an th' less wod be sed.
When awd just getten ready to bob under th' clooas,
Aw bethowt me aw hadn't barred th' gate an lockt th' doors;
Soa daan stairs aw crept ommost holdin mi breeath,
An ivverything raand mi wor silent as deeath.
When aw stept aght oth door summat must ha been wrang,
For it shut ov itsen wi a terrible bang;
It wor lucky aw cleared it withaat gettin hu...

John Hartley

A Friend to Me.

Poor Dick nah sleeps quietly, his labor is done,
Deeath shut off his steam tother day;
His engine, long active, has made its last run,
An his boiler nah falls to decay.
Maybe he'd his faults, but he'd vartues as well,
An tho' dearly he loved a gooid spree;
If he did onny harm it wor done to hissel: -
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His heart it wor tender, - his purse it wor free,
To a friend or a stranger i' need;
An noa matter ha humble or poor they might be,
At his booard they wor welcome to feed.
Wi' his pipe an his glass bi his foirside he'd sit,
Yet some fowk wi' him couldn't agree,
An tho' monny's the time 'at we've differed a bit,
He wor allus a gooid friend to me.

His word wor his bond, for he hated a lie,
An sickophants doubly des...

John Hartley

A Gooid Kursmiss Day.

It wor Kursmiss day, - we wor ready for fun,
Th' puddin wor boil'd an th' rooast beef wor done;
Th' ale wor i'th' cellar, an th' spice-cake i'th' bin,
An th' cheese wor just lively enuff to walk in.
Th' lads wor all donned i' ther hallidy clooas,
An th' lasses, - they each luckt as sweet as a rooas;
An th' old wife an me, set at each end o'th' hob,
An th' foir wor splutterin raand a big cob,
An aw sed, "Nah, old lass,
Tho we havn't mich brass,
We shall celebrate Kursmiss to-day."

Th' young fowk couldn't rest, they kept lukkin at th' clock,
Yo'd a thowt 'twor a wick sin they'd had any jock,
But we winkt one at tother as mich as to say,
They mun wait for th' reight time, for ther mother has th' kay.
Then they all went to th' weshus at stood just aghtside,
...

John Hartley

A Hawporth.

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam?
What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb?
Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face;
Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place.
What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name;
Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame.
Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice,
Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice.
Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can;
Thear, - tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.

He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat,
An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what;
But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo: -
A'a! - its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.

John Hartley

A Jolly Beggar.

Aw'm as rich as a Jew, tho aw havn't a meg,
But awm free as a burd, an aw shak a loise leg;
Aw've noa haase, an noa barns, soa aw nivver pay rent,
But still aw feel rich, for awm bless'd wi content,
Aw live, an awm jolly,
An if it is folly,
Let others be wise, but aw'l follow mi bent.

Mi kitchen aw find amang th' rocks up oth moor,
An at neet under th' edge ov a haystack aw snoor,
An a wide spreeadin branch keeps th' cold rain off mi nop,
Wol aw listen to th' stormcock at pipes up oth top;
Aw live, an awm jolly, &c.

Aw nivver fear thieves, for aw've nowt they can tak,
Unless it's thease tatters at hing o' mi back;
An if they prig them, they'll get suck'd do yo see,
They'll be noa use to them, for they're little to me.
Aw live, an awm jolly, &am...

John Hartley

A Lucky Dog.

Tha'rt a rough en; - aye tha art, - an aw'll bet
Just as ready. Tha ne'er lived as a pet,
Aw can tell.
Ther's noa mistress weshed thi skin, cooam'd thi heead;
Net mich pettin; kicks an cuffins oft asteead,
Like mysel.

Tha'rt noa beauty; - nivver wor; - nivver will;
Ther's lots like thee amang men, - but then still,
Sich is fate;
An its fooilish for to be discontent
At a thing we've noa paar to prevent.
That's true mate.

Why tha's foller'd one like me aw cant tell;
If tha'rt seekin better luck, - its a sell,
As tha'll find;
Nay, tha needn't twitch thi tail aght o' seet,
Aw'll nooan hurt thi, tho' aw own tha'rt a freet.
Nivver mind.

Here's mi supper, an aw'll spare thee a part, -
Gently, pincher! Tak thi time. Here tha art;
...

John Hartley

A Millionaire.

Aw wodn't gie a penny piece
To be a millionaire,
For him 'at's little cattle, is
The chap wi' little care.
Jewels may flash o'er achin broos,
An silken robes may hide
Bosoms all fair to look upon,
Whear braikin hearts abide.

Gie me enuff for daily needs,
An just a bit to spend;
Enuff to pay mi honest way,
An help a strugglin friend.
Aw'll be contented it aw keep
The wolf from off mi door;
Aw'll envy nubdy o' ther brass,
An nivver dream awm poor.

Dewdrops 'at shine i'th' early morn
Are diamons for me.
An jewels glint i' ivvery tint,
On th' hill or daan i'th' lea.
My sweet musicianers are burds
At tune their joyous lay,
Araand mi cottage winder,
An nivver strike for pay.

Aw lang for noa fine carriages

John Hartley

A Neet When Aw've Nowt To Do.

Why lad, awm sewer tha'rt ommost done,
This ovvertime is killin;
'Twor allus soa sin th' world begun,
They put o' them at's willin.
Tha's ne'er a neet to call thi own, -
Tha starts furst thing o' Mundy,
An works thi fingers fair to th' booan,
Booath day an neet wol Sundy.
Aw know tha addles extra pay, -
We couldn't weel do baght it,
But if tha'rt browt hooam sick some day,
We'st ha to do withaat it.
Aw seldom get to see thi face,
Exceptin when tha'rt aitin;
Neet after neet aw caar ith' place
Wol awm fair sick o' waitin.
An when tha comes, tha'rt off to bed,
Befoor aw've chonce o' spaikin,
An th' childer luk, aw've ofttimes sed,
Like orphans when they're laikin.
Come hooam at six o'clock to-morn,
An let wark goa to hummer,
Thi face...

John Hartley

A New Year's Gift.

A little lad, - bare wor his feet,
His 'een wor swell'd an red,
Wor sleepin, one wild New Year's neet, -
A cold doorstep his bed.
His little curls wor drippin weet,
His clooas wor thin an old,
His face, tho' pinched, wor smilin sweet, -
His limbs wor numb wi' cold.

Th' wind whistled throo th' deserted street,
An snowflakes whirled abaat, -
It wor a sorry sooart o' neet,
For poor souls to be aght.
'Twor varry dark, noa stars or mooin,
Could shine throo sich a storm; -
Unless some succour turns up sooin,
God help that freezin form!

A carriage stops at th' varry haase, -
A sarvent oppens th' door;
A lady wi' a pale sad face,
Steps aght o'th' cooach to th' floor.
Her 'een fell on that huddled form,
Shoo gives a startled cry;

John Hartley

A Pair o' Black Een.

One neet as aw trudged throo mi wark,
Thinks aw, nah mi labor is done,
Aw feel just inclined for a lark,
For its long sin aw had onny fun.

An ov coorse awd mi wife i' mi mind,
Shoo's a hot en, but then, what bi that!
For when on a spree aw'm inclined,
Aw could nivver get on baght awr Mat.

Sally Slut wor a croney o' hers,
A bonny an warm-hearted lass,
An shoo'd latly been wed to a chap,
'At could booast booath some brains an some brass.

But someha, awr Mat seemed to think,
'At Sally, soa hansum an trim;
For a partner throo life owt to luk
Wi' somdy mich better nor him.

An shoo profiside trubble an care,
Wor i' stoor at noa far distant day,
An shoo muttered "poor Sal, aw declare,
Tha's thrown thisen reight cleean away."

John Hartley

A Pointer.

Just listen to mi stooary lads,
It's one will mak yo grieve;
It's full ov sich strange incidents;
Yo hardly can believe.
That lass aw cooarted, went one neet
Aght walkin wi' a swell;
They ovvertuk me on mi way,
An this is what befell.

They tuk me for a finger pooast;
Aw stood soa varry still;
An daan they set beside me,
Just at top o' Beacon Hill.
He sed shoo wor his deary;
Shoo sed he wor her pet;
'Twor an awkward sittiwation
Which aw shall'nt sooin forget.

Aw stood straight up at top o'th' hill, -
They set daan at mi feet;
He hugged her up soa varry cloise,
Aw thowt ther lips must meet.
He sed he loved wi' all his heart,
Shoo fainted reight away;
Aw darsn't luk, - aw darsn't start,
But aw wished misen away.

John Hartley

A Quiet Day.

A'a! its grand to have th' place to yorsen!
To get th' wimmen fowk all aght o'th' way!
Mine's all off for a trip up to th' Glen,
An aw've th' haase to misen for a day.

If aw'd mi life to spend ovver ageean,
Aw'd be bothered wi' nooan o' that mak;
What they're gooid for aw nivver could leearn,
Except to spooart clooas o' ther back.

Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once,
Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut;
An its seldom a chap has a chonce; -
Whear the dickens has th' matches been put?

Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet, -
It will'nt tak long will'nt that,
An as sooin as its gotten burned breet,
Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.

Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook, -
Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp!
It does nowt ...

John Hartley

A Quiet Tawk.

"Nah, lass, caar thi daan, an let's have a chat, -
It's long sin we'd th' haase to ussen;
Just give me thi nooations o' this thing an that,
What tha thinks abaat measures an men.
We've lived a long time i' this world an we've seen,
A share of its joys an its cares;
Tha wor nooan born baght wit, an tha'rt net varry green,
Soa let's hear what tha thinks of affairs."

"Well, Jooany, aw've thowt a gooid deal i' mi time,
An aw think wi' one thing tha'll agree, -
If tha'd listened sometimes to advice sich as mine,
It mud ha been better for thee.
This smookin an drinkin - tha knows tha does booath,
It's a sad waste o' brass tha'll admit;
But awm net findin fault, - noa indeed! awd be looath!
But aw want thi to reason a bit."

"Then tha'rt lawse i' thi tawk,...

John Hartley

A Sad Mishap.

"Come, John lad, tell me what's to do,
Tha luks soa glum an sad;
Is it becoss tha'rt short o' brass?
Or are ta poorly, lad?
Has sombdy been findin fault,
Wi' owt tha's sed or done?
Or are ta bothered wi' thi loom,
Wi' th' warp tha's just begun?

Whativver 'tis, lad, let me know, -
Aw'll help thi if aw can;
Sometimes a woman's ready wit
Is useful to a man.
Tha allus let me share thi joys, -
Let's share when grief prevails;
Tha knows tha sed aw should, John,
I'th' front o'th' alter rails.

We've just been wed a year, lad,
Come Sundy next but three;
But if tha sulks an willn't spaik,
Aw'st think tha'rt stawld o' me.
Aw've done mi best aw'm sewer, John,
To be a wife to thee;
Come tell me what's to do, John,
Wol aw caar ...

John Hartley

A Safe Investment.

Yo fowk 'at's some brass to invest,
Luk sharp an mak th' best ov yor chonce!
Aw'll gie yo a tip, - one o'th' best,
Whear ther's profit an safety for once.
Yo needn't be feeard th' bank 'll brust,
Or at onny false 'Jabez' will chait, -
Depend on't its one yo can trust,
For th' balance sheet's sewer to be reight.

Yo've heeard on it oftimes befooar, -
But mooast fowk are apt to forget; -
Yet yo know if yo give to the poor,
At yo're gettin the Lord i' yor debt.
Its as plain as is th' nooas o' yor face,
An its true too, - believe it or net, -
It's a bargain God made i' this case,
An He'll nivver back aght on't, - yo bet.

All th' wealth yo may have can't prevent
Grim Deeath commin to yo some day;
An yo'll have to give up ivvery cent,
When ...

John Hartley

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