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01 Aug 23 - 05:56 AM (#4178188) Subject: Lyr Add: Recitations by John Hartley From: Monologue John Th' Lesser Evil. By John Hartley Young Harry wor a single chap, An wod have lots o' tin, An monny a lass had set her cap, This temptin prize to win. But Harry didn't want a wife, He'd rayther far be free; An soa escape all care an strife 'At wedded couples see. But when at last his uncle deed, An left him all his brass, 'Twor on condition he should wed, Some honest Yorksher lass. Soa all his dreamin day an neet Abaat what sprees he'd have; He had to bury aght o'th' seet, Deep in his uncle's grave. To tak a wife at once, he thowt Wor th' wisest thing to do, Soa he lukt raand until he browt His choice daan between two. One wor a big, fine, strappin lass, Her name wor Sarah Ann, Her height an weight, few could surpass, Shoo'r fit for onny man. An t'other wor a little sprite, Wi' lots o' bonny ways, An little funny antics, like A kitten when it plays. An which to tak he could'nt tell, He rayther liked 'em booath; But if he could ha pleased hissen, To wed one he'd be looath. A wife he thowt an evil thing, An sewer to prove a pest; Soa after sometime studyin He thowt th' least wod be th' best. They sooin wor wed, an then he faand He'd quite enuff to do, For A'a! shoo wor a twazzy haand, An tongue enuff for two. An if he went aght neet or day, His wife shoo went as weel; He gat noa chonce to goa astray; - Shoo kept him true as steel. His face grew white, his heead grew bald, His clooas hung on his rig, He grew like one 'at's getten stall'd, Ov this world's whirligig. One day, he muttered to hissen, "If aw've pickt th' lesser evil, Th' poor chap 'at tackles Sarah Ann, Will wish he'd wed the D - -l." |
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01 Aug 23 - 06:01 AM (#4178189) Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by John Hartley From: Monologue John Th' Lad 'At Loves His Mother by John Hartley Aw like to see a lot o' lads All frolicsome an free, An hear ther noisy voices, As they run an shaat wi' glee; But if ther's onny sooart o' lad Aw like better nor another, 'At maks mi heart mooast truly glad, It's th' lad 'at loves his Mother. He may be rayther dull at schooil, Or rayther slow at play; He may be rough an quarrelsome,-- Mischievous in his way; He may be allus in a scrape, An cause noa end o' bother; But ther's summat gooid an honest In the lad 'at loves his Mother. He may oft do what isn't reight, But conscience will keep prickin; He dreeads far mooar his mother's grief, Nor what he'd fear a lickin. Her trubbled face,--her tearful een, Her sighs shoo tries to smother, Are coals ov foir on the heead Ov th' lad 'at loves his Mother. When years have passed, an as a man He faces toil an care; An whear his mother used to sit Is but a empty chair;-- When bi his side sits her he loves, Mooar dear nor onny other, He still will cherish, love an bless, The mem'ry ov his Mother. A guardian angel throo life's rooad, Her spirit still will be; An in the shadow ov her wings, He'll find security. A better husband he will prove, A father or a brother; For th' lad 'at maks the noblest man, Is th' lad 'at loves his Mother. |