When aw set off o’ sweetheartin’, aw’ve A theawsan’ things to say; But th’ very first glent o’ yon chimbley-top It drives ’em o’ away; An’ when aw meet wi’ my bonny lass, It sets my heart a-jee;— Oh, there’s summut i’th leet o’ yon two blue e’en That plays the dule wi’ me! When th’ layrock’s finished his wark aboon, An’ laid his music by, He flutters deawn to his mate, an’ stops Till dayleet stirs i’th sky. Though Matty sends me away at dark, Aw know that hoo’s reet full well;— An’ it’s heaw aw love a true-hearted lass, No mortal tung can tell! Aw wish that Candlemas day were past, When wakin’ time comes on; An’ aw wish that Kesmass time were here, An Matty an’ me were one. Aw wish this wanderin’ wark were o’er— This maunderin’ to an’ fro; That aw could go whoam to my own true love, An’ stop at neet an’ o’. [Illustration] GENTLE JONE. AIR—“_Jenny’s Bawbee_.” I seed a thowtful chap one day, His face were mild, his toppin grey; Wi’ wanderin’ fuut he went astray, Deawn yon lone. I axed a lame owd mon i’th road, To tell me what that chap were co’d; Says he, “I thowt oitch body knowed Gentle Jone.” “Owd lad,” said I, “just look heaw ronk These daisies groo’n at th’ edge o’th bonk; Let’s keawer us deawn, an’ have a conk, Just whol noon.” He poo’d a reech o’ bacco eawt, An’ cheese an’ mouffin in a cleawt; An’ thus began to tell abeawt Gentle Jone. Says he, “Some chaps o’ brass are fond; They’re trouble’t sore wi’ cramp i’th hond; But yon’s the fleawer ov o’ this lond,— Gentle Jone! His heart’s as true as guinea-gowd He’s good to folk at’s ill an’ owd; Childer poo’n his lap i’th fowd,— Gentle Jone! “I’ll bet a groat he’s off to th’ vale, Just neaw, to yer some soory tale; I never knowed his kindness fail,— Gentle Jone! O’er hill, an’ cloof, an’ moss, an’ moor, He’s reet weel known to folk at’s poor, A welcome fuut at every door,— Gentle Jone! “He taks delight i’ roving reawnd, To nooks where trouble’s mostly feawnd; He comes like rain to drufty greawnd,— Gentle Jone! He’s very slow at thinkin’ ill; Forgi’s a faut wi’ hearty will; An’ doin’ good’s his pastime still,— Gentle Jone! “At th’ time I broke this poor owd limb, I should ha’ dee’d except for him.” He said no moor; his e’en geet dim,— Mine were th’ same. “Owd lad,” said I, “Come, have a gill!” “Naw, naw,” said he, “I’m rayther ill; It’s time to paddle deawn this hill, To th’ owd dame.”