Ah iz i' truth a country youth, Neean us'd teea Lunnon fashions; Yet vartue guides, an' still presides, Ower all mah steps an' passions. Neea coortly leear, bud all sinceere, Neea bribe shall ivver blinnd me; If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike, A rooague thoo'll nivver finnd me. Thof envy's tung, seea slimlee hung, Wad lee aboot oor county, Neea men o' t' eearth booast greter wurth, Or mare extend ther boounty. Oor northern breeze wi' uz agrees, An' does for wark weel fit uz; I' public cares, an' luve affairs, Wi' honour we acquit uz. Seea gret a maund is ne'er confiand, Tiv onny shire or nation; They geean meeast praise weea weel displays A leearned iddicasion. Whahl rancour rolls i' lahtle souls, By shallo views dissarning, They're nobbut wise 'at owlus prize Gud manners, sense, and leearnin.[188] FOOTNOTE: [Footnote 188: The above first appeared in a Ballad-opera, entitled _A Wonder or, An Honest Yorkshire-man_, by Henry Carey; performed at the theatres with universal applause. London, printed for Ed. Cooke, 8vo. 1736. The second edition was entitled _The Honest Yorkshire-man_. London, printed for L. Gilliver and J. Clarke, 12mo. 1736. See Notes and Queries, 2nd S. IX. 126.] SPENCE BROUGHTON. Who was hung at York for robbing the mail on the 14th of April, 1792. To you my dear companions, Accept these lines I pray; A most impartial trial Has occupied this day. 'Tis from your dying Broughton To show his wretched fate, I hope you'll make reformation Before it is too late. The loss of your companion Does grieve my heart full sore, And I know that my fair Ellen Will my wretched fate deplore. I think on those happy hours That now are past and gone, Now poor unhappy Broughton Does wish he had ne'er been born. One day in Saint James's With large and swelling pride, Each man had a flash woman Walking by his side; At night we did retire Unto some ball or play, In these unhappy pleasures How time did pass away. Brought up in wicked habit, Which brings me now in fear, How little did I think My time would be so near; For now I'm overtaken, Condemned and cast to die, Exposed a sad example To all that does pass by. O that I had but gone To some far-distant clime, A gibbet post, poor Broughton, Would never have been mine; But alas, for all such wishes, Such wishes are in vain, Alas! it is but folly And madness to complain. One night I tried to slumber And close my weeping eyes, I heard a foot approach Which struck me with surprise; I listened for a moment, A voice made this reply, "Prepare thyself, Spence Broughton, To-morrow you must die."