Why some despise it, aw can't tell, It's plain to understand; An' sure aw am it saands as weel, Tho happen net soa grand. Tell fowk they're courtin, they're enraged, They call that vulgar slang; But if aw tell 'em they're engaged, That's net mi native twang. Mi father, tho' he may be poor, Aw'm net ashamed o' him; Aw love mi mother tho' shoo's deeaf, An tho' her een are dim; Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk Its crucken'd streets amang; For thear it is aw hear fooak tawk Mi own, mi native twang. Aw like to hear hard-workin' fowk Say boldly what they meean; For tho' ther hands are smeared wi' muck, May be ther hearts are cleean, An' them 'at country fowk despise, Aw say, "Why, let' em hang;" They'll niver rob mi sympathies Throo thee, mi native twang, Aw like to see grand ladies, When they're donn'd i' silks soa fine; Aw like to see ther dazzlin' e'en Throo th' carriage winders shine: Mi mother wor a woman, An' tho' it may be wrang, Aw love 'em all, but mooastly them 'At tawk mi native twang. Aw wish gooid luck to ivery one; Gooid luck to them 'ats brass; Gooid luck an' better times to come To them 'ats poor--alas! An' may health, wealth, an' sweet content For iver dwell amang True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk, At tawk mi native twang. Shoo's thi Sister (Written on seeing a wealthy townsman rudely push a poor little girl off the pavement.) Gently, gently, shoo's thi sister, Tho' her clooas are nowt but rags; On her feet ther's monny a blister: See ha painfully shoo drags Her tired limbs to some quiet corner: Shoo's thi sister--dunnot scorn her. Daan her cheeks noa tears are runnin, Shoo's been shov'd aside befoor; Used to scoffs, an' sneers, an'shunnin-- Shoo expects it, coss shoo's poor; Schooil'd for years her grief to smother, Still shoos human--tha'rt her brother. Tho' tha'rt donn'd i' fine black cloathin, A kid glove o' awther hand, Dunnot touch her roughly, loathin-- Shoo's thi sister, understand: Th' wind maks merry wi' her tatters, Poor lost pilgrim!--but what matters? Lulk ha sharp her elbow's growin, An' ha pale her little face, An' her hair neglected, showin Her's has been a sorry case; O, mi heart felt sad at th' seet, When tha shov'd her into th' street Ther wor once a "Man," mich greater Nor thisen wi' all thi brass, Him, awr blessed Mediator,-- Wod He scorn that little lass? Noa, He called 'em, an' He blessed 'em, An' His hands divine caress'd 'em. Goa thi ways I an' if tha bears net Some regret for what tha's done, If tha con pass on, an' cares net For that sufferin' little one; Then ha'iver poor shoo be, Yet shoos rich compared wi' thee. Oh! 'at this breet gold should blind us, To awr duties here below! For we're forced to leave behind us All awr pomp, an' all awr show: Why then should we slight another? Shoo's thi sister, unkind brother. Persevere.