Missin Yor Way.
By John Hartley
It wor dark an mi way wor across a wild mooar,
An noa signs could aw find ov a track,
'Twor a place whear aw nivver had rambled befooar;
An aw eearnestly wished misen back.
As aw went on an on mooar uneven it grew,
An farther mi feet seem'd to stray,
When a chap made me start, as he shaated "Halloa!
Maister, yor missin yor way!"
Wi' his help aw contrived to land safely back hooam,
An aw thowt as o'th' hearthstun aw set,
What a blessin 'twod be if when other fowk rooam,
They should meet sich a friend as aw'd met.
An aw sat daan to write just theas words ov advice,
Soa read 'em young Yorksher fowk, pray;
An aw'st think for mi trubble aw'm paid a rare price,
If aw've saved one throo missin ther way.
Yo lads 'at's but latly begun to wear hats,
An fancy yor varry big men;
Yo may fancy yor sharps when yor nowt nobbut flats, -
Be advised an tak care o' yorsen.
Shun that gin palace door as yo'd shun a wild beast,
Nivver heed what yor comrades may say,
Tho' they call yo a fooil, an they mak yo ther jest,
Stand stedfast, - they're missin ther way.
Shun them lasses, (God help 'em!) 'at wander throo th' streets,
An cut sich a dash an a swell, -
Who simper an smirk at each chap 'at they meet,
Flingin baits to drag victims to Hell.
They may laff, they may shaat, they may join in a dance,
They may spooart ther fine clooas an seem gay;
But ther's sorrow within, - yo may see at a glance, -
Poor crayturs! they're missin ther way.
Luk at yond, - but a child, - what's shoo dooin thear?
Shoo sewerly is innocent yet?
Her face isn't brazen, - an see, ther's a tear
In her ee an her checks are booath wet,
They are tears ov despair, for altho' shoo's soa young,
Shoo has sunk deep i' sin to obtain
Fine feathers an trinkets, an nah her heart's wrung
Wi' remorse, an shoo weeps wi' her pain.
But shoo's gooin away, - let us follo an see
Whear her journey soa hurried can tend;
Some danger it may be shoo's tryin to flee,
Or maybe shoo's i' search ov a friend.
Her hooam, once soa happy, shoo durs'nt goa thear,
For shoo's fill'd it wi' sorrow an grief;
An shoo turns her een upward, as if wi' a fear,
Even Heaven can give noa relief.
Nah shoo's takken a turn, an we've lost her, - but Hark!
What's that cry? It's a cry o' distress!
An o'th' bridge we discover when gropin i'th' dark,
A crushed bonnet, a mantle an dress.
An thear shines the river, soa quiet an still,
O'er its bed soa uncertain an deep;
Can it be? sich a thowt maks one's blooid to run chill, -
Has that lass gooan for ivver to sleep?
Alas! soa it is. For shoo's takken a bound,
An rashly Life's river shoo's crost;
An th' wind seems to whisper wi' sorrowful sound,
"Lost, - lost, - another one lost!"
O, lads, an O, lasses! tak warnin i' time,
Shun theas traps set bi Satan, whose bait
May seem temptin; beware! they're but first steps to crime,
Act to-day, - lest to-morrow's too late.