My Native Twang.

A poem by John Hartley

They tell me aw'm a vulgar chap,
An ow't to goa to th' schooil
To leearn to talk like other fowk,
An net be sich a fooil;
But aw've a noashun, do yo see,
Although it may be wrang,
The sweetest music is to me,
Mi own, mi native twang.

An when away throo all mi friends,
I' other taans aw rooam,
Aw find ther's nowt con mak amends
For what aw've left at hooam;
But as aw hurry throo ther streets
Noa matter tho aw'm thrang,
Ha welcome if mi ear but greets
Mi own, mi native twang.

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 e'en are dim;
Aw love th' owd taan; aw love to walk
Its crucken'd streets amang;
For thear it is aw hear fowk 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 nivver 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 ivvery 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 ivver dwell amang
True, honest-hearted, Yorkshire fowk,
'At tawk mi native twang.

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