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diff --git a/27781.txt b/27781.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8cbf02e --- /dev/null +++ b/27781.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5528 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Revised Edition of Poems, by William Wright + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Revised Edition of Poems + + +Author: William Wright + + + +Release Date: January 12, 2009 [eBook #27781] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REVISED EDITION OF POEMS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1891 John Overend edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + REVISED + EDITION OF POEMS + + + BY + Bill o'th' Hoylus End. + + * * * * * + + PRICE TWO SHILLINGS. + + * * * * * + + PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY + JOHN OVEREND, COOK LANE, KEIGHLEY. + 1891. + + [Picture: Picture of Bill o' the Hoylus End] + + + + +PREFACE + + +The Author respectfully submits to the general public of his native town +and district, this volume of poems, containing some of the chief results +of his musings for the past thirty years. He hopes that the volume, +which is in reality the production of a life-time, will in many ways be +deemed worthy of the kind and courteous approbation of his numerous +patrons and friends, as well as the indulgence of literary critics. + +In launching forth the work, the Author begs to tender to his patrons and +the public generally, his most sincere and hearty thanks for the +assistance they have ever rendered him so as to enable him to acquire the +necessary leisure for the cultivation of his muse. The result now +achieved is not the comprehensive collection of the efforts of the +author, but it may he taken as a selection and a representation of his +more generally interesting productions from time to time. + +Various reasons have operated in the time of the publication and the +curtailment of this volume; but it is now submitted with every respect to +the public for their perusal. Many of his poems, which are not found in +the present volume, the author trusts will be deemed worthy of being +treasured in the scrap books of his friends. Of the literary merits of +the composition, it would ill become the author in any way to descant +upon; but in regard to these he leaves himself entirely and absolutely in +the hands of a critical, and, he hopes, an indulgent public, feeling +assured that he may trust himself in the hands of his readers. + +No formal dedication is here made to any particular patron, but the book +is submitted without the powerful influence of any conspicuous name or +the commendation of any well-known literary friend; and like Dr. Johnson +of old, failing patrons, he trusts that his work will, in the midst of +his numerous competitors, locally and generally, be thought worthy of the +attention of the various classes of the public. + +AUGUST, 1891. + + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + +_The Grand Old Man of Oakworth_ 9 +_Dr. Dobie's Lecture on Burns_ 11 +_What Profits Me_ 13 +_The Death of Gordon_ 14 +_The Earl of Beaconsfield_ 15 +_Come_, _Nivver Dee i' Thi Shell_ 17 +_T'owd Betty's Advice_ 18 +_Toied Blacksmith's Advice_ 20 +_T'First Pair o' Britches_ 21 +_O Welcome_, _Lovely Summer_ 23 +_Burn's Centenary_ 24 +_Waiting for t' Angels_ 25 +_The Lass o' Newsholme Dean_ 26 +_The Broken Pitcher_ 28 +_Ode to Sir Titus Salt_ 30 +_Cowd as Leead_ 33 +_The Factory Girl_ 34 +_Bonny Lark_ 36 +_Home of my Boyish Days_ 37 +_Ode to Spring '64_ 38 +_Address to t'First Wesherwoman_ 39 +_In a Pleasant Little Valley_ 40 +_John o't' Bog and Keighley Feffy Goast_ 42 +_The Late Thomas Ireland_ 56 +_A Yorkshireman's Christmas_ 57 +_The Late Thomas Craven_ 58 +_Gooise and Giblet Pie_ 59 +_The Grand Old Man_ 60 +_Ode to Bacchus_ 62 +_Sall o't' Bog_ 64 +_Song of the Months_ 65 +_Bonnie Cliffe Castle_ 67 +_Opening of Devonshire Park_ 68 +_Farewell to Rev. H. J. Longsdon_ 71 +_He's Thy Brother_ 73 +_Lund's Excursion to Windermere_ 74 +_The Tartan Plaid_ 85 +_The Pauper's Box_ 86 +_The Vale of Aire_ 88 +_Fra Haworth to Bradford_ 90 +_The Veteran_ 91 +_Address to the Queen_ 92 +_Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday_ 96 +_Trip to Malsis Hall_ 98 +_The Bold Bucchaneers_ 104 +_The Benks o' the Aire_ 105 +_The Late J. W. Peckover_ 107 +_The Fugitive_ 108 +_The Feathered Captive_ 111 +_Dame Europe's Lodging House_ 113 +_Charming Rebecca of Riddlesden Hall_ 127 +_The City of "So be I's_" 128 +_Shoo's Deead an' Goan_ 132 +_Ode to an Herring_ 133 +_The World's Wheels_ 137 +_English Church History_ 137 +_Illustration_ (_Keighley Parish 139 +Church_) +_The Old Hand-Wool-Combers_ 140 +_T' Village Aram Skaram_ 143 +_Come_, _Gi' us a Wag o' Thy Paw_ 146 +_Full o' Doubts and Fears_ 147 +_Behold how the Rivers_ 148 +_Our Poor Little Factory Girls_ 149 +_Haworth Sharpness_ 150 +_Dear Harden_ 151 +_The Heroic Watchman_ 152 +_The English_ "_Cricketeer_" 154 +_Christmas Day_ 156 +_Wi' Him I call My Own_ 157 +_It isn't so wi' Me_ 158 +_A New Divorce_ 159 +_The Vision_ 160 + +The Grand Old Man of Oakworth. + + +Come, hand me down that rustic harp, + From off that rugged wall, +For I must sing another song + To suit the Muse's call, +For she is bent to sing a poean, + On this eventful year, +In praise of the philanthropist + Whom all his friends hold dear-- + The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, + Beyond his eightieth year! + +No flattery! My honest Muse, + Nor yet be thou servile; +But tinkle up that harp again, + A moment to beguile. +Altho' the bard be rude and rough, + Yet, he is ever proud +To do the mite that he can do, + And thus proclaim aloud-- + The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, + Of whom we all are proud! + +For base indeed were any bard + That ever sang on earth, +Did he not wish his neighbour well, + And praise his sterling worth. +Leave state affairs and office + To those of younger blood, +But I am with the patriot, + The noble, wise, and good-- + The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, + The wise, the great, the good! + +This worthy old philanthropist, + Whom all his neighbours greet; +Who has a smile for every one + Whom he may chance to meet-- +Go to yon pleasant village, + On the margin of the moor, +And you will hear his praises sung + By all the aged poor-- + The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, + A friend unto the poor! + +Long may he live! and happy be, + The patriot and the sire; +And may some other harp give praise, + Whose notes will sound much higher. +His thirst for knowledge, worth, and lore-- + His heart was ever there-- +This worthy old philanthropist, + Beyond his eightieth year!-- + The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, + Beyond his eightieth year. + + + +THOUGHTS SUGGESTED +ON HEARING +Dr. Dobie's Lecture on Burns. + + +Though murky are the days and short, +And man he finds but little sport, + These gloomy days, to cheer him; +Yet, if a Dobie should, perchance, +Come out before an audience, + 'Tis worth our while to hear him. + +Right pleased was I, dear sir, to hear +Your lecture on that subject dear, + So grand and superhuman; +For all the world doth pay regard +To Bobbie Burns, the Scottish bard, + The patriot and the ploughman. + +Your words, indeed, were passing good, +On him who kenned and understood + The kirk and all its ranting; +Who "held the mirror" up, indeed, +To show the "muckle unco-guid" + Their double-dyed canting. + +You painted him sometimes in glee +While other times in poverty-- + To gold without alliance; +Yet, after all he kept his pace, +And looked grim fortune in the face, + And set him at defiance. + +But, alas! the picture, was it true? +Of Burns' parents, poor and low-- + So furrowed and so hoary-- +It makes our very hearts to burn +To think that "man was made to mourn," + And tell the sad, sad story. + +You brought me back to days bygone, +When glad its banks I strolled upon, + The river Doon so bonnie; +The roofless kirk and yard so green, +Where many a tombstone may be seen, + With Tam and Souter Johnnie. + +And when ye spake of yond bright star +That lingers in the lift afar, + Where Burns was never weary +Of gazing on the far-off sphere, +Where dwells his angel lassie dear-- + His ain sweet Highland Mary! + +But here my Muse its wings may lower; +Such flights are far beyond its power; + So I will stop the jingle. +Sir, I am much obliged to you, +And I am much indebted to + The Choir and Mr. Pringle. + + [Picture: Picture of bowl of fruit] + + + +What Profits Me. + + +What profits me tho' I sud be + The lord o' yonder castle gay; +Hev rooms in state to imitate + The princely splendour of the day +For what are all my carved doors, +My chandeliers or carpet floors, + No art could save me from the grave. + +What profits me tho' I sud be + Decked i' costly costumes grand, +Like the Persian king o' kings, + Wi' diamond rings to deck my hand: +For what wor all my grand attire, +That fooils both envy and admire, + No gems could save me from the grave. + +What profits me tho' I sud be + Thy worthy host, O millionaire, +Hev cent. for cent. for money lent; + My wealth increasing ivvery year. +For what wor all my wealth to me, +Compared to immortality, + Wealth could not save me from the grave. + +What profits me tho' I sud be + Even the gert Persian Shah, +My subjects stand at my command, + Wi' fearful aspect and wi' awe; +For what wor a despotic rule, +Wi' all the world at my control, + All could not save me from the grave. + + + +The Death of Gordon. + + +From the red fields of gore, 'midst war's dreadful clang, + I hear a sad strain o'er oceans afar: +Oh, shame, shame upon you, ye proud men of England, + Whose highest ambition is rapine and war! + Through your vain wickedness + Thousands are fatherless, +False your pretensions old Egypt to save; + Arabs with spear in hand + Far in a distant land +Made our brave Gordon a sad and red grave. + +On Nile's sunny banks, with the Arab's great nation, + Brave Gordon was honoured and worshipped by all, +The acknowledged master of the great situation, + Until England's bondholders caused Egypt to fall. + Another great blunder, + Makes the world wonder, +Where is Britannia's sword, sceptre and shield? + War and disaster + Come thicker and faster, +Oh, for the days of the Great Beaconsfield! + +Oh, Great Beaconsfield! the wise and the clever, + When will thy place in our nation be filled? +Britannia's shrill answer is never, oh never, + My Beaconsfield's dead, and my Gordon is killed! + Oh, blame not my foemen + Or a Brutus-like Roman, +Or Soudanese Arabs for Gordon's sad doom; + But blame that vain Briton + Whose name is true written, +The slayer of Gordon, who fell at Khartoum. + + [Picture: Crest of arms] + + + +The Earl of Beaconsfield. + + +I sing no song of superstition, + No dark deeds of an Inquisition, +No mad-brain'd theme of wild ambition, + For lo, their doom is sealed! +But I will use my best endeavour, + To praise the good, the wise, the clever, +Who will remember'd be for ever, + The Earl of Beaconsfield. + +When England was without alliance, + He bid the Russians bold defiance, +On Austria had no reliance + In either flood or field; +He proudly sent to Hornby message, + The Dardanelles! go force the passage +In spite of Turkey, Bear, or Sausage, + The dauntless Beaconsfield! + +At Berlin, he with admiration + Was gazed upon by every nation, +And, master of the situation, + Vow'd Britons ne'er would yield. +For I am here, you may depend on't, + This Eastern brawl to make an end on't, +To show both plaintiff and defendant + I'm Earl of Beaconsfield! + +Britannia now doth weep and ponder, + Bereaved of him, her child of wonder, +No earthly power could break asunder + His love for England's weal. +And now those locks once dark as raven + (For laurel leaves ne'er deck'd a craven) +Wear a laurel crown in Heaven, + Glorious Beaconsfield! + + [Picture: Picture of house in trees] + + + +Come, Nivver Dee i' Thi Shell. + + +"Come, nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad," + Are words but rudely said; +Though they may cheer some stricken heart, + Or raise some wretched head; +For they are words I love mysel, + They're music to my ear; +They muster up fresh energy + An' chase each doubt an' fear. + +Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, + Though tha be poor indeed; +Ner lippen ta long i' th' turnin' up + Sa mich ov a friend in need; +Fur few ther are, an' far between, + That help a poor man thru; +An' God helps them at help therseln, + An' they hev friends enew. + +Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, + Whativver thi creditors say; +Tell um at least tha'rt foarst ta owe, + If tha artant able ta pay; +An' if they nail thi bits o' traps, + An' sell tha dish an' spooin; +Remember fickle forten lad, + Shoo changes like the mooin. + +Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, + Though some may laugh an' scorn; +There wor nivver a neet afore ta neet, + Bud what ther' com a morn; +An' if blind forten used tha bad, + Sho's happen noan so meean; +Ta morn al come, an' then fer some + The sun will shine ageean. + +Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, + Bud let thi motto be,-- +"Onward!" an' "Excelsior;" + An' try for t' top o't' tree: +An' if thi enemies still pursue, + Which ten-ta-one they will, +Show um owd lad, tha'rt doin' weel, + An' climin' up the hill. + + + +Owd Betty's Advice. + + +So Mary, lass, tha'rt bahn to wed +It mornin', we young Blacksmith Ned, +An' though it maks thi mother sad, + It's like to be; +I've nowt ageean yond dacent lad, + No more ner thee. + +Bud let me tell tha what ta due, +For my advise might help tha thru; +Be kind, and to thi husband true, + An' I'll be bun +Tha'll nivver hev a day ta rue + For owt that's done. + +Nah, try to keep thi former knack, +An' du thi weshin' in a crack, +Bud don't be flaid to bend thi back, + Tha'll nobbut sweeat; +So try an' hev a bit o' tack, + An' du it neeat. + +Be sure tha keeps fra bein' a flirt, +An' pride thysel i' bein' alert,-- +An' mind ta mend thi husband's shirt, + An' keep it cleean; +It wod thi poor owd mother hurt, + If tha wur meean. + +Don't kal abaht like monny a wun, +Then hev to broil, an' sweeat, an' run; +Bud alus hev thi dinner done + Withaht a mooild; +If it's nobbut meil, lass, set it on, + An' hev it boiled. + +Now Mary, I've no more ta say-- +Tha gets thi choice an' tak thi way; +An' if tha leets to rue, I pray, + Don't blame thi mother: +I wish yeh monny a happy day + Wi wun another. + + + +T'owd Blacksmith's Advice ta hiz Son Ned. + + +So, Ned, awm geen ta understand, +Tha'rt bahn ta join i' wedlock band, +Ta travil thru life's weeary strand, + Yond lass an' thee; +But if yer joinin' heart an' hand, + It pleases me. + +Nah tha'll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear, +While pushin' thru this world o' care, +An' wat tha'll hev it face ta stare, + It's hard ta tell; +Life's ups and dahns tha'll get ta share, + So pleas thisel'. + +Tha'rt weel an' strong, long may it last; +But age an' care creep on us fast; +Then act az tha can luke at t'past + An' feel no shaam; +Then if tha'rt poor az sum ahtcast, + Tha'rt noan ta blame. + +Doant sport abaht an' wagers bet, +But mind an' shun that foolish set +At cannut mak ther awn ta fet, + Though shaam to say it. +An' mind tha keeps fra bein' i' debt, + An' tha'll be reight. + +Nah stick fast hod o' iron will; +Push boldly on an' feear no ill; +Keep Him i' veiw, whoa's mercies fill + The wurld sa wide. +No daht but His omnishent skill + Al be thi guide. + +So Ned, mi lad, tak this advice, +Prove worthy o' yond lass's choice, +I' years ta cum tha may rejoice + Tha tuke her hand; +An' listened ta thi father's voice, + An' his command. + + + +Th' Furst Pair o' Briches. + + +Aw remember the days o' mi bell-button jacket, + Wi' its little lappels hangin' down ower mi waist, +An' mi grand bellosed cap,--noan nicer I'll back it,-- + Fer her at hed bowt it wur noan withaht taste; +Fer shoo wur mi mother an' I wur her darling, + An often shoo vowed it, an' stroked dahn mi hair, +An' shoo tuke ma to see her relashuns i' Harden + It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware. + +Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an' Alice + Sent fer me up to lewk at mi cloas, +An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais, + Wi' mi tassel at t'side--i' mi jacket a rose. +Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an' Willy, + They both gav me pennies, an' off aw did steer: +But aw heeard um say this, "He's a fine lad is Billy," + It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware. + +Aw remember t' time at ahr Robin and Johnny + Wur keeping their hens an' ducks i' t' yard, +Tha wur gamecocks an' bantams, wi' toppins so bonny, + An' noan on um mine--aw thowt it wur hard. +But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin', + An' sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair, +Aw then became maister at least o' wun chicken, + It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware. + +Aw remember wun Sabbath, an' t'sun it wor shining, + Aw went wi' mi father ta Hainworth ta sing; +An' t'stage wur hung raand wi' bottle-green lining; + And childer i' white made t' village ta ring. +We went ta owd Meshach's that day ta wur drinkin', + Though poor, tha wur plenty, an' summat ta spare; +Says Meshach, "That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw'm thinking, + It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver tha ware." + +Now them wur the days o' grim boggards and witches, + When Will-o'-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp, +But nah are the days o' cheating fer riches, + An' a poor honest man is classed wi' a scamp. +Yes, them wur the days at mi mind worrant weary; + O them wur the days aw knew no despair; +O give me the time o' the boggard an' fairy, + Wi' t' furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware. + +Ah! them wur the days aw sall allus remember, + Sud aw just as owd as Mathusalah last; +Them wur mi March days, but nah it's September: + Ne'er to return again--them days are past. +But a time aw remember aboon onny other, + Aw kneeled o' mi knees an' sed the Lord's Prayer; +Aw sed "God bless mi father, an' God bless mi mother," + It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware. + + + +O Welcome, Lovely Summer. + + +O welcome, lovely summer, + Wi' thi golden days so long, +When the throstle and the blackbird + Do charm us wi' ther song; +When the lark in early morning + Takes his aerial flight; +An' the humming bat an' buzzard + Frolic in the night. + +O! welcome, lovely summer, + With her rainbow's lovely form; +Her thunner an' her leetnin', + An' her grandeur in the storm: +With her sunshine an' her shower, + An' her whirlin' of the dust, +An' the maiden with her flagon, + To sleck the mower's thirst. + +O! welcome, lovely summer, + When the woods wi' music ring, +An' the bees so heavy laden, + To their hives their treasures bring: +When we seek some shady bower, + Or some lovely little dell, +Or, bivock in the sunshine, + Besides some cooling well. + +O! welcome, lovely summer, + With her roses in full bloom; +When the cowslaps an' the laalek + Deck the cottage home; +When the cherry an' the berry + Give a grandeur to the charm; +And the clover and the haycock + Scent the little farm. + +O! welcome, lovely summer, + Wi' the partridge on the wing; +When the tewit an' the moorgam, + Up fra the heather spring, +From the crowber an' the billber, + An' the bracken an' the whin; +As from the noisy tadpole, + We hear the crackin' din. + O! welcome, lovely summer. + + + +Burns's Centenary. + + +Go bring that tuther whisky in, + An' put no watter to it; +Fur I mun drink a bumper off, + To Scotland's darlin' poet. + +It's just one hunderd year to-day, + This Jenewarry morn, +Sin' in a lowly cot i' Kyle, + A rustic bard wur born. + +He kittled up his muirland harp, + To ivvery rustic scene; +An' sung the ways o' honest men, + His Davey an' his Jean. + +There wur nivver a bonny flaar that grew + Bud what he could admire; +There wur nivver lovely hill or dale + That suited not his lyre. + +At last owd Coilia sed enough, + Mi bardy thah did sing, +Then gently tuke his muirland harp, + And brack it ivvery string. + +An' bindin' up the holly wreath, + Wi' all its berries red, +Shoo placed it on his noble brow, + An' pensively shoo said:-- + +"So long as Willies brew ther malt, + An' Robs and Allans spree; +Mi Burns's songs an' Burns's name, + Remember'd they shall be." + + + +Waiting for t' Angels. + + +Ligging here deead, mi poor Ann Lavina, +Ligging alone, mi own darling child, +Just thi white hands crost on thi bosom, +Wi' features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild. + +Ligging here deead, so white an' so bonny, +Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine; +Asking for summat withaht ever speaking, +Asking thi father to say tha wur fine. + +Ligging here deead, the child that so lov'd me, +At fane wod ha' hidden mi faults if shoo could; +Wal thi wretch of a father despairin' stands ower tha, +Wal remorse and frenzy are freezin' his blood. + +Ligging here deead, i' thi shroud an thi coffin, +Ligging alone in this poor wretched room; +Just thi white hands crossed ower thi bosom, +Waiting for t'angels to carry tha home. + + + +The Lass o' Newsholme Dean. + + +[Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen, +indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy +pass that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning +round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale--with its running +whimpering stream--I beheld the "Lass o' Newsholme Dean." She was +engaged in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. +Instantaneously I was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as +did Robert Tannyhill upon his imaginary beauty, "The Flower of Dumblane," +I struck my lyre, and, although the theme of my song turned out +afterwards to be a respectable old woman of 70 winters, yet there is +still a charm in my "Lass o' Newsholme Dean."] + +Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind, + Thy love is all to me; +Aw couldn't in a palace find + A lass more true ner thee: +An' if aw wor the Persian Shah, + An' thee mi Lovely Queen, +The grandest diamond i' mi Crown + Wor t' lass o' Newsholme Dean. + +The lady gay may heed tha not, + An' passing by may sneer; +The upstart squire's dowters laugh, + When thou, my love, art near; +But if all ther shinin' soverins + War wared o' sattens green, +They mightn't be as handsome then + As t' Lass o' Newsholme Dean. + +When yellow autumn's lustre shines, + An' hangs her golden ear, +An' nature's voice fra every bush + Is singing sweet and clear, +'Neath some white thorn to song unknown, + To mortal never seen, +'Tis there with thee I fain wad be, + Mi Lass o' Newsholme Dean. + +Od drat, who cares fur kings or queens, + Mix'd in a nation's broil, +They nivver benefit the poor-- + The poor mun ollas toil. +An' thou gilded spectre, royalty, + That dazzles folks's een, +Is nowt to me when I'm wi thee, + Sweet Lass o' Newsholme Dean. + +High fra the summit o' yon' crag, + I view yon' smooky town, +Where forten she has deigned to smile + On monny a simple clown: +Though free fra want, they're free fra brains; + An' yet no happier I ween, +Than this old farmer's wife an' hens, + Aw saw i' Newsholme Dean. + + + +The Broken Pitcher. + + +[The happiest moments of a soldier in times of peace are when sat round +the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, +spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some +famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part; other +times he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the +room will oblige them with his song of "Nelson" or "Napoleon" (generally +being the favourites with them);--then there is the fancy tale teller, +who amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn, or story, +makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the lass +he left behind him; hence this adventure with the "Lassie by the Well."] + +There was a bonny Lassie once + Sitting by a well-- +But what this bonny Lassie thought + I cannot, cannot tell-- +When by there went a cavalier + Well known as Willie Wright, +Just in full marching order, + His armour shining bright. + +"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why + Sits thou by the spring? +Dost thou seek a lover, with + A golden wedding ring? +Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me, + With eyes so bright and wide? +Or wherefore does that pitcher lay + Broken by thy side?" + +"My pitcher it is broken, sir, + And this the reason is, +A villian came behind me, + An' he tried to steal a kiss. +I could na take his nonsense, + So ne'er a word I spoke, +But hit him with my pitcher, + And thus you see 'tis broke." + +"My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken + Now waits for me to come; +He canna mak his Crowdy, + Till t'watter it goes home. +I canna tak him watter, + And that I ken full weel, +And so I'm sure to catch it,-- + For he'll play the varry de'il." + +"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, + I pray be ruled by me; +Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips, + And give me kisses three. +And we'll suppose my helmet is + A pitcher made o' steel, +And we'll carry home some watter + To thy uncle Jock McNeil." + +She silently consented, for + She blink'd her bonny ee, +I threw mi arms around her, + And gave her kisses three. +To wrong the bonny Lassie + I sware 'twould be a sin; +So knelt dahn by the watter + To dip mi helmet in. + +Out spake this bonny Lassie, + "My soldier lad, forbear, +I wadna spoil thi bonny plume + That decks thi raven hair; +Come buckle up thy sword again, + Put on thi cap o' steel, +I carena for my pitcher, nor + My uncle Jock McNeil." + +I often think, my comrades, + About this Northern queen, +And fancy that I see her smile, + Though mountains lay between. +But should you meet her Uncle Jock, + I hope you'll never tell +How I squared the broken pitcher, + With the Lassie at the well. + + + +Ode to Sir Titus Salt. + + +Go, string once more old Ebor's harp, + And bring it here to me, +For I must sing another song, + The theme of which shall be,-- +A worthy old philanthropist, + Whose soul in goodness soars, +And one whose name will stand as firm + As rocks that gird our shores; +The fine old Bradford gentleman, + The good Sir Titus Salt. + +Heedless of others; some there are, + Who all their days employ +To raise themselves, no matter how, + And better men destroy: +How different is the mind of him, + Whose deeds themselves are told, +Who values worth more nobly far + Than all the heaps of gold. + +His feast and revels are not such, + As those we hear and see, +No princely show does he indulge, + Nor feats of revelry; +But in the orphan schools they are, + Or in the cot with her, +The widow and the orphan of + The shipwrecked mariner, + +When stricken down with age and care, + His good old neighbours grieved, +Or loss of family or mate, + Or all on earth bereaved; +Go see them in their houses, + Where peace their days may end, +And learn from them the name of him + Who is their aged friend. + +With good and great his worth shall live, + With high or lowly born; +His name is on the scroll of fame, + Sweet as the songs of morn; +While tyranny and villany + Is surely stamped with shame; +A nation gives her patriot + A never-dying fame. + +No empty titles ever could + His principles subdue, +His queen and country too he loved,-- + Was loyal and was true: +He craved no boon from royalty, + Nor wished their pomp to share, +Far nobler is the soul of him, + The founder of Saltaire. + +Thus lives this sage philanthropist, + From courtly pomp removed, +But not secluded from his friends, + For frienship's bond he loved; +A noble reputation too + Crowns all his latter days; +The young men they admire him, + And the aged they him praise. + +Long life to thee, Sir Titus, + The darling of our town; +Around thy head while living, + We'll weave a laurel crown. +Thy monument in marble + May suit the passer by, +But a monument in all our hearts + Will never, never die. + +And when thy days are over, + And we miss thee on our isle, +Around thy tomb for ever + May unfading laurels smile: +Then may the sweetest flowers + Usher in the spring; +And roses in the gentle gales, + Their balmy odours fling. + +May summer's beams shine sweetly, + Upon thy hallowed clay, +And yellow autumn o'er thy head, + Yield many a placid ray; +May winter winds blow slightly,-- + The green-grass softly wave, +And falling snow drop lightly + Upon thy honoured grave. + + + +Cowd az Leead. + + +An' arta fra thi father torn, +So early i' thi youthful morn, +An' mun aw pine away forlorn, + I' grief an' pain? +Fer consolashun I sall scorn + If tha be ta'en. + +O yes, tha art, an' aw mun wail +Thi loss through ivvery hill an' dale, +Fer nah it is too true a tale, + Tha'rt cowd az leead. +An' nah thi bonny face iz pale, + Tha'rt deead! tha'rt deead'! + +Aw's miss tha when aw cum fra t'shop, +An' see thi bat, an' ball, an' top; +An' aw's be ommust fit ta drop, + Aw sall so freeat, +An' Oh! mi varry heart may stop + An' cease to beeat! + +Ah'd allus aimed, if tha'd been spar'd, +Of summat better to hev shared +Ner what thi poor owd father fared, + I' this cowd sphere; +Yet, after all, aw'st noan o' cared + If tha'd stayed here. + +But O! Tha Conquerer Divine, +'At vanquished deeath i' Palestine, +Tak to Thi arms this lad o' mine + Noan freely given; +But mak him same as wun o' Thine, + Wi' Thee i' Heaven. + + + +The Factory Girl. + + +Shoo stud beside her looms an' watch'd + The shuttle passin' through, +But yet her soul wur sumweer else, + 'Twor face ta face wi' Joe. +They saw her lips move as in speech, + Yet none cud hear a word, +An' but fer t'grindin' o' the wheels, + This language might be heard. + +"I't' spite o' all thi treacherous art, + At length aw breeathe again; +The pityin' stars hes tane mi part, + An' eas'd a wretch's pain. +An' Oh! aw feel as fra a maze, + Mi rescued soul is free, +Aw knaw aw do not dream an daze + I' fancied liberty. + +"Extinguished nah is ivvery spark, + No love for thee remains, +Fer heart-felt love i' vain sall strive + Ta live, when tha disdains. +No longer when thi name I hear, + Mi conscious colour flies! +No longer when thi face aw see, + Mi heart's emotions rise. + +"Catcht i' the bird-lime's treacherous twigs, + Ta wheer he chonc'd ta stray, +The bird his fastened feathers leaves, + Then gladly flies away. +His shatter'd wings he sooin renews, + Of traps he is aware; +Fer by experience he is wise, + An' shuns each future snare. + +"Awm speikin' nah, an' all mi aim + Is but ta pleeas mi mind; +An' yet aw care not if mi words + Wi' thee can credit find. +Ner dew I care if my decease + Sud be approved bi thee; +Or whether tha wi' equal ease + Does tawk ageean wi' me. + +"But, yet, tha false deceivin' man, + Tha's lost a heart sincere; +Aw naw net which wants comfort mooast, + Or which hes t'mooast ta fear. +But awm suer a lass more fond an' true + No lad could ivver find: +But a lad like thee is easily fun-- + False, faithless, and unkind." + + + +Bonny Lark. + + +Sweetest warbler of the wood, + Rise thy soft bewitching strain, +And in pleasure's sprightly mood, + Soar again. + +With the sun's returning beam, + First appearance from the east, +Dimpling every limpid stream, + Up from rest. + +Thro' the airy mountains stray, + Chant thy welcome songs above, +Full of sport and full of play, + Songs of love. + +When the evening cloud prevails, + And the sun gives way for night, +When the shadows mark the vales, + Return thy flight. + +Like the cottar or the swain, + Gentle shepherd, or the herd; +Rest thou till the morn again, + Bonny bird! + +Like thee, on freedom's airy wing, + May the poet's rapturous spark, +Hail the first approach of spring, + Bonny lark! + + + +Some of My Boyish Days. + + +Home of my boyish days, how can I call +Scenes to my memory, that did befall? +How can my trembling pen find power to tell +The grief I experienced in bidding farewell? +Can I forget the days joyously spent, +That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content? +Can I then quit thee, whose memory's so dear, +Home of my boyish days, without one tear? + +Can I look back on happy days gone by, +Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh +Ah, no! though never more these eyes may dwell +On thee, old cottage home, I love so well: +Home of my childhood! wherever I be, +Thou art the nearest and dearest to me! + +Can I forget the songs sung by my sire, +Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre? +Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young; +Psalms for the Sabbath, on Sabbath were sung; +And the young minstrels enraptured would come +To the little lone cottage I once called my home. + +Can I forget the dear landscape around, +Where in my boyish days I could be found, +Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood, +Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood? +Then would my mother say--"Where is he gone? +I'm waiting for shuttles that he should have 'wun'?"-- +She in that cottage there, knitting her healds, +And I, her young forester, roaming the fields. + +But the shades of the evening gather slowly around, +The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground, +Night's sombre mantle is spreading the plain. +And as I turn round to look on thee again, +To take one fond look, one last fond adieu, +By night's envious hand thou art snatched from my view; +But Oh! there's no darkness--to me--no decay, +Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away! + + + +Ode ta Spring Sixty-four. + + +O welcome, young princess, thou sweetest of dowters, + An' furst bloomin' issue o' King Sixty-four, +Wi' thi brah deck'd wi' gems o' the purest o' waters, + Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter, is ower. + +We hail thi approach wi' palm-spangled banners; + The plant an' the saplin' await thi command; +An' Natur herseln, to show her good manners, + Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land. + +Tha appears in t' orchard, in t' garden, an' t' grotto, + Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn; +Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, + For thi meanest o' subjects tha nivver did scorn. + +O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin'! + These words they are borne on the wings o' the wind; +That bids us be early i' plewin' an' sowin', + Fer him at neglects, tha'll leave him behind. + + + +Address ta t' First Wesherwoman. + + +I' sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send, +Ta t' human race the greatest friend, +An' liv'd, no daht, at t'other end + O' history. +Her name is nah, yah may depend, + A mystery. + +But sprang shoo up fra royal blood, +Or some poor slave beyond the Flood, +Mi blessing on the sooap an' sud + Shoo did invent; +Her name sall renk ameng the good, + If aw get sent. + +If nobbut in a rainy dub, +Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub, +Or hed a proper weshin' tub-- + It's all the same; +Aw'd give a crahn, if aw'd to sub, + To get her name. + +I' this wide world aw'm set afloat, +Th' poor regg'd possessor of one coat; +Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote, + An' thus assert, +Tha'rt worthy o' great Shakespeare's note-- + A clean lin' shirt. + +Low is mi lot, an' hard mi ways, +While paddlin' thro' life's stormy days; +Yet aw will sing t'owd lass's praise, + Wi' famous glee; +Tho' rude an' rough sud be mi lays, + Shoo's t'lass for me. + +Bards hev sung the fairest fair, +Their rosy cheeks an' auburn hair; +The dying lover's deep despair, + Their harps hev rung; +But useful wimmin's songs are rare, + An' seldom sung. + + + +In a Pleasant Little Valley. + + +In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr, +Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair; +Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly through the wood, +And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood; +'Twas there, in all her splendour, on a January morn, +Appeared old Coila's genius--when Robert Burns was born. + +Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone, +And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon; +A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow, +She was the darling native muse of Scotia then, as now: +So grand old Coila's genius on this January morn, +Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born. + +She vowed she ne'er would leave him till he sung old Scotia's plains-- +The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains; +And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes: +And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays, +And sing how Coila's genius, on a January morn, +Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born. + +She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home, +Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome; +But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among, +And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song; +This old Coila's genius did that January morn, +Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born. + +And in the nights of winter, when stormy winds do roar, +And the fierce dashing waves are heard on Ayr's old craggy shore, +The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire, +Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre; +And sing how Coila's genius on a January morn, +Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born. + + + +John o'f' Bog an' Keighley Feffy Goast: +A TALE O' POVERTY + + + "Some books are lies fra end to end, + And some great lies were never penn'd; + But this that I am gaun to tell, + * * * Lately on a night befel."--BURNS. + +'Twor twelve o'clock wun winter's neet, + Net far fra Kersmas time, +When I met wee this Feffy Goast, + The subject of mi rhyme. + +I'd been hard up fer monny a week, + Mi way I cuddant see, +Fer trade an' commerce wor as bad + As ivver they could be. + +T'poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, + An' t'combers wor quite sick, +Fer weeks they nivver pool'd a slip, + Ner t'weivers wave a pick. + +An' I belong'd ta t'latter lot, + An' them wor t'war o't' two, +Fer I'd nine pair o' jaws i' t'haase, + An nowt for 'em ta do. + +T'owd wife at t' time wor sick i' bed, + An' I'd a shockin' cowd, +Wal t'youngest barn we hed at home, + Wor nobbut three days owd. + +Distracted to mi varry heart, + At sitch a bitter cup, +An' lippenin' ivvery day at com, + At summat wod turn up; + +At last I started off wun neet, + To see what I could mak; +Determin'd I'd hev summat ta eit, + Or else I'd noan go back. + +Through t'Skantraps an' be t' Bracken Benk, + I tuke wi' all mi meet; +Be t' Wire Mill an' Ingrow Loin, + Reight into t' oppen street. + +Saint John's Church spire then I saw, + An' I wor rare an' fain, +Fer near it stood t'owd parsonage-- + I cuddant be mistain. + +So up I went ta t' Wicket Gate, + Though sad I am ta say it, +Resolv'd to ax 'em for some breead, + Or else some brocken meit. + +Bud just as I wor shackin' it, + A form raase up before, +An' sed "What does ta want, tha knave, + Shackin' t' Wicket Door?" + +He gav me then ta understand, + If I hedant come to pray, +At t'grace o' God an' t'breead o' life, + Wor all they gav away. + +It's fearful nice fer folk ta talk + Abaat ther breead o' life, +An' specially when they've plenty, + Fer t'childer an' ther wife. + +Bud I set off ageean at t'run, + Fer I weel understood, +If I gat owt fra that thear clahn, + It woddant do ma good. + +I' travellin' on I thowt I heeard, + As I went nearer t'tahn, +A thaasand voices i' mi ears, + Sayin' "John, whear are ta bahn?" + +In ivvery grocer's shop I pass'd, + A play-card I could see, +I' t'biggest type at e'er wod print-- + "There's nowt here, lad, fer thee." + +Wal ivvery butcher's shop I pass'd, + Asteead o' meit wor seen, +A mighty carvin'-knife hung up, + Reight fair afore mi een. + +Destruction wor invitin' me, + I saw it fearful clear, +Fer ivvery druggist window sed-- + "Real poison is sold here." + +At last I gav a frantic howl, + A shaat o' dreead despair, +I seized missen by t'toppin then, + An' shack'd an' lugged mi hair. + +Then quick as leetnin' ivver wor, + A thowt com i' mi heead-- +I'd tak a walk to t'Simetry, + An' meditate wi' t'deead. + +T'owd Church clock wor striking' t' time + At folk sud be asleep, +Save t'Bobbies at wor on ther beat, + An' t'Pindar after t'sheep. + +Wi' lengthen'd pace I hasten'd off + At summat like a trot; +Ta get ta t'place I started for, + Mi blood wor boiling hot. + +An' what I saw at Lackock Gate, + Rear'd up ageean a post, +I cuddant tell--but yet I thowt + It wor another goast! + +But whether it wor a goast or net, + I heddant time ta luke, +Fer I wor takken bi surprise + When turning t'Sharman's Nuke. + +Abaat two hunderd yards i' t'front, + As near as I could think, +I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise, + An' nah an' then a clink! + +Whativver can these noises be? + Some robbers, then I thowt!-- +I'd better step aside an' see, + They're happen up ta nowt! + +So I gat ower a fence ther wor, + An' peeping threw a gate, +Determin'd to be satisfied, + If I'd a while to wait. + +At last two figures com ta t'spot + Whear I hed hid misel, +Then walkers'-earth and brimstone, + Most horridly did smell. + +Wun on em hed a nine-tail'd cat, + His face as black as sooit, +His name, I think wor Nickey Ben, + He hed a clovven fooit. + +An' t'other wor all skin an' bone + His name wor Mr. Deeath; +Withaat a stitch o' clooas he wor, + An' seem'd quite aght o' breeath. + +He hed a scythe, I plainly saw, + He held it up aloft, +Just same as he wor bahn ta maw + Owd Jack O'Doodle's Croft. + +"Where are ta bahn ta neet, grim phiz?" + Sed Nickey, wi' a grin, +"Tha knaws I am full up below, + An' cannot tak more in." + +"What is't ta thee?" said Spinnel Shanks, + "Tha ruffin of a dog, +I'm nobbut bahn mi raands ageean, + Ta see wun John o't' Bog. + +"I cannot see it fer mi life, + What it's ta dew wi' thee; +Go mind thi awn affairs, owd Nick, + An' nivver thee heed me." + +"It is my business, Spinnel Shanks, + Whativver tha may say, +Fer I been rostin' t'human race + Fer monny a weary day." + +Just luke what wark, I've hed wi' thee, + This last two yer or so; +Wi' Germany an Italy, + An' even Mexico. + +An' then tha knaws that Yankey broil + Browt in some thaasands more; +An' sooin fra Abyssinia, + They'll bring black Theodore. + +"So drop that scythe, owd farren deeath, + Let's rest a toathree wick; +Fer what wi' t'seet o't' frying pan, + Tha knows I'm ommost sick." + +"I sall do nowt o't' sort," says Deeath, + Who spack it wi' a grin, +I's just do as I like fer thee, + So tha can hod thi din." + +This made owd Nick fair raging mad, + An' liftin' up his whip, +He gav owd Spinnel Shanks a lash + Across his upper lip. + +Then like a neighin' steed, lean Shanks, + To give owd Nick leg bail, +He started off towards the tahn, + Wi' Nick hard on his trail. + +Then helter-skelter off they went, + As ower t'fence I lape; +I thowt--well, if it matters owt, + I've made a nice escape. + +But nah the mooin began ta shine + As breet as it could be; +An dahn the vale of t'Aire I luked, + Whear I could plainly see. + +The trees wor deeadly pale wi' snaw, + An' t'windin' Aire wor still, +An' all wor quite save t'hullats, + At wor screamin' up o't' hill. + +Owd Rivock End an' all arahnd + Luk'd like some fiendish heead, +Fer t'more I star'd an' t'more I thowt + It did resemble t'deead. + +The Friendly Oaks wor alter'd nah, + Ta what I'd seen afore; +An' luk'd as though they'd nivver be + T'owd Friendly Oaks no more. + +Fer wun wor like a giant grim, + His nooas com to a point, +An' wi' a voice like thunner sed-- + "The times are aaght o't'joint!" + +An' t'other, like a whippin'-post, + Bud happen net as thin, +Sed "T' times el alter yet, owd fooil, + So pray nah, hod thi din!" + +I tuke no farther gawm o' them, + But paddl'd on mi way; +Fer when I ivver mak a vah, + I stick ta what I say. + +I heddant goan so far agean, + Afoar I heeard a voice, +Exclaiming--wi' a fearful groan-- + "Go mak a hoil i' t'ice!" + +I turned ma rahnd wheer t'sahnd com fro, + An' cautiously I bowed, +Sayin' "Thenk ye, Mr. Magic Voice, + I'm flaid o' gettin' cowd." + +But nah a sudden shack tuke place, + A sudden change o' scene; +Fer miles wheer all wor white afoar, + Wor nah a bottle-green. + +Then com a woman donn'd i' white, + A mantle gert shoo wore; +A nicer lukin', smarter form + I nivver saw afoar. + +Her featers did resemble wun + O' that kind-hearted lot, +'At's ivver ready to relieve + The poor man in his cot. + +Benevolence wor strongly mark'd + Upon her noble heead; +An' on her bruhst ye might ha' read, + "Who dees fer want o' breead?" + +In fact, a kinder-hearted soul + Owd Yorkshire cuddant boast; +An' who wod feel the least alarmed + Ta talk ta sitch a ghoast? + +I didn't feel at all afraid, + As nearer me shoo drew: +I sed--"Good evening, Mrs. Ghoast, + Hahivver do ye dew?" + +Sho nivver seem'd to tak no gawm, + Bud pointed up at t'mooin, +An' beckon'd me ta follow her + Reight dahn bi t'Wattery Loin. + +So on we went, an' dahn we turn'd, + An' nawther on us spak; +Bud nah an' then shoo twined her heead, + Ta see if I'd runn'd back. + +At t'last sho stopped and turned arahnd, + An' luk'd ma fair i' t'een; +'Twor nah I picked it aght at wunce, + Sho wor no human bein'. + +Sho rave a paper fra her bruhst, + Like some long theatre bill; +An' then shoo sed "Wake mortal, + Will ta read to me this will? + +"Bud first, afoar tha starts to read, + I'll tell thee who I is; +Tha lukes a dacent chap eniff-- + I judge it by thi phiz. + +"Well, I've a job fer thee to do-- + That is, if tha will do it; +I think tha'rt t'likliest man I knaw, + Becos tha art a poet. + +If I am not mistaen, mi friend, + I often hear thi name; +I think they call tha John o' t'Bog";-- + Says I--"Owd lass, it's t'same." + +"It's just so mony years this day, + I knaw it by mi birth, +Sin' I departed mortal life, + An' left this wicked earth. + +"But ere I closed these een to go + Into eternity, +I thowt I'd dew a noble act, + A deed o' charity. + +"I hed a bit o' brass, tha knaws, + Some land an' property; +I thowt it might be useful, John, + To folks i' poverty. + +"So then I made a will o't' lot, + Fer that did suit mi mind; +I planned it as I thowt wor t'best, + To benefit mankind. + +"I left a lot ta t' Grammar Skooil; + By reading t'will tha'll see, +That ivvery body's barn, tha knaws, + May hev ther skooilin' free. + +"An' if tha be teetotal, John-- + Tha may think it a fault-- +To ivvery woman liggin' in + I gav a peck o' malt. + +"Bud t'biggest bulk o' brass 'at's left, + As tha'll hev heeard afooar, +Wor to be dealt half-yearly + Among ahr Keighley poor. + +"I certainly did mak a flaw, + Fer which I've rued, alas! +'Twor them 'at troubled t'parish, John, + Sud hev no Feffee Brass. + +"An' nah, if tha will be so kind, + Go let mi trustees knaw +'At I sall be oblidg'd to them + To null that little flaw. + +"An' will ta meushun this an' all, + Wal tha's an interview?-- +Tell 'em to share t'moast brass to t'poor, + Whativver else they do. + +"Then I sall rest an' be at peace, + Both here an' when i' Heaven; +When them 'at need it will rejoice + Fer t'bit o' brass I've given; + +"An' tell 'em to remember thee + Upon t'next Feffee Day!" +I says--"I sallant get a meg, + I'm gettin' parish pay." + +So when shoo'd spokken what shoo thowt, + An' tell'd me what to do, +I ax'd her if shoo'd harken me, + Wal I just said a word or two. + +"I'll nut tell you one word o' lie, + As sure as my name's John; +I think at you are quite i' t'mist + Abaht things going on. + +"Folks gether in fra far an' near, + When it is Feffee Day, +An' think they hev another lowse, + Wi' t'little bit o' pay. + +"Asteead o' givin' t'brass to t'poor, + It's shocking fer to tell, +They'll hardly let 'em into t'door-- + I knaw it bi misell. + +"Asteead o' bein' a peck o' malt + Fer t'wimmen liggin' in, +It's geen to rascals ower-grown, + To drink i' rum an' gin. + +"Then them at is--I understand-- + What you may call trustees; +They hev ther favourites, you knaw, + An' gives to who they please. + +"Some's nowt to do but shew ther face, + An' skrew ther maath awry; +An' t'brass is shuvv'd into ther hand, + As they are passin' by. + +"There's monny a woman I knaw weel, + Boath middle-aged and owd, +'At's waited fer ther bit o' brass, + An' catch'd ther deeath o' cowd; + +"Wol mony a knave wi' lots o' brass + Hes cum i' all his pride, +An' t'flunkeys, fer to let him pass, + Hes push'd t'poor folk aside. + +"Fra Bradford, Leeds, an' Halifax, + If they've a claim, they come; +But what wi' t'railway fares an' drink, + It's done bi they get hooam. + +"Wol mony a poorer family + 'At's nut been named i' t'list, +Reight weel desarves a share o' t'spoil, + But, thenk ye, they are miss'd. + +"We see a man at hes a haase, + Or happen two or three, +They 'Mister' him, an' hand him aght + Five times as mitch as me. + +"'Twor better if yo'd teed yer brass + Tight up i' sum owd seck, +An' getten t'Corporation brooms, + To sweep it into t'beck." + +No longer like Capia's form, + Wi' a tear i' both her een, +But like the gallant Camilla, + The Volscian warrior Queen. + +Shoo, kneelin', pointed up aboon, + An' vah'd, be all so breet, +Sho'd wreak her vengence on ther heeads, + Or watch 'em day an' neet. + +Shoo call'd the Furies to her aid, + An' Dirae's names shoo used, +An' sware if I hed spocken t'truth, + Shoo hed been sore abus'd. + +"Alas, poor Ghoast!"--I sed to her-- + "Indeed, it is too true"; +Wi' that sho vanish'd aght o' t'seet, + Sayin' "Johnny lad, adieu!" + + + +In Memory of +THOMAS IRELAND, +_Police Superintendent_, _Keighley_. +BORN 1831, DIED 1887. + + + "He was a man, take him for all-in-all, we shall not look upon his + like again?"--SHAKSPEARE. + +Who knew his virtues must his death deplore +And long lament that Ireland is no more; +Set is the sun that shone with all its rays, +And claimed from every one their warmest praise. + +Mute are those lips, whose mildest accents spoke +Their sterling worth, down to the harmless joke; +Clear-seeing his soul, for lo! that mind was one +That envied nothing underneath the sun. + +To speak the truth, he never was afraid; +His country's weal, his country's laws obeyed; +A pensive calm reigned on his noble brow, +While in his eye you read the solemn vow:-- + +"I harm no one; no one will I betray; +My duty is to watch and see fair play; +My friendship is to no one set confined; +My heart and hand are given to all mankind." + +Oh ancient town of legendary strain +When will his place in thee be filled again! +For men like he, possessed of sterling worth, +Are few and far between upon the earth. + +Such was the man the weeping mourners mourn, +Lost to his friends, ah! never to return; +Fled to the spheres where he in peace must dwell, +While all who knew him bid a long farewell. + + + +A Yorkshireman's Christmas. + + +Aw hev ten or twelve pund o' gooid meit, + A small cheese an' a barrel o' beer; +Aw'll welcome King Kersmas to neet, + For he nobbut comes once in a year. + +Send ahr Will dahn ta Tommy Spoyle Wood's, + An' tell him ta send up a log; +An' tell him an' Betty to come, + For Tommy's a jolly owd dog. + +Aw mean ta forget all my debts, + An' aw mean ta harbour no grief; +Nobbut emptying glasses an' plates + O' their contents o' beer an' gooid beef. + +Them barns they care nowt abaht drink, + Like us 'at's advanced into years; +So Sally, lass, what does ta think, + If ta buys 'em some apples an' pears? + +Ahr David's a fine little lad, + An' ahr Nancy's a fine little lass; +When aw see 'em aw do feel so glad, + So bring me a quart an' a glass! + +Come, Sally, an' sit bi mi side, + We've hed both wur ups an' wur dahns; +Awm fane at aw made thee mi bride, + An' awm prahd o' both thee an' wur barns. + +We're as happy as them 'at's more brass, + In a festival holly-decked hall; +We envy no mortal, owd lass; + Here's peace an' good-will unto all! + +An' may ev'ry poor crater to neet, + If nivver before in his life, +Hev plenty to drink an' to eyt, + Fer both him, an' his barns, an' his wife. + + + +Lines on the Late +MR. THOMAS CRAVEN. + + +Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust-- + The friend we had but yesterday; +His spirit to the unknown land + Hath fled away. + +Ah! death's strong key hath turned the lock, + And closed again its ponderous door, +That ne'er for him shall ope again-- + Ah, nevermore! + +Now pity swells the tide of love, + And rolls through all our bosoms deep, +For we have lost a friend indeed; + And thus we weep. + + . . . . . . . + +'Twas his to learn in Nature's school + To love his fellow-creatures dear; +His bounty fed the starving poor + From year to year. + +But thou, pale moon, unclouded beam, + And O! ye stars, shine doubly bright, +And light him safe across the lake + To endless light! + + + +Gooise an' Giblet Pie. + + +A Kersmas song I'll sing, mi lads, + If ye'll bud hearken me; +An incident i' Kersmas time, + I' eighteen sixty-three; +Whithaht a stypher i' the world-- + I'd scorn to tell a lie-- +I dined wi a gentleman + O' gooise an' giblet pie. + +I've been i' lots o' feeds, mi lads, + An' hed some rare tucks-aght; +Blood-puddin days with killin' pigs, + Minch pies an' thumpin' tarts; +But I wired in, an' reight an' all, + An' supp'd when I wor dry, +Fer I wor dinin' wi' a gentleman + O' gooise an' giblet pie. + +I hardly knew what ail'd ma, lads, + I felt so fearful prahd; +Mi ears pricked up, mi collar rahse, + T'ards a hawf-a-yard; +Mi chest stood aght, mi charley in, + Like horns stuck aght mi tie; +Fer I dined wi' a gentleman + O' gooise an' giblet pie. + +I often think o' t'feed, mi lads, + When t' gentleman I meet; +Bud nauther on us speiks a word + Abaht that glorious neet; +In fact, I hardly can misel, + I feel so fearful shy; +Fer I ate a deal o' t'rosted gooise, + An' warm'd his giblet pie. + + + +The Grand Old Man. + + +I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth, +The grandest old statesman there is upon earth; +When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree, +He can level a nation as well as a tree. + +He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue +As fairly bewilder both old men and young; +He can make some believe that's black which is white, +And others believe it is morn when it's night. + +He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar; +His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war, +Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed, +He still went to Church the lessons to read. + +A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent, +In search of some money which long had been spent; +He blew up the forts, then commended his men, +And ordered them back to old England again. + +In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose, +No doubt he intended to crush all his foes; +But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne'er was afraid, +Then left him to perish without any aid. + +"If I," said poor Gordon, "get out of this place, +That traitor called Gladstone shall ne'er see my face-- +To the Congo I'll go, if I am not slain, +And never put foot in old England again." + +When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum, +And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom, +Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box, +Tho' he knew that old England was then on the rocks. + +He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill, +Our brave little army to torture and kill; +And while our poor fellows did welter in gore, +He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer. + +Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King, +To civilised England they captive did bring; +He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath, +Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death. + +"Had I done," says Bismark, "so much in my life, +As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife, +I could not at this day have looked in the face +Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race." + +He has tampered and tarnished his national fame; +He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim-- +Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween, +Not caring for honour of England or Queen. + +He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower, +As he stumps our great nation to get into power; +E'en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs, +That she will assist him to get on his legs. + + + +Ode to Bacchus. + + +Pueple god of joyous wit, + Here's to thee! +Deign to let the bardie sit + Near thy knee; +Thy open brow, and laughing eye, +Vanquishing the hidden sigh, +Making care before thee fly, + Smiling Bacchus, god of wine! + +Thy stream intoxicates my song, + For I am warm; +I love thee late, I love thee long; + Thou dost me charm; +I ever loved thee much before, +And now I love thee more and more, +For thou art loved the wide world o'er, + Charming Bacchus, god of wine! + +"Angels hear that angels sing," + Sang the bard, +While the muse is on the wing, + Pay regard; +See how Bacchus' nectar flows, +Healing up the heartstrings' woes, +Making friends, and _minus_ foes, + Gracious Bacchus, god of wine! + +Ever on thee I depend, + As my guest; +Thou wilt bring to me the friend + I love best; +Friendship is the wine of love; +Angels dwell with it above, +Cooing like the turtle-dove + Lovely Bacchus, god of wine! + +Laughing Genius, a "Good night!" + Yet, stay awhile! +Ere thou tak'st thy upward flight, + Upon me smile; +Drop one feather from thy breast +On the bard, that he may rest, +Then he will be doubly bless'd, + Glorious Bacchus, god of wine! + +Kings are great, but thou art just, + Night and day; +What are kings but royal dust-- + Birds of prey? +Though in splendour they may be-- +Menials bow, and bend the knee-- +Oh, let me dwell along with thee, + Famous Bacchus, god of wine! + + [Picture: Picture of plant] + + + +Sall o't' Bog. + + +Mi love is like the passion dock, + That grows i' t'summer fog; +An' tho' shoo's but a country lass, + I like mi Sall o' t'Bog. + +I walk'd her aght up Rivock End, + An' dahn a bonny dell, +Whear golden balls an' kahslips grow, + An' buttercups do smell. + +We sat us dahn on top o' t'grass, + Clois to a runnin' brook, +An' harken'd t'watter wagtails sing + Wi' t'sparrow, thrush, an' rook. + +Aw lockt her in mi arms, an' thowt + As t'sun shane in her een, +Sho wor the nicest cauliflaar + At ivver aw hed seen. + +'Twor here we tell'd wur tales o' love, + Beneath t'owd hezzel tree; +How fondly aw liked Sall o' t'Bog, + How dearly shoo loved me! + +An' if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall, + Aw vah bi all aw see, +Aw wish 'at aw mud be a kah, + An' it beleng ta thee. + +But aw hev plump fergetten nah + What awther on us said; +At onny rate we parted friends, + An' boath went hooam to bed. + + + +Song of the Months. + + +High o'er the hill-tops moan the wild breezes, + As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain: +See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes, + While comfort and plenty in palaces reign. + +Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean, + To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed: +As o'er the grim surge with his chariot in motion, + He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed. + +No more with the tempest the river is swelling, + No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower; +The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling + That spring is established with sunshine and shower. + +In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining, + And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees; +The white and the green in rich clusters entwining, + And sprinkling their sweets on the wings of the breeze. + +O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander? + What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye; +With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour, + At whose sight the last demon of winter doth fly? + +From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping, + While diamond dew-drops around her are spread; +She smiles thro' her tears like an infant that's sleeping, + And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled. + +The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers, + The mountains are blue in their distant array; +The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers, + Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flies away. + +How joyous the reapers their harvest songs singing + As they see the maid bring the flagon and horn; +And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging + Over meadows and pastures and barley and corn. + +'Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining, + To watch the rich vale as it brightens below; +'Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining, + To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow. + +Now is the time when biting old Boreas, + True to his calling, the tempests impend; +His hailstones in fury are pelting before us, + Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent. + +The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling, + The beasts of the forest from hunger do call; +There are desolate evenings, comfortless mornings, + And gloomy noontides for one and for all. + +Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December, + O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor; +Christmas is thine, and well we remember, + Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more. + + + +Bonnie Cliffe Castle. + + +Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! what sight can be grander? + Thou picture of beauty and joy to the eye, +So noble and grand in thy beauty and splendour + That envy must tremble as she passeth by. + +And long may'st thou flourish and bloom like the heather, + An honour to him who's thy founder so great, +And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather, + Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date. + +'Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level, + From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar, +Where Roman pack-horsemen more safely could travel, + In days when the Briton and Boman waged war. + +In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc, + The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey, +But Briton's brave sons amongst them made havoc, + And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way. + +Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes, + In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown, +Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches, + Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town. + +'Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence, + Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war; +A castle of love is thy only pretence, + A name that is higher and nobler by far. + +Thou 'mind'st me of five as kind-hearted brothers, + As ever set sail on the deep ocean's breast, +Whose lives have been spent in love toward others, + And while blessing others themselves have been blest. + +Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel, + On land or on water they fought and they won, +And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle! + Tower up to the heavens, which answer, "Well done!" + + + +Opening of Devonshire Park, +SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888. + + +Oh, well do we remember-- + For the news it was so pleasant-- +When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire + Made our famous town a present +Of a pretty little garden-- + An Arcadia in its way-- +And how the bells rang merrily + On that eventful day. + +Oh, this lovely little garden + 'Twill be to us a pleasure, +It will delight the great elite-- + To them 'twill be a treasure. +And who are they who dare to say + The town it did not need one-- +A pretty little lovely spot + And a happy little Eden. + +In this pretty little Paradise + Of beauty and of splendour-- +Search our land from end to end, + You could not find a grander; +The turtledove can make its love, + Not caring for the pigeon, +If he belongs his politics + And follows his religion. + +In this pretty little garden, + When the bloom is on the heather, +Two minds with but one single thought + Can tell their tales together; +The maiden from the mansion, + And the lady from the villa, +Can wander there and shed a tear + Beneath the weeping willow. + +This bonny little garden + Is fine for perambulators, +Where our handsome servant-lasses + Can wheel our lovely creatures, +And oh! how happy they will be! + As time they are beguiling, +When the mammy and the daddy + Are upon the babies smiling. + +Oh! this pretty little garden, + Which every one admires, +Which pleased His Grace the Noble Duke + To give our little squires. +The news was something wonderful, + Like the shooting of a rocket, +When they heard that they had got a Park, + And were "nothing out o'pocket." + +In this pretty little garden, + With all its blossom blooming +We can sit and sing the whole day long, + From the morning till the gloaming; +And tell Dame Keighley's blunders, + When her sons were naught but asses; +And could not even raise a Park, + To please the upper classes. + +Then let us give the Noble Duke, + The praises of the Borough-- +For if we did not thank His Grace, + We should commit an error-- +And not forgetting Mr. Leach, + For he deserves rewarding, +For it is known he got the town + This pretty little garden. + + [Picture: Picture of a rose] + + + +Farewell to the +REV. H. J. LONGSDON, +Formerly Rector of Keighley. + + +Farewell dear friend, nor take it hard, + To leave the town where thou hast been, +Where many a joy we hope thou'st had, + Though witness'd many a sorry scene. + +Thy works were good, we know it well, + We watched thee in thy weary toil; +Where oft obstruction, shame to tell, + Waits on the good their plans to spoil. + +Yet thou dids't toil without a fear + From day to day, from year to year; +Beloved by all, thy foes are few, + And they are loth to bid adieu. + +We saw thee in the early dawn + Up with the lark at break of morn, +Thy duties promptly to attend, + Our shepherd, pastor, and our friend. + +With good advice to one and all, + The old, the young, the great, the small; +In lane or house, in church or street, + Thy presence we were glad to meet. + +"Thou art a man! a man! a man!" + The Poet quotes from some old play; +"An upright, honest gentleman, + Whose likes we meet not every day." + +And when thou leavest us behind, + Our recollections will not die-- +Of thee whose meekness, zeal, and love, + Are known alike to low and high. + +Out from thy fold, all other flocks + Were proud of thee--a shepherd true, +All other shepherds greeted thee, + Although thy flocks to theirs were few. + +Thou tended with a shepherd's care, + And saw that none did go astray; +Thou led them with an honest will, + From early morn to evening's ray. + +Adieu, dear sir, long may'st thou live + To be a credit to our isle; +And when thou toil'st 'midst other friends, + May fortune on thy labours smile. + + [Picture: Decorative picture of a plant] + + + +He's Thy Brother. + + +Turn from the rich thy steps awhile, +And visit this poor domicile; +Abode of flavours rank and vile? +This is the home, and this the style, + Where lives thy brother! + +The cobwebs are his chandeliers; +Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs; +He has no carpet on the stairs, +But, like the wild beasts to their lairs, + Crawls in thy brother. + +He once did stride his father's knee-- +A little horseman bold and free; +And, should thou trace this pedigree, +Thy mother's darling pet was he-- + Thy little brother. + +His mind was not of thine, 'tis plain; +He dreamt of wonders, thou of gain; +But thou thy object didst attain +For which another sought in vain-- + E'en thy own brother. + +Thou cunningly didst keep thy pace, +While he joined in the wild-goose chase; +Thou'rt now the great one of this place, +While he hath lost his phantom race-- + Thy wretched brother! + +I see a form amongst the crowd, +With stricken heart, and head that's bowed; +I hear a voice, both deep and loud-- +A voice of one that wanted food-- + It is thy brother. + +The meanest wretch that ever trod, +The smallest insect 'neath the sod, +Are creatures of an All-seeing God, +Who may have smitten with his rod + Thy foolish brother. + +He careth not for wealth or show, +But dares thee to neglect, e'en now, +That unmanned wretch, so poor and low, +Else he may deal a heavy blow, + E'en for thy brother. + + + +Lund's Excursion to Windermere. + + +Come hither mi muse, an' lilt me a spring, +Tho'daghtless awhile tha's been on the wing; +But yet tha mun try to cum up ta t'mark, +An' give us sum rhyme for a bit of a lark: +An' tho' at thy notes in this sensation age, +Wiseacres may giggle an' critics may rage, +Thou art my sole hobby there is no mistake, +So sing us t'Excursion ta Windermere Lake. + +'Twor a fine summer's mornin' as ivver wor seen, +All nature wor wearin' her mantle o' green; +The birds wor all singin' i' owd Cockle Wood, +As if by their notes they all understood, +As weel as the people who com wi' a smile, +To see the procession march off i' grand style. + +"Owd Rowland," the bell wi' his gert iron tongue, +Proclaim'd to the people both owd an' young, +'Twor high time to rise for each moment wor dear +As t'train wod be startin' fer Lake Windermere; +An' Rowland, the bell, didn't toll, sir, i' vain, +For hunderds wur ready ta start for the train. + +But harken what music--grand music is here, +Ower maantains, dahn valleys, it's saanding so clear; +It's t'Turkey Mill Band wi ther sharps and ther flats, +I' ther blue an' green coits an' ther red-toppin'd hats, +'Tis plain whear they're bahn wi' t'long paces they take, +An' they'll play wi' some vengeance at Windermere Lake. + +But, harken ageean! what's comin' this way? +More music, grand music; hey, hear how they play! +It's t'Fife an' Drum Band fra Throttlepoke Raw, +Wi' as strong a big drummer as ivver yah saw, +An' both his drum ends must be solid as stone, +Fer bi t'way 'at he thumps he macks it fair groan. + +The procession moves off in a double quick pace, +An' all seem delightful--a smile on ther face, +As the music strikes up wi' owd "Robin a Dair," +Toan hauf o' t'wimmen scarce knaw what they ail; +To see the bands marching it wod yah delight, +So ably conducted by owd Jimmy Wright. + +The weivers led on by Miss Hob an' Miss Hall, +Each dress'd i' ther jackets, new turban, an' fall, +An' if you'd o' seen 'em you'd o' thowt they wor fine, +Wi' ther nice parasols an' ther gert crinoline; +But as they wor marchin' foaks sed at Miss Hob, +Wor t'nicest and smartest young woman i' t'job. + +T'next section 'at followed wor a section o' rakes, +Led on by owd blossom, an' Driver o' Jacques, +Wi' Ruddock an' Rufus, an' Snowball so breet; +Along wi' owd Nathan, Bill Rollin an' Wreet; +An' Harry O'Bridget, Tom Twist, an' his pals, +An' Benger, an' Capper, an' Jonas o Salls. + +The lads an' the lasses come marchin' behind, +An' rare an' weel suited wor t'youngsters yo mind; +For all wor nah waitin' fer t'Fife an' Drum Band, +To strike up like thunner ther music so grand; +How prahd an' delighted yo might a seen some, +When t'drummer wi' vengeance wor thumpin' his drum. + +An' who cud hev thowt it?--but let ma go on;-- +There wor Jacky o' Squires an' Cowin' Heead John, +Wi' Corney o' Rushers, but not bi hissen, +For there wor Joseph o' Raygills, owd Jess an' owd Ben. +Ye sall seek fer a month, but between nah an' then, +I defy ye ta find sitch a pick'd lot o' men. + +Tom Nicholl then marched at t'heead of his clan, +An' it's said 'at he muster'd his men to a man; +There wor Joaney o' Bobs, an' his mates full o' glee, +An' that little dark fella 'at comes fra t'Gooise Ee. +All a set o' fine fellas in heighest respect, +Weel up i' moustaches an' nicely shirt neckt. + +But among the procession at walk'd in his pride, +Wor Joey o' Willie's 'at lives at t'Beck Side; +An' along wi' Bill Earby wor marchin' his friend, +Wun Jemmy o' Roses fra t'Branshaw Moor End. +As we pass'd dahn t'tahn the foaks did declare +'At t'best lukin' men wor Sam Butt an' Black Hare. + +But t'next at com on an' made t'biggest crack, +Wor t'gallant Big-benners led on wi' Bill Shack; +An' t'spectators praised 'em an' seem'd i' ther joy, +When they saw Johnny Throstle, an' Nolan an' Boy. +Altho' not weel up i' ther armour an mail, +Yet these are the lads 'at can tell yu a tale. + +Hahsumivver, we push'd an' thrusted thro' t'craad, +Wal we landed at t'station an' waited i' t'yard; +So we all sattled dahn, for we thowt it t'best plan +To wait o' wer orders to get into t'train. + +Hahsumivver, after a deal o' yellin' an' screamin' o' t'injuns, Mr. Mann +sed all wor reight nah, an' they mud start as sooin as they liked, for +ivverybody wor i' t'train at wor bahn, but owd Pally Pickles an' Matty o' +Maude's; an' their Sally cudn't go becos they had a mustard plaister to +put on to their Roger's chest; he'd strain'd his lungs wi' eitin' +cahcumbers. Beside, owd Pally cudn't go either, becos shoo'd nobody to +wait on t'owd fella at wor laid up i' t'merly grubs; an' ivverybody wor +so taen on abaght Will Scott not going, for, as owd Betty sed, what wod +they do if ther legs gat asleep an' no galvanic battery to shack em +reight ageean? + +But, hahsumivver, t'guard blew his whistle an' off t'train started +helter-skelter up bi Utley as hard as ivver it cud go. An nah for a +change o' scene!--fer t'Exley-Heeaders aght wi ther rhubub pasties an' +treacle parkins. Harry o' Bridget's hed a treacle parkin t'size of a +pancake in his hat crahn, an' Joe o' owd Grace's fra Fell Loin hed a gert +bacon collop in his pocket t'size of a oven tin. Somebody remarks, +"Tha'll grease thi owd chops wi' that, Joe." He sed "I like a bit o' +bacon when it isn't reezed, tha knaws, especially home-fed like this"; +but just when he wor exhibitin' it rhaand t'hoile, t'train stopp'd at +Kilwick Station, fer t'maister an' t'missis wor waitin' to get in; so +t'Turkey Mill Band struck up "We're goin' home to glory," wi' credit to +both t'conductors an' thersens. Hahsumivver, they wor forced to put +double time in at t'latter end, for Puffin' Billy started o' screaming +ageean fearfully, so all wor in t'carriages an' off in a crack--my word, +they did leg it ower hedges an' dykes, thru valleys an' mahutains-- + +"Where the wind nivver blew, + Nor a cock ivver crew, +Nor the deil sahnded + His Bugle Horn." + +I'll assure yu, foak, it seemed varry little afoar we wor at Clapham. +Why, yu can judge for yersens; when Tom o' Twist's gat up an' popped his +heead aght o' t'window an' shaated aaght "We're at Derby already!" but it +turned aght to be nowt but a coil truck wi' "Derby" marked on it. Well, +be it as it may, we landed at Lancaster sooin, an' some o' t'owd maids +gat aght here, but it wor nivver knawn to this day what for; hahsumivver, +it hes been suspected at they wor after some watter, for ther shooin wor +steepin' wet when they com back. But yu mun knaw at after a deal o' +twistin' an' twinin' they started for Windermere, but, my word, it +worrant generally thowt so, for owd Nathan o' Johnny's an' their Samuel, +an' owd Matty o' Sykes's, an' Bob o' t'Bog, stood it boldly 'at it wor +goin' back to Keighley, an' wodant believe it wal they reitched Kendal; +besides, ivverybody thowt at t'train wor lost, but after another start we +landed at Windermere, an' nearly all t'passengers wor fair capp'd, for +they thowt for sewer at t'injun hed been flaid wi' summat. + +But, hod yer din, says Railway Tim, + As it is varry clear, +At t'injun's reight an' landed streight, + For this is Windermere. + +So, i' landing, ivverbody seemed quite startled wi' t'appearance o' +t'place. "Well, if ivver, I'm fair capp'd!', sed owd Maude o' Peter's, +"it's t'nicest spot I ivver saw wi' mi een, an' I sall say so to mi +deein' day. It looks like a paradise! I've seen mony a nice place i' mi +life-time, both dreamin' an' wakin', but this licks all! What wi' +t'grand black marble houses an' t'roses growin' up at t'front, it's +ommost like bein' i' Heaven." But nobody cud hear aboon t'toan hauf o' +what wor said cos t'bands wor playin' as hard as ivver they cud an' +t'foak wor all in a bussle, for-- + +Miss Hob an' Miss Jonas tuke a cab dahn to Bowness, + An' mind yu, they luk'd fearful grand; +An' when they gat theer they tuke fer Grassmere, + Like two o' t'first ladies i' t'land. + +Miss Walsh an' Miss Roddy an' another young body, + Bethowt 'em 'at it wod be t'best, +To tak a fine boat an' just hev a float + Dahn the lake as far as Dove's Nest. + +Says Miss Nelly Holmes, "as I've left off mi looms + I'll show at I'm summat better; +An' I'll go ta Low Wood, it might do ma good, + An' sport both on t'land an' on t'watter." + +Hahsumivver, Miss Martha Smith fra Utley, an owd maid, an' Jenny Hodgson, +an' Ann Shack, an' abaght nineteen other owd maids, bethowt 'em they'd +hev some teah, for there wor a paper stuck i' ivvery window wi' "Hot +water sold here," as an inscription. So they went in an' bargain'd for +it, an' ax'd what it wor a piece fer hot waiter. "Tuppence a piece," says +t'Missis. "Tuppence a piece!" exclaim'd t'dollop of 'em, "we can get it +at owd Matty Wreet's fer a penny a week. It's a burning shame, but let's +hev a bucket +a piece." + +So thirteen cups a piece they tuke, + An' they were noan ta blame, +Fer weel shoo knew did Hannah Shack, + They'd hev to pay the same. + +An' my word, t'gert foak wor capp'd when they saw us; these wor some +squintin' throo glasses, yu mind, an' especially when t'band started a +playin'. In fact, they wor fair charm'd wi' t'Turkey Mill Banders, an' a +deal o' t'young ladies an' gentlemen admired t'conductor, fer his arm +went just like a hand-loom weiver swingin' his pickin' stick. + +Fer monny a noble lord did say, + An' so did monny a heiress, +"Can this be Julien's Band, I pray, + That late we've seen in Paris. + +"Upon my word, I think it is + That famous French instructor, +Mon Dieu! when I behold his phiz, + It is the great conductor." + +But they wor t'moast capped wi' t'Fife an' Drum Band ov owt. They tuke +'em to be a band of Esquimaux at hed just landed i' England. +Hahsumivver, we followed after, marchin' ta t'tune 'at t'owd kah deed on, +i' droves like a squad o' pie-bald geese, wal we com ta t'watter edge, +an' then-- + +To Miller's Brah, an' Calf-garth Woods, + Some on 'em tuke ther route, +Some sailed across to Castle Wray, + An' some went whear they thowt. + +Some tuke a yacht to Newby Brig, + To brave both wind an' tide, +Wal others sailed around Belle Isle, + An' some to Ambleside. + +I' landin' at Ambleside, Joe o' Raygill's bethowt him he'd hev a glass o' +ale, an' bethegs he'd t'misfortun to leave three gert curnberry pasties +i' t'hotel, an' didn't bethink him wal he'd getten on ta t'top of a big +hill, but when he bethowt him, my word, he did bounce dahn that hill ta +some tune. When he gat back, t'missis hed geen 'em to Jonas o' Sall's, +an' behold they wor luking fer one another up hills an' dahn valleys, Joe +axin' ivverybody he met if they'd seen owt of his three pasties, an' +Jonas axin' fer t'owner on 'em. Hahsumivver, they nivver gat ta see nowt +wal they wor theer, for they didn't meet wal t'train wor just startin' +back agean, an' then Joe didn't get his pasties, cos Jonas hed geen 'em +to a injun-driver, an' theer--betmess he'd hetten 'em, ta Joe's +mortification an' rage! + +But, that worn't all t'mistak at wor made; fer Bill Rollins bethowt him +at he'd lost summat, but cudn't tell fer his life what it wor. He groped +his pockets, luk'd into his carpet beg, an' studied fer aboon an haar; at +last he pick'd it aght 'at it wor their Peg 'at he'd lost somewheer up on +t'mahntens. + +Well, as I wor tellin' yu, we'd promenaded t' gigantic hills an' +beautiful valleys, intermix'd wi' ower-hingin' peaks an' romantic +watter-falls which form part o' t'grand Lake scenery of ahr English +Switzerland to the delight of ivvery one o' t'excursionists. T'day +beginnin' to advance, an' "back agean" bein' t'word i' ivverybody's +maath, yu cud see t'fowk skippin' ower t'Lake ("Home-ward bound," as +t'song says), some in a Indian canoe, some in a Venetian gondolier; owd +Ben Rusher wor in a Chinese junk, somebody sed. But, haivver, hunderds +mud be seen on board o' t'steam yachts comin' fra Newby Brig an' +Ambleside. Fra t'latter place t'steamer wor fair craaded wi' foak, for +i' t'first class end ther wor Mr. an' Mrs. Lund an' their illustrious +friends, Mr. Mann an' staff wi' a parson an' four of his handsome +dowters; at t'other end wor a German Band, some niggers, Jimmy Wright, +jun., alias Jim o' Peggy's, wi' a matter o' one hunderd Ranters rhaand +him. Jim wod hev his lip in; but he's a rare chorus singer, there's nowt +abaght that; for, my word, t'strangers did praise him aboon a bit, an' +weel he desarved it, fer he gap'd like a young throstle, wal t'foak wor +fair charm'd, an' 'specially t'Germans an' t'niggers 'at wor on deck, fer +they'd nivver heeard onny chorus-singin' afoar they heeard Jim strike +up-- + +We're joyously sailin' ower the lake, + Bound fer t'opposite shore; +An' which o' yu's fooil enuff ta believe + We sall nivver see land onny more. + + Let the hurrican roar, + Sall we ivver land onny more. + +The skilful pilot's at the wheel, + An' his mate is watchin' near; +So the captain shouts "Cheer up, mi lads, + There's nobody nowt to fear." + + Then let the hurrican roar, + We sall reitch the opposite shore. + +An' summat abaght "the evergreen shore" he sang. But what wi' +t'beautiful landscapes on both sides o' t'Lake, an' t'recollections o' +Wordsworth, Wilson, Mrs. Hemans, Harriet Martineau, an' other famous +poets, painters, an' authors, it threw one of our party into a kind o' +poetical mood-- + +For wal he stood upon the deck, + He oft wor heeard to say, +"I'd raither oomo to Windermere, + Nor go to Morecambe Bay; +An' though I've been to Malsis Hall, + Where it is fearful grand, +It's nowt at all compared wi' this-- + The nicest place i' t'land. + +For, O how splendid is the Lake, + Wi' scenery like this! +If I cud nobbut stop a week, + It wod be nowt amiss; +A resolution nah I'll mack, + T'next summer what to do;-- +Asteead o' comin' for a day, + I'll stop a week or two." + +But nah we land at Bowness Pier, + Then sooin we jump ashore, +An' back to t'Station we did steer, + For rare an' pleased we wor: +So into t'train for back agean, + Owd friends once more to meet; +An' in a crack we're landed back-- + Bi ten o'clock at neet. + +All join i' praise to Mr. Mann, + For t'management he made; +An' praise the gallant Turkey Band, + For t'music 'at they play'd: +An' praise is due fra ivvery one + 'At shared i' this diversion; +All praise an' thanks to Mr. Lund, + Who gav this grand Excursion. + + + +The Tartan Plaid. + + +In Auld Lang Syne I've heard 'em say + My granny then she wore +A bonnie Scottish Tartan Plaid + In them good days o' yore; +An' weel I ken when I was young + Some happy days we had, +When ladies they were dress'd so gay + In Scottish Tartan Plaid. + +Me thinks I see my father now + Sat working at his loom-- +I see my mother at the wheel-- + In our dear village home; +The swinging-stick I hear again, + Its buzzin' makes me sad, +To think those happy days are gone + When weaving Tartan Plaid. + +It is not in a clannish view, + For clans are naught to me, +But 'tis our ancient Tartan Plaid + I dearly love to see. +'Tis something grand ye will agree + To see a Highland lad, +Donn'd in his Celtic native garb, + The grand old Tartan Plaid. + +Our Soldier lads in tartan kilts + Outshine our warriors bold +(Who dress in scarlet, green, and blue, + Decked off with shining gold); +Just see our kilted lads so brave, + It makes my heart feel glad, +And 'minds me of my boyish days + When dress'd in Tartan Plaid. + +"O wad some power" the hint we give + Our Sovereign Lady Queen, +To dress herself and lady maids + In bonnie tartan sheen. +Then treadles, shuttles, warp, and weft-- + (For trade would not be bad)-- +Would rattle as in days of yore, + When weaving Tartan Plaid. + + + +The Pauper's Box. + + +Thou odious box, as I look on thee, +I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me? +No, no! forbear!--yet then, yet then, +'Neath thy grim lid do lie the men-- +Men whom fortune's blasted arrows hit, +And send them to the pauper's pit. + +O dig a grave somewhere for me, +Deep underneath some wither'd tree; +Or bury me on the wildest heath, +Where Boreas blows his wildest breath, +Or 'mid some wild romantic rocks: +But, oh! forbear the pauper's box. + +Throw me into the ocean deep, +Where many poor forgotten sleep; +Or fling my corpse in the battle mound, +With coffinless thousands 'neath the ground; +I envy not the mightiest dome, +But save me from a pauper's tomb. + +I care not if t'were the wild wolf's glen, +Or the prison yard, with wicked men: +Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled-- +Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world! +In fire or smoke on land or sea, +Than thy grim lid be closed on me. + +But let me pause, ere I say more +About thee, unoffending door; +When I bethink me, now I pause, +It is not thee who makes the laws, +But villians who, if all were just, +In thy grim cell would lay their dust. + +But yet, t'were grand beneath yond wall, +To lie with friends,--relations all; +If sculptured tombstones were not there, +But simple grass with daisies fair; +And were it not, grim box, for thee +'Twere paradise, O cemetery. + + + +The Vale of Aire. + + +[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but +little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley. +My spirits began to be cheered, for lively gratitude glowed in my heart +at the wild romantic scenery before me. Passing the old mansion, I +wended my way towards the huge crag called the "Altar Rock." Wild and +rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my +mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, +where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the +branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, +made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, +and reclining on a green moss-covered bank, I framed these words.] + +Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard, + Accept from me at least one tributary line; +Yet how much more should be thy just reward, + Than any wild unpolished song of mine. + +No monument in marble can I raise, + Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name; +But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, + And give applause that thou shouldst duly claim. + +All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, + And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains; +All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, + Beneath whose shades wild Nature's grandeur reigns. + +From off yon rock that rears its head so high, + And overlooks the crooked river Aire; +While musing Nature's works full meet the eye, + The envied game, the lark and timid hare. + +In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley's hill, + In Bingley's grand and quiet sequestered dale, +Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill, + I see thy haunt and read thy "Poacher's Tale." + +So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune + Thy native vale in glorious days of old, +Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone-- + Her sages and her heroes great and bold. + +No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, + The free-born muse detests that servile part: +In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find + More grandeur far than all the gloss of art. + +Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, + And humble worth unheeded pass along; +Ages to come will sing the "Yale of Aire," + Her Nicholson and his historic song. + +[Picture: Picture of a tree] + + + +Fra Haworth ta Bradford. + + +Fra Haworth tahn the other day, + Bi t'route o' Thornton Height, +Joe Hobble an' his better hauf, + Went inta Bradford straight. + +Nah Joe ta Bradford hed been before, + But shoo hed nivver been; +But hahsumivver they arrived + Safe inta t'Bowlin' Green. + +They gav a lad a parkin pig, + As on the street they went; +Ta point 'em aght St. George's Hall, + An' Ostler's Monument. + +Bud t'little jackanapes bein'deep, + An' thowt they'd nivver knaw, +Show'd Joseph Hobble an' his wife + T'first monument he saw. + +As sooin as Joe gat up ta t'rails, + His een blaz'd in his heead; +Exclamin', they mud just as weel + A gooan an' robb'd the deead. + +Bud whoivver's ta'en them childer dahn, + Away fra poor owd Dick, +Desarves his heead weel larapin, + Wi' a dahn gooid hazel stick. + +T'lad seein' Joe froth aght o' t'maath, + He sooin tuke to his heels, +Fer asteead o' t'Ostler's Monument, + He'd shown 'em Bobby Peel's. + + + +The Veteran. + + +I left yon fields so fair to view; + I left yon mountain pass and peaks; +I left two een so bonny blue, + A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks. +For an helmet gay and suit o' red + I did exchange my corduroy; +I mind the words the Sergeant said, + When I in sooth was but a boy. + +"Come, rouse my lad, be not afraid; + Come, join and be a brave dragoon: +You'll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, + To captain be promoted soon. +Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see + Your manly form and dress so fine; +Give me your hand and follow me,-- + Our troop's the finest in the line. + +"The pyramids beheld our corps + Drive back the mighty man of Fate! +Our ire is felt on every shore, + In every country, clime, or state. +The Cuirassiers at Waterloo + We crushed;--they were the pride of France! +At Inkerman, with sabre true, + We broke the Russ and Cossack lance! + +"Then come, my lad, extend your hand, + Tame indolence I hold it mean; +Now follow me, at the command, + Of our Most Gracious Sovereign Queen! +A prancing steed you'll have to ride; + A bonny plume will deck your brow; +With clinking spurs and sword beside,-- + Come! here's the shilling: take it now!" + +The loyal pledge I took and gave,-- + It was not for the silver coin; +I wished to cross the briny wave, + And England's gallant sons to join. +Since--many a summer's sun has set, + An' time's graved-care is on my brow, +Yet I am free and willing yet + To meet old England's daring foe. + + + +Address to the Queen, +JUNE 20th, 1887. + + + _To the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty_. + +Most Gracious Sovereign Lady, Victoria Alexandra Guelph, Queen of the +hearts of her people throughout all civilisation, one of your Majesty's +loyal and faithful subjects desires most respectfully to approach your +Majesty to congratulate you upon the completion of the fiftieth year of +your reign. In the same year of your Majesty's coronation, in a wild +part of old Yorkshire, where it is said the wind never blew nor the cock +ever crew, was your Most Gracious Majesty's humble servant born; and at +the very hour that your Majest ascended the Throne, a kind, good +Yorkshire mother was rocking her baby in an old oak cradle, while the +father was treading the treadles and picking the shuttle of his old +hand-loom to the tune of "Britons never shall be slaves"; and I am proud +to convey to your Majesty that the child in the old oak cradle was no +less a person than your Majesty's humble and obedient servant, Bill o'th' +Hoylus End, Poet and Philosopher to the plebians of Keighley, and who now +rejoices in the fiftieth year of your Majesty's reign that he has been +blessed with good health during that long period, having had at no time +occasion to call in a physician. John Barleycorn has been my medical +adviser, and when I begin to review the fifty years of your most +illustrious reign, from my birth, I feel grateful indeed, for great and +mighty men and nations have risen and fallen; but I am proud to think +that your Most Gracious Majesty and your humble servant have weathered +the storm, and I also can assure your Majesty that the lukewarm loyalty +of the upper ten is not a sample of people here, for during the latter +half of your Majesty's reign up to now prosperity has shone upon the once +crooked, old, mis-shapen town, for wealth has been accumulated to the +tune of millions, which I am sorry to inform your Majesty is in the hands +of those who mean to keep it. One portion of your Majesty's lukewarm +loyal subjects have the advancement of art and science so much on the +brain that it is feared they will go stark mad. I have also much +pleasure in informing your gracious Majesty that His Grace the Duke of +Devonshire has presented the people of Keighley with a plot of ground to +be called the Devonshire Park, which will be opened on the occasion of +your Majesty's Jubilee; also that Henry Isaac Butterfield, Esquire, of +bonny Cliffe Castle, has erected a noble-looking structure, to be called +the Jubilee Tower, which will be opened on the day of your Majesty's +Grand Jubilee, to commemorate your Majesty's glorious reign. This +gentleman is a native of Keighley, and fairly entitled to be knighted by +your gracious Majesty, seeing that he has done more to beautify the town +than all the rest. It has also been given out that the town has to be +honoured by a royal visit from your Majesty's grandson, Prince George. +But pray take a fool's advice, your Majesty, and don't let him come +unless he is able to pay his own expenses; for I can assure His Royal +Highness that this is the city of number oneism. Yet with the exception +of parting with the bawbees, I dare be sworn that your Majesty's subjects +in Keighley are the grand and genuine men of the shire, take them in art +and science, flood or field. + +I sincerely hope that your Most Gracious Majesty will excuse the blunt +and out-spoken Bard, who will ever remain your Majesty's most humble and +obedient servant,--BILL O'TH' HOYLUS END. + +P.S.--I beg your Majesty's most humble pardon, for since I addressed your +most gracious Majesty a note has come to me stating that the Brewers, +Bakers, Shoemakers, and Tailors, have subscribed and bought a splendid +Ox, which will be roasted and served to the poor on the occasion of the +celebration of your most gracious Majesty's Jubilee. + +Then Hail to England's Gracious Queen! + 'Tis now proclaimed afar, +The Jubilee of our Gracious Queen, + The Empire's Guiding Star. +For fifty years she's been to us + A Monarch and a Mother; +And looks her subjects in the face + As Sister or a Brother. + +Then here's a health to England's Queen + Whom Jove to us hath given; +A better Monarch ne'er has been + Beneath His starry heaven. +There is no man of any clan, + O'er any land or sea, +But what will sing "God bless our Queen" + On her grand Jubilee. + +The world looks on Old England's Queen + In danger for protection; +Nor never yet hath England failed + To make her grand correction. +"Fair play," she cries, no one shall harm + A child beneath my realm; +I'm Captain of Great Britain's barque + And standing at the helm. + +Had England trusted wicked men, + This day where had she been? +But lo! she had a Guiding Star, + 'Twas our dear Mother Queen. +There is no foe, where'er you go + This day, I vow, could hate her; +She's a blessing to her nation, + And a terror to a traitor. + +As she has been, long may she reign, + The Grand Old Queen of Britain; +In letters of bright gold her name + Henceforward should be written. +All nations 'neath the stars above, + And canopy of heaven, +Rejoice to see her Jubilee + In Eighteen Eighty-seven. + + + +Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday. + + +Weak bard, but thou dost try in vain +To tune that mighty harp again, +To try thy muse in Burns's strain-- + Thou'rt far behind. +And yet to praise him thou would'st fain-- + It is thy mind. + +He who sang of Bruce's command +At Bannockburn, with sword in hand, +And bid his warriors firmly stand + Upon the spot; +And bid the foemen leave the land, + Or face the Scot. + +He who freed the human mind +Of superstitious weak and blind; +He who peered the scenes behind + Their holy fairs-- +How orthodox its pockets lined + With canting prayers. + +Yes; he whose life's short span appears +Mixed up with joyous smiles and tears; +So interwove with doubts and fears + His harp did ring; +And made the world to ope' its ears + And hear him sing. + +'Twas his to walk the lonely glen, +Betimes to shun the haunts of men, +Searching for his magic pen-- + Poetic fire; +And far beyond the human ken + He strung the lyre. + +And well old Scotland may be proud +To hear her Burns proclaimed aloud, +For to her sons the world hath bowed + Through Burns's name-- +All races of the world are proud + Of Burns's fame. + + + +Trip to Malsis Hall. + + +The day wor fine, the sun did shine, + No signs o' rain to fall, +When t'North Beck hands, i' jovial bands, + Did visit Malsis Hall. + +Up by the hill o' North Beck Mill, + Both owd an' young did meet; +To march I trow, i' two-by-two, + Procession dahn the street. + +An' Marriner's Band, wi' music grand, + Struck up wi' all ther might; +Then one an' all, both great an' small, + March'd on wi' great delight. + +The girls an' boys, wi' jovial noise, + The fife an' drum did play; +For ivvery one wod hev some fun + On this eventful day. + +Owd Joan o' Sall's wi' all his pals, + March'd on wi' all ther ease: +Just for a lark, some did remark, + "There goes some prime owd cheese!" + +T'Exl' Heead chaps wi' their girt caps, + An' coits nut quite i' t'fashion; +Wi' arms ding-dong, they strut along, + An' put a famous dash on. + +Tom Wilkins dress'd up in his best, + T'owd wife put on her fall, +Fer they wor bent, what com or went, + To dine at Malsis Hall. + +Ther wor Tommy Twist among the list, + Wi' his magenta snaht; +He's often said sin he gat wed, + T'owd lass sud hev an aght. + +Among the lot wor owd Sam Butt, + As fine as owd Lord Digby; +An' owd Queer Doos, wi' his streit shoes, + An' wi' him Joseph Rigby. + +There's Jimmy Gill, o' Castle Hill,-- + That gentleman wi' t'stick,-- +There's Will an' Sam, an' young John Lamb, + An' Ben an' Earby Dick. + +I scorn to lie--the reason why + It is a shame awm sure! +But among the job wor owd Joe Hob, + Behold! a perfect kewer. + +I'd quite forgot, among the lot, + There too wor Pally Pickles, +Wi' crinoline shoo walks so fine, + Shoo's like a cat i' prickles. + +Bud to mi tale--aw mussant fail + I' owt on this occasion-- +Wi' heead erect, an' girt respect, + We march to Keighley Station. + +Nah--all reight fain gat into t'train, + Owd Ned began to screeam; +Then Master Pratt doft off his hat, + An' just pept aght at t'steeam. + +This jovial band when they did land, + Got off the train so hearty, +For they all went, wi' that intent, + To hev a grand tea-party! + +The country foak did gape an' luke, + To see us all delighted, +An' ivvery one did say "Begum, + Aw wish awd been invited." + +'Tis joy to tell, they marched as well + As t'Scots did ower the border, +Owd Wellington an' all his men + Ne'er saw such marchin' order. + +The lookers-on, to see them come, + Gat on ta t'second storey; +Reight dahn the park they did 'em mark, + Comin' i' their full glory. + +Then to the place each smilin' face, + Moved on i' grand succession; +The lookers on did say "Well done, + It is a grand procession!" + +When they'd all pass'd the hall at last + They form'd into a column; +Then Jimmy Wreet, wi' all his meet, + Gav aght a hymn so solemn: + +Then all did raise their voice i' praise, + Wi' music in the centre; +They sang a hymn i'praise o' Him, + 'At is the girt Creator. + +That bit bein' done, they all did run, + To get a pleasant day in, +Some went there, an' some went here, + An' t'Bands began o' playin'. + +Wi' mich amaze, we all did gaze, + Arahnd this splendid park; +Then little Jake began to talk, + An' thus he did remark:-- + +"At Morecambe Bay I've been a day, + At Bolton Woods an' Ilkley; +But Malsis Hall outstrips 'em all, + 'At I've seen aght o' Keighley." + +The girt park wall arahnd the hall, + Majestical does stand; +Wi' wavin' trees, an' pleasant breeze, + It's like a fairy land. + +It fill'd wur eyes wi' gert surprise, + To see the fahnten sporting; +An' on the top, stuck on a prop, + The British flags wor floatin'. + +The walks so grand, wi' yellow sand, + An' splendid wor the pavin', +High over all, arahnd the wall, + Wor flags an' banners wavin'. + +Nah--some made fun, an' some did run, + Owd women they wor singin'-- +"Do you ken the Moofin Man,"-- + An' others they wor swingin'. + +I' sooth 'twor grand to see this band, + Assembled all together; +Bud sad to say, that varry day + Turn'd aght some shockin' weather. + +Bud war ner t'rain, aw mun explain, + 'At caus'd a girt disaster, +All but one sort o' breead ran short-- + It wor no fault o' t'maister. + +O, Gormanton! thy breead an' bun, + An' judgment it wor scanty; +Oh, what a shame, an' what a name, + For not providing plenty! + +Oh, silly clown! thah might hev knawn, + To eyt each one wor able; +The country air did mak some swear + They cud ommost eyt a table. + +The atmosphere, no longer clear, + The clouds are black an' stormy; +Then all but one away did run, + Like some desertin' army. + +On--on! they go! as if some foe + Wor chargin' at the lot! +If they got there, they didn't care + A fig for poor Will Scott! + +Poor lame owd Will remains theer still, + His crutches hes to fetch him; +But he's seen t'time, when in his prime, + 'At nobody theer cud catch him. + +Like some fast steed wi' all its speed, + All seem'd as they wor flyin'; +To escape the rain, an' catch the train, + Both owd and young wor tryin'. + +One Mat o' Wills, abaght Crosshills, + He heeard a fearful hummin', +He said ta t'wife, "Upon mi life, + Aw think the French are comin'! + +Tha knaws reight weel 'at we've heeard tell + O' sich strange things afore, +So lass luke quick an' cut thi stick, + An' I will bolt the door." + +Like drahnded rats they pass owd Mat's, + An' ran dahn to the station; +Owd Betty Bake an' Sally Shacks + Were both plump aght o' patience. + +"This is a mess," says little Bess, + 'At lives on t'top o' t'garden; +"There's my new shawl an' fine lace fall, + They'll nut be worth a fardin." + +But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throug, + The bell does give the sign, +Wi' all its force, the iron horse + Comes trottin' dahn the line. + +Then one by one they all get in, + Wet, fatigued, an' weary; +The steam does blow, owd Ned doth go, + An' we come back so cherry. + +Whene'er we roam away fra hooam, + No matter wheer or when, +In storm or shower, if in wur power, + To home, sweet home, we turn! + + + +The Bold Buchaneers. + + +A Military description of the Second Excursion to Malsis Hall, the +Residence of JAMES LUND, Esq. + +I remember perusing when I was a boy, +The immortal bard Homer--his siege of old Troy, +So the Malsis encampment I'll sing if you will, +How our brave army "bivoked" on the plains o' Park Hill. + +Near the grand Hall o' Malsis our quarters we took, +When Lieuteuant-col. Don Frederick spoke, +Commanding his aid-de-camp Colonel de Mann, +To summons and muster the chiefs o' the clan. + +Majors Wood, Lamb, and Pollard came up to the lines, +Each marching their companies up to the nines; +The twirlers and twisters, the knights of the coal, +And spuzzers and sorters fell in at the roll. + +The light-infantry captains were Robin and Shack, +And the gallant big "benners" the victuals did sack; +Captain Green he commanded the Indigo troop, +These beer barrel chargers none with them can cope. + +The Amazon army led on by Queen Bess, +Each feminine soldier so grand was her dress, +Though they chatted and pratted, 'twor pleasant to see +Them laughing and quaffing their hot rum and tea. + +There was music to dainties and music to wine, +And for fear of invaders no hearts did repine; +Although a dark cloud swept over the plain, +Yet our quarter was sheltered from famine and rain. + +Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Wright, +Drank to each other with pleasure that night; +We'd full-flowing bumpers, we'd music and fun, +From the larder and cellar of Field-Marshall Lund. + +One Private Tom Berry got into the hall, +When a big rump o' beef he made rather small; +And Flintergill Billy of the Spuzzer's Brigade, +Got his beak in the barrel, and havoc he made. + +The Field-Marshall declared, and his good lady too, +They ne'er were attacked with so pleasant a foe; +With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers, +In return they saluted the bold Buchaneers. + + + +The Benks o' the Aire. + + +It isn't the star of the evening that breetens, + Wi' fairy-like leetness the owd Rivock ends, +Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton, + Or the benks of the river while strolling wi' friends, +That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely, + And leave the gay feast for others to share; +But O there's a charm, and a charm for me only, + In a sweet little cot on the Benks o' the Aire. + +How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger, + In that cot, wi' my Mary, I could pass the long years: +In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger, + And chase off the anguish o' pale sorrow's tears. +We'd walk aght in t'morning when t'young sun wor shining, + When t'birds hed awakened, an' t'lark soar'd i' t'air, +An' I'd watch its last beam, on my Mary reclining, + From ahr dear little cot on the Benks o' the Aire. + +Then we'd talk o' the past, when our loves wor forbidden, + When fortune wor adverse, an' friends wod deny, +How ahr hearts wor still true, tho' the favours wor hidden + Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye. +An' when age sall hev temper'd ahr warm glow o' feelin' + Ahr loves should endure, an' still wod we share; +For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealin', + We'd share in ahr cot on the Benks o' the Aire. + +Then hasten, my Mary, the moments are flying, + Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart; +For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin' + Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart. +The miser that wanders besides buried treasure, + Wi' his eyes ever led to the spot in despair; +How different to him is my rapture and pleasure + Near the dear little cot on the Benks o' the Aire. + +But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver; + The breetest an' best to me ivver knawn, +When fate may ordain us no longer to sever, + Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own. +For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee, + If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi' me; +But sweeter an' fairer, whate'er betide thee, + In ahr sweet little cot on the Benks o' the Aire. + + + +In Memory of +J. W. PECKOVER, +_Died July 10th_, _1888_. + + +He was a man, an upright man + As ever trod this mortal earth, +And now upon him back we scan, + Whose greatest fault was honest mirth. + +But never more his friends will see + The smiling face and laughing eye, +Nor hear his jokes with heartfelt glee, + Which made dull care before them fly. + +Nor ever more the friend shall find, + When labour lacks, the shake of hand +That oft was wont to leave behind + What proved a Brother and a Friend. + +In winter's bitter, biting frost, + Or hail, or snow, or rain, or sleet, +The wretch upon life's tempest toss'd + In him found shelter from the street. + +The unemployed, the aged poor, + The orphan child, the lame and blind, +The stranger never crossed his floor + But what a friend in him did find. + +But now the hand and heart are gone, + Which were so noble, kind and true, +And now his friends, e'en every one, + Are loth to bid a last adieu. + + + +The Fugitive: +A Tale of Kersmas Time. + + +We wor snugly set arahnd the hob, + 'Twor one wet Kersmas Eve, +Me an ahr Kate an' t'family, + All happy I believe: +Ahr Kate hed Harry on her knee, + An' I'd ahr little Ann, +When there com rappin' at the door + A poor owd beggar man. + +Sleet trickl'd dahn his hoary locks, + That once no daht wor fair; +His hollow cheeks wor deadly pale, + His neck an' breast wor bare; +His clooas, unworthy o' ther name, + Wor ragg'd an' steepin' wet; +His poor owd legs wor stockingless, + An' badly shooed his feet. + +"Come into t'haase," said t'wife to him, + An' get thee up ta t'fire; +Shoo then browt aght wur humble fare, + T'wor what he did desire; +And when he'd getten what he thowt, + An' his owd regs wor dry, +We ax'd what distance he hed come, + An' thus he did reply: + +"Awm a native of Cheviot Hills, + Some weary miles fra here; +Where I like you this neet hev seen + Full monny a Kersmas cheer; +I left my father's hahse when young, + Determined I wod rooam; +An' like the prodigal of yore, + I'm mackin' tahrds my hooam. + +"I soldier'd in the Punjaub lines, + On India's burning sand; +An' nearly thirty years ago + I left my native land; +Discipline bein' ta hard fer me, + My mind wor allus bent; +So in an evil haar aw did + Desert my regiment. + +"An' nivver sin' durst aw go see + My native hill an' glen, +Whear aw mud nah as weel hev been + The happiest of all men; +But my blessin'--an' aw wish ye all + A merry Kersmas day; +Fer me, I'll tak my poor owd bones, + On Cheviot Hills to lay." + +"Aw cannot say," aw said to t'wife, + "Bud aw feel raather hurt; +What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aght, + An' finds t'owd chap a shirt." +Shoo did an' all, an' stockings too; + An' a tear stood in her ee; +An' in her face the stranger saw + Real Yorkshire sympathy. + +Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh + When he hed heeard his tale, +An' spak o' some owd trousers, + 'At hung on t'chamber rail; +Then aght at door ahr Harry runs, + An' back ageean he shogs, +He'd been in t'coit ta fetch a pair + O' my owd ironed clogs. + +"It must be fearful cowd ta neet + Fer fowk 'at's aght o' t'door: +Give him yahr owd grey coit an' all, + 'At's thrawn on t'chaamer floor: +An' then there's thy owd hat, said Kate, + 'At's pors'd so up an' dahn; +It will be better ner his awn, + Tho' it's withaght a crahn." + +So when we'd geen him what we cud + (In fact afford to give), +We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks, + O' t'poor owd fugitive; +He thank'd us ower an' ower ageean + An' often he did pray, +'At t'barns wod nivver be like him; + Then travell'd on his way. + + + +The Feather'd Captive. + + +My little dapple-winged fellow, +What ruffian's hand has made thee wellow? +I heard while down in yonder hollow, + Thy troubled breast; +But I'll return my little fellow, + Back to its nest. + +Some ruffian's hand has set a snickle, +An' left thee in a bonny pickle; +Whoe'er he be, I hope owd Nick will + Rise his arm, +An' mak his heead an' ear-hoil tickle + Wi' summat warm. + +How glad am I that fate while roaming, +Where milk-white hawthorn's blossom's blooming, +Has sent my footsteps ere the gloaming + Into this dell, +To stop some murdering hand fra dooming + Thy bonny sel'. + +For thou wur doomed my bird, for ever, +Fra all thy feather'd mates to sever; +Were I not near thee to deliver + Wi' my awn hand; +Nor ever more thou'd skim the river, + Or fallow'd land. + +Thy feather'd friends, if thou has any; +Tho' friends I fear there isn't many; +But yet the dam for her, wi' Johnny, + Will fret to-day, +And think her watter-wagtail bonny + Has flown away. + +Be not afraid, for not a feather +Fra off thy wing shall touch the heather, +For I will give thee altogether + Sweet liberty! +And glad am I that I came hither, + To set thee free. + +Now wing thy flight my little rover, +Thy curs'd captivity is over, +And if thou crosses t'Straits of Dover + To warmer spheres, +I hope that thou may live in clover, + For years and years. + +Perhaps, like thee--for fortune's fickle-- +I may, myself, be caught i' t'snickle; +And some kind hand that sees my pickle-- + Through saving thee-- +May snatch me too fra death's grim shackle, + And set me free. + + [Picture: Decorative picture of bird] + + + +Dame Europe's Lodging-House. + + +A BURLESQUE ON THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR. + +Dame Europe kept a Lodging-House, + And she was fond of brass; +She took in public lodgers, + Of every rank and class. + +She'd French and German, Dutch and Swiss, + And other nations too; +So poor old Mrs. Europe + Had lots of work to do. + +I cannot just now name her beds, + Her number being so large; +But five she kept for deputies, + Which she had in her charge. + +So in this famous Lodging-House, + John Bull he stood A1; +On him she always kept an eye, + To see things rightly done. + +And Master Louis was her next, + And second, there's no doubt, +For when a little row took place, + He always backed John out. + +And in her house was Alex. Russ; + Oft him they eyed with fear; +For Alex. was a lazy hound, + And kept a Russian Bear. + +Her fourth was a man of grace, + Who was for heaven bent; +His name was Pious William, + He read his Testament. + +Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave, + And 'tis our firm belief, +He once did rob the Hungary Lads + Of hard-earned bread and beef. + +These were Dame Europe's deputies, + In whom she put her trust, +To keep her Lodging-House at peace, + In case eruption burst. + +For many a time a row took place, + While sharing out the scran; +But John and Louis soon stepp'd in, + And cleared the _padding can_. + +Once, Alex. Russ's father, Nick, + A bit before he died, +Did roughly seize a little Turk, + And thought to warm his hide. + +But John and Louis interfered, + Declaring it foul play; +And made old Nick remember it + Until his dying day. + +Now all Dame Europe's deputies, + They made themselves at home; +And every lodger knew his bed, + Likewise his sitting room. + +They took great interest in their beds, + And kept them very clean; +Unlike some other _padding cans_, + So dirty and so mean. + +The best and choicest bed of all, + Was occupied by Johnny; +Because the Dame did favour him, + He did collect her money. + +And in a little bunk he lived, + Seal'd up with oak, and tarr'd; +He would not let a single one + Come near within a yard. + +A Jack-of-all-trades, too, was John, + And aught he'd do for brass; +And what he ever took in hand, + No one could him surpass. + +When tired of being shut in the bunk, + Sometimes he went across, +To spend an hour with Master Loo, + And they the wine would toss. + +So many a happy day they spent, + These lads, with one another; +While every lodger in the house, + Thought John was Louis' brother. + +The Dame allowed John something nice, + To get well in her rent, +Which every now and then i' t'bank, + He put it on per cent. + +And working very hard himself + Amongst his tar and pitch; +He soon accumulated wealth, + That made him very rich. + +Now Louis had a pleasant crib + Which was admired by lots, +And being close by a window, + He had some flower pots. + +The next to Louis' bed was Will, + The biggest Monitor +And though he did pretend a saint, + He was as big a cur. + +He loved to make them all believe + He was opposed to strife, +And said he never caused a row, + No, never in his life. + +He was so fond of singing psalms, + And he read his testament; +That everybody was deceived + When he was mischief bent. + +He seldom passed a lodger's bed + But what he took a glance, +Which made them every one suspect + He'd rob if he'd a chance. + +Now Louis had two flower pots + He nourished with much care, +But little knew that Willie's eyes + Were set upon the pair. + +In one there grew an ALSACE ROSE, + The other a LORRAINE, +And Willie vowed they once were his + And must be his again. + +He said his father once lodged there, + And that the Dame did know +That Louis' predecessors once + Had sneaked them in a row. + +In Willie's council was a lad + Well up to every quirk; +To keep him out of mischief long, + Dame Europe had her work. + +To this smart youth Saint Willie + Did whisper his desire, +One night as they sat smoking, + Besides the kitchen fire-- + +"To get them flowers back again," + Said Bissy, very low, +"Meet Louis somewhere on the quiet, + And try to cause a row. + +"But mind the other deputies + Don't catch you on the hop, +For John and Joseph you must know + Your little game would stop. + +"For Joseph he has not forgot + The day you warmed his rig; +And christian Denmark still thinks on + About his nice Slesvig." + +"By your advice, my own Dear Mark, + I have been guided on, +But what about that man i't'bunk?" + (Pointing o'er to John.) + +"He's very plucky too is John, + But yet he's very slow, +And perhaps he never may perceive + Our scheme about the row. + +"But not another word of this + To anybody's ears, +The Dame she plays the list'ner, + I have my doubts and fears. + +"So let us go upstairs at once, + I think it will be best, +And let us pray to Him above, + Before we go to rest." + +So with a pious countenance, + His prayers as usual said, +But squinting round the room the while, + He spied an empty bed. + +"What a pity that these empty stocks + Should be unoccupied; +Do you think my little cousin, Mark, + To them could be denied?" + +"'Tis just the very thing," said Mark, + "Your cousin, sir, and you, +Would carry out my scheme first-rate, + One at each side of Loo." + +The Dame being asked, did not object, + If he could pay the rent, +And had a decent character, + And Louis would consent. + +"But I do object to this," says Loo, + "And on this very ground, +Willie and his cousins, ma'am, + They soon would me surround. + +"They're nothing in my line at all + They are so near a-kin, +And so if I consent to this, + At once they'll hem me in." + +"Oh! you couldn't think it, Master Loo, + That I should do you harm, +For don't I read my testament + And don't I sing my psalm." + +"'Tis all my eye," said Louis, "both + Your testament and psalms; +You use the dumbbells regular + To strengthen up your arms. + +"So take your poor relation off, + You pious-looking prig, +And open out Kit Denmark's box, + And give him back Slesvig." + +"Come, come," says Mrs. Europe, + "Let's have no bother here, +You're trying now to breed a row, + At least it does appear." + +Now Johnny hearing from the bunk + What both of them did say, +He shouted out, "Now stop it, Will, + Or else you'll rue the day." + +"All right, friend John, I'm much obliged, + You are my friend, I know, +And so my little cousin, sir, + I'm willing to withdraw." + +But Louis frothed at mouth with rage, + Like one that was insane, +And said he'd make Bill promise him + He'd not offend again. + +"I'd promise no such thing," says Mark, + "For that would hurt your pride, +Sing on and read your testament, + Dame Europe's on your side." + +"If I'd to promise aught like that, + 'Twould be against my mind; +So take it right or take it wrong, + I'll promise naught o' t'kind." + +"Then I shall take and wallop thee + Unless thou cuts thy stick; +And drive thee to thy fatherland + Before another week." + +"Come on," cried Sanctimonius, + And sending out his arm +He caught poor Louis on the nose, + Then sung another psalm. + +But Louis soon was on his pins, + And used his fists a bit, +But he was fairly out of breath, + And seldom ever hit. + +And at the end of round the first, + He got it fearful hot, +This was his baptism of fire + If we mistake it not. + +So Willie sent a letter home + To mother old Augusta, +Telling her he'd thrashed poor Loo, + And given him such a duster. + +"What wonderful events," says he, + "Has heaven brought about, +I'll fight the greatest pugilist + That ever was brought out. + +And if by divine Providence + I get safe through this row, +Then I will sing 'My God, the spring + From whom all blessings flow.'" + +Meanwhile the other Monitors, + Were standing looking on, +But none of them dare speak a word, + But all stared straight at John. + +"Ought not I to interfere?" + Says Johnny to the rest; +But he was told by every one + Neutrality was best. + +"Neutral," growl'd John, "I hate the word, + 'Tis poison to my ear; +It's another word for cowardice, + And makes me fit to swear. + +"At any rate I can do this, + My mind I will not mask, +I'll give poor Loo a little drop + Out of my brandy flask. + +"And give it up, poor Loo, my lad, + You might as well give in, +You know that I have got no power; + Besides, you did begin." + +Then Louis rose, and looked at John, + And spoke of days gone by +When he would not have seen his friend + Have blackened Johnny's eye. + +"And as for giving in, friend John, + I'll do nothing of the sort; +Do you think I'll be a laughing-stock + For everybody's sport." + +This conversation that took place + Made pious Willie grin, +And tell John Bull to hold his noise, + 'Twas nought to do with him. + +These words to John did make him stare, + And finding to his shame, +That those were worse who did look on, + Than those who played the game. + +Now Mrs. Europe knew the facts + Which had been going on, +And with her usual dignity, + These words addressed to John: + +"Now, Mr. Bull, pray answer me,-- + Why are you gaping here? +You are my famous deputy, + Then why not interfere?" + +"Why," answered John, and made a bow, + But yet was very shy, +"I was told to be a neutral, ma'am, + And that's the reason why." + +"That's just what you should not have done, + Being in authority; +Did I not place you in that bunk + To think and act for me? + +"Why any baby in the house + Could not have done much worse, +But I fancy you've been holding back + To save your private purse. + +"Neutrality is as fine a word + As ever a coward used, +The honour that I gave to you + You shouldn't have abused." + +The minor lodgers in the house, + On hearing this, to John, +Began to whisper and to laugh, + And call'd it famous fun. + +At last a little urchin said, + "Please ma'am I'd take my oath, +'At master John was neutral, + And stuck up for them both." + +"Stuck up for both, offended both,-- + Yes that is what you mean?" +Continued Madame Europe, + Then spoke to John again: + +"Now I'll tell you what it is, John, + We've long watch'd your career, +You take your fags' advice to save + Your paltry sums a year. + +"There's Bob and Bill, besides some more, + That I call naught but scums, +They've got you fairly in between + Their fingers and their thumbs. + +"If such like men as Ben and Hugh + This day your fags had been, +They would have saved both you and me + This curs'd disgraceful scene. + +"Instead of bein' half-clad and shod, + As everybody knows, +You would have dared these rivals now + To come to such like blows. + +"There was a time in this house, John, + If you put up your thumb, +The greatest blackguard tongue would stop + As if they had been dumb. + +"But not a one in this here house + This moment cares a fig +For all you say or all you do, + Although your purse be big." + +"I couldn't hurt poor Louis, ma'am, + Although he did begin; +And then you see that Will and I + Are very near akin. + +"Beside, you see," said John again, + "I let poor Louis sup; +On both I use my ointment, and + Their wounds I did bind up. + +"Ah! weel a day," then said the Dame, + But was affected sore, +"I see you have some small excuse + That you have done it for. + +"I have some little hopes left yet + That you may yet have sense, +To know your high position, John, + Instead of saving pence. + +"You yet will learn that duty, sir, + Cannot be ignored, +However disagreeable when + Placed before the board. + +"And let me tell you he who shirks + The responsibility +Of seeing right, is doing wrong, + And earns humility. + +"And 'tis an empty-headed dream, + To boast of skill and power, +But dare not even interfere + At this important hour. + +"Better far confess at once + You're not fit for your place, +Than have a name 'Heroic,' sir, + Branded with disgrace. + +"But I'll not say another word; + My deputies, to you; +But hope you will a warning take, + This moment from poor Loo. + +"And hoping, John, your enemies + May never have the chance +To see you paid for watching Will + Thrash poor weak Louis France." + + [Picture: Decorative picture of plant] + + + +Charmin' Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall. + + +On Aire's bonny benks wi' her meadows so green, +There's an ancient owd hall to-day may be seen, +That wor built in the days of some owd feudal king, +Of whom the owd bards delighted to sing. +Tho' its splendour's now faded, its greatness was then +Known to its foemen as Red Lion's den; +'Neath its armorial shield, an' hoary owd wall, +I now see Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall. + +Her majestic black eyes true beauty display, +Resemblin' truly the goddess of day; +Her dark-flowin' ringlets, you'd think as they shone, +'At Venus hed fashion'd 'em after her awn. +For her tresses no ribbons nor trappins do bind, +But wantonly luxurious flow in the wind: +'Twod o' pleased the great Reubens or Turner to call, +To see sweet Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall. + +Like the tall mountain fir, she's as steady, I trow, +When zephyr-like winds do sighingly blow; +The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move, +Are gentle Rebecca's sweet gales of love. +Her breath, where true wit so gracefully flows, +Has the beautiful scent of the pink an' the rose; +There's no nymph from the East to Niagara's Fall, +To equal Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall. + +Her toe points the grahnd wi' sich beauty an' grace, +Nor varies a hair's-breadth, sud yu measure her pace: +An' when dress'd i' her gingham wi' white spots an' blue, +O then is Rebecca so pleasin' to view. +Wi' her gray Wolsey stockings by hersel knit an' spun, +An' a nice little apron, hieroglyphic'ly done: +It needs no rich velvets or Cashmere shawl, +To deck out Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall. + +Love, grace, an' beauty attend at her will; +She wounds wi' a look, wi' a frown she can kill; +The youths as they pass her, exclaim--"Woe is me!" +Who sees her must love her, who loves her must dee. +At Church on a Sabbath, owd men raise ther arms, +An' cry, "O, great heavens! wor ivver sich charms?" +While matrons an' maidens God's blessin' they call, +On the head of Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall. + + [Picture: Decorative picture of plant] + + + +The City of "So be I's." +(A DREAM). + + +[It is said that when Giles Clumps, the South-downer, first came to +Keighley, the first question he asked his fellow labourer was this, "What +religion be th' master here?" "A Liberal," was the answer; "So be I," +says Giles. "And what politics be th' master?" asked Giles again, "He's +a Methody," was the reply; "So be I," says Giles again, "I be a Methody +too." Now do not imagine for a moment that Giles Clumps is the only "So +be I" in Keighley, for the whole town is full of "So be I's," and it is a +well-known fact that if six long YELLOW chimneys were to turn BLUE +to-morrow, there wouldn't be a Liberal in six hours in the city of "So be +I's," with the exception of the old veteran SQUIRE LEACH.] + +Oh list to my dream, nor yet think it wrong, +If I tell it in rhyme, or sing it in song; +For when I look back on the sights that were there, +I could almost, like Blondin, dance high in the air. + +For when I reflect, my heart leaps with joy-- +What I saw in my dream in old "So be I," +For thousands were shouting on that pleasant day. +We are all "So be I's," hip, hip, hip hurrah! + +And I took the first chance to ask what it meant, +Of the people who shouted, what was their intent, +When an elderly lady soon gave me the cue, +Of what was the matter and what was to do. + +Six great millocrats, call them Whigs if you will, +The gods of our labour in workshop and mill: +Have all turned their colours from Yellow to Blue, +Which has caused this commotion the city all through. + +Led on by the nose, like a bull in a band, +See how all the "So be I's" follow so grand, +The fag and the artist, the plebian also, +Have now chang'd their colour from yellow to blue. + +There's twenty-eight thousand true "So be I's" here, +And there's not a Liberal amongst them I'll swear, +For the millocrats chieftains proclaimed it they say, +That all must turn Tories on this very day. + +So upon the procession, I did my eyes fix, +Reviewing and skewing this wonderful six; +They wore blue ribands so grand in their coats, +Singing "So be I" joskins come give us your votes. + +The "So be I's" exerted each nerve and limb, +To follow their leaders and join in the swim; +And I plainly could see, so I thought in my dream, +That the way through the world is to follow the stream. + +For the faces of parsons were lit up so bright, +And the doctors they smiled with the greatest delight; +And a lawyer he vowed that he'd have a Blue gown, +For he'd been long enough a black Liberal clown. + +Methought the Ranters, and Methodies too, +Independents and Quakers, and Baptists, were blue; +And as I looked round me, lo! what did I see, +A batch of Teetotallers had got on the spree. + +But what I considered the best of the sport, +Took place in front of the old County Court; +The Mayor and Ex-Mayor were dancing a jig, +With the County Court Judge in his gown and his wig. + +Methought that the Draper and Hatter filed in, +Along with the Grocer, his nearest of kin; +And I caught the Co-oper just in the neck, +In his hand were his divi. and new silver check. + +Methought as I walked I sprang up so high, +That I really found out I was able to fly; +So backwards and forwards methought that I flew, +To the clubs of the town which I found were all Blue. + +Till somehow or other, I got quite astray, +And over Cliffe Castle I winged my way, +Thinks I, there's some Foreign "So be I" geese +Have crossed o'er the Channel from Paris or Nice. + +From thence I took wing, as blithe as a lark, +And crossed o'er the town to Jim Collingham's Park; +But ere I arrived at the end of my route, +A lightning conductor caught the tail of my coat. + +I hung there suspended high up in the air, +Looking down on the mob in the wildest despair, +Imploring the "So be I's" to get me relief; +But they shouted "Stop there, you Liberal thief!" + +I called on the de'il and invoked the skies, +To curse and set fire to all "So be I's;" +When all of a sudden I scratched at my head, +Awoke from my dream--found myself snug in bed. + + [Picture: Picture of cattle in field] + + + +Shoo's Deead an' Goan. + + +My poor owd lass, an art ta goan, + To thy long rest? +An' mun the cruel cold grave-stone + Close ower thy breast? +An' art ta goan no more to see, +Exceptin' i' fond memory? +Yes, empty echo answers me-- + "Shoe's deead an' goan!" + +I' vain the wafters o' the breeze + Fan my hot brah, +I' vain the birds upon the trees, + Sing sweetly nah; +I' vain the early rose-bud blaws, +I' vain wide Nature shows her cause, +Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws-- + "Shoe's deead an' goan!" + +There's more ner me 'at's sad bereft, + I pity wun, +An' that's my lad--he's sadly left-- + My little John; +He wander's up an' dahn all t'day, +An' rarely hez a word to say, +Save murmuring (an' weel he may), + "Shoo's deead an goan!" + +Bud, Johnny lad, let's dry wer tears; + At t'least we'll try; +Thy mother's safe wi' Him 'at hears + T'poor orphan's sigh; +Fer 'tis the lot o' t'human mack-- +An' who can tell which next he'll tack? +An' crying cannot bring her back; + "Shoe's deead an' goan!" + + [Picture: Decorative picture of flowers] + + + +Ode to an Herring. + + +Wee silvery fish, who nobly braves +The dangers o' the ocean waves +While monsters from the unknown caves + Make thee their prey; +Escaping which the human knaves + On thee lig way. + +No doubt thou was at first designed +To suit the palates o' mankind; +Yet as I ponder now I find, + Thy fame is gone: +Wee dainty dish thou art behind + With every one. + +I've seen the time thy silvery sheen +Wor welcome both at morn an' e'en, +Or any hour that's in between, + Thy name wor good; +But now by some considered mean + For human food. + +When peace and plenty's smiling brow, +And trade and commerce speed the plough; +Thy friends that were not long ago, + Such game they make; +Thy epitaph is "soldier" now, + Or "two-eyed stake." + +When times are hard we're scant o' cash, +And famine hungry bellies lash, +And tripe and trollabobble's trash + Begin to fail, +Asteead o' soups an' oxtail ash, + Hail! herring, hail! + +Full monny a time it's made me groan, +To see thee stretched, despised, alone; +While turned-up noses passed have gone, + O' purse-proud men! +No friends, alas! save some poor one + Fra t'paddin can. + +Whoe'er despise thee, let them know +The time may come when they may go +To some fish wife, and beg to know + If they can buy +The friendship o' their vanquished foe, + Wi' weeping eye. + +To me naught could be better fun, +Than see a duke or noble don, +Or lord, or peer, or gentleman, + In search o' thee: +And they were bidden to move on, + Or go to t'sea. + +Yet we'll sing thy praise, wee fish; +To me thou art a dainty dish; +For thee, 'tis true, I often wish. + My little bloater; +Either salted, cured, or shining fresh + Fra yon great water. + +If through thy pedigree we peep, +Philosophy from thee can keep, +An' I need not study deep, + There's nothing foreign; +For I, like thee, am sold too cheap, + My little herring. + + [Picture: Decorative pattern] + + + +The World's Wheels. + + +How steady an' easy t'owd world's wheels wod go, +If t'folk wod be honest an' try to keep so; +An' at steead o' bein' hasty at ivvery whim, +Let us inquire before we condemn. + +A man may do wrong an' scarce be to blame, +Or a woman be bad i' nowt bud her name; +Bud which on us owt ta say owt unto them, +Unless we inquire before we condemn. + +If a Rose she sud flourish her sisters among, +It isn't to say her poor sister is wrong; +That blighted one there may be nipp'd in the stem, +So let us inquire before we condemn. + +Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough, +While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow, +May be shatter'd asunder from stern unto stem, +So let us inquire before we condemn. + +We are certain o' one thing an' that isn't two, +If we do nothing wrong we've nothing to rue; +Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim, +So let us inquire before we condemn. + +Then speak not so harshly--withdraw that rash word, +'Tis wrong to condemn till the story is heard; +If it worrant for summat sho might be a gem, +So let us inquire before we condemn. + + + +English Church History. + + +Most respectfully dedicated to the Rev. F. D. CREMER, St. ANDREW'S, +Keighley, Oct. 25th, 1889. + +Dear reverend sir, excuse your humble servant, + Whose heart you've made this very night to glow; +I thank you kindly, and my prayers most fervent + Will ever be, dear reverend sir, for you. + +My ideas lacked for want of information, + And glad am I to glean a little more, +About the Churches of our mighty nation, + Whose chimes are heard on many a far-off shore. + +My heart was moved, for I was much astounded, + To view the many Churches of our land; +The life-like pictures of the saints who founded + These ruins old, so wonderful and grand. + +For oft I've wished, and often have I pondered, + And longed to learn the history of our kirk; +How it was handed down to us I've wondered, + And who were they that did this mighty work. + +The veil's removed, and now my sight is clearer, + Upon the sacred history of our isle; +For while I view these scenes it brings me nearer + Unto the Church on which the angels smile. + +Who would not shuffle off his worldly pleasures, + For one short hour to bring before his sight, +The pictures of the great and mighty treasures-- + Our English Church, which brought the world to light. + +Great Men dive deep down into wisdom's river-- + The poet, philosopher, and sage-- +For wisdom's pearls, which showeth forth for ever, + Nor waste their sweetness or grow dull with age. + +Who would not walk through ruins old and hoary, + And make each relic and persue his search? +Who would not listen and applaud each story, + Told of an ancient good and English Church? + +Each view so grand, mixed up with sacred singing, + Of that old Church--I humbly call it mine, +For still my heart to it is ever clinging, + And He who died for me in ancient Palestine. + + [Picture: Decorative picture of ferns] + + [Picture: Keighley Parish Church, 1891] + + + +The Old Hand-Wool-Combers: + + +Lines written on the occasion of a Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor +(Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891. + +Come hither my muse and give me a start, +And let me give praise to the one famous art; +For it's not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast, +But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post. + +In the brave days of old when I was a boy, +I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy; +Where I listened to stories and legends of old, +Which to me were more precious than silver or gold. + +The old Comber would tell of his travels through life, +And where he had met with his darling old wife; +And how he had stole her from her native vale, +To help him to pull the "old tup" by the "tail." + +He would go through the tales of his youthful career, +An undaunted youth without dread or fear; +He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor, +He knew every acre of mountain and moor. + +He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State, +And tell where old England would be soon or late; +How nations would rise, and monarch's would fall, +And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall. + +He was very well read, though papers were dear, +But he got _Reynold's_ newspaper year after year; +It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen, +While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen. + +He was fairly dramatic, the stage he loved well, +The names of great actors and plays he would tell; +And if that his notion it took the other way, +He could quote the Bible a night and a day. + +Full of wit, full of mirth, he could give you a sting, +He could preach, he could pray, he could dance, he could sing; +He could play pitch and toss, he could jump, he could run, +He could shuffle the cards, he could handle a gun. + +The old Constable knew him but let him alone, +Because he knew better than bother with "Joan"; +For the lads of the Barracks and the Pinfold as well +Would all have been there at the sound of the bell. + +Old Keighley was then but a very small town, +Yet she'd twelve hundred Combers that were very well known; +Hundreds have gone over the dark flowing burn, +Whence no traveller was ever yet known to return. + +It reminds me again of the Donkey and pack +Which came from the hills bringing Wool on its back; +And if the poor beast perchance had to bray +'Twere a true sign a Comber would die on that day. + +The third day of the week, sometimes further on, +The old woman would seek the King's Arms for her son; +And if she were told he had not been at all, +Would bounce over the green to the Hole-in-the-Wall. + +Hi! those were fine times, especially the fairs, +When the Inns were kept open for dancing upstairs; +The Commercial, Lord Rodney, as well as the Crown +To the ancient Wool-comber were fairly well known. + +But now we'll get back to the pot and the pad, +The fair it is over, the women are glad; +For now the Wool-comber his follies he sees, +And makes resolutions as staunch as you please. + +For now he commences to work hard and late, +He is building a Castle on a phantom estate; +And he toils for a time but long hoggs make him sick, +Then he duffs, and his castle falls down, every brick. + +When Winter comes in with its keen bitter blast, +And the poor rustic hind has to cope with the frost; +Yet the Comber was happy in village and town, +Though he knew that his calling was fast going down. + +Oh yes, it was vanquished, the once noble art, +For science had bid it for ever depart; +Yet for thee old Comber fresh fields have arose, +That have found thee in victuals, in fuel, and clothes. + +So many brave thanks to the Mayor of the town +Who has made the Wool-comber once more to be known; +Let us drink to the health of our worthy host, +The friend of the Comber, the Knight of the post. + + + +T' Village Harem-Skarem. + + +In a little cot so dreary, +With eyes and forehead hot and bleary, +Sat a mother sad and weary, + With her darling on her knee; +Their humble fare at best was sparing +For the father he was shearing, +With his three brave sons of Erin, + All down in the Fen countree. + +All her Saxon neighbours leave her, +With her boy and demon fever, +The midnight watch--none to relieve her, + Save a little Busy Bee: +He was called the Harem-Skarem, +Noisy as a drum-clock larum, +Yet his treasures he would share 'em, + With his friend right merrily. + +Every night and every morning, +With the day sometimes at dawning-- +While lay mother, sick and swooning-- + To his dying mate went he: +Robbing his good Saxon mother, +Giving to his Celtic brother, +Who asked for him and no other, + Until his spirit it was free. + +Saw the shroud and saw the coffin; +Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in; +This little noble-hearted ruffian, + To the wake each night went he: +Sabbath morning he was ready, +Warn'd the bearers to be steady, +Taking Peter to his beddy, + And a tear stood in his e'e. + +Onward as the corpse was passing, +Ere the priest gave his last blessing, +Through the dingy crowd came pressing, + The father and the brothers three; +'Tis our mother--we will greet her; +How is this that here we meet her? +And without our little Peter, + Who will solve this mystery? + +The Harem-Skarem interfered, +"Soon this corpse will be interred, +Come with us and see it buried, + Out in yonder cemet'ry:" +Soon they knew the worst and pondered +Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;-- +And returning home, they wondered + Who their little friend could be! + +Turning round to him they bowed, +Much they thanked him, much they owed; +While the tears each cheek bedewed, + Wish'd him all prosperity: +"Never mind," he said, "my brothers, +What I've done, do ye to others; +We're all poor barns o' some poor mothers," + Said the little Busy Bee. + + + +Come, Gi' us a Wag o' Thy Paw. + + +[T'West Riding o' Yorkshire is famed for different branches i' t'fine art +line, bud t'music aw think licks t'lump, especially abaght Haworth an' +Keighley. Nah Haworth wunce hed a famous singer; he wor considered one +o' t'best i' Yorkshire in his time. It is said 'at he once walked fra +Haworth to York i' one day, an' sung at an Oratorio at neet. He hed one +fault, an' that wor just same as all t'other Haworth celebrities; he wod +talk owd fashioned, an' that willant dew up i' London. Bud we hed monny +a good singer beside him i' t'neighbourhood. Nah what is thur grander +ner a lot o' local singers at Kersmas time chanting i' t'streets; it's +ommost like bein' i' heaven, especially when you're warm i' bed. But +there's another thing at's varry amusing abaght our local singers, when +they meet together ther is some demi-semi-quavering, when ther's sharps, +flats, an' naturals;--an' t'best ale an' crotchets mix'd, that's the time +fer music.] + +Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, + Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw; +I knew thee when thy heead wor black, + Bud nah it's white as snow; +A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim, + An' all thy kith an' kin; +An' hoping tha'll ha' monny more, + For t'sake o' ould long sin'-- + Jim Wreet, + For t'sake o' ould long sin'. + +It's so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, + Sin owd Joe Constantine-- +An' Daniel Acroyd, thee, an' me, + An other friends o' thine, +Went up ta sing at Squire's house, + Not a hauf-a-mile fra here; +An' t'Squire made us welcome + To his brown October beer-- + Jim Wreet, + To his brown October beer. + +An' owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, + 'At kept the Old King's Arms; +Whear all t'church singers used ta meet, + When they hed sung ther Psalms; +An' thee an' me amang 'em, Jim, + Sometimes hev chang'd the string, +An' with a merry chorus join'd, + We've made yon tavern ring, + Jim Wreet, + We've made yon tavern ring. + +But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, + Hev past away sin' then; +Then Keighley in Appolo's Art, + Could boast her trusty men; +But music nah means money, Jim, + An' that tha's sense to knaw; +But just fer owd acquaintance sake. + Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw, + Jim Wreet, + Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw. + + + +Full o' Doubts and Fears. + + +Sweet sing the birds in lowly strain, + All mingled in their song; +For lovely Spring is here again, + And Winter's cold is gone. + +All things around seem filled with glee, + And joy swells every breast; +The buds are peeping from each bush, + Where soon the birds will rest. + +The meadows now are fresh and green, + The flowers are bursting forth, +And nature seems to us serene, + And shows her sterling worth. + +The lark soars high up in the air, + We listen to his lays; +He knows no sorrow, no, nor care, + Nor weariness o' days. + +But man, though born of noble birth, + Assigned for higher spheres, +Walks his sad journey here on earth + All full o' doubts and fears. + + [Picture: Two men on bycycles] + + + +Behold How the Rivers! + + +Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea, +Sending their treasures so careless and free; +And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise, +Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies. + +Find out the haunts o' the low human pest, +Give to the weary, the poor, and distress'd; +What if ungrateful and thankless they be, +Think of the giver that gave unto thee. + +Go travel the long lanes on misery's verge, +Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge; +Where want and famine, and by ourselves made, +Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid. + +Give to yon widow--thy gift is thrice blest, +For tho' she be silent, the harder she's press'd; +A small bit o' help to the little she earns, +God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns. + +'Neath the green grassy mounds i' yon little church-yard +An over-wrought genius there finds his reward; +And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee, +Such are the givers that give unto me. + +Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain,-- +What if no birdie should chant thee a strain; +What if no daisy should smile on the lea; +The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee. + +For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may, +That thou mayest venture to give all away; +Ere Nature again her balmy dews send, +Thou may have vanished my good giving friend. + + + +Our Poor Little Factory Girls. + + +They are up in the morning right early, + They are up sometimes afore leet; +I hear their clogs they are clamping, + As t'little things go dahn the street. + +They are off in the morning right early, + With their baskets o' jock on their arm; +The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging, + As they enter the mill in a swarm. + +They are kapering backward and forward, + Their ends to keep up if they can; +They are doing their utmost endeavours, + For fear o' the frown o' man. + +Wi' fingers so nimble and supple, + They twist, an' they twine, an' they twirl, +Such walking, an' running, an' kneeling, + Does the wee little factory girl. + +They are bouncing about like a shuttle, + They are kneeling an' rubbing the floor; +While their wee little mates they are doffing, + Preparing the spindles for more. + +Them two little things they are t'thickest, + They help one another 'tis plain; +They try to be t'best and t'quickest, + The smiles o' their master to gain. + +And now from her ten hours' labour, + Back to her cottage shoo shogs; +Aw hear by the tramping an' singing, + 'Tis the factory girl in her clogs. + +And at night when shoo's folded i' slumber, + Shoo's dreaming o' noises and drawls: +Of all human toil under-rated, + 'Tis our poor little factory girl's. + + + +Haworth Sharpness. + + +Says a wag to a porter i' Haworth one day, +"Yahr not ower sharp ye drones o't'railway, +For fra Keighley to Haworth I've been oft enough, +But nivver a hawpenny I've paid ye begoff." + +The porter replied, "I vary mitch daht it, +But I'll give a quart to hear all about it; +For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t'snicket, +Baht tipping to t'porter thy pass or thy ticket." + +"Tha'll write up to Derby an' then tha'll deceive me"; +"I willn't, this time," sed t'porter, "believe me": +"Then aght wi thy brass, an' let us be knocking, +For I've walk'd it on foot, by t'Cross Roads an' t' Bocking." + + + +Dear Harden. + + +Dear Harden, the home o' my boyhood so dear, +Thy wanderin' son sall thee ivver revere; +Tho' years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left, +An' o' frends an' relations I now am bereft. + +Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho' rocky an' bare; +Thy dowters are handsome, thy sons they are rare; +When I walk thro' thy dells, by the clear running streams, +I think o' my boyhood an' innocent dreams. + +No care o' this life then troubled my breast, +I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest; +Wi' my dear little mates did I frolic and play, +Wal life's sweetest moments wor flying away. + +As the dew kissed the daisies their portals to close, +At neet i' my bed I did sweetly repose; +An' rose in the morning at Nature's command, +Till fra boyhood to manhood my frame did expand. + +The faces that once were familiar to me, +Those that did laugh at my innocent glee; +I fancy I see them, tho' now far away, +Or p'r'aps i' Bingley church-yard they may lay. + +For since I've embarked on life's stormy seas, +My mind's like the billows that's nivver at ease; +Yet I still hev a hope my last moments to crown-- +In thee, dearest village, to lay myself down. + + + +The Heroic Watchman of Calversyke Hill. + + +[This extraordinary "hero" either bore false witness against his +neighbour, a poor artisan, or (taking his own word for it) saved the +nation from great disaster and ruin by putting out a fire that no one saw +but himself.] + +We've heard of great fires in city and town, +And many disasters by fire are known; +But surely this fire which I'm going to tell, +Was worse than Mount Etna, Vesuvius, or hell; +For the great prophecy it no doubt would fulfil, +But for _t'heroic_ watchman at Calversyke Hill. + +This fire broke out in the night it was said, +While peaceful each villager slept in his bed; +And so greatly the flames did light up the skies, +That it took the big watchman all in surprise, +Yet great was the courage and undaunted the skill +Of the _heroic_ watchman of Calversyke Hill. + +He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high, +That within a few yards, they reached to the sky; +And so greatly they lighted up mountains and dales, +He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales! +And so easily the beaks did swallow his pill, +They fined the poor artist of Calversyke Hill. + +Now, there's some foolish people are led to suppose, +It was by some shavings this fire first arose; +But yet says our hero, "I greatly suspect, +This fire was caused by the grossest neglect; +But I'm glad its put out, let it be as it will," +Says the _heroic_ watchman of Calversyke Hill. + +He needed no witness to swear what he'd done, +Yet if he had wanted he could have had one; +For one Tommy Twister, that never was there, +Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air, +The greatest sized coal-pot no doubt they would fill, +Like the head of the _hero_ of Calversyke Hill. + +So many brave thanks to this _heroic_ knave, +For thousands of lives no doubt he did save, +And but for this hero, disaster had spread, +And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed; +But to save all his people it was the Lord's will, +Through the _heroic_ watchman at Calversyke Hill. + +So mind and be careful and put out your lights, +All ye with red noses in case they ignite, +Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap, +In case this great watchman chances to sleep, +For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill, +Is the _heroic_ watchman of Calversyke Hill. + + + +The English "Cricketeer." + + +Lines written on the Keighley Cricket Club Bazaar of 1889, and most +respectfully dedicated to the late William Luke Brown, Esq. + +I sing not of grim-visaged war, + Nor diplomatic rage, +But I shall string my harp in praise + Of the worthies of our age. + +They are a class of noble men, + Whom England holds most dear. +Whose feats so grand adorn our land, + Like the famous cricketeer? + +The Ancient Greek his chariot ran, + It was his Royal sport; +The Roman gladiator fought + To please the Royal Court. + +The Spaniard with his javelin knife + The wild bull's flesh he tears; +But alack a-day! what sports are they + With our grand cricketeers. + +And well old Keighley can be proud + Of her famed sons to-day; +Some of them are with us yet, + While others are away. + +Brave Brown! brave Foulds and Waring, + With good men in the rear, +And not forgetting Emmett, + The brave old cricketeer. + +Then while they have their Grand Bazaar, + Pray let us rally round, +And give a hand to renovate + Their well-loved cricket ground. + +For well I wot both young and old, + Will find from year to year, +More interest in the noble sport + Of the grand old cricketeer. + +The Mexican may throw his lance, + The Scotchman put his stone, +With all the scientific skill + Of muscle and of bone. + +Give Switzerland her honour'd place + With rifles and with spears, +But give to me our grand old sport, + Our famous cricketeers. + + [Picture: Rural scene] + + + +Christmas Day. + + +Sweet lady, 'tis no troubadour, +That sings so sweetly at your door, +To tell you of the joys in store, + So grand and gay; +But one that sings "Remember th' poor, + 'Tis Christmas Day." + +Within some gloomy walls to-day + Just cheer the locks of hoary gray, +And try to smooth their rugged way + With cheerful glow; +And cheer the widow's heart, I pray, + Crushed down with woe. + +O make the weary spent-up glad, +And cheer the orphan lass and lad; +Make frailty's heart, so long, long sad, + Your kindness feel; +And make old crazy bones stark mad + To dance a reel. + +Then peace and plenty be your lot, +And may your deed ne'er be forgot, +That helps the widow in her cot, + From out your store; +Nor creed nor seed should matter not, + The poor are poor. + + + +Wi' Him I call my own. + + +The branches o' the woodbine hide + My little cottage wall, +An' though 'tis but a humble thatch, + I envy not the hall. + +The wooded hills before my eyes + Are spread both far and wide; +An' Nature's grandeur seems to dress, + In all her lovely pride. + +It is, indeed, a lovely spot, + O' singing birds an' flowers; +'Mid Nature's grandeur it is true, + I pass away my hours. + +Yet think not 'tis this lovely glen, + So dear in all its charms; +Its blossomed banks and rippled reels, + Freed from the world's alarms. + +For should love's magic change the scene, + To trackless lands unknown, +'Twere Eden in the desert wild, + Wi' him I call my own. + + [Picture: Decorative picture of fern] + + + +It isn't so wi' Me. + + +Bright seem the days when I wor young + Fra thought, and care, and sorrow free; +As wild waves rippled i' the sun, + Rolled gaily on, 'twor so wi' me. + +More bright the flowers when I wor young, + More sweet the birds sang on the tree; +While pleasure and contentment flung + Her smiles on them, and so wi' me. + +The naked truth I told when young, + Though tempted wi' hypocrisy; +Though some embraced, from it I sprang, + An' said it isn't so wi' me. + +I saw the canting jibs when young, + Of saintly, sulky misery; +Yet poked I melancholy's ribs, + And said it isn't so wi' me. + +Though monny a stone when I wor young, + Is strong upon my memory-- +I threw when young an' hed 'em flung; + If they forgive, 'tis so wi' me. + +Could money buy o' Nature's mart, + Again our brightest days to see; +Ther's monny a wun wod pawn the shirt, + Or else they'd buy--and so wi' me. + +Yet after all I oft look back, + Without a pang o' days gone past, +An' hope all t'wrong I did when young, + May be forgi'n to me at last. + + + +A New Divorce. + + +Says Pug o' Joan's, o' Haworth Brah, + To Rodge, o' Wickin Crag-- +"Ahr Nelly's tung's a yard too long, + And by t'mess it can wag. + +"It's hell at top o' t'earth wi' me, + An' stand it I am forc'd; +I'd give all t'brass 'at I possess, + If I could get divorced." + +Then answered Rodge, "I hev a dodge, + As good a plan as any; +A real divorce tha'll get of course-- + It willn't cost a penny." + +"Then tell me what it is," says Pug, + "I'm almost brocken-hearted," +"Well, go to Keethlah Warkhase, lad, + Where man an' wife are parted." + + [Picture: Picture of house in trees] + + + +The Vision. + + +Blest vision of departed worth, + I see thee still, I see thee still; +Thou art the shade of her that's gone, + My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill. + +My chamber in this silent hour, + Were dark an' drear, were dark an' drear +But brighter far than Cynthia's beam, + Now thou art here, now thou art here. + +Wild nature in her grandeur had + No charm for me, no charm for me; +Did not the songsters chant thy name + From every tree, from every tree. + +Chaos would have come again, + In worlds afar, in worlds afar; +Could I not see my Mary's face, + In every star, in every star. + +Say when the messenger o' death, + Shall bid me come, shall bid me come; +Wilt thou be foremost in the van, + To take me home, to take me home. + + [Picture: Decorative picture of flowers] + + PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY + JOHN OVEREND, COOK LANE, KEIGHLEY. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK REVISED EDITION OF POEMS*** + + +******* This file should be named 27781.txt or 27781.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/7/7/8/27781 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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