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diff --git a/39198-0.txt b/39198-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e3f7049 --- /dev/null +++ b/39198-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5135 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Random Rhymes and Rambles, 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: Random Rhymes and Rambles + + +Author: William Wright + + + +Release Date: March 19, 2012 [eBook #39198] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RANDOM RHYMES AND RAMBLES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1876 edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org. +Many thanks to Bradford Local Studies for providing the copy from which +this transcription was made. Also to Keighley Local Studies for +supplying the title page (the Bradford copy lacks the title page). + + + + + + RANDOM RHYMES + AND + RAMBLES. + + + —o— + + By Bill o’th Hoylus End. + + —o— + + Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether + In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, + Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, + Let time mak proof; + But shall I scribble down some blether + Just clean aff-loof. + + I am nae poet, in a sense, + But just a rhymer, like, by chance, + And hae to learning nae pretence. + Yet, what the matter? + Whene’er my muse does on me glance, + I jingle at her. + + _Burns_. + + —o— + + KEIGHLEY: + A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN. + 1876. + +Most Respectfully + + Dedicated to + + James Wright, + +Local Musician and Composer, + + North Beck Mills, + + Keighley, + + By the Author. + +DEC. 25TH, 1876. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +_The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES_, _in verse and prose_, _are but the +leisure musings of the uneducated_, _and cannot be expected to come up to +anything like the standard of even poetry_; _yet_, _when the fact is +known that the Author_, _like his Works_, _are rough and ready_, _without +the slightest notion of either Parnassus or the Nines_, _at least give +him credit for what they are worth_. + + _WILLIAM WRIGHT_. + + + + + + Random Rhymes + AND + Rambles. + + +Come Nivver De e Thee Shell. + + + Come nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, + Are words but rudely said; + Tho thay may chear some stricken heart, + Or raise some wretched head; + For thay are words I love mysel, + They’re music to my ear; + Thay muster up fresh energy + Ta chase each dout an’ fear. + + Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, + Tho tha be poor indeed; + Ner lippen ta long it turning up + Sa mich ov a friend in need; + Fer few ther are, an’ far between, + That helps a poor man thru; + An God helps them at helps thersel, + An’ thay hev friends enew. + + Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, + What ivver thy crediters say; + Tell um at least tha’rt forst ta owe, + If tha artant able ta pay; + An if thay nail thy bits o’ traps, + An sell thee dish an’ spooin; + Remember fickle fortun lad, + Sho changes like the mooin. + + Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, + Tho some ma laugh an scorn; + There wor nivver a neet ’fore ta neet, + Bud what there come a morn; + An if blind fortun used thee bad, + Sho’s happen noan so meean; + Ta morn al come, an then for some + The sun will shine ageean. + + Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, + Bud let thy motto be,— + “Onward! an’ excelsior;” + And try for t’ top o’t tree: + And if thy enemies still pursue, + Which ten-to-one they will, + Show um oud lad tha’rt doing weel, + An climbing up the hill. + + + + +Oud Betty’s Advice. + + + So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed + It morning we young blacksmith Ned, + And tho it makes thy mother sad, + Its like to be; + I’ve nout ageean yond decent lad + No more ner thee. + + Bud let me tell thee what ta due, + For my advice might help thee thru; + Be kind, and to thy husband true, + An I’ll be bun + Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue, + For out tha’s done. + + Nah, try to keep thi former knack, + An due thi weshing 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 do it neat. + + Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt, + An pride thysel e being alert,— + An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt, + An keep it clean; + It wod thy poor oud mother hurt, + If tha wor mean. + + Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun, + Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run; + Bud, alus hev thy dinner done, + Withaht a mooild; + If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on, + An hev it boiled. + + So Mary, I’ve no more to say— + Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way; + An if tha leets to rue, I pray, + Don’t blame thy mother: + I wish you monny a happy day + We wun another. + + + + +The Fugitive: a Tale Kersmas Time. + + + We wor snugly set araand the hob, + ’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve, + Me an arr Kate an t’ family, + All happy aw believe: + Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee, + An’ awd aar little Ann, + When their come rapping at the door + A poor oud beggar man. + + Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks, + That once no daht were fair; + His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale, + His neck and breast were bare; + His clooase, unworthy o’ ther name, + Were raggd an steepin wet; + His poor oud legs were stockingless, + And badly shooed his feet. + + Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to him, + An get thee up to’t fire; + Sho then brought aht were humble fare, + T’wor what he did desire; + And when he’d getten what he thowt, + An his oud regs were dry, + We akst 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 + Mony a Kersmas cheer; + Bud I left my father’s haase, when young, + Determined aw wad roaam; + An’ like the prodigal of yore, + Am mackin toards mi hoame. + + “Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines, + On India’s burning sand; + An nearly thirty years ago + Aw left me native land; + Discipline being ta hard for me, + My mind wor always bent; + So in an evil hoar aw did + Desart me regiment. + + An nivver sin durst aw go see + My native hill an glen, + Whar aw mud now as well hev been + The happiest ov all men; + Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all + A merry Kersmas day; + Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones, + On Cheviot hills to lay.” + + “Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife, + “Bud aw feel rather hurt; + What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht, + An finds t’oud chap a shirt.” + Sho did an all, and stockins too; + An tears stud in her e’e; + An in her face the stranger saw + Real Yorkshire sympathee. + + Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh, + When he hed heard his tale, + An spak o’ some oud trouses, + At hung at chamer rail; + Then aht at door ahr Harry runs, + An back agean he shogs, + He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair + O’ my oud iron clogs. + + It must be feearful coud ta neet, + Fer fouk ats aht at door; + Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all, + At’s thrown at chamer floor: + And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate, + At’s paused so up an dahn; + It will be better ner his own, + Tho’ its withaht a craan.” + + 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 oud fugitive; + He thank’d us ower an ower agean + And often he did pray, + At barns mud nivver be like him; + Then travelled on his way. + + + + +Sall at Bog. + + + Me love is like the pashan dock, + That grows it summer fog; + And tho’ sho’s but a country lass, + I like my Sall at Bog. + + I walk’d her aht up Rivock End, + And dahn a bonny dale, + Whear golden balls an kahslips grow, + An butter cups do smell. + + We sat us dahn at top o’t grass, + Cloyce to a runnin brook, + An harkend watter wegtails sing + Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook. + + Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout + Az t’sun shane in her een, + Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar + At ivver aw hed seen. + + ’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love, + Beneath t’oud hazel tree; + How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog, + How dearly sho liked me. + + An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall, + Aw vow be all aw see, + Aw wish that aw mud be a kah, + An it belong ta thee. + + Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah + What awther on us said; + At onny rate we parted friends, + An boath went home ta bed. + + + + +Th’ Furst Pair o’ Briches. + + + Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button jacket, + Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist, + And my grand bellosed cap,—noan nicer I’ll back it,— + Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste; + Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling, + An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair, + An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden, + It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware. + + Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice + Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas, + An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais, + Wi’ me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose. + Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy, + Thay both gav me pennys 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 he ware.” + + Aw remember the time are Robin an’ Johnny + Wor keeping ther hens an’ ducks e the yard, + There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny + An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor 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, to sing + An t’ stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining; + And childer e white made t’ village ta ring. + We went ta auld Mecheck’s that day to wor drinking, + Tho’ poor, ther wor plenty, an’ summat ta spare; + Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m thinking, + It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha ware.” + + Now them wor the days o’ grim boggards and witches, + When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp, + But nah is the days o’ cheating fer riches, + And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp. + Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary; + O them wor the days aw knew no despair; + O give me the time o’ the boggard and fairy, + Wi’t furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware. + + And them wor the days aw sal allus remember, + Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last; + Them wor mi March days, but nah its 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 me father, an God bless mi mother, + It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware. + + + + +Fra Haworth ta Bradford. + + + Fra Hawarth tahn the other day, + Bi’t rout o’ Thornton height, + Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf, + Went inta Bradford streight. + + Nah Joe i’ Bradford wor afoor, + But sho hed nivver been; + Bud assomivver thay arrived + Safe intat Bowling Green. + + Thay gav a lad a parkin pig, + As on the street thay went; + Ta point um aht St. George’s Hall, + An Oastler’s Monument. + + Bud t’ little jackanapes being deep, + An thought thay’d nivver knaw, + Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ iz wife + T’ furst monument he saw. + + Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails, + Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead; + Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel + A goan an robb’d the deead. + + Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn, + Away fra poor oud Dick, + Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin, + We a dahn gooid hazel stick. + + T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath, + He sooin tuke to hiz heels, + Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument, + He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s. + + + + +O, Welcome, Lovely Summer. + + + O! welcome, lovely summer, + With thi golden days so long, + When the throstle and the blackbird + Charm us with their song; + When the lark in early morning + Taks his aireal flight; + An’ the humming bat, an’ buzzard, + Frolic in the night. + + O! welcome, lovely summer, + With her rainbow’s lovely form; + Her thunder an’ her leetnin, + An’ her grandeur in the storm: + With her sunshine and her shower, + And her wurlin of the dust; + An the maiden with her flagon, + To slack the mower’s thirst. + + O! welcome, lovely summer, + When the woods wi music ring, + And the bees so hevvy 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 lalack + Deck the cottage home; + When the cherry an’ the berry, + Gives a grandeur to the charm; + And the clover and the haycock + Scent the little farm. + + O! welcome, lovely summer, + With the partridge on the wing; + When tewit an the moorgame, + Up fra the heather spring, + From the crowber an the billber, + An the bracken an the ween; + As from the noisey tadpole, + We hear the crackin din. + O! welcome, lovely summer. + + + + +Burns’s 113th Birthday. + + + Go bring that tuther whisky in, + An put no watter to it; + Fer I mun drink a bumper off, + To Scotland’s darling poet. + + Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah, + This Jenewary morn, + Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle, + A rustic bard wor born. + + He kettled up his moorland harp, + To ivv’ry rustic scene; + An sung the ways o’ honest men, + His Davey and his Jean. + + Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew, + Bud what he could admire; + Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale, + That suited not his lyre. + + At last ould Coilia sade enuff, + My bardy tha did sing, + Then gently tuke his moorland harp, + And brack it ivvery string. + + An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath, + We all its berries red, + Sho placed it on his noble brow, + An pensively sho said:— + + “So long as Willies bru ther malt, + An Robs an Allans spree; + Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name, + Remember’d thay shall be. + + + + +Waiting for t’ Angels. + + + Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina, + Ligging alone me own darling child, + Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom, + We 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 sommat withaht ever speaking, + Asking thee father to say tha wor fine. + + Ligging here deead, the child that so loved me, + At fane wod ha’ hidden me faults if sho could, + Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee, + While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood. + + Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee coffin, + Ligging alone in this poor wretched room, + Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom, + Waiting for t’angels to carry thee home. + + + + +Spring. + + + There is hope in the time that is coming, + When the lambs will frolic on the plain, + Whilst the bees o’er the heather are humming, + Then the songsters will cheer us again. + For the pretty little birds from the edges, + The reeds for their nest will have riven; + While the lark from his covert he is soaring, + His musical notes to the heaven. + + Then we’ll go to the banks of the river, + Through meadows that’s blooming in green, + Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r + O’er the fish as they sport in the stream: + Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting, + For the fruits of that labour he has striven, + While the lark from his covert he is soaring, + His musical notes to the heaven. + + Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll cherish, + The rose that’s unseen in the bud, + And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish, + Round the ferns in the depths of the wood: + Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy, + And the sweets that nature she has given, + While the lark from his covert he is soaring, + His musical notes to the heaven. + + Then the merry little boys they will ramble, + So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale, + Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble + Will be blown by the mild summer gale: + Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning + To the poor humble peasant will be given. + While the lark from his covert he is soaring, + His musical notes to the heaven. + + + + +Haworth Sharpness. + + + Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day, + “Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ t’railway, + For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough, + But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.” + + The porter replied, “I very mitch daht it, + But I’ll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it; + For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’ snicket, + Baht tipping to t’porter thee pass or thee ticket.” + + “Tha’l rite up to Derby an’ then tha’l deceive me;” + “I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me:” + “Then aht we thy brass, an’ let us be knocking, + For I’ve walked it a foot back all rahnd be t’Bocking.” + + + + +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 +wimpling 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 cuddant in a palace find + A lass more true ner thee. + An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah, + An’ thee, me Lovely Queen, + The grandest diamond e me Crown, + Wor’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean. + + The lady gay may heed thee not, + An’ passing by may sneer; + The upstart squire’s dawters laugh, + When thou, my love, art near. + But if all ther shining sovrens + Wor wared o’ sattens green, + They mightant be as hansum then + As’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean. + + When yollow 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 would be, + Me lass o’ Newsholme Dean. + + Od drat, who cares fer kings or queens, + Mixt in a nation’s broil, + They never benefit the poor, + The poor mun allus toil. + An thou gilded specter royalty, + That dazzles folkses een, + Is nowt to me when I’m we thee, + Sweet lass o’ Newsholme Dean. + + High from the summit of yon crag, + I view yon smoky town, + Where fortune she has deigned to smile + On monny a simple clown: + Tho’ free from want, their free from brains; + An’ no happier I ween, + Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens, + Aw saw e Newsholme Dean. + + + + +The Broken Pitcher. + + +[The happiest moments of a soldier in time of peace is 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, othertimes 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 +favourite with them;—then there is the fancy tale teller which 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 his adventure with the Lassie by the Well.”] + + Three 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 Wryght, + He was in full marching order + With his armour shining bright. + + “Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why + Sits thou by the spring? + Doest thou seek a lover with + A golden wedding ring. + Or wherefore doest thou gaze on me, + With eyes so bright and wide? + Or wherefore does that pitcher lay + Broken by thy side?” + + “My pitcher is broken, sir, + And this the reason is, + A villain came behind, and + 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, + An’ 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 my arms around her neck, + And gave her kisses three. + To wrong the bonny lassie + I sware ’t would be a sin; + So I knelt down by the watter + To dip my helmet in. + + Out spake this bonny lassie, + “My soldier lad, forbear, + I wodna spoil thee bonny plume + That decks thy raven hair; + Come buckle up thy sword again, + Put on thy 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 oceans roll 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. + + + + +The Benks o’ the Aire. + + + It issent the star of the evening that breetens, + Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends, + Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton, + Or the benks of the river while strolling wi frends, + That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely, + And leave the gay festive for others ta share; + But O there’s a charm, and a charm fer 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 me Mary, I cud 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 wauk aht it morning wen t’yung sun wor shining, + Wen t’birds hed awakened, and t’lark soar’d the air, + An’ I’d watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining, + From ahr dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire. + + Then we’d tauk o’ the past, wen our loves wor forbidden, + Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny, + How ahr hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden, + Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye. + An’ wen age shall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feeling + Ahr loves shud endure, an’ still wod we share + For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealing, + We’d share in ahr cot on the benks o’ the Aire. + + Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are flying, + Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart; + For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying, + Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart. + The miser that wanders besides buried treasure, + Wi his eyes ever led to the spot in despair; + How different ta him is my rapture and pleasure + Near the dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire. + + But sooin may the day cum, if cum it will ivver; + The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn, + Wen 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, we were; + But sweet an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee, + In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire. + + + + +Dear Harden. + + + Dear Harden, the home o’ mi 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 dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare; + When I wauk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running streams, + I think o’ mi boyhood an’ innocent dreams. + + No care o’ this life then trubled me breast, + I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest; + Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an’ play, + Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away. + + As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close, + At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose; + An’ rose in the morning at nature’s command, + Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand. + + The faces that wunce were familiar to me, + Those that did laugh at my innocent glee; + I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away, + Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay. + + Fer sin I’ve embarked on life’s stormy seas, + Mi mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease; + Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown + E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.” + + + + +Castlear’s Address to Spain. + + + O weeping Spain, thy banners rear, + Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining: + Awake, nor shrink in craven fear,— + See the Carlist blades are shining. + They come with murdering dirk in hand, + Death, ruin, rapine in their train: + To arms! rouse up and clear the land, + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain. + + Your sires were great in ancient days, + No loftier power on earth allowing; + Shall ye their mighty deeds araise, + And to these fiends your heads be bowing? + They strove for fame and liberty + On fields where blood was shed like rain: + Hark! they’re shouting from the sky, + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain. + + Castille and Arragon, arise! + A treacherous Popish war is brewing: + Tear of the bandage from your eyes, + Are ye asleep while this is doing? + They come! Their prelates lead them on: + They carry with them thraldom’s chain. + Up! and crush their cursed Don; + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain. + Go forth, through every well-known spot; + O’er field and forest, rock and river: + + Then draw your swords and sheathe them not, + Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever. + Do you fear the priestly hosts + Who march them on with proud disdain; + _Back_! send home their shrieking ghosts, + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain. + + Thou surely art not sunk so low + That strangers can alone restore thee: + No; Europe waits the final blow, + When superstition flies before thee. + For Spanish might through Spanish hands + Their freedom only can restrain, + Then sweep these Carlists from the land, + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain. + + + + +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 looks 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 of your store; + Nor creed nor seed should matter not, + The poor are poor. + + + + +What Profits Me. + + + What profits me tho’ I sud be + The lord o’ yonder castle gay; + Hev rooms in state ta imitate + The princely splendour of the day, + Fer what are all mi carved doors, + Mi shandeliers or carpet floors, + No art cud save me from the grave. + + What profits me tho’ I sud be + Decked e’ costly costumes grand, + Like the Persian king o’ kings, + With diamond rings to deck mi hand: + Fer what wor all mi grand attire, + That fooils both envy and admire, + No gems cud 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 mi wealth to me, + Compared ta loisin immortalite, + Wealth cud not save me from the grave. + + What profits me tho’ I sud be + Even thee gert Persian Shah, + Mi subjects stand at mi command, + Wi fearful aspect and wi awe; + For what wor a despotic rule, + Wi all th’ world at my control, + All cud not save me from the grave. + + + + +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 philantropist, + Whose soul in goodness soars, + And one whose name will stand as firm + As the 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 nobler far + Than all the heaps of gold, + + His feast and revels are not such, + As those we hear and see, + No princely splendour 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, + When in 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, + For nobler is the soul of him, + The founder of Saltaire. + + Thus lives this sage philantropist, + From courtly pomp removed, + But not secluded from his friends, + For friendship’s bond he loves; + A noble reputation too + Crowns his later 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: + There 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 a placid ray; + May winter winds blow slightly,— + The green-grass softly wave, + And falling snow-drops lightly + Upon thy honoured grave. + + + + +Coud az Leead. + + + An’ arta fra thee father torn, + So early e thi yuthful morn, + An’ mun aw pine away forlorn, + E greef an’ pane; + Fer consalashun aw sall scorn + If tha be taen. + + O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail + Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale, + Fer nah it is too true a tale, + Tha’rt coud az lead. + An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale, + Thart deead, thart deead. + + Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop, + An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top; + An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop + Aw sall so freat, + And O my very heart may stop + And cease to beat. + + I’d allus aimed if tha’d been spar’d, + Of summat better to hev shared + Ner what thi poor oud father fared, + E this coud sphere; + Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared + If tha’d stayen here. + + But O! Tha Conkerer Divine, + ’At vanquished deeath e Palestine, + Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine + Noan freely given, + But mak him same as wun o’ thine, + We thee e heven. + + + + +The Factory Girl. + + + Sho stud beside hur looms an’ watch’d + The shuttle passin in, + But yet hur soul wor sumweer else, + ’Twor face ta face wi’ John. + They saw hur lips move az in speech, + Yet none cud heear a word, + An’ but fer t’grinding o’ the wheels, + This langwidge mite be heard. + + “It spite o’ all thi trecherus art, + At length aw breeath again; + The pityin stars hez tane mi part, + An’ eased a wretch’s pain. + An’ O, aw feel az fra a chain, + Mi rescued soul is free, + Aw know it is no idle dream + Of fancied liberty. + + “Extingwish’d nah iz ivvery spark, + No love for thee remains, + Fer heart-felt love e vane sall strive + Ta lurk beneath disdain, + No longer wen thi name I hear, + Mi conshus colour flies: + No longer wen thi face aw see, + Mi heart’s emoshun rise. + + “Catch’t e the burd-lime’s trecherus twigs, + To weer he chanc’d to stray, + The burd iz fassend fathers leaves, + Then gladly flies away. + Hiz shatter’d wings he soon renews, + Of traps he iz awair; + Fer by experience he iz wise, + An’ shuns each futshur snair. + + Awm speikin nah, an’ all mi aim + Iz but to pleas mi mind, + An’ yet aw care not if mi words + Wi thee can credit find. + Ner du I care if my decease + Sud be approved by thee; + Or wether tha wi ekwal ease + Does tawk again wi me. + + “But, yet tha false decevin man, + Tha’s lost a heart sincere; + Aw naw net wich wants comfert most, + Or wich hez t’mooast ta fear. + But awm suer a lass more fond and true + No lad cud ivver find; + But a lad like thee iz easily found, + 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; + Best 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. + + + + +T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned. + + + So, Ned, awm geen ta understand, + Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band, + Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand, + Yond lass an’ thee. + But if yor joinin heart an’ hand, + It pleases me. + + Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear, + Wile pushin thru this world o’ care, + An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare, + Its hard ta tell; + Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share, + So pleas thisell. + + Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last; + But age an’ care creep on us fast; + Then akt az tha can luke at past + An’ feel no shame; + Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast, + Tha’s noan ta blame. + + Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet, + But mind an’ shun that foolish set + At cannut mak ther awn ta fet, + Thaw shame ta say it. + An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett, + An’ tha’ll be reight. + + An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will; + Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill; + Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill + The wurld sa wide. + No daht but His omnishent skill, + Al be thi guide. + + So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise, + Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise, + E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise, + Tha tuke hur hand; + An’ listened to thi father’s voise, + An’ hiz command. + + + + +Address ta mi Bed. + + + Oud stocks on thee I first began + To be that curious crater man, + Ta travel thro this life’s short span, + By fate’s dekree; + Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan, + An’ cease ta be. + + Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly, + Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye; + On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh, + An’ ofttimes weep;— + Till by sum means, aw knaw not why, + I fall asleep. + + Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane, + Ha often aw am glad an’ fane, + Ta seek thi downy brest again; + Yet heaves mi breast + For wretches in the pelting rain, + At hev no rest. + + How oft within thy little space + Does mony a thout oft find a place? + Aw think at past, an’ things ta face, + My mind hiz filled, + Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase, + An’ cassels bild. + + O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe, + Disease or deeath, a kind releef, + Monarks of a time so breef, + Alternate reign, + Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf, + And clears the plain. + + Aw, awm convinced by thee alone, + This grate important truth ta awn, + On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn, + E mortal birth; + Till a few fleetin haars flown, + Then back ta earth. + + + + +Home ov Mi 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 days that’s gone by, + Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh? + Oh, 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 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 of shuttles that he should have won: + She in that cottage there knitting her healds, + While I her young forester was 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 O, there’s no darkness, to me no decay; + Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away. + + + + +Ode ta Spring Sixty-four. + + + O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters, + An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king sixty-four, + Wi thi brah dekked 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 sapling await thy command; + An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners, + Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain. + + Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an’ grotto, + Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn; + Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, + Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn. + + O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going! + Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the wind; + Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing, + Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um behind. + + + + +My Drechen Dear. + + + Night’s sombre mantle is spreading over, + Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days; + Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover? + Why did thou cross the raging seas? + + Its melancholy here I’m lying, + Half broken-hearted, drechen dear; + Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing, + Each billow roaring a shed tear. + + How can they say that all-perfect nature + Has nothing done or made in vain? + When that beneath the roaring water, + Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain. + + No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover, + That lurks beneath the raging deep; + To mark the spot where lies the lover, + That leaves the maiden to sigh and weep. + + The miser robb’d of his golden pleasure, + Views tempests great in his wild despair; + But what is all his loss of treasure, + To losing thee, my drechen dear? + + O cease, O cease, thou cruel ocean! + And give my lover a peaceful rest; + For what thy storming and all thy motion, + Compared with that within my breast. + + O could I now over the wild waves stooping, + The floating corpse of thee could spy; + Just like a lily in autumn drooping, + I’d bow my head, kiss thee, and die. + + + + +Address t’t First Wesherwuman. + + + E sooth sho wor a reeal god-send, + To’t human race the greatest frend, + An’ lived no daht at t’other end + O’ history. + Hur name is nah, yah may depend, + A mistery. + + But sprang sho up fra royal blood, + Or sum poor slave beyond the flud? + Me blessing on the sooap an’ sud + Sho did invent; + Hur name sall renk among the good, + If aw get sent. + + If nobbut in a rainy dub, + Sho did at furst begin ta skrub, + Or hed a proper weshin tub, + Its all the same; + Aw’d give a craan, if aw’d to sub, + To get hur name. + + In this wide wurld aw’m let afloat, + Th’ poor possessor of wun koat; + Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote, + An’ thus assert, + Tha’rt wurthy o’ grate Shakespere’s note; + A clean lin’ shirt. + + Low iz mi lot an’ hard mi ways, + While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days; + Yet aw will sing t’owd lasse’s prase, + Wi’ famous glee. + Tho’ rude an’ ruff sud be mi lays, + Sho’st lass for me. + + Bards hev sung the fairest fair, + There rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair, + The dying lover’s deep despair, + There harps hev rung; + But useful wimmin’s songs are rair, + 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 thro’ 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 Colia’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’s Colia: + So grand old Colia’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 Colia’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 Colia’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 is heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore, + The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire, + Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre; + And sing how Colia’s genius on a January morn, + Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born. + + + + +Johnny o’ t’ Bog an’ Keighley +Feff-fee Goast: +A Tale o’ Poverty. + + + “Some books are lies frae 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 fro Kersmas time, + When I met wi this Feoffee Goast, + The subject ov my rhyme. + + I’d been hard up fer mony a week, + My way I cuddant see, + Fer trade an commerce wor as bad + As ivver they cud be. + + T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, + An t’combers wor quite sick, + For weeks they niver pool’d a slip, + Ner t’weivers wave a pick. + + An I belong’d to t’latter lot, + An them wor t’war o t’wo, + Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase, + An nowt for em ta do. + + T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed, + An I’d a shocking coud, + Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home, + Wor nobbut three days oud. + + Distracted to my vary heart, + At sitch a bitter cup, + An lippening ivvery day at com, + At summat wod turn up. + + At t’last I started off wun neet, + To see what I could mak; + Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ 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’oppan street. + + Saint John’s Church spire then I saw, + An I wor rare an fain, + Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage— + I cuddant be mistain. + + So up I went to t’Wicket Gate, + Though sad I am to say it, + Resolv’d to ax em for some breead, + Or else some brocken meit. + + Bud just as I wor shacking it, + A form raise up afore, + An sed “What dus ta want, tha knave, + Shacking t’ Wicket Door?” + + He gav me then to understand, + If I hedant cum to pray, + At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life, + Wor all they gav away. + + It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk + Abaat ther breead o’ life, + An specially when they’ve plenty, + Fer t’childer an ther wife. + + Bud I set off agean at t’run, + Fer I weel understood, + If I gat owt fra that there clan, + It woddant do ma good. + + E travelling on I thowt I heeard, + As I went nearer t’tahn, + A thaasand voices e mi ears + Saying “John, where are ta bahn?” + + An ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d, + A play-card I cud see, + E t’biggest type at e’er wod print— + “There’s nowt here, lad, for thee.” + + Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d, + Astead o’ meit wor seen, + A mighty carving-knife hung up, + Hi, fair afore me een. + + Destruction wor inviting me, + I saw it fearful clear, + Fer ivvery druggist window sed— + “Real poison is sold here.” + + At t’last I gav a frantic howl, + A shaat o’ dreead despair, + I seized mesen be t’toppin then, + An shack’d an lugg’d me hair. + + Then quick as leetening ivver wor, + A thowt com e me heead— + I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry, + An meditate wi t’deead. + + T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking t’time + At folk sud be asleep, + Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat, + An t’Pindar after t’sheep. + + Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off + At summat like a trot; + To get to t’place I started for, + Me blooid wor boiling hot. + + An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate, + Rear’d up agean a post, + I cuddant tell—but yet I thowt + It wor another goast! + + Bud whether it wor goast or not, + I heddant time to luke, + Fer I wor taken be surprise, + When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke. + + Abaat two hundard yards e t’front, + As near as I cud think, + I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise, + An nah an then a clinck! + + What ivver can these noises be? + Some robbers, then I thowt!— + I’d better step aside an see, + They’re happen up to nowt! + + So I gat ower a fence there wor, + An peeping through a gate, + Determined I’d be satisfied, + If I’d awhile to wait. + + At t’last two figures com to t’spot + Where I hed hid mesel, + Then walkers-heath and brimstone, + Most horridly did smell. + + Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat, + His face as black as soit, + 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’ clothes 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 to maw + Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft. + + “Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?” + Sed Nickey, wi a grin, + “Tha knaws I am full up below, + An cannot tack more in.” + + “What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks, + “Tha ruffin ov a dog, + I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean, + To see wun John o’ t’Bog. + + I cannot see it fer me life, + What it’s to do wi thee; + Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick, + An nivver thee heed me.” + + “It is my business, Spinnle Shenks, + Whativver tha may say, + For I been roasting t’human race + For mony a weary day.” + + Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee, + This last two years or so; + Wi Germany an Italy, + An even Mexico. + + An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil + Browt in some thaasands more; + An sooin fra Abysinnia, + Tha’ll bring black Theodore. + + So drop that scythe, oud farren Death, + Let’s rest a toathree wick; + Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan, + Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.” + + “I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath, + Who spack it wi a grin, + “Ise just do as I like fer thee, + So tha can hod thi din.” + + This made oud Nick fair raging mad, + An lifting up his whip, + He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash + Across o t’upper lip. + + Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks, + To give oud Nick leg bail, + He started off towards the tahn, + An Nick stuck aht his tail. + + 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 to shine + As breet as it cud be; + An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d, + Where I cud plainly see. + + The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw, + An t’winding Aire wor still, + An all wor quite save t’hullats, + At wor screaming up o’ t’hill. + + Oud Rivvock End an all araand + Luk’d like some fiendish heead, + Fer more I stared, an more I thowt + It did resemble t’deead. + + The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah, + To what I’d seen afore; + An luk’d as though they’d never be + T’oud friendly Oaks no more. + + Fer wun wor like a giant grim, + His nose com to a point, + An wi a voice like thunner sed— + “The times are aaght o’ t’joint!” + + An t’other like a whipping-post, + Bud happen not as thin, + Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil, + So pray, nah, hod thi din?” + + I tuke no farther gawm o’ them, + Bud paddled on me way; + Fer when I ivver mack a vow, + I stick to what I say. + + I heddant goan so far agean, + Afoar I heeard a voice, + Exclaiming—wi a fearful groan— + “Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!” + + I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro, + An cautiously I bowed, + Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice, + I’m flaid o’ gettin coud. + + Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place, + A sudden change o’ scene; + Fer miles where all wor white afore, + Wor nah a bottle-green. + + Then com a woman donned e white, + A mantle gert she wore; + A nicer lukin, smarter form, + I nivver saw afore. + + Her features did resemble wun + O that kind-hearted lot, + At’s ivver ready to relieve + The poor man in his cot. + + Benevolence wor strongly marked + Upon her noble heead; + An on her breast yo might hev read, + “Who dees fer want o’ breead?” + + In fact, a kinder-hearted soul + Oud Yorksher cuddant boast; + An who wod feel the least alarmed, + To talk to sitch a goast? + + I didant feel at all afraid, + As nearer me she drew; + I sed—Good evening, Mrs. Goast, + Hah ivver do yo dew? + + Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm, + Bud pointed up at t’mooin, + An beckon’d me to follow her + Dahn be t’Wattery Loin. + + So on we went, an dahn we turned, + An nawther on us spack; + Bud nah an then sho twined her heead, + To see if I’d runned back. + + At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd + An luked ma fair e t’een; + ’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce, + Sho wor no human been. + + Sho rave a paper fra her breast, + Like some long theatre bill; + An then sho sed “Weak mortal, + Will ta read to me this will? + + But first, afoar tha starts to read, + I’ll tell thee who I iz; + Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff, + 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’likeliest man I knaw, + Becos tha art a poet. + + If I am not mistaken, friend, + I offan hear thi name; + I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;” + Says I—“Oud lass, it’s t’same.” + + “It’s just so mony years this day, + I knaw it by me 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 do 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 e poverty. + + So then I made a will o t’lot, + Fer that did suit my mind; + I planned it as I thowt wor t’best, + To benefit mankind. + + I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil, + By reading t’will tha’ll see; + That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws, + May hev ther skooling free. + + An if tha be teetotal, John, + Tha may think it a fault, + Bud to ivvery woman ligging in + I gav a peck o’ malt. + + Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass at’s left, + As tha’ll hev heeard afore, + Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly + Among arr Keighley poor. + + I certainly did mack a flaw, + Fer which I’ve rued, alas! + ’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John, + Sud hev no Feoffee Brass. + + An nah, if tha will be so kind, + Go let mi t’trustees knaw + At I sall be obleged to them + To null that little flaw. + + An will ta mention this anall, + Wal tha’s an intervue?— + Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor, + Whativver else they due. + + Then I sall rest an be at peace, + Boath here an when e Heav’n; + Wal them at need it will rejoice + Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve giv’n. + + An tell em to remember thee + Upon t’next Feoffee Day!” + I says—I sallant get a meg, + I’m getting parish pay. + + So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt, + An tell’d me what to doo, + I ax’d her if sho’d harken me, + Wal I just said a word or two. + + I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie, + As sure as my name’s ‘John;’ + I think at yo are quite e t’mist + Abaht things going on. + + Folks gether in fra far an near, + When it is Feoffee-Day; + An think they hev another lowse + Wi t’little bit o’ pay. + + Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ poor, + It’s shocking fer to tell, + They’ll hardly let em into t’door— + I knaw it be mesel. + + Asteead a being a peck o’ malt + Fer t’wimmen lying in, + It’s geen to rascals ower-grown, + To drink e rum an gin. + + Then them at is—I understand— + What yo may call trustees, + They hev ther favorites, yo knaw, + An gives to who they please. + + Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face, + An skrew ther maath awry; + An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand, + As they are passing by. + + There’s mony a woman I knaw weel, + Boath middle-aged an oud, + At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass, + An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud. + + Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass, + Hes cum e 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 be they get home. + + Wal mony a poorer family + At’s nut been nam’d e t’list, + At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil, + Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d. + + We see a man at hes a haase, + Or happen two or three, + They Mr. him, an hand him aaght + Five times as mitch as me. + + ’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass + Tight up e sum oud seck, + An getten t’Corporation brooms + To sweep it into t’Beck.” + + No longer like Capias’ form, + Wi a tear e boath her een, + But like the gallant Camilla, + The Volscian warrior Queen. + + She, kneeling, pointed up aboon, + An vow’d be all so breet, + Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads, + Or watch em day an neet. + + Sho call’d the Furies to her aid, + An Diræ’s names sho us’d, + An sware if I hed spocken t’truth, + Sho hed been sore abus’d. + + Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her— + Indeed it is too true; + Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet, + Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!” + + + + +Charming Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall. + + + On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green, + Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen, + That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king, + Of whom the oud bards delited to sing. + Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then, + Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den; + ’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall, + I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall. + + Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display, + Resemblin truly the goddess of day; + Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone, + That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn. + Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind, + But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind: + It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call, + To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall. + + Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow, + When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow; + The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move, + Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve. + Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows, + Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose; + There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall, + To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall. + + Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ grace, + Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace: + An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue, + O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue. + Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun, + An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done: + It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl, + To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall. + + Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will; + Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill; + The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!” + Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee. + At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms + An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?” + Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call, + On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall. + + + + +Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan! + + + My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan, + To thy long rest? + An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone + Close ower thy breast? + An’ are ta goan no more to see, + Excepting e fond memory; + Yes empty echo answers me— + “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!” + + E vain the wafters o’ the breeze + Fan my hot brah, + E vain the birds upon the trees, + Sing sweetly nah; + E vain the early rose-bud blaws, + E vain wide Nature shows her Cause, + Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws— + “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!” + + There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft, + I pity wun, + An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left— + My little John; + He wanders 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, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears; + At t’least we’ll try; + Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears + The 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; + Shoo’s deead an’ goan! + + + + +The Heroic Watchman of Calversike 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 Ætna, Vesuvius or hell; + For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill, + But for _heroic_ watchman at Calversike Hill. + + This fire it broke out in the night it was said, + While peacefully each villager slept in his bed; + And so greatly the flames did illumne all the skies, + That it took the big watchman all in surprise. + Yet great was the courage and undaunted skill + Of the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill. + + He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high, + That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky; + And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales, + He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales! + And so easily the commons did swallow his pill, + That they fin’d the poor artist of Calversike 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 it’s put out, let it be as it will, + Says the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill. + + He needed no witness to swear what he had 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 Calversike 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 Calversike 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 Calversike Hill. + + + + +Betty Blake: A Tale of Butterworth Panic. + + + It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in a fix, + An’ trade it wor bad an’ are poor hearts wor sad, + An’ we’d nout else to due bud to starve or to flee, + An’ leave are poor hoams, or stop there an’ dee. + Aw wor freating an’ thinking what wod be the end, + Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend— + When my wife stagger’d in at are poor cottage door, + Gav a stare raand the house an’ fell on the floor, + We a cry at made me both tremble an’ shake;— + Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty Blake. + + It spite ov her troubles, aw lifted her up + To are poor wretched bed, an’ gav her a sup + O coud watter—an’ thinking, it happen mud ease her— + An’ try’d my indevors to mend her an’ please her; + For aw talked o’ that day that aw used to coart her, + Bud little thowt then at aw couldn’t support her; + Or that panic wod come like a dark thunner claad, + An’ scatter the homes o’ the poor an’ the praad: + Bud my heart burned we grief, fer aw wanted to save her, + Fer aw knew at my Betty wor mad in the faver. + + Aw sat by her side fer two neets an’ two days, + An’ aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed; + Sho catched hod o’ my hand, an’ her senses returned, + Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned,— + “Awn going,” sho said—“where no hunger or pain + Al be we us, Johny, when we meet again. + The angels have whispered my spirit to free, + We voices as soft as the hum of the bee; + It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake, + In heaven you’ll meet we your poor Betty Blake.” + + We a groan an’ a rattle sho dropt her poor heead, + Aw could hardly believe at my Betty wor deead; + An’ aw felt at her side, fer aw wanted to save her, + An’ like her at wor goan—aw wor mad we the faver. + Bud they tuke her away the varry next day, + To a little church yard, an’ it seemed fearful hard, + At aw couldn’t follow my wife + At aw loved as my life. + Bud aw’ve put up a tombstone o’ peeats fer her sake, + An aw mark’d on it letters at means Betty Blake. + + + + +The Vision. + + + Blest vision of departed worth, + I see thee still, I see thee still; + Thou art the shade of her that’s goan, + My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill. + + My chaamer 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 + Fra ivvery tree, fra ivvery tree. + + Chaos wod hev com agean, + E worlds afar, e worlds afar; + Could aw not see my Mary’s face, + In ivvery star, in ivvery star; + + Say when the messenger o’ death, + Sal bid ma come, sal bid ma come; + Wilt thou be foremost in the van, + To tack ma hoam, to tack ma hoam. + + + + +A New Devorse. + + + Says Pug o’ Joans o’ Haworth Brah, + Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag— + Are Nelly’s tung’s a yard too long, + And, by’t mess it can wag. + + It’s hell at top o’ t’earth we me, + An’ stand it I am forst; + I’d give all t’brass at I possess, + If I could get devors’d. + + Then answer’d Rodge, I hev a dodge, + Az gooid a plan az onny; + A real devorse tha’ll get of course— + It willant cost a penny. + + Then tell me what it iz, says Pug, + I’m hommost brocken-hearted; + We’ll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad, + Where man an woife are parted. + + + + +Gooise an’ Giblet Pie. + + + A Kersmass song I’ll sing, me lads, + If yoh’ll bud hearken me; + An incident e Kersmass time, + E eighteen sixty-three: + Withaht a stypher e the world— + I’d scorn to tell a lie— + I dined wi a gentleman + O’ Gooise an’ giblet pie. + + I’ve been e lots o’ feeds, me lads, + An hed some rare tuck-aahts; + Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs, + Minch pies an’ thumping taahts; + But I wir’d in an reight anall, + An’ supp’d when I wor dry, + Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman + O’ gooise an’ giblet pie. + + I hardly knew what ail’d me, lads, + I felt so fearful praad; + Me ears prick’d up, me collar raise, + Taards a hauf-a-yard; + Me chest stood aaht, me charley in, + Like horns stuck aaht me tie; + Fer I dined wi a gentleman + O’ gooise an’ giblet pie. + + I offan think o’ t’feed, me lads, + When t’ gentleman I meet; + Bud nauther on us speiks a word + Abaht that glorious neet; + In fact, I hardly can mesel, + I feel so fearful shy; + Fer I ate a deal o’ t’roasted gooise, + And warmed his giblet pie. + + + + +Ode to Wedlock! + + + Oh! Hymen, god of Wedlock! thou + Companion of the lover’s vow, + Thy subjects they are fearful; + If thou could nobbut see the strife, + There is sometimes ’tween man and wife, + I think thou’d be more careful. + + Oft has thou bound in durance vile, + De fearful frown, and cheerful smile, + And doubtless thought it famous; + When thou the mind ov fancy sweet, + Has knit the knot so nice and neat + For some blessed ignoramous. + + What nature, truth, and reason too, + Has oft declared would never do, + Thou’rt fool enough to do it; + Thou’s bound for better and for worse, + Life’s greatest blessing with a curse, + And both were made to rue it. + + But luve is blind, and oft deceived, + If adage old can be believed, + And suffers much abuses; + Or never could such matches be, + O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee, + So thou has thy excuses. + + + + +Com Geas a Wag o’ thee Paw. + + +[T’west Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches it fine art +line, bud t’musick aw think licks t’lump, especially abaht Haworth an’ +Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom +Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorkshire in his toime. It is +said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an +Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all tother +Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an’ that willant due up at +London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood; +there’s oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an’ oud Jim +Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersmass +toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr +warm e bed. Bud there’s another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local +singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when +there’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals;—’an t’ best ale an’ crotchets mixt, +that’s the time fer musick.] + + Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet, + Come geas a wag o’ thee paw; + I knew thee when thi heead wor black, + Bud nah its az white as snow; + Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim, + An’ all thi kith an’ kin; + An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar, + 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 oud Joe Constantine— + An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me, + An’ other friends o’ thine, + Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase, + Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here; + An’ t’ Squire made us welcome + To his brown October beer, + Jim Wreet; + To his brown October beer. + + An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, + That kept the Old King’s Arms; + Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet, + When they hed sung ther Psalms; + An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim, + Sometimes hev chang’d the string, + An’ with a merry chorus join’d, + We’ve made yond tav’ren ring, + Jim Wreet, + We’ve made yond tav’ren ring. + + But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, + As past away sin then; + When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art, + Cud boast her musick men; + Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim, + An’ that tha’s sense to knaw; + Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake, + Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet, + Jim Wreet, + Com geas a wag o’ thee paw. + + + + +Song of the Months, from +January to December. + + + High o’er the hill-tops moans 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 over the grim surges 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 showers. + + 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 sweetness 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 does fly. + + From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping, + While diamond dew-drops around her is 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 flees away. + + How joyous the reapers, their harvest songs singing + As they see the maid bringing the flagon and horn; + And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging + Over meadows and pastures, and her 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 is 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 doth call; + There is desolate evenings and 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 we shall remember, + Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more. + + + + +My Visit ta’t Glory Band. + + + Last Sunday, reight early, I sett off fra home, + Ower mountains an’ valleys, intending to roam; + As it wor a fine morning an’ no sign o’ rain, + I bethowt ma I’d go up Oakworth be t’train; + But I’m sitch a whimsical sort of a man, + I nivver get threw wi owt at I plan. + + For I’d hardly goan two hundred yards fra my door, + When who did I see walking prattly before? + It wor oud Jennet t’Ranter fra Avercake row, + As nice a oud body is ivver you saw; + Shoo wor dress’d up ta t’mark wi her Cashmere shawl, + An wor bahn dahn to t’meeting at Temperance Hall. + + When I saw it wor Jennet I lengthen’d my pace, + An’ as soon as shoa saw me shoo look’d i’ my face; + An’ says “Hallo, Bill! tha’s com’d aght fearful soin + Ther’ll be a blue snaw;—pray, where are ta gooin? + If tha’s nobbut come aht for a bit of a stroll, + Tha’d better go wi ma for t’gooid o’ thy soul.” + + So I agreed to go wi her; for what could I do, + When t’decent oud woman wor teasing ma so? + So we link’d on together an’ paddled along, + Both on us singing a Glory Band song; + Hasomivver we landed, an’ hedn’t ta wait, + For one t’panjandrums hed getten agait. + + So they prayed an’ they sang i’ ther oud fashun’d way; + Until a gert chap says “I’ve summat ta say;” + An’ bethart I’st a fallen dahn sick i’ my pew, + But I thowt at toan hauf t’ he said worant true, + For he charged Parson Ball wi’ being drunk i’ the street, + At he’d been put ta bed three times i’ one neet. + + “Does ta hear,” says Oud Jennet, “what t’hullet is saying, + He’s using his scandal asteead o’ being praying, + For John Ball is respected by ivvery one, + So I sallant believe a word about John, + Fer him an’ arr Robin are two decent men, + So pray yah nah harken, they’ll speik fer thersen.” + + So all wor nah silent, they mud hear a pin fall, + For nobody wor hissing or clapping at all; + For scarce had long Gomersall spun out his yarn, + Wi his two blazing een he hed scarcely sat dahn, + Than John stood up on his pins in a minit,— + An’ rare an’ weel please wor me and Oud Jennet. + + “My brethren,” he sed wi a tear in his ee, + “Yah sall hear for yerselns my accusers an’ me, + An’ if I be guilty—man’s liable to fall + As well as yer pastor an’ servant John Ball; + But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan, + Be’t t’first, and no other to thraw the first stone. + + “I’ve drunk wine and porter, I do not deny, + But then my accusers hev not telled you why: + So their false accusation I feel it more keen, + ’Cos I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my een; + Beside mi back warked as if it wor broke, + An’ mi throit’s been so parched wal I thowt I sud choke. + + “I’ve been so distracted and hanneled so bad, + Wal I thowt monny a time I sud ommust go mad, + An’ t’doctors hes tell’d me there wor no other way + Nobbut going to Blackpool or else Morecambe Bay; + An’ charged me to mind if I sat dahn to dine, + To lig into t’porter, an’t brandy, an’t wine. + + “So nah, my accusers, what hev you to say, + You can reckon that up in your awn simple way; + But if there’s a falsehood in what I’ve sed nah + I wish mi new hat wod turn into a kah, + So this is mi answer, an’ this mi defence.” + “Well done!” says oud Jennet, “he’s spokken some sense.” + + So his speech nah he ended, but it touch’d em it wick, + For we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick; + And Jennet declared—tho’ she might be too rude,— + If he’d come up to’t dinner he’s hev some home brew’d, + Fer it spite o’ ther scandal sho wor proud on him yet, + An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d out to du wi’t. + + + + +T’ History o’t Haworth Railway. + + +Before I commence mi short history o’t Haworth Railway, it might be as +weel to say a word or two abaht Haworth itseln. It’s a city at’s little +knawn, if onny, it history o’ England, though ther’s no daht but its as +oud as Methuslam, if not ouder, yet with it being built so far aht at +latitude ov civilized nashuns, nobody’s scarcely knawn owt abaht it wal +latly. T’ finders ov it are sed to be people fra’t Eastern countries, +for they tuke fearful of em e Haworth it line o’ soothsayers, magishuns, +an’ asstrologers; but whether they com fra’t east or’t west, they luke +oud fashun’d enuff. Nah t’ city is situated in a very romantic part o’ +Yorkshur, and within two or three miles o’t boundary mark o’ Lancashire. +Some foak sez it wer t’last place at wer made, but it’s a mistak, for it +lukes oud fashun’d enuff to be t’first ’at wer made. Gert travellers sez +it resembles t’ cities o’ Rome and Edinburgh, fer ther’s a deal o’ +up-hills afore you can get to’t top on’t; but e landing you’d be struck +wi’ wonder and amazement—what wi’t tall biggens, monniments, domes, +hampitheaters, and so on; fer instance, t’Church, or rather the +Cathedral, is a famous biggen, and stands majestically o’t top at hill. +It hes been sed at Oliver Cromwell that wor so struck wi’t appearance at +Church an t’ City, altogether, wal he a mack a consented to hev it the +hed-quarters for the army and navy. + +The faander o’ t’ Church is sed to be won Wang-be-Wang, won et Empror’s +o’ China as com ower in a balloon an’ browt we him all his relations, but +his granmuther; the natives at that toime wur a mack a wild, but i mixing +up we t’ balloonites they soin become civilized and big’d t’ Church at’s +studden fra that time to nah, wit exepshun o’ won end, destroyed at sum +toime, sum sez it wur be war. Sum sez west and an t’ saath end wur +destroyed, but it’s a mack a settled on wit wiseuns it wur wichcraft; but +be it as it may Haworth, an’ t’ folk a’tagether is as toff as paps, an’ +hez stud aht weel, an’ no daht but it wod a flerished before Lunden, +Parriss, or Jerusulum, for sentries back, if they’d hed a Railway; but +after nearly all Grate Britten and France hed been furnished we a +Railway, the people i Haworth began to be uneazy and felt inclined no +longer to wauk several miles to get to a stashun if they were bahn off +liks. And besides, they thout it wur high time to begin and mack sum +progress i’ t’ wurld, like their naburs ’t valley. So they adjetated for +a line down the valley as far as Keighley, and after abaht a hundred +meetings they gat an Act passed for it i Parlement. So at last a +Cummittee wur formed, and they met wun neet a purpose to decide when it +wod be t’ best convenient for em to dig t’ furst sod to commerate and +start the gert event. And a bonny rumpus there wor yo mind, for yo may +think ha it wor conducted when they wur threapin wi wun another like a +lot o’ oud wimen at a parish pump when it sud be. Wun sed it mud tak +place at rushberring, another sed next muck-spreading toime, a third sed +it mud be dug et gert wind-day e memory o’ oud Jack K—. Well, noan et +proposishuns wod do for t’ lot, and there wur such opposistion wal it +omust hung on a threed, wether the railway went on or net, wal at last an +oud farmer, wun o’ the committee-men, we a voice as hoarse as a farm yard +dog, bawls aht, I propose Pancake Tuesday. So after a little more noise +it wor proposed and seconded at the Grand Trunk Railway between the +respective tahns of Keighley and Haworth sud be commemorated wi diggin t’ +furst sod o’ Pancake Tuesday, it year o’ our Lord 1864; and be t’ show o’ +hands it usual way it wor carried by wun, and that wor Ginger Jabus, and +t’tother cud a liked t’bowt him ower, but Jabus worn’t to be bowt that +time, for he hed his hart and sowl i the movement, and he went abaht +singin— + + Cum all ye lads o’ high renown + At wishes well your native town, + Rowl up an’ put your money down + An’ let us hev a Railway. + We Keighley folk we are behind, + An’s sed to wauk agin wur mind; + But sooin t’ crookt-legg’d uns they will find, + Weel kap em we a Railway. + +Well, hasumivver public notice wur made nawn, be the bellman crying it +all ower t’taan, wich he did to such a pitch, wal he’d summat to do to +keep his hat fra flyin off, but he manijed to do it at last to a nicety, +for the news spread like sparks aht of a bakehus chimla; and wen the day +com they flocked in fra all parts, sum o’ the crookt-legged uns fra +Keighley com, Lockertown and the Owertown folk com, and oud batchelors +fra Stanbury and all parts et continent o’ Haworth; folk craaded in o’ +all sides, even the oud men and wimen fra Wicken Crag and the Flappeters, +and strappin folk they are yo mind, sum as fat as pigs, wi heads as red +as carrots, and nimble as a india-rubber bouncer taw; and wat wur t’ best +on’t it happened to be a fine day; for if it hed been made according to +orders it cudn’t a been finer. Shops wur all closed and ivverybody, oud +and young, hed a haliday aht o’ t’doors, for they wur all flade a missin +the Grand Processhun, wich formed itsel at the top o’ Wuthren, when it +wur messured, it turn’d aht to be two miles six inches long—it moved as +follows:— + + + +ORDER OF PROCESSHUN. + + + The Spring-head Band wi their hat-bruads turn’d up so as they mud see + their way clear. + +Lord et Manor i full uniform a fut back bearing Coat of Arms for Haworth, + a gert wild cratur wi two tails on, one et awthur end. + + Two citizens wi white cravats raand their hats. + +The Members et Corporashun one-abreast singin “a nuttin we will go, brave + boys.” + + Big Drums and Triangles. + + A Mahogany Wheelbarrow and a silver trowel on a cart trail’d wi six + donkeys, and garded wi ten lazy policemen all sober. + + A pair of crakt bag-pipes. + + The Contractor in a sedan carried wi two waggoners i white smocks. + + All the young maidens fra fourteen to thirty-nine, six-abreast, drest i + sky blue, and singin throo combs. + + Twenty oud wimin knittin stockings. + + Twenty navvies i their shirt sleeves weeling barrows, wi workn tooils. + + Taan skavengers wi shoulder’d besums decorated wi ribbons. + +Bellman and Pinder arm-i-arm drest I full uniform, and the latter now and + then bawlin aht wats bahn to tak place. + + All scholars at female line laking at duck-under-watter kit, and the + males laking at frog-loup, and jumping o’ one another’s backs. + + Taan chimla sweeps maanted o’ donkies wi their face white. + + All the furiners fra the continent o’ Haworth, and crookt-legged uns fra + Keighley followed up. + + Bulk o’ the inhabitants wauking wun-abreast, wi their hats off, and + singing and shouting + + “The Railway! the Railway!” + +In fact, the Railway wur e ivverbody’s maath, what we singing and +shouting, them at cud do nawther whisper’d in wun another’s ears—Railway! +But getting to where the ceremuny wur to tak place the processhun halted +and formed itseln into a raand ring, and cheers wur geen wi shakin hats +and handkerchiefs, which lasted wal their showders and arms warkt wal +they’d hardly strength to shut their maaths and don their hats on. But +hasumivver they manijed to get reight agean, and then a parson called Ned +Oufield gat up and made the following narashun— + +Fellow countrymen and citizens o’ Haworth,—It gives me gert plezur to see +such a gert event as this tak place i the city o’ Haworth, namely, +digging t’ furst sod o’ wat’s called Grand Trunk Line between Keighley +and yor native element, and reight pleased I am to offishiate as chairman +on this occashun. Perhaps sum on yo maint naw what I mean wi yer native +element; but I mean yer oud mountain side, and aw naw yor like yer +forefathers, yo love it dearly, tho’ yor ancestors wor nowt but +barbarians in the fourth and fifth sentries, yet they were the furst to +embrace Christianity, which they did it yer 600, be the Latin inscripshun +on the church steeple.—(Loud cheers).—And although yo been behind we yor +Railway, ye been up i different arts and sciences. Wat nashun, my +frends, can boast of a majishun like yor oud Jack K—.—(Loud cheers). He +wur a credit to yo all, and yo wur sadly indebted to him; he proffesied +twenty yer sin at this event wud cum to pass (a voice,—ha wish he wur +alive he sud be contractor), and if he’d been livin to this day, its a +hundred to wun but the Railway wud hev been made to some where else ner +Keighley, for ha feel convinced et Keighley is not worthy of amalgamashun +wi a respectable city like Haworth.—(Hear, hear.) For look wat insultin +langwidj they’ve used to yo at different times.—(Groans.) Furst, they +said yo muckt church to mak it grow bigger. Then yo walked rahnd tahn’s +post office at Keighley and thout it wur the cemetery, and to make up for +the lot, they call us wild craturs and mock wur plezant dialect, which is +better English ner theirs.—(Groans, wich lasted for ten minits.) Yes, my +fella citizens, you’ve hed to put up wi a deal o’ slang fra theas +uncultivated rascals.—(We have.) And wat’s war nur all, yah’ve hed to +wauk wet and dry, thro thick and thin, i all sorts o’ weather to +Keighley, wen you’ve wanted to go on the continent or Lundun. But soin +yo can wauk slap to the train in a jiffey.—(Loud cheers.) Mr. Oufield +then thenkt his fella taansmen and wimen and ended his speech wi +expressin his delight in the loyalty of the people for the railway, and +as the time was fast waxin, he begged leave to sit dahn, wich he did t’ +midst lahd enthusiastic shouting. + +This been dun and ivverybody gotten their maaths shut agean, Ike Ouden +gat up and made a speech, and a grand un it wor yo mind, for if the +arkangel hed dropt streyt dahn fra heven and let o’ t’top o’ t’platform, +it cuddant a suited t’ folk better, for he began as follows:— + +Fella-citizens and tahnsmen o’ Haworth,—Wen I see before me so many +smiling faces and so many distingwisht citizens, I awn ha felt a pang as +to my unfitness for appearing afore yo on this occashun; but yor +committee wor so urgent in their appeal to me that I wor certainly +induced to akcept the honnor of diggin the furst sod o’ the Grand Trunk +Railway, wich will be the gratest blessin that ivver will be i Haworth. +But yet its not for me to say wat is kalkulated or unkalkulated for the +people o’ Haworth to do in the 19th sentry, yet I may ventur to say at +this glorious muvment nah bahn to tak place will shortly prove the +gratest blessin ivver witnessed it city o’ Haworth.—(Loud applause). +Look at the export and import of the city, and compare the spaven’d horse +and cart wi the puffin willyams and all the fine carriages. Look et +difference between wen it tuk a week to go to Liverpool, and a month to +Lundun, in a oud coach, and hev to mak wur wills afore we +went.—(Enthusiastic cheering.) Yes, my frends, we stud good chance e +being robbed and plundered if net summat war. Besides wat an immense +diffrence it will mak to Haworth, wen shoo can export her own +mannifacturs to all the civilised and uncivilised wurld, and by means o’ +steam find their ways into rejuns nivver trod but by feet o’ wild craturs +and beasts o’ prey. But to mak t’ story short ha mean to say it will be +a grate cumfort and a blessin to both the lame and lazey, and speshally +to the latter. But as the time was gettin on fastish, as it allus dus +when there’s out to be dun, so Mr. Ouden finisht his speech as follows:— + + Put yor shoulders to work, lads, and ne’er be danted, + Think yer behint and there’s no time to dally, + For nah is the time yor assistance is wanted + I makin yor railway along the Worth Valley. + +The Spring-heead Band then played sum of their favorite tunes, “Oud Rosen +the Bow,” “Jessey’s Pig,” and ended wi “God save the Queen,” and all +departed to their homes wi smiling faces. + + + +CHAPTER II. + + + Gather fra Stanbury, lads we yor carrot heeads, + Cum dahn fra Locker tahn, lads, be the railway; + Cum we yor wives, yor dowters, and relatives, + Shout lads, shout for the Worth Valley Railway. + + Heard you Ned Oufield mak his noration, + Yoh’l say in yohr conshunce he spak it reyt fairly, + He said poor Haworth nivver yet hed fairashun, + And spak of the thing that will flurish it rarely. + Railway, &c. + + Saw yoh Icholden wi his mahogany wheelbarrow, + Cum dig the first sod wi his trowel o’ silver, + He wheeled it dahn t’ plenk as streyt as an arrow, + And tipt it as weel as a navvy or delver. + Railway, &c. + + Saw yoh the church so anshent in history, + Read yoh the Latin words high in the steeple, + Hear to the sounds that arise from the belfry, + It seems to be shaating along wi the people, + Railway, &c. + +Nah then, lads, for wark; nout but wark al do, and these at can’t work +mun plan. This wor the cry all up and dahn Haworth next mornin, and for +weeks all wor vary bizzy. Won man made a weel-barra it chamber but it +wor so big wal it couldn’t be gotten aht withaht takin the haase side +dahn. Another invented a koulin-masheen to koul t’ muck up both sides to +save wheelbarras and work tooils for the navvies. Some started a +practicing for porters at the railway, wi oppenin and shutting the oven +doors wi a bang, shating aht at the same time, “All aht for Haworth.” +Wun man wor trying the dodge on, and the cat wor it ovan, and poor thing, +expecting that it wor it the wrong place, jumpt aht just at time at he +wor whistling to start, and wor catcht bi the tail and the poor thing +lost it, for it wur cut off as clean as a whistle. A crookt legg’d +pedlar com fra Keighley wun day wi winter-edges, and they tuke him for a +sapper and miner et hed cum to mezhur for the railway, and mind yoh they +did mak summat on him, they thout that the winter-edges wur the apparatus +to mezhur by. But hasumivver, the reyt uns com at after, and a sore +disaster they hed yo mind, for they laid the plans o’ t’railway dahn at +green swarth, and a oud kah belanging to Blue Beard swallowed t’ job; +they tried ta save em but all i vain: a sore do wur this for both folk +and the railway, for it put em a year or two back, and folk wur raging +mad abaht t’ kah, and if it hednt a been a wizzen’d oud thing they’d a +swallowed it alive—the nasty greedy oud thing. + + They hed a meeting tother neet, + Fair o’ t’top o’ Wutherin Street, + To see what things they’d got complete, + Concerning Haworth Railway. + + Wen Penny Wabbac tuke the chair, + He lukt to be i grate despair, + He sez, good folk, are yoh aware, + Wat’s happened to the Railway. + + We persperashun on his brah, + He sez, good folk, al tell yoh nah; + Oud Blue Beard’s nasty wizened kah + Hes swallowed plan o’ t’ Railway. + + Wi these remarks poor Wabbac sat, + Wen Jonny Broth doft off his hat, + His een they blazed like sum wild cat + Wi vengence for the Railway. + + He sed my blud begins to boil, + To think et we sud work an’ toil, + And ev’n the cattle cannot thoyle + To let us hev a Railway. + + On hearing this the Haworth foak + Began to swear it wur no joak, + An wisht at greedy cah ma choak, + At swallowed t’ plan o’ t’ Railway. + +But hasumivver they gat ower this, and wur not long at after afore they +hed more disasters, such as tunnils shutterin, and chapels sinkin, and +law suits, and so on, wal Haworthers thout be t’ hart at both the fouk +and the grund wur soft dahn at Keighley, and threttened to comb sum o’ +the crookt-legged ens their heeads if they insinuated; and the Volunteers +threttened to tak their part if there wur owt to do; and farther ner +that, they vowed that they were ready to go to war wi onny nashun that +sud insult awther them or ther railway under the present difficulties. + + But sighs and tears and doubts and fears, + Prevails with greatest folly, + For ’t sinagog has cockt its clog, + And ’t parson’s melancholy. + + Tunnils sink and navvies drink, + And chapels are upsetting; + For Railway Shares nobody cares, + And iverybody’s fretting. + + The iron horse they curse of course, + And fane wud it abandon; + And loyers fees their pockets ease, + A thousand pound e Lundun. + + Misfortunes speed as rank as weed, + An’ puts on sich a damper; + Wal t’ foaks declare e grate dispair, + Its up wi’t iron tramper. + + The volunteers prick up their ears, + An mak a famos rattle; + Thay want ta run ta Wimbleton, + Or onny field o’ battle. + + Their black cravats an toppen’d hats + Are causing grate attraction; + Against Boneypart thay want ta start, + E reglar fightin action. + + The raw recuits hev got ther suits, + Thay brag ta wun another: + Ta’t first campaign thay’l tak the train, + Withaat the sliteist bother. + + But t’ oud foak thinks thair’l be some stinks, + At menshun of invazhun; + An hopes et taan will ride em daan, + E cabs ta Howorth Stashun. + +But hasumiver toime works wonders wi it an perseverance its gotten ta’t +last stage na, an foak is varry impashent fer it ta cum up, an tha’re +preparin ta give it a grand recepshun; wun oud woman hes a peggy tub full +o meyl an’ saar swillins for th’ ingen, and they are preparin another +puddin for th’ passengers fra Keighley. + + They’re standing i’ groups and they’re living i’ hopes, + And more disappointments they dread, + Wi’ they’re ears touching th’ grand, they’ve harken’d for th’ saand, + Wal they’ve omust gone wrong i’ ther head. + + Sez Dick o’ Grate Beckers, just keep up yor peckers, + Yo hevn’t much longer to wait + For blue milk and porridge, yol get better forridge, + Wen the railway gets fairly agait. + + For its labour i’ vain to harken for th’ train + When all’s goin on varry steady; + So pray yo be calm its takin no harm, + They’ll bring it as soin as its ready. + + For th’ rails are all laid, and there’s nowt to be made, + Nobbut th’ navvies to clear off all th’ muck; + Then all al be goin, for th’ Cowinhead mooin + Is bahn to be browt on a truck. + + So Sam o’ Blue Bills, wi’ thi’ pints an’ thi’ gills, + Its bahn to be better for thee, + To Keighley an’ back tha ma go in a crack, + When tha’s bahn on a bit of a spree. + + And John o’ Pot Anns tha mun alter thi plans, + For tha nivver can get him i’ force; + For I’m happy to tell at steead o’th’ canal + They’re bahn to try th’ big iron horse. + + There’s oud Jim o’ Kyas is bahn to be wise, + An’ th’ folk sez at he’s takkin a hig; + He’ll see it first tried afore he will ride, + He’s dahn abaht the Paper Mill Brig. + + He sez he’ll be sure, it dropt in before, + And it might do again for a pinch; + For he sez they’ll be kapt if sum on em trapt, + So he’s blest if he’ll trust it an inch. + + There’s oud Mally Brook hez been dahn to look, + And shoo’s sore disappointed they say; + Shoo’s omust goan crackt for shoo sez it weant act, + For they nobbut can run it wun way. + + Sho sez at high class ats laid dahn all th’ brass, + Just nah they’re beginnin ta craw; + To mak up for th’ trouble they’re bahn to charge double, + For bad speckulashun it law. + + So to sattle em dahn, Sir Chrestofer Brahn, + Hez tould em it wur his intent, + If they’d nobbut be quiet till things wur all reight, + He’d give em a trip to Chow Bent. + +Yes, and besides a trip to Chow Bent, they gat several more trips +promised bi th’ diffrent distingwisht citizens o’ Haworth. Wun promised +to give em trip to Bullock’s Smithy, anuther to Tingsley Bongs, wal they +wur getting quite up o’ thersels and th’ railway. Or else they’d been +for many a year and cudn’t sleep a wink at neet for dreamin abaht th’ +railway ingens, boilers, and so on, and mony a time they’ve wakken’d i’ +ther sleep shakkin th’ bed posts, thinkin they wur setting th’ ingen on +or stoppin it. But they’d gotten reight and thout they wur bahn to hev +no more trouble; but alas! it wur a mistak, for on th’ morning of the +14th o’ November an’ oud skyologer went aht a weather-gazin and +planet-ruling, and woful news and bad omens he browt back wi’ him, for he +sed at th’ + + Stars wur shoiting in and aht, + And gravel ratches wur abaht, + And th’ folk, he sed, they little knew + What mischief it wur bahn ta brew. + And news he spred abaht the tahn, + What lots o’ rain wud tumble dahn; + And like his anshent sires he spoke, + The shockin news withaht a joke. + + For soin the rain i torrents fell, + And O what awful news to tell, + It lookt as th clahds wur bahn to shutter, + For every dyke, and ditch, and gutter, + A reguler deluge did resemble, + Which made Haworth folk to tremble. + Some tried to stop its course wi’ stones, + And some dropt on their marrow bones, + And hoped at if the wurld wur drahnd, + The railway wud be safe an’ sahnd; + + But prayers like these hed no avail, + For th’ waters deluged all the dale; + And th’ latest news et I hev heerd + Th’ railway’s nearly disappeared; + But if its fun withaht a flaw, + Wha, folks, I’m like to let yo know. + + + +CHAPTER III. + + + “Work boys, work, and be contented.” + +Ha, its all varry weel for the poit to sing that, but if he hed a railway +at stake he wud happen alter his tune, an espeshully if he wur an +eye-witness nah, for th’ storm wur ragin at heyest, and the folks wur +waiting wi’ pashent expectashun to knaw whether they wur bahn to be at an +end or not, for th’ flooid wur coming dahn thicker an’ faster, and there +look’d to be monny a hundred mile o’ watter in the valley. Hasumivver +they muster’d all t’ energy they cud, for they wur determined to knaw th’ +warst, so they went to see if they could find th’ oud weather gazer at +hed proffesied th’ flooid; and after a good deal o’ runnin abaht, they +fan him peepin thru summat at shap of a tunnel. Sum sed he wur lookin at +th’ mooin, others sed he wor looking into futurity, hasumivver they asked +him to come dahn an’ look at the railway, and tell em whether th’ flooid +wur bahn to tak it away or not, but th’ saucy oud hound refused at first, +for he said at he wur flaid at sum on em wodn’t be able to stand th’ +shock if he tell’d em th’ warst, so th’ oud lad sed + + If my advice yoh want, poor things, + An cannut do withaht it, + Go arm yor seln to th’ teeth, he sed, + An’ doant be long abaht it; + Both rakes an’ powls an’ props an’ ropes + Yo cannot get ta sooin, + An’ take the Cowinheeader’s plan + When they discuver’d the mooin, + Doant gape abaht, but when yor arm’d + Take each a diffrent rowt; + And let yor cry be ivvery man, + Th’ poor railway’s up the spout. + +It wurnt long afore they gat arm’d—sum wi clothes props, muk forks, +ropes, and so on, and there wor some competition yo mind, for they wur +all trying which could mak best movement so as they could immortalise +their names it history of Haworth, for there wur one Joe Hobb, a handloom +weaver, browt his slay boards, and as he wor going dahn th’ hill he did +mak some manœvures, an’ talk abaht fugal men it army when they throw +their guns up into th’ air and catches em again, they wur nowt to Joe, +for he span his slay boards up an’ dahn just like a shuttlecock. But wal +all this wur going on the storm began to abate, and th’ water seem’d to +get less, but still they kept at it. Wal at last a chap at they call +Dave Twirler shahted aht he saw summat, and they look’t way at he +pointed, and there behold it wur won o’th’ ribs o’th’ railway sticking up +(here a dead silence tuk place which lasted for abaht three hours) for +nobody durst open their mahths, flaid a’th’ wind wud mak th’ current +stronger, and sum at wimen held their tungs to that pain and misery wal +their stockings fell dahn ower their clog tops; but hasumever th’ silence +wur broken by a Haworth Parish chap at they call Bob Gimlet, he happened +to be there and he said nah lads, look down th’ valley for I think I see +th’ skeleton at onny rate, and Bob wur reight for it wur as plain to be +seen as an elephant in a shop window. + + And this wur a fact this wur th’ railway they saw, + And at th’ first sight o’ th’ spectre they all stood in awe, + For it wur smashed all i’ pieces ashamed to be seen + As tho’ it hed passed thro’ a sausidge masheen; + Wi horror some fainted, while others took fits, + Aud these at cud stand it wur piking up t’bits. + + But after a while when they all becum calm, + They gathered together like bees in a swarm, + Resolvd to pick up all fragments and th’ wood, + And splice ’em together as weel as they cud, + Hasumever thay started a putting it streyt, + And wi’ spelking and braying they soon made it reight. + + Six months nah elapsed and th’ gert job wur done, + And th’ next thing to argue wur wen it sud run, + So they sent Joe a-Stirks arahnd wi’ his bell, + And gave him strict orders at he wur to tell, + At th’ inspector hed been and examined it thro’, + And cum to th’ conclushun et th’ railway wud do. + + So to wark wi a vengance, the bellman set to, + To warn up a meeting to meet a’th’ Black Bull, + It wud dun yo all good to hear Joey shaht, + For they heard him distinctly for miles all abaht, + And i’ less ner ten minits, they flockt in so fast, + While Jonny Broth horses they couldn’t get past. + + So they fram’d on wi’ th’ meeting an’ th’ chairman spak first, + And tell’d ’em at th’ railway wur finish’d at last; + And declared at th’ inspector hed passed when he com, + Both viaducts and bridges as sahnd as a plum; + As for sinkin agean they wud do nowt et sort, + For they sailed thro’ the arches i’ Marriner’s boat. + + So he hoped i’ this meeting they all wud agree, + And settle when th’ oppening o’ th’ railway sud be. + He thout for his part tho’ he nobbut wur won, + At first day o’ April wur fittest to run, + Wen a voice sed, sit dahn or I’ll pelt thee wi’ spooils, + Duz ta think at wur bahn to be April fooils? + + Then up on to th’ platform jump’d Red Dicky Brook, + Along wi’ his uncle Black Tom at Dyke Nook, + Determined to sattle and bring things arahnd, + As th’ railway wur finished both proper and sahnd; + So they pitched on a day—this wur April the fourth. + To oppen th’ grand railway fra Lunden to Haworth. + + It wur carried as usual, bi’ th’ showing o’ hands, + Amidst grate rejoicing and playing o’ bands, + Both oud men and wimen hed a smile on their face, + For all wur dead certain this wur bahn to tak place, + So they fled to their homes like bees to a hive, + Impashent and anshus for th’ day to arrive. + + Hasumever th’ day com at wur menshun’d before, + And folk wur all flocking fra mahntan and th’ moor, + And little they thout when they set off that morn, + Anuther disaster would laff ’em to scorn; + For Joe Stirk wur sent out to tell ’em to stop, + For poor Haworth Railway hed gotten i’ pop. + + Nah this wur a damper and th’ biggest i’ th’ lot, + And th’ folks they declared this wur a Keighley plot, + But one Jack o’ Ludges sed he’d stop ’em their prate, + He’d learn ’em i’ Keighley to insinuate, + They’st hev no excurshuns for nout but their lip, + And Shipley and Bradford should hev the first trip. + + He sed he’d been quiet, but he’d nah interfere, + He’d wauk up to Derby and tell em up there, + Hah they hed been skitted, sin first they begun, + And nah when this wur finished they wurnt to run; + But hah he went on I never did hear, + But won thing I’m certain he must a been there. + + For th’ tenth day of April bills wur put aht, + That th’ railway wud oppen withaht any daht, + And a famous excurshun fra Bradford wod run, + And call at all stashuns wi’ th’ excepshun o’ won; + For nowt aht o’ Keighley to Haworth sud ride, + For that day all th’ luggage wur left o’ won side. + + Scarce Keighley crookt-legg’d ens heard o’ the news, + And wur just bahn to give ’em the gratest abuse, + When a order cum aht fra sum unknawn source, + That Keighley crookt-legg’d ens cud go up of course, + They thowt it wur best, and wud cause the least bother, + For wun sud be welcum as weel as anuther. + + Hasumever their hopes hes not been i’ vain, + For the day’s arrived and yonder’s the train, + And thahsands o’ folks is flocking to th’ spot, + The gent fra his hall, the peasant fra his cot, + For all are determined as th’ weather is fine, + To hev an’ excurshun up th’ Worth Valley Line. + + They land up i’ Haworth, and sports et is seen, + Wur nivver yet equalled it reign o’ the Queen, + Such processhuns wi music yo ne’er saw the like, + They wur bands fra all nashuns excepting Black Dyke, + And Sham o’ Blue Bills sed he’d kick up a shine, + For nah they hed oppen’d the Worth Valley Line. + + There wur Jim o’th’ Damems, and Will o’ th’ Gooise Coit, + And the lads at wur in that puddin exploit, + There wur Ned dahn fra Oakworth, and Ike fra Loin Ends, + Along wi their aristocratical friends, + They repair’d to Black Bull, of sahnd puddin to dine, + That day at they oppen’d the Worth Valley Line. + + I’ all nooks and corners and chimla tops, + Wur floating gert banners wi’ mighty big props, + And stamp’d on each flag i’ figures so nice, + Sum an’ inscripshun and sum a device; + But th’ nicest i’th’ lump at swung on a band, + Wur welcum to Haworth fra ivvery land. + + Yor welcum, yor welcum, all men upon earth, + Yor welcum to the valley of Worth, + Fra th’ Humber to th’ Mersey, fra th’ Thames dahn to th’ Tyne, + Yor welcum to travel the Worth Valley Line. + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + + “Th’ last Scene of all that ends this strange eventful history.” + +_Fra th’ Corrispondent o’ th’ Hoylus End Mercury_. + + Good folks you’ve inkwired at home an’ abroad, + Ha we’re gettin on wi wur famous railroad; + And when I’ve tell’d yo the disasters we’ve hed, + Yo’ve greeved monny a time wal yo’ve tain to yor bed, + But ha yo will gape when yo read farther dahn, + What famons big stirrins we’ve hed up i’th’ tahn. + + I knaw yo’d be mad as soin as yo heard, + Abaht that oud kah at belong’d to Blue Beard, + For I like as I saw yo just hod of its tail, + And braying it rump wi’ the end o’ yor flail; + For I wisht monny a time at yo hed been here, + For swallowing the plan yo’d a geen it what cheer. + + Ha ivver good folk I’ll try to be breef, + For I knaw you’re i’ pain and I’ll give yo releef— + So to tell yo the truth in a plain, honnest way, + The railroad is finish’d an oppen’d to-day; + And I’ve tain up my pen for ill yo’d a taint, + If I hednt a geen yo a truthful ackahnt. + + Hasumivver this morning, as I tell’d yo before, + I wur wakken’d wi hearin a awful uproar, + What wi’ the prating o’ wimen and the shahtin o’th’ folk, + And the bells at wur ringin, they wur past onny joke, + For ivvery two minnits they shahted hurrah, + We are nah bahn to oppen the Haworth Railway. + + So I jump’d up i’ bed, an’ I gat on the floor, + I slipt on my cloas and ran out at door, + And the first at I met, it wur one Jimmy Peg, + He cum’d up fra Bocking and brout a gert flag, + And just at his heels wur the Spring-headed band, + Playing a march—I thout it wur grand. + + So I fell into the step for I knaw how to march, + For I’ve been stiffen’d up wi’ guvernment starch; + And first smell o’ music it maks me fair dance, + And I prick up my ears like a trooper his lance, + Hasumivver, I thout as I’d gotten i’ th’ scent, + I’d follow this music wharever it went. + + Then I march’d up erect, wal I come to the grand stand, + And that wur a’ th’ stashun where the train hed to land; + There wur flags of all nashuns fra the Union Jack + To Bacchus and Atlas wi’ the globe on his back, + For the Inspector and conductor and all sorts o’ fray + Wur expected directly to land at the railway. + + So I star’d wal both een wur varry near bleared, + And waited and waited—at last it appear’d, + It wur filled full o’ folk as eggs full o’ meat, + And it tuk four ingens to bring it up reight, + Two hed long chimlas and th’ tuther hed noan, + But they stuck weel together like a dog to a bone. + + They wur gruntin and growling wur the folks at gat aht, + So I made some inquiries what it wur abaht; + And i’ all my born days I ne’er heard nout so call’d, + For three or four times they sed it hed stall’d, + Wal some o’th’ crookt-legg’d ens bethout of a scheam, + And they went back to Keighley for a hamper o’steam. + + And my word and honour it did mak a gert din, + For I stud by and heard it, and saw it come in; + I expected it coming as quiet as a lamb, + But no daht at the noises wur nobbut a sham; + But what’s the use o’ telling yo ha it did come, + I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum. + + There wur fifty i’ number invited to dine, + All us at hed acted reight loyal to the line; + So I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff + At the puddings this time wud be made at reight stuff, + And noan o’ that stuffment they gav the Keighley band, + Toan awf on it rubbish and the other awf sand. + + For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a man) + Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kah lickin pan, + Wi gert lumps o’ suet at the cook hed put in’t, + At shane like a ginney just new aht at mint; + Wi’ knives made a purpose to cut it i’ rowls, + And the sauce wur i’ buckets and mighty big bowls. + + They wur chattin and taukin and souckin ther spice, + And crackin at dainties they thout at wur nice, + Wal the oud parson gat up and pull’d a long face, + And mutter’d some words at they call saying th’ grace, + But I nivver goam’d that, cos I knew for a fact + It wur nobbut a signal for the puddin attack. + + And aw’l tell yo wot, folk tho’ yo maint beleeve, + But yo tauks abaht Wibsey fooak heytin horse beef, + Yo sud a seen Locker-taaners brandishing ther nives, + An choppin an cutting ther wollopin shives; + An all on em shaatin thay lik’d th puddin th best, + Fer nout wur like th puddin for standin th’ test. + + An while thay wor cutting an choppin away, + The gallant Spring-Heeaders wor order’d ta play, + But thay didn’t mich loike it fer ivvery wun, + Wur flaid at thayd play wol th puddin wor dun; + But as luck wor thay tice’d em, wi a gert deeal to do, + Ta play Roger the Plowman an Rozzen the bow. + + Ike Ouden wor th chairman at com to preside, + An Will Thompson o Guiseley wor set by his soide, + Na Will’s a director o’th Midland line, + An as deeacent a chap as sat dahn ta dine; + Along wi Jin Sugden at held th Vice-chair, + Wor won Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor. + + Their wor Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and me, + And a lot o more lads at wur for a spree; + There wur Nedwin o George’s and Pete Featherstone, + They sat side by side like Darby and Joan; + And I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade, + But I knaw they wur Ingham and little Jack Wade. + + So he says, be silent, all the folk i’ this hall, + So as any won on yo can hear a pin fall; + And Jone o’ Bill Olders just shut up thi’ prate, + For I’ve summat to say and I mun let it aht; + For I mun hev silence whativer betide, + Or I’ll cum aht oth loom and some o’ yo hide. + + Three years hes elapsed and we’re going on the fourth, + Sin we first started th railway fra Keighley to Haworth + What wi’ dreamin by neet, and workin by day, + Its been to poor Haworth a dearish railway. + And monny a time I’ve been aht o’ patience + Wi’ the host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations. + + The first do at we hed wur th kah swallowing th plan, + And then wur bad luck and misfortunes began; + For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us another, + All went on wrong and we’d a gert deal o’ bother; + He must a been dreamin, a silly oud clahn, + For three fields o’ Oud Doodles he nivver put dahn. + + As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I knaw, + For thart one o’ the best drivers at ivver I saw; + And nobody can grumble at what tha hes dun, + If thi buss driven wearisome race it is run; + For who nah cud grumble, ha fine wur thur cloth, + To ride up to Haworth wi oud Johnny Broth. + + So Johnny, my lad, don’t thee mak onny fuss, + I shuttin thi horses, or sellin thi buss; + For if the railway hes done thee, there’s wun thing I knaw; + Tha mud mak ’o th’ oud bus a stunnin peep show, + And if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles, + I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles. + + So strike up yor music and give it some mahth, + And welcum all nashuns fra north to the sahth; + The black fra the east, and the red fra the west, + For they sud be welcum as weel as the rest: + And all beyond the Tiber, the Baltic or Rhine, + Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d the Worth Valley Line. + + + + +T’ Village Aram-Skaram. + + + 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 o’ Erin, + Down in the Fen country. + + All her Saxon neighbours leave her, + With her boy and demon fever, + The midnight watch—none to relieve her, + Save a Little Bisey Bee: + He was called the Aram-Skaram, + Noisy as a drum clock laram, + Yet his treasures he would share ’em, + With his friend right merrily. + + Every night and every morning, + With the day sometimes at dawning, + While the 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 ruffin, + At the wake each night went he: + Sabbath morning he was ready, + Warn’d the bearers to be steady, + Taking Peter to his Biddy, + 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 Aram-Skaram interfered, + Soon this corpse will be interred, + Come with us and see it burried, + Out in yonder cemetery: + 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, + Wisht him all prosperity: + “Never mind,” he said, “my brothers, + What I have done, do ye to others; + We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,” + Said the little Bisey Bee. + + + + +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 distressed; + What if unthankful and thankless they be, + Think of the giver that gave unto thee. + + Go travel the long lanes on misery’s virge, + 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 pressed; + A small bit o’ help to the little she earns, + God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns. + + ’Neath the green grassy mounds o’ 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. + + + + +The World’s Wheels. + + + Aw steady an’ easy t’oud world’s wheels wod go, + If t’folk wod be honist an’ try to keep so; + An’ at steead o’ been hastey at ivvery wun, + Let us enquire afore we condemn. + + A man may do wrong an’ scarce be to blame, + Or a woman be bad e nout bud her name; + But which on us ought ta say ought unto them, + Unless we enquire afore we condemn. + + If a Rose she sud flurish her sisters among, + It izant ta say her poor sister is wrong; + That blighted one there may be nipt in the stem, + So let us enquire before we condemn. + + Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough, + While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow, + May be shattered asunder from stern unto stem, + So let us inquire before we condemn. + + We are certain o’ wun thing an’ that izant two, + If we do nothing wrong we have nothing to rue; + Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim, + So let us inquire afore 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 enquire afore we condemn. + + + + +Full o’ Doubts an’ Fears. + + + Sweet sing the birds in lowly strains, + 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 sores high up in the air, + We listen to his lays; + He knows no sorrow nor no care, + Nor weariness o’ days. + + But men, though born of noble birth, + Assigned for higher spheres, + Walks his sad journey here on earth + All full o’ doubts and fears. + + + + + It Izant so we Me. + + + Bright seems the days when I was young + Fra thought, fra care, fra sorrow free; + As wild waves rippled i’ the sun, + Rolled gaily on, and so wi’ me. + + More bright the flowers when I was 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 hypocracy; + Though some embraced from it I sprang, + And said it izant so wi’ me. + + Aw saw the canting jibs when young, + Of saintly, sulky misery; + Yet poked aw melancholy’s ribs, + And said it izant so wi’ me. + + Though monny a stone when aw was young, + His strong upon me memory; + Aw thru when young and hed um 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 ther shirt, + Or else they’d buy—and so wi me. + + Yet after all aw oft luke back, + Without a pang o’ days gone past, + An hope all t’ wreng aw did when young, + May be forgeen to me at last. + + + + +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 ligs 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: + With dainty dish thou’rt behind + With every one. + + I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheen + Were welcome both at morn and e’en, + Or any hour that’s in between, + Thy name wer good; + But now by some considered mean + For human food. + + When peace and plenty’s smiling brow, + And trade and commerce speeds the plough; + Thy friends that were not long ago, + Such game they make; + Thy epitaph is soldier now, + Or two-eyed snake. + + When times are hard we’re scant o’ cash, + And famine hungry bellies lash, + And tripes and trollabobble’s trash + Begins to fail, + Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash, + Hail! herring, hail! + + Full mony a time t’as 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, + We weeping eye. + + To me nought 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 t’at sea. + + Yet I will sing thy praise, wee fish; + To me thou art a dainty dish; + For thee, ’tis true, we 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, + To me I need not study deep, + There’s nothing foreign; + For aw like thee, am sold too cheap, + My little herring. + + + + +Our Poor Little Factory Girls. + + + They are up in the morning right early, + They are up sometimes afore leet; + Aw hear their clogs they are clamping, + As t’ little things goes dahn the street. + + They are off in the morning right early, + With their baskets o’ jock on their arms; + The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging, + As they enter the mill in a swarm. + + They are skarpring 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, + As the wee little factory girl. + + They are bouncing abaht 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 thickest, + They help one another ’tis plain; + They try to be best and the quickest, + The smiles o’ their master to gain. + + And now from her ten hours’ labour, + Back to her cottage sho shogs; + Aw hear by the tramping and singing, + ’Tis the factory girl in her clogs. + + An’ at night when sho’s folded i’ slumber, + Sho’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls; + Of all human toil under-rated, + ’Tis our poor little factory girls. + + + + +We Him haw call my awn. + + + The branches o’ the woodbine hide + My little cottage wall, + An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch, + Aw 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; + ’Twor Eden in the desert wild, + Wi him aw call my own. + + + + +A Yorkshireman’s Christmas. + + + Aw have ten or twelve pounds o gooid meit, + A small cheese and a barrel o’ beer; + Aw’ll welcome King Christmas to neet, + For he nobbut comes once in a year. + + Send our Will dahn to Tommy Spoyle Wood’s, + And tell him to send up a log; + An’ tell him and Betty to come, + For Tommy’s a jolly oud dog. + + Aw mean to forget all my debts, + An’ aw mean to harbour no greef; + Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates + O’ their contents o’ beer and gooid beef. + + Them barns they care nought abaht drink, + Like us at’s advanced into years; + So Sally, lass, what does ta think, + If ta buys um some apples an’ pears? + + Our David’s a fine little lad, + An’ our Nancy’s a fine little lass; + When aw see um aw do feel so glad, + So bring me a quart an’ a glass! + + Come, Sally, an’ sit be my side? + We’ve hed both were ups and were dahns; + Awm fane at aw made thee my bride, + An’ am prahd o’ both thee an’ wer barns. + + We’re as happy as them at’s more brass, + E their festival holly-decked hall; + We envy no mortal, old lass; + Here’s peace and gooid will unto all. + + And may every poor crater ta neet, + If never before in his loife, + Have plenty to drink an’ ta eat, + For both him, an’ his barns, an’ his woife. + + + + +The Fethered Captive. + + + My little dappled-wingged fellow, + What ruffin’s hand has made thee wellow? + Haw heard while down in yonder hollow, + Thy troubled breast; + But I’ll return my little fellow, + Back to its nest. + + Some ruffin’s hand has set a snickle, + And left thee in a bonny pickle; + Who e’er he be, haw hope old Nick ’al + Rise his arm, + And mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle + We summat warm. + + How glad am aw that fate while roaming, + Where milk-white Hawthorns’ blossoms blooming, + As sent me footsteps ere the gloaming + Into this dell. + To stop some murdering hand fra drowning + Thy bonny sell. + + For thou wert doomed, my bird, for ever, + Fra all thy fethered mates to sever; + Were aw not near thee to deliver + We my awn hand; + Nor never more thou’d skim the river, + Or fellowed land. + + Thy fetherd friends, if thou has onny; + Tho’ friends aw fear there izant mony; + But yet thy dam for her, we Johnny, + Will fret to-day. + And think her watter-wagtail bonny + Has flown away. + + Be not afraid, for net a fether + Fra of thy wing shall touch the hether, + For I will give thee altogether + Sweet liberty! + And glad am aw that aw came hither, + To set thee free. + + Now wing thy flight my little rover, + Thy cursed captivity is over, + And if thou crosses t’ Straits o’ Dover + To warmer spheres; + Hoping thou may live in clover, + For years and years. + + Happily, like thee, for fortune’s fickle, + I may, myself, be caught it 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. + + + + +Trip to Malsis Hall. + + + The day wor fine, the sun did shine, + No sines o’ rain to fall, + When t’North Beck hands, e jovial bands, + Did visit Malsis Hall. + + Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill, + Both ould an’ young did meet; + To march I trow, e two-by-two, + E processhun dahn the street. + + An’ Marriner’s Band, we music grand, + Struck up wi all ther might; + Then one and all, both great and small, + March’d on we great delight. + + The girls and boys, we jovial noise, + The fife and drum did play; + For every one would have some fun + On this eventful day. + + Oud Joan o’ Sall wi’ all his palls, + Marched on wi’ all ther ease; + Just for a lark, some did remark, + There goes some prime oud cheese! + + The Exlaheead chaps wi their girt caps, + An’ coits nut quite i’th’ fashion; + With arms ding-dong, they stretch along, + An’ put a fineish dash on. + + Tom Wilkin drest up in his best, + T’ oud wife put on her fall, + For they wor bent, what come or went, + To dine at Malsis Hall. + + There wor Tommy Twist, among the list, + We his magenta snaat; + Hez often said, sin he gat wed, + T’ oud lass sud hev an aht. + + Amongst the lot wor oud Sam Butt, + As fine as oud Lord Digby; + An’ oud Queer Doos, wi’ his strait shoos, + An’ wi’ him Joseph Rigby. + + There’s Jimmy Gill, o’ Castle hill,— + That gentleman wi’t stick,— + There’s Will an’ Sam, and young John Lamb, + An’ Ben an’ Earby Dick. + + Aw scorn to lie—the reason why + It is a shame awm sure! + But among the gob, wi’ old Joe Hob, + Behould a perfect cure. + + I’d quite forgot, among the lot, + There was old Pally Pickles, + Wi’ crinoline sho walks so fine, + Sho’s like a cat e prickles. + + Bud to me tale, aw musant fail + Fer out on this occasion; + We heead erect, and girt respect, + We march to Keighley Station. + + And Maud an’ t’ woife, az large az life, + Gat in’t train together; + They both did say, they’d have a day, + Among the blooming hether. + + Nah—all fane gat in t’ train, + And Ned began to scream; + Then Master Pratt doft off his hat, + An’ pept aht at the steeam. + + This jovial band, when they did land, + Got off the train so hearty, + For they all went, wi’ that intent, + To have a grand tea-party! + + The country folk did gape an’ luke, + To see us all delighted, + For every one, did say begum, + Aw wish I’d been invited. + + Its joy to tell, they march as well + As the Scots did ower the border, + Ould Wellington and all his men + Ne’er saw such marching order. + + The lookers on, to see them come, + Get on the second story; + Right down the park they did the mark, + Coming e full glory. + + Then to the place, each smiling face, + Move on in grand succession; + The lookers on did say “well done, + It iz a grand processhun!” + + When they’d all past the hall at last, + They form’d into a column; + Then Jimmy Wreet, wi’ all hiz meet, + Gave aht a hymn so solemn: + + Then all did raise their voice in praise, + We music in the centre; + They sang a hymn e praise o’ Him, + At iz the girt inventer. + + That bit being done, they all did run, + To have a pleasant day in, + Some went there, an’ some went here, + An’ t’ Bands began o’ playing. + + We mich amaze, we all did gaze, + Around this splendid park; + Then little Jake began to speak, + An’ thus he did remark:— + + “At Morecambe Bay aw’ve been a day, + At Bolton Woods an’ Ilkley; + But Malsis Hall outstrip them all, + At aw’ve seen aht o’ Keighley.” + + The girt park wall around the hall, + Majestically does stand; + The waving trees, an pleasant breeze, + Its loike a fairy land. + + It fill’d wer eyes, we great surprise, + To see the fountain sporting; + An’ on the top, stuck on a pot, + The British flags wor floating. + + The walks so grand, wi’ yellow sand, + An’ splendid wor the paving, + High over all, around the wall, + Wor flags an’ banners waving. + + Nah some made fun, an’ some did run, + And women they wor swinging; + Do you ken the “Muffin Man,”— + Others they wor singing. + + In sooth wor grand, to see this band, + Assemble all together; + Bud sad to say, that varry day, + Turned aht some shocking weather. + + Even war nert rain, aw mun explain, + At caused a girt disaster, + All but one sort o’ breead ran short, + It wor no fault o’ t’ master. + + O! Gormanton! thy bread an’ bun, + An’ judgment it wor scanty; + Oh! what a shame, an’ what a name, + For not providing plenty! + + Oh, silly clown! thou might have known + To eyt each one wor able; + The country air did mack some swear, + They could ommost eyt a table. + + The atmosphere, no longer clear, + The clouds are black an’ stormy; + Then all but one away did run, + Like some deserting army. + + On—on! they go! as if some foe + Wor charging at the lot! + If they got there, they didn’t care + A fig for poor Will Scott! + + Poor lame ould Will, remains there still, + His crutches has to fetch him; + But he’s seen the toime, when in his prime, + At nobody there could catch him. + + Like some fast steed, wi’ all its speed, + All seem’d as they wor flying; + To escape the rain, an’ catch the train, + Both old and young wor trying. + + One neet, old Wills, about Crosshills, + He heeard a fearful humming, + He said t’ woife, upon my life, + Aw think the French are coming! + + Tha knaws reight weel at we’ve heeard tell + O sich strange things before, + So lass look quick, an’ cut thee stick, + An’ a will bolt the door. + + Like drahnded rats, they pass their mates, + An’ rans dahn to the station; + And Betty Bakes an’ Sally Shakes, + Their both plump aht o’ patience. + + “This is a mess,” says little Bess, + At lives o’t top o’t garden; + “There’s my new shawl an’ fine lace fall, + They’ll nut be worth a farden.” + + But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throng, + The bell does give the sign, + With all its force, the iron horse, + Comes trotting up the line. + + Then one by one they all get on, + Wet, fatigued and weary; + The steam does blow, old Ned doth go, + And we come back so cheery. + + All satisfied we their short ride— + But sorry for the rain— + Each thenkt ther stars they’re nowt no war, + An’ we’ve got home again. + + Whene’er we roam away from home, + No matter where or when, + In storm or shower, if in wer power, + To home—sweet home, return! + + What we had seen—where we had been— + Each to our friend wor telling: + The day being spent, we homeward went + To each respective dwelling. + + + + +Dame Europe’s Lodging House. + + + Dame Europa kept a Lodging House, + And she was fond of brass; + She took in public lodgers, + Of every rank and class. + + She’d French and Germans, Dutch and Swiss, + And other nations too; + So poor old Mrs. Europe + Had plenty 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 A ONE, + On whom 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. + + For in her house was Alex Russ, + Oft him they ey’d with fear; + For Alex was a lazy hound, + And kept a Russian Bear. + + Her fourth was a man of grace, + And was for heaven bent; + His name was Pious William, + Guided by his testament. + + Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave, + And ’tis our firm belief, + He once did rob the Hungary Lads + Of their honest 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, + Seized a little Turk one day, + And thought to warm his hide. + + But John and Louis soon stepp’d in, + 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. + + But Louis had the nicest bed, + Of any of the lot; + And being close by a window, + He loved a flower pot. + + The best and choicest bed of all, + Was occupied with 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 up it bunk, + Sometimes he went across, + To spend an hour with Master Louis, + 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 it 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. + + 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 read his testament; + So everybody was deceived + When he was on mischief bent. + + He seldom passed a lodger’s bed + But what he took a glance, + Which made them every one suspect + He’d rob them if he’d 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 LORAINE, + And Willie vowed they once were his + And must be his again. + + He said his father once lodg’d there, + And that the dame did know + That Louis predecessors once + Had sneaked them in a row. + + But in Willie’s council was a lad + 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 up-stairs 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 Lue. + + The dame being asked did not object + If he could pay the rent, + And had a decent characterz + And Louis would consent. + + But I do object to this says Lue, + And on this very ground, + Willy and his cousins, ma’am, + They soon will 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. + + O, you couldn’t think it, Master Lue, + 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, + Your 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 out at sort, + ’Twould be against my mind; + So take it right or take it wrong, + I’ll promise naught at 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 Willy sent a letter home, + To his mother, old Augusta, + Telling her he’d thrashed poor Lue, + And given him such a duster. + + What wonderful events, says he, + Has heaven brought about, + I 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 durst 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 the best. + + Neutral, growl’d John, I hate the name, + ’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 Lue a little drop + Out of my brandy flask. + + And give it up, poor Lue, 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 Willy grin, + And told 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 them were worse that did look on, + Than them that played the game. + + Now Dame 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, + So 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 were neutral, + And stuck up for them both. + + Stuck up for both, offended both,— + Is that it 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 fag’s 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 + The cursed disgraceful scene. + + And instead of being 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 i’t 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. + + A weel a day then said the dame, + But much affected were, + I see you have some small excuse + What 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 deserves humility. + + And ’tis an empty-headed dream, + To boast of skill and power, + And dare not even interfere + At the latest hour. + + Better far confess at once + You’re not fit for your place, + Than have a name Heroic, sir, + Branded with disgrace. + + But I will not say another word, + My deputies, to you; + But hope you will a warning take, + This moment from poor Lue. + + And hoping, John, your enemies + May never have the chance + To see you paid for watching Will + Thrash poor weak Louis France. + + + + +The Bould Bucaneers: + + + 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’s siege of old Troy; + So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will, + How our brave army bivouced on the plains o’ Park hill. + + Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our quarters we toke, + When Lieutenant-col. Don Frederick spoke, + Commanding his aide-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 an’ twisters the knights o’ the coil, + An’ spuzzers an’ sorters fell in at the roll. + + The light-infantry captains wer 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 an’ tea. + + There wor music to dainties and music to wine, + An’ for faar o’ invaders no hearts did repine; + Although a dark cloud swept over the plain, + Yet our quarter wor sheltered from famine an’ rain. + + Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Master Wright, + Drank to each other wi’ pleasure that night; + We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music an fun, + From the larder an’ cellar o’ Field-Marshall Lund. + + Private Tom Berry got into the hall, + When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small; + An’ Flintergill Billy o’ the Spuzzer’s Brigade, + Got his beak in the barrel, an’ havock he made. + + The Field Marshall declared and his good lady too, + They ne’er was attacked wi’ so pleasant a foe; + With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers, + In return they saluted the bold Bucaneers. + + + + +The Veteran. + + + I left yond fields so fair to view; + I left yond 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 thee, lad, be not afraid; + Come, join and be a brave dragoon: + You’ll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, + An’ captain be promoted soon. + Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see + Your manly form an’ dress so fine; + Then gea’s your hand an’ follow me,— + Our troop’s the finest in the line. + + The pyramids behold our corps + Drive back the mighty man o’ Fate! + Our ire is felt on every shore, + In every country, clime, or state. + The Cuirassers at Waterloo + We crushed;—they wor the pride o’ France! + At Inkerman, wi’ sabre true, + We broke the Russ and Cossack lance! + + Then come, my lad, extend your hand, + Thine 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; + Wi’ clinking spurs an’ 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 wish to cross the briny wave, + An’ England’s gallant sons to join. + Since—many a summer’s sun has set, + An’ time’s graved-scar is on my brow, + Yet I am free and willing yet + To meet ould England’s daring foe. + + + + +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 house, 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 said 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 thee that applause 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 thy eye, + The envied game, the lark and timid hare. + + In Goitstock falls, and rugged Marley hills, + In Bingley’s grand and quiet sequester’d dale, + Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rills, + I see thy haunt and read thy “Poacher’s Tale.” + + So, Homer like, thy harp was wont to tune, + Thy native vale and 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 “Vale of Aire,” + Her Nicholson and his historic song. + + + + +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 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 ’twere 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 villains who, if all were just, + In thy grim cell would lay their dust. + + But yet, ’twere grand beneath yond wall, + To lay with friends,—relations all; + If sculptured tombstones were never there, + But simple grass with daisies fair; + And were it not, grim box, for thee + ’Twere paradise, O cemetery. + + [Picture: Decorative image] + + * * * * * + + A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN, KEIGHLEY. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RANDOM RHYMES AND RAMBLES*** + + +******* This file should be named 39198-0.txt or 39198-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/9/1/9/39198 + + + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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