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diff --git a/39198-h/39198-h.htm b/39198-h/39198-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d1e8735 --- /dev/null +++ b/39198-h/39198-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4982 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Random Rhymes and Rambles, by William Wright</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RANDOM RHYMES AND RAMBLES*** +</pre> +<p>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).</p> +<h1>RANDOM RHYMES<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND</span><br /> +RAMBLES.</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">—o—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">By Bill o’th Hoylus End.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">—o—</p> +<blockquote><p>Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether<br /> +In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither,<br /> +Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,<br /> + Let time mak +proof;<br /> +But shall I scribble down some blether<br /> + Just clean +aff-loof.</p> +<p>I am nae poet, in a sense,<br /> +But just a rhymer, like, by chance,<br /> +And hae to learning nae pretence.<br /> + Yet, what the +matter?<br /> +Whene’er my muse does on me glance,<br /> + I jingle at +her.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Burns</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center">—o—</p> +<p style="text-align: center">KEIGHLEY:<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH +GREEN.</span><br /> +1876.</p> +<p><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>Most +Respectfully</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Dedicated to</p> +<p style="text-align: right">James Wright,</p> +<p>Local Musician and Composer,</p> +<p style="text-align: center">North Beck Mills,</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Keighley,</p> +<p style="text-align: right">By the Author.</p> +<p><span class="smcap">Dec.</span> 25<span +class="smcap">th</span>, 1876.</p> +<h2><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>INTRODUCTION.</h2> +<p><i>The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES</i>, <i>in verse and +prose</i>, <i>are but the leisure musings of the uneducated</i>, +<i>and cannot be expected to come up to anything like the +standard of even poetry</i>; <i>yet</i>, <i>when the fact is +known that the Author</i>, <i>like his Works</i>, <i>are rough +and ready</i>, <i>without the slightest notion of either +Parnassus or the Nines</i>, <i>at least give him credit for what +they are worth</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>WILLIAM WRIGHT</i>.</p> +<h1><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>Random +Rhymes<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND</span><br /> +Rambles.</h1> +<h2>Come Nivver De e Thee Shell.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Come nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,<br /> + Are words but rudely said;<br /> +Tho thay may chear some stricken heart,<br /> + Or raise some wretched head;<br /> +For thay are words I love mysel,<br /> + They’re music to my ear;<br /> +Thay muster up fresh energy<br /> + Ta chase each dout an’ fear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,<br /> + Tho tha be poor indeed;<br /> +Ner lippen ta long it turning up<br /> + Sa mich ov a friend in need;<br /> +Fer few ther are, an’ far between,<br /> + That helps a poor man thru;<br /> +An God helps them at helps thersel,<br /> + An’ thay hev friends enew.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,<br /> + What ivver thy crediters say;<br /> +Tell um at least tha’rt forst ta owe,<br /> + If tha artant able ta pay;<br /> +An if thay nail thy bits o’ traps,<br /> + An sell thee dish an’ spooin;<br /> +Remember fickle fortun lad,<br /> + Sho changes like the mooin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,<br /> + Tho some ma laugh an scorn;<br /> +There wor nivver a neet ’fore ta neet,<br /> + Bud what there come a morn;<br /> +An if blind fortun used thee bad,<br /> + Sho’s happen noan so meean;<br /> +Ta morn al come, an then for some<br /> + The sun will shine ageean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,<br /> + Bud let thy motto be,—<br /> +“Onward! an’ excelsior;”<br /> + And try for t’ top o’t tree:<br /> +And if thy enemies still pursue,<br /> + Which ten-to-one they will,<br /> +Show um oud lad tha’rt doing weel,<br /> + An climbing up the hill.</p> +<h2><a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>Oud +Betty’s Advice.</h2> +<p class="poetry">So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed<br /> +It morning we young blacksmith Ned,<br /> +And tho it makes thy mother sad,<br /> + Its like to be;<br /> +I’ve nout ageean yond decent lad<br /> + No more ner thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud let me tell thee what ta due,<br /> +For my advice might help thee thru;<br /> +Be kind, and to thy husband true,<br /> + An I’ll be bun<br /> +Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue,<br /> + For out tha’s done.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nah, try to keep thi former knack,<br /> +An due thi weshing in a crack,<br /> +Bud don’t be flaid to bend thi back,<br /> + Tha’ll nobbut sweeat;<br /> +So try an hev a bit o’ tack,<br /> + An do it neat.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt,<br /> +An pride thysel e being alert,—<br /> +An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt,<br /> + An keep it clean;<br /> +It wod thy poor oud mother hurt,<br /> + If tha wor mean.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun,<br /> +Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run;<br /> +Bud, alus hev thy dinner done,<br /> + Withaht a mooild;<br /> +If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on,<br /> + An hev it boiled.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Mary, I’ve no more to say—<br /> +Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way;<br /> +An if tha leets to rue, I pray,<br /> + Don’t blame thy mother:<br +/> +I wish you monny a happy day<br /> + We wun another.</p> +<h2>The Fugitive: a Tale Kersmas Time.</h2> +<p class="poetry">We wor snugly set araand the hob,<br /> + ’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,<br /> +Me an arr Kate an t’ family,<br /> + All happy aw believe:<br /> +Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee,<br /> + An’ awd aar little Ann,<br /> +When their come rapping at the door<br /> + A poor oud beggar man.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks,<br /> + That once no daht were fair;<br /> +His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale,<br /> + His neck and breast were bare;<br /> +<a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>His clooase, +unworthy o’ ther name,<br /> + Were raggd an steepin wet;<br /> +His poor oud legs were stockingless,<br /> + And badly shooed his feet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to +him,<br /> + An get thee up to’t fire;<br /> +Sho then brought aht were humble fare,<br /> + T’wor what he did desire;<br /> +And when he’d getten what he thowt,<br /> + An his oud regs were dry,<br /> +We akst what distance he hed come,<br /> + An thus he did reply:</p> +<p class="poetry">“Awm a native of Cheviot hills,<br /> + Some weary miles fra here;<br /> +Where I like you this neet hev seen<br /> + Mony a Kersmas cheer;<br /> +Bud I left my father’s haase, when young,<br /> + Determined aw wad roaam;<br /> +An’ like the prodigal of yore,<br /> + Am mackin toards mi hoame.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines,<br /> + On India’s burning sand;<br /> +An nearly thirty years ago<br /> + Aw left me native land;<br /> +Discipline being ta hard for me,<br /> + My mind wor always bent;<br /> +So in an evil hoar aw did<br /> + Desart me regiment.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>An nivver sin durst aw go see<br /> + My native hill an glen,<br /> +Whar aw mud now as well hev been<br /> + The happiest ov all men;<br /> +Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all<br /> + A merry Kersmas day;<br /> +Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones,<br /> + On Cheviot hills to lay.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t +wife,<br /> + “Bud aw feel rather hurt;<br /> +What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht,<br /> + An finds t’oud chap a shirt.”<br /> +Sho did an all, and stockins too;<br /> + An tears stud in her e’e;<br /> +An in her face the stranger saw<br /> + Real Yorkshire sympathee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh,<br /> + When he hed heard his tale,<br /> +An spak o’ some oud trouses,<br /> + At hung at chamer rail;<br /> +Then aht at door ahr Harry runs,<br /> + An back agean he shogs,<br /> +He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair<br /> + O’ my oud iron clogs.</p> +<p class="poetry">It must be feearful coud ta neet,<br /> + Fer fouk ats aht at door;<br /> +Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all,<br /> + At’s thrown at chamer floor:<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>And then +thars thy oud hat, said Kate,<br /> + At’s paused so up an dahn;<br /> +It will be better ner his own,<br /> + Tho’ its withaht a craan.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So when we’d geen him what we cud,<br /> + (In fact afford to give,)<br /> +We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,<br /> + O’t poor oud fugitive;<br /> +He thank’d us ower an ower agean<br /> + And often he did pray,<br /> +At barns mud nivver be like him;<br /> + Then travelled on his way.</p> +<h2>Sall at Bog.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Me love is like the pashan dock,<br /> + That grows it summer fog;<br /> +And tho’ sho’s but a country lass,<br /> + I like my Sall at Bog.</p> +<p class="poetry">I walk’d her aht up Rivock End,<br /> + And dahn a bonny dale,<br /> +Whear golden balls an kahslips grow,<br /> + An butter cups do smell.</p> +<p class="poetry">We sat us dahn at top o’t grass,<br /> + Cloyce to a runnin brook,<br /> +An harkend watter wegtails sing<br /> + Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout<br /> + Az t’sun shane in her een,<br /> +Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar<br /> + At ivver aw hed seen.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twor here we tell’d wer tales +o’ love,<br /> + Beneath t’oud hazel tree;<br /> +How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog,<br /> + How dearly sho liked me.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,<br /> + Aw vow be all aw see,<br /> +Aw wish that aw mud be a kah,<br /> + An it belong ta thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah<br /> + What awther on us said;<br /> +At onny rate we parted friends,<br /> + An boath went home ta bed.</p> +<h2><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>Th’ Furst Pair o’ Briches.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button +jacket,<br /> + Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist,<br +/> +And my grand bellosed cap,—noan nicer I’ll back +it,—<br /> + Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste;<br /> +Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling,<br /> + An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair,<br +/> +An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden,<br /> + It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ +Alice<br /> + Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas,<br /> +An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,<br /> + Wi’ me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose.<br +/> +Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy,<br /> + Thay both gav me pennys an off aw did steer:<br /> +But aw heeard um say this, “He’s a fine lad is +Billy,<br /> + It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver he +ware.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw remember the time are Robin an’ +Johnny<br /> + Wor keeping ther hens an’ ducks e the yard,<br +/> +There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny<br /> + An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor hard.<br /> +But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin’<br /> + An sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair,<br /> +Aw then became maister at least o’ wun chicken,<br /> + It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +14</span>Aw remember wun Sabbath, an t’ sun it wor +shining,<br /> + Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth, to sing<br /> +An t’ stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining;<br /> + And childer e white made t’ village ta +ring.<br /> +We went ta auld Mecheck’s that day to wor drinking,<br /> + Tho’ poor, ther wor plenty, an’ summat +ta spare;<br /> +Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m +thinking,<br /> + It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha +ware.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Now them wor the days o’ grim boggards +and witches,<br /> + When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the +swamp,<br /> +But nah is the days o’ cheating fer riches,<br /> + And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp.<br /> +Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary;<br /> + O them wor the days aw knew no despair;<br /> +O give me the time o’ the boggard and fairy,<br /> + Wi’t furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw +ware.</p> +<p class="poetry">And them wor the days aw sal allus remember,<br +/> + Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last;<br /> +Them wor mi March days, but nah its September:<br /> + Ne’er to return again—them days are +past.<br /> +But a time aw remember aboon onny other,<br /> + Aw kneeled o’ mi knees an sed the Lord’s +Prayer;<br /> +Aw sed God bless me father, an God bless mi mother,<br /> + It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.</p> +<h2><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>Fra +Haworth ta Bradford.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Fra Hawarth tahn the other day,<br /> + Bi’t rout o’ Thornton height,<br /> +Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf,<br /> + Went inta Bradford streight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nah Joe i’ Bradford wor afoor,<br /> + But sho hed nivver been;<br /> +Bud assomivver thay arrived<br /> + Safe intat Bowling Green.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thay gav a lad a parkin pig,<br /> + As on the street thay went;<br /> +Ta point um aht St. George’s Hall,<br /> + An Oastler’s Monument.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud t’ little jackanapes being deep,<br +/> + An thought thay’d nivver knaw,<br /> +Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ iz wife<br /> + T’ furst monument he saw.</p> +<p class="poetry">Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails,<br /> + Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead;<br /> +Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel<br /> + A goan an robb’d the deead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn,<br +/> + Away fra poor oud Dick,<br /> +Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin,<br /> + We a dahn gooid hazel stick.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath,<br /> + He sooin tuke to hiz heels,<br /> +Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument,<br /> + He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s.</p> +<h2>O, Welcome, Lovely Summer.</h2> +<p class="poetry">O! welcome, lovely summer,<br /> + With thi golden days so long,<br /> +When the throstle and the blackbird<br /> + Charm us with their song;<br /> +When the lark in early morning<br /> + Taks his aireal flight;<br /> +An’ the humming bat, an’ buzzard,<br /> + Frolic in the night.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! welcome, lovely summer,<br /> + With her rainbow’s lovely form;<br /> +Her thunder an’ her leetnin,<br /> + An’ her grandeur in the storm:<br /> +With her sunshine and her shower,<br /> + And her wurlin of the dust;<br /> +An the maiden with her flagon,<br /> + To slack the mower’s thirst.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! welcome, lovely summer,<br /> + When the woods wi music ring,<br /> +And the bees so hevvy laden,<br /> + To their hives their treasures bring:<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>When we +seek some shady bower,<br /> + Or some lovely little dell,<br /> +Or bivock in the sunshine,<br /> + Besides some cooling well.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! welcome, lovely summer,<br /> + With her roses in full bloom;<br /> +When the cowslaps an’ the lalack<br /> + Deck the cottage home;<br /> +When the cherry an’ the berry,<br /> + Gives a grandeur to the charm;<br /> +And the clover and the haycock<br /> + Scent the little farm.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! welcome, lovely summer,<br /> + With the partridge on the wing;<br /> +When tewit an the moorgame,<br /> + Up fra the heather spring,<br /> +From the crowber an the billber,<br /> + An the bracken an the ween;<br /> +As from the noisey tadpole,<br /> + We hear the crackin din.<br /> + + +O! welcome, lovely summer.</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>Burns’s 113th Birthday.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Go bring that tuther whisky in,<br /> + An put no watter to it;<br /> +Fer I mun drink a bumper off,<br /> + To Scotland’s darling poet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah,<br /> + This Jenewary morn,<br /> +Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,<br /> + A rustic bard wor born.</p> +<p class="poetry">He kettled up his moorland harp,<br /> + To ivv’ry rustic scene;<br /> +An sung the ways o’ honest men,<br /> + His Davey and his Jean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew,<br /> + Bud what he could admire;<br /> +Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale,<br /> + That suited not his lyre.</p> +<p class="poetry">At last ould Coilia sade enuff,<br /> + My bardy tha did sing,<br /> +Then gently tuke his moorland harp,<br /> + And brack it ivvery string.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,<br +/> + We all its berries red,<br /> +Sho placed it on his noble brow,<br /> + An pensively sho said:—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>“So long as Willies bru ther malt,<br /> + An Robs an Allans spree;<br /> +Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name,<br /> + Remember’d thay shall be.</p> +<h2>Waiting for t’ Angels.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina,<br /> +Ligging alone me own darling child,<br /> +Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom,<br /> +We features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ligging here deead, so white an’ so +bonny,<br /> +Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;<br /> +Asking for sommat withaht ever speaking,<br /> +Asking thee father to say tha wor fine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ligging here deead, the child that so loved +me,<br /> +At fane wod ha’ hidden me faults if sho could,<br /> +Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee,<br /> +While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee +coffin,<br /> +Ligging alone in this poor wretched room,<br /> +Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom,<br /> +Waiting for t’angels to carry thee home.</p> +<h2><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>Spring.</h2> +<p class="poetry">There is hope in the time that is coming,<br /> + When the lambs will frolic on the plain,<br /> +Whilst the bees o’er the heather are humming,<br /> + Then the songsters will cheer us again.<br /> +For the pretty little birds from the edges,<br /> + The reeds for their nest will have riven;<br /> +While the lark from his covert he is soaring,<br /> +His musical notes to the heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then we’ll go to the banks of the +river,<br /> + Through meadows that’s blooming in green,<br +/> +Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r<br +/> + O’er the fish as they sport in the stream:<br +/> +Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting,<br /> + For the fruits of that labour he has striven,<br /> +While the lark from his covert he is soaring,<br /> +His musical notes to the heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll +cherish,<br /> + The rose that’s unseen in the bud,<br /> +And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish,<br /> + Round the ferns in the depths of the wood:<br /> +Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy,<br /> + And the sweets that nature she has given,<br /> +While the lark from his covert he is soaring,<br /> +His musical notes to the heaven.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>Then the merry little boys they will ramble,<br /> + So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale,<br /> +Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble<br /> + Will be blown by the mild summer gale:<br /> +Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning<br /> + To the poor humble peasant will be given.<br /> +While the lark from his covert he is soaring,<br /> + His musical notes to the heaven.</p> +<h2>Haworth Sharpness.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day,<br /> +“Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ +t’railway,<br /> +For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,<br /> +But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The porter replied, “I very mitch daht +it,<br /> +But I’ll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it;<br /> +For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’ snicket,<br /> +Baht tipping to t’porter thee pass or thee +ticket.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“Tha’l rite up to Derby an’ +then tha’l deceive me;”<br /> +“I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, +“believe me:”<br /> +“Then aht we thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,<br /> +For I’ve walked it a foot back all rahnd be +t’Bocking.”</p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>The +Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.</h2> +<p>[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.”]</p> +<p class="poetry">Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind,<br /> + Thy love is all to me;<br /> +Aw cuddant in a palace find<br /> + A lass more true ner thee.<br /> +An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,<br /> + An’ thee, me Lovely Queen,<br /> +The grandest diamond e me Crown,<br /> + Wor’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>The lady gay may heed thee not,<br /> + An’ passing by may sneer;<br /> +The upstart squire’s dawters laugh,<br /> + When thou, my love, art near.<br /> +But if all ther shining sovrens<br /> + Wor wared o’ sattens green,<br /> +They mightant be as hansum then<br /> + As’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.</p> +<p class="poetry">When yollow autumn’s lustre shines,<br /> + An’ hangs her golden ear,<br /> +An’ nature’s voice fra every bush,<br /> + Is singing sweet and clear.<br /> +’Neath some white thorn to song unknown,<br /> + To mortal never seen,<br /> +’Tis there with thee I fain would be,<br /> + Me lass o’ Newsholme Dean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Od drat, who cares fer kings or queens,<br /> + Mixt in a nation’s broil,<br /> +They never benefit the poor,<br /> + The poor mun allus toil.<br /> +An thou gilded specter royalty,<br /> + That dazzles folkses een,<br /> +Is nowt to me when I’m we thee,<br /> + Sweet lass o’ Newsholme Dean.</p> +<p class="poetry">High from the summit of yon crag,<br /> + I view yon smoky town,<br /> +Where fortune she has deigned to smile<br /> + On monny a simple clown:<br /> +<a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>Tho’ +free from want, their free from brains;<br /> + An’ no happier I ween,<br /> +Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens,<br /> + Aw saw e Newsholme Dean.</p> +<h2>The Broken Pitcher.</h2> +<p>[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.”]</p> +<p class="poetry">Three was a bonny Lassie once<br /> + Sitting by a well;<br /> +But what this bonny lassie thought<br /> + I cannot, cannot tell.<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>When by +there went a cavalier<br /> + Well-known as Willie Wryght,<br /> +He was in full marching order<br /> + With his armour shining bright.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why<br /> + Sits thou by the spring?<br /> +Doest thou seek a lover with<br /> + A golden wedding ring.<br /> +Or wherefore doest thou gaze on me,<br /> + With eyes so bright and wide?<br /> +Or wherefore does that pitcher lay<br /> + Broken by thy side?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My pitcher is broken, sir,<br /> + And this the reason is,<br /> +A villain came behind, and<br /> + He tried to steal a kiss.<br /> +I could na take his nonsense, so<br /> + Ne’er a word I spoke,<br /> +But hit him with my pitcher,<br /> + And thus you see ’tis broke.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken<br /> + Now waits for me to come;<br /> +He canna mak his Crowdy,<br /> + Till’t watter it goes home.<br /> +I canna tak him watter,<br /> + And that I ken full weel,<br /> +An’ so I’m sure to catch it,—<br /> + For he’ll play the varry +de’il.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +26</span>“Ah maiden, lovely maiden,<br /> + I pray be ruled by me;<br /> +Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips,<br /> + And give me kisses three.<br /> +And we’ll suppose my helmet is<br /> + A pitcher made o’ steel,<br /> +And we’ll carry home some watter<br /> + To thy uncle Jock McNeil.”</p> +<p class="poetry">She silently consented, for<br /> + She blink’d her bonny ee,<br /> +I threw my arms around her neck,<br /> + And gave her kisses three.<br /> +To wrong the bonny lassie<br /> + I sware ’t would be a sin;<br /> +So I knelt down by the watter<br /> + To dip my helmet in.</p> +<p class="poetry">Out spake this bonny lassie,<br /> + “My soldier lad, forbear,<br /> +I wodna spoil thee bonny plume<br /> + That decks thy raven hair;<br /> +Come buckle up thy sword again,<br /> + Put on thy cap o’ steel,<br /> +I carena for my pitcher, nor<br /> + My uncle Jock McNeil.”</p> +<p class="poetry">I often think, my comrades,<br /> + About this Northern queen,<br /> +And fancy that I see her smile,<br /> + Though oceans roll between.<br /> +<a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>But should +you meet her Uncle Jock,<br /> + I hope you’ll never tell<br /> +How I squared the broken Pitcher,<br /> + With the lassie at the well.</p> +<h2>The Benks o’ the Aire.</h2> +<p class="poetry">It issent the star of the evening that +breetens,<br /> + Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends,<br /> +Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,<br /> + Or the benks of the river while strolling wi +frends,<br /> +That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,<br /> + And leave the gay festive for others ta share;<br /> +But O there’s a charm, and a charm fer me only,<br /> + In a sweet little cot on the benks o’ the +Aire.</p> +<p class="poetry">How sweet and remote from all turmoil and +danger,<br /> + In that cot, wi me Mary, I cud pass the long +years:<br /> +In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,<br /> + And chase off the anguish o’ pale +sorrow’s tears.<br /> +We’d wauk aht it morning wen t’yung sun wor +shining,<br /> + Wen t’birds hed awakened, and t’lark +soar’d the air,<br /> +An’ I’d watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining,<br +/> + From ahr dear little cot on the benks o’ the +Aire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then we’d tauk o’ the past, wen our +loves wor forbidden,<br /> + Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny,<br /> +<a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>How ahr +hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden,<br /> + Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr +eye.<br /> +An’ wen age shall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ +feeling<br /> + Ahr loves shud endure, an’ still wod we +share<br /> +For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealing,<br /> + We’d share in ahr cot on the benks o’ +the Aire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are +flying,<br /> + Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they +depart;<br /> +For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying,<br /> + Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart.<br /> +The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,<br /> + Wi his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;<br /> +How different ta him is my rapture and pleasure<br /> + Near the dear little cot on the benks o’ the +Aire.</p> +<p class="poetry">But sooin may the day cum, if cum it will +ivver;<br /> + The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,<br /> +Wen fate may ordain us no longer to sever,<br /> + Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my +own.<br /> +For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,<br /> + If it wor in the desert, Mary, we were;<br /> +But sweet an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,<br /> + In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o’ the +Aire.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>Dear +Harden.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Dear Harden, the home o’ mi boyhood so +dear,<br /> +Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere;<br /> +Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,<br /> +An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am +bereft.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho’ +rocky an’ bare;<br /> +Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare;<br /> +When I wauk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running +streams,<br /> +I think o’ mi boyhood an’ innocent dreams.</p> +<p class="poetry">No care o’ this life then trubled me +breast,<br /> +I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest;<br /> +Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an’ play,<br /> +Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away.</p> +<p class="poetry">As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to +close,<br /> +At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose;<br /> +An’ rose in the morning at nature’s command,<br /> +Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.</p> +<p class="poetry">The faces that wunce were familiar to me,<br /> +Those that did laugh at my innocent glee;<br /> +I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away,<br /> +Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fer sin I’ve embarked on life’s +stormy seas,<br /> +Mi mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease;<br +/> +Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown<br /> +E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.”</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>Castlear’s Address to Spain.</h2> +<p class="poetry">O weeping Spain, thy banners rear,<br /> + Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining:<br /> +Awake, nor shrink in craven fear,—<br /> + See the Carlist blades are shining.<br /> +They come with murdering dirk in hand,<br /> + Death, ruin, rapine in their train:<br /> +To arms! rouse up and clear the land,<br /> + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your sires were great in ancient days,<br /> + No loftier power on earth allowing;<br /> +Shall ye their mighty deeds araise,<br /> + And to these fiends your heads be bowing?<br /> +They strove for fame and liberty<br /> + On fields where blood was shed like rain:<br /> +Hark! they’re shouting from the sky,<br /> + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Castille and Arragon, arise!<br /> + A treacherous Popish war is brewing:<br /> +Tear of the bandage from your eyes,<br /> + Are ye asleep while this is doing?<br /> +They come! Their prelates lead them on:<br /> + They carry with them thraldom’s chain.<br /> +Up! and crush their cursed Don;<br /> + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.<br /> +<a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 31</span>Go forth, +through every well-known spot;<br /> + O’er field and forest, rock and river:</p> +<p class="poetry">Then draw your swords and sheathe them not,<br +/> + Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever.<br /> +Do you fear the priestly hosts<br /> + Who march them on with proud disdain;<br /> +<i>Back</i>! send home their shrieking ghosts,<br /> + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou surely art not sunk so low<br /> + That strangers can alone restore thee:<br /> +No; Europe waits the final blow,<br /> + When superstition flies before thee.<br /> +For Spanish might through Spanish hands<br /> + Their freedom only can restrain,<br /> +Then sweep these Carlists from the land,<br /> + Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.</p> +<h2>Christmas Day.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,<br /> + That sings so sweetly at your door,<br /> +To tell you of the joys in store,<br /> + So grand and +gay;<br /> +But one that sings remember th’ poor,<br /> + ’Tis +Christmas Day.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>Within some gloomy walls to-day<br /> + Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,<br /> +And try to smooth their rugged way<br /> + With cheerful +glow;<br /> +And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,<br /> + Crushed down +with woe.</p> +<p class="poetry">O make the weary spent-up glad,<br /> + And cheer the orphan lass and lad;<br /> +Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,<br /> + Your kindness +feel;<br /> +And make old crazy-bones stark mad<br /> + To dance a +reel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then peace and plenty be your lot,<br /> +And may your deed ne’er be forgot,<br /> +That helps the widow in her cot,<br /> + From of your +store;<br /> +Nor creed nor seed should matter not,<br /> + The poor are +poor.</p> +<h2><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>What +Profits Me.</h2> +<p class="poetry">What profits me tho’ I sud be<br /> + The lord o’ yonder castle gay;<br /> +Hev rooms in state ta imitate<br /> + The princely splendour of the day,<br /> +Fer what are all mi carved doors,<br /> +Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,<br /> + No art cud save me from the grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">What profits me tho’ I sud be<br /> + Decked e’ costly costumes grand,<br /> +Like the Persian king o’ kings,<br /> + With diamond rings to deck mi hand:<br /> +Fer what wor all mi grand attire,<br /> +That fooils both envy and admire,<br /> + No gems cud save me from the grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">What profits me tho’ I sud be<br /> + Thy worthy host, O millionaire,<br /> +Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;<br /> + My wealth increasing ivvery year.<br /> +For what wor all mi wealth to me,<br /> +Compared ta loisin immortalite,<br /> + Wealth cud not save me from the grave.</p> +<p class="poetry">What profits me tho’ I sud be<br /> + Even thee gert Persian Shah,<br /> +Mi subjects stand at mi command,<br /> + Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;<br /> +For what wor a despotic rule,<br /> +Wi all th’ world at my control,<br /> + All cud not save me from the grave.</p> +<h2><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>Ode to +Sir Titus Salt.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,<br +/> + And bring it here to me,<br /> +For I must sing another song,<br /> + The theme of which shall be,—<br /> +A worthy old philantropist,<br /> + Whose soul in goodness soars,<br /> +And one whose name will stand as firm<br /> + As the rocks that gird our shores;<br /> +The fine old Bradford gentleman,<br /> +The good Sir Titus Salt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Heedless of others; some there are,<br /> + Who all their days employ<br /> +To raise themselves, no matter how,<br /> + And better men destroy:<br /> +How different is the mind of him,<br /> + Whose deeds themselves are told,<br /> +Who values worth more nobler far<br /> + Than all the heaps of gold,</p> +<p class="poetry">His feast and revels are not such,<br /> + As those we hear and see,<br /> +No princely splendour does he indulge,<br /> + Nor feats of revelry;<br /> +But in the orphan schools they are,<br /> + Or in the cot with her,<br /> +The widow and the orphan of<br /> + The shipwrecked mariner.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>When stricken down with age and care,<br /> + His good old neighbours grieved,<br /> +Or loss of family or mate,<br /> + Or all on earth bereaved;<br /> +Go see them in their houses,<br /> + When in peace their days may end,<br /> +And learn from them the name of him,<br /> + Who is their aged friend.</p> +<p class="poetry">With good and great his worth shall live,<br /> + With high or lowly born;<br /> +His name is on the scroll of fame,<br /> + Sweet as the songs of morn;<br /> +While tyranny and villany is<br /> + Surely stamped with shame;<br /> +A nation gives her patriot<br /> + A never-dying fame.</p> +<p class="poetry">No empty titles ever could<br /> + His principles subdue,<br /> +His queen and country too he loved,—<br /> + Was loyal and was true:<br /> +He craved no boon from royalty,<br /> + Nor wished their pomp to share,<br /> +For nobler is the soul of him,<br /> + The founder of Saltaire.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus lives this sage philantropist,<br /> + From courtly pomp removed,<br /> +But not secluded from his friends,<br /> + For friendship’s bond he loves;<br /> +<a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 36</span>A noble +reputation too<br /> + Crowns his later days;<br /> +The young men they admire him,<br /> + And the aged they him praise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Long life to thee, Sir Titus,<br /> + The darling of our town;<br /> +Around thy head while living,<br /> + We’ll weave a laurel crown.<br /> +Thy monument in marble<br /> + May suit the passer by,<br /> +But a monument in all our hearts<br /> + Will never, never die.</p> +<p class="poetry">And when thy days are over,<br /> + And we miss thee on our isle,<br /> +Around thy tomb for ever<br /> + May unfading laurels smile:<br /> +There may the sweetest flowers<br /> + Usher in the spring;<br /> +And roses in the gentle gales,<br /> + Their balmy odours fling.</p> +<p class="poetry">May summer’s beams shine sweetly,<br /> + Upon thy hallowed clay,<br /> +And yellow autumn o’er thy head,<br /> + Yield a placid ray;<br /> +May winter winds blow slightly,—<br /> + The green-grass softly wave,<br /> +And falling snow-drops lightly<br /> + Upon thy honoured grave.</p> +<h2><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>Coud +az Leead.</h2> +<p class="poetry">An’ arta fra thee father torn,<br /> +So early e thi yuthful morn,<br /> +An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,<br /> + E greef +an’ pane;<br /> +Fer consalashun aw sall scorn<br /> + If tha be +taen.</p> +<p class="poetry">O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail<br /> +Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,<br /> +Fer nah it is too true a tale,<br /> + Tha’rt +coud az lead.<br /> +An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale,<br /> + Thart deead, +thart deead.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra +t’shop,<br /> +An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;<br /> +An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop<br /> + Aw sall so +freat,<br /> +And O my very heart may stop<br /> + And cease to +beat.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’d allus aimed if tha’d been +spar’d,<br /> +Of summat better to hev shared<br /> +Ner what thi poor oud father fared,<br /> + E this coud +sphere;<br /> +Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared<br /> + If tha’d +stayen here.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,<br /> +’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,<br /> +Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine<br /> + Noan freely +given,<br /> +But mak him same as wun o’ thine,<br /> + We thee e +heven.</p> +<h2>The Factory Girl.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sho stud beside hur looms an’ +watch’d<br /> + The shuttle passin in,<br /> +But yet hur soul wor sumweer else,<br /> + ’Twor face ta face wi’ John.<br /> +They saw hur lips move az in speech,<br /> + Yet none cud heear a word,<br /> +An’ but fer t’grinding o’ the wheels,<br /> + This langwidge mite be heard.</p> +<p class="poetry">“It spite o’ all thi trecherus +art,<br /> + At length aw breeath again;<br /> +The pityin stars hez tane mi part,<br /> + An’ eased a wretch’s pain.<br /> +An’ O, aw feel az fra a chain,<br /> + Mi rescued soul is free,<br /> +Aw know it is no idle dream<br /> + Of fancied liberty.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Extingwish’d nah iz ivvery +spark,<br /> + No love for thee remains,<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>Fer +heart-felt love e vane sall strive<br /> + Ta lurk beneath disdain,<br /> +No longer wen thi name I hear,<br /> + Mi conshus colour flies:<br /> +No longer wen thi face aw see,<br /> + Mi heart’s emoshun rise.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Catch’t e the burd-lime’s +trecherus twigs,<br /> + To weer he chanc’d to stray,<br /> +The burd iz fassend fathers leaves,<br /> + Then gladly flies away.<br /> +Hiz shatter’d wings he soon renews,<br /> + Of traps he iz awair;<br /> +Fer by experience he iz wise,<br /> + An’ shuns each futshur snair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Awm speikin nah, an’ all mi aim<br /> + Iz but to pleas mi mind,<br /> +An’ yet aw care not if mi words<br /> + Wi thee can credit find.<br /> +Ner du I care if my decease<br /> + Sud be approved by thee;<br /> +Or wether tha wi ekwal ease<br /> + Does tawk again wi me.</p> +<p class="poetry">“But, yet tha false decevin man,<br /> + Tha’s lost a heart sincere;<br /> +Aw naw net wich wants comfert most,<br /> + Or wich hez t’mooast ta fear.<br /> +<a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>But awm +suer a lass more fond and true<br /> + No lad cud ivver find;<br /> +But a lad like thee iz easily found,<br /> + False, faithless, and unkind.”</p> +<h2>Bonny Lark.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sweetest warbler of the wood,<br /> + Rise thy soft bewitching strain,<br /> +And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,<br /> + + +Soar again.</p> +<p class="poetry">With the sun’s returning beam,<br /> + First appearance from the east,<br /> +Dimpling every limpid stream,<br /> + + +Up from rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thro’ the airy mountains stray,<br /> + Chant thy welcome songs above,<br /> +Full of sport and full of play,<br /> + + +Songs of love.</p> +<p class="poetry">When the evening cloud prevails,<br /> + And the sun gives way for night,<br /> +When the shadows mark the vales,<br /> + + +Return thy flight.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>Like the cottar or the swain,<br /> + Gentle shepherd, or the herd;<br /> +Best thou till the morn again,<br /> + + +Bonny bird.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,<br /> + May the poet’s rapturous spark,<br /> +Hail the first approach of spring.<br /> + + +Bonny lark.</p> +<h2>T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned.</h2> +<p class="poetry">So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,<br /> +Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band,<br /> +Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand,<br /> + + +Yond lass an’ thee.<br /> +But if yor joinin heart an’ hand,<br /> + + +It pleases me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,<br +/> +Wile pushin thru this world o’ care,<br /> +An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare,<br /> + + +Its hard ta tell;<br /> +Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share,<br /> + + +So pleas thisell.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;<br +/> +But age an’ care creep on us fast;<br /> +Then akt az tha can luke at past<br /> + + +An’ feel no shame;<br /> +Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast,<br /> + + +Tha’s noan ta blame.</p> +<p class="poetry">Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,<br /> +But mind an’ shun that foolish set<br /> +At cannut mak ther awn ta fet,<br /> + + +Thaw shame ta say it.<br /> +An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett,<br /> + + +An’ tha’ll be reight.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will;<br +/> +Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill;<br /> +Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill<br /> + + +The wurld sa wide.<br /> +No daht but His omnishent skill,<br /> + + +Al be thi guide.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise,<br /> +Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise,<br /> +E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise,<br /> + + +Tha tuke hur hand;<br /> +An’ listened to thi father’s voise,<br /> + + +An’ hiz command.</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>Address ta mi Bed.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oud stocks on thee I first began<br /> +To be that curious crater man,<br /> +Ta travel thro this life’s short span,<br /> + + +By fate’s dekree;<br /> +Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan,<br /> + + +An’ cease ta be.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,<br /> +Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;<br /> +On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh,<br /> + + +An’ ofttimes weep;—<br /> +Till by sum means, aw knaw not why,<br /> + + +I fall asleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,<br /> +Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,<br /> +Ta seek thi downy brest again;<br /> + + +Yet heaves mi breast<br /> +For wretches in the pelting rain,<br /> + + +At hev no rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">How oft within thy little space<br /> +Does mony a thout oft find a place?<br /> +Aw think at past, an’ things ta face,<br /> + + +My mind hiz filled,<br /> +Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase,<br /> + + +An’ cassels bild.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,<br /> +Disease or deeath, a kind releef,<br /> +Monarks of a time so breef,<br /> + + +Alternate reign,<br /> +Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf,<br /> + + +And clears the plain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,<br /> +This grate important truth ta awn,<br /> +On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn,<br /> + + +E mortal birth;<br /> +Till a few fleetin haars flown,<br /> + + +Then back ta earth.</p> +<h2>Home ov Mi Boyish Days.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Home of my boyish days, how can I call<br /> +Scenes to my memory, that did befall?<br /> +How can my trembling pen find power to tell<br /> +The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?<br /> +Can I forget the days joyously spent,<br /> +That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?<br /> +Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,<br /> +Home of my boyish days, without one tear?</p> +<p class="poetry">Can I look back on days that’s gone +by,<br /> +Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?<br /> +<a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 45</span>Oh, no! +though never more these eyes may dwell<br /> +On thee, old cottage home, I love so well:<br /> +Home of my childhood, wherever I be,<br /> +Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.<br /> +<br /> +Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,<br /> +Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?<br /> +Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;<br /> +Psalms for the Sabbath on Sabbath were sung;<br /> +And the young minstrels enraptured would come<br /> +To the lone cottage I once called my home.</p> +<p class="poetry">Can I forget the dear landscape around,<br /> +Where in my boyish days I could be found,<br /> +Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,<br /> +Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?<br /> +Then would my mother say—where is he gone?<br /> +I’m waiting of shuttles that he should have won:<br /> +She in that cottage there knitting her healds,<br /> +While I her young forester was roaming the fields.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the shades of the evening gather slowly +around,<br /> +The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,<br /> +Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.<br /> +And as I turn round to look on thee again,<br /> +To take one fond look, one last fond adieu;<br /> +By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view,<br +/> +But O, there’s no darkness, to me no decay;<br /> +Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away.</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>Ode ta +Spring Sixty-four.</h2> +<p class="poetry">O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of +dawters,<br /> + An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king +sixty-four,<br /> +Wi thi brah dekked wi gems o’ the purest o’ +waters,<br /> + Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter is ower.</p> +<p class="poetry">We hail thi approach wi palm-spangled +banners;<br /> + The plant an’ the sapling await thy +command;<br /> +An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners,<br /> + Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, +an’ grotto,<br /> + Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn;<br /> +Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,<br /> + Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did +scorn.</p> +<p class="poetry">O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going!<br /> + Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the +wind;<br /> +Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing,<br /> + Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um +behind.</p> +<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>My +Drechen Dear.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Night’s sombre mantle is spreading +over,<br /> + Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days;<br /> +Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover?<br /> + Why did thou cross the raging seas?</p> +<p class="poetry">Its melancholy here I’m lying,<br /> + Half broken-hearted, drechen dear;<br /> +Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing,<br /> + Each billow roaring a shed tear.</p> +<p class="poetry">How can they say that all-perfect nature<br /> + Has nothing done or made in vain?<br /> +When that beneath the roaring water,<br /> + Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain.</p> +<p class="poetry">No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover,<br /> + That lurks beneath the raging deep;<br /> +To mark the spot where lies the lover,<br /> + That leaves the maiden to sigh and weep.</p> +<p class="poetry">The miser robb’d of his golden +pleasure,<br /> + Views tempests great in his wild despair;<br /> +But what is all his loss of treasure,<br /> + To losing thee, my drechen dear?</p> +<p class="poetry">O cease, O cease, thou cruel ocean!<br /> + And give my lover a peaceful rest;<br /> +For what thy storming and all thy motion,<br /> + Compared with that within my breast.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>O could I now over the wild waves stooping,<br /> + The floating corpse of thee could spy;<br /> +Just like a lily in autumn drooping,<br /> + I’d bow my head, kiss thee, and die.</p> +<h2>Address t’t First Wesherwuman.</h2> +<p class="poetry">E sooth sho wor a reeal god-send,<br /> +To’t human race the greatest frend,<br /> +An’ lived no daht at t’other end<br /> + O’ history.<br /> +Hur name is nah, yah may depend,<br /> + A mistery.</p> +<p class="poetry">But sprang sho up fra royal blood,<br /> +Or sum poor slave beyond the flud?<br /> +Me blessing on the sooap an’ sud<br /> + Sho did invent;<br /> +Hur name sall renk among the good,<br /> + If aw get sent.</p> +<p class="poetry">If nobbut in a rainy dub,<br /> +Sho did at furst begin ta skrub,<br /> +Or hed a proper weshin tub,<br /> + Its all the same;<br /> +Aw’d give a craan, if aw’d to sub,<br /> + To get hur name.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>In this wide wurld aw’m let afloat,<br /> +Th’ poor possessor of wun koat;<br /> +Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote,<br /> + An’ thus assert,<br /> +Tha’rt wurthy o’ grate Shakespere’s note;<br /> + A clean lin’ shirt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Low iz mi lot an’ hard mi ways,<br /> +While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;<br /> +Yet aw will sing t’owd lasse’s prase,<br /> + Wi’ famous glee.<br /> +Tho’ rude an’ ruff sud be mi lays,<br /> + Sho’st lass for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bards hev sung the fairest fair,<br /> +There rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair,<br /> +The dying lover’s deep despair,<br /> + There harps hev rung;<br /> +But useful wimmin’s songs are rair,<br /> + An’ seldom sung.</p> +<h2>In a Pleasant Little Valley.</h2> +<p class="poetry">In a pleasant little valley near the ancient +town of Ayr,<br /> +Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are +fair;<br /> +<a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>Where Doon +in all her splendour ripples sweetly thro’ the wood,<br /> +And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood,<br /> +’Twas there in all her splendour, on a January morn,<br /> +Appeared old Colia’s genius,—when Robert Burns was +born.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of +tartan shone,<br /> +And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon;<br /> +A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow,<br +/> +She was the darling native muse of Scotia’s Colia:<br /> +So grand old Colia’s genius on this January morn,<br /> +Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.</p> +<p class="poetry">She vowed she ne’er would leave him till +he sung old Scotia’s plains,<br /> +The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely +strains;<br /> +And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes:<br /> +And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful +lays,<br /> +And sing how Colia’s genius, on a January morn,<br /> +Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at +home,<br /> +Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome:<br /> +But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among,<br /> +And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song;<br /> +This old Colia’s genius did that January morn,<br /> +Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in the nights of winter when stormy winds +do roar,<br /> +And the fierce dashing waves is heard on Ayr’s old craggy +shore,<br /> +The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire,<br /> +Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;<br /> +And sing how Colia’s genius on a January morn,<br /> +Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.</p> +<h2><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 52</span>Johnny +o’ t’ Bog an’ Keighley<br /> +Feff-fee Goast:<br /> +A Tale o’ Poverty.</h2> +<blockquote><p>“Some books are lies frae end to end,<br /> +And some great lies were never penn’d;<br /> +But this that I am gaun to tell,<br /> +* * * Lately on a night befel.”—<span +class="smcap">Burns</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">’Twor twelve o’clock wun +winter’s neet,<br /> + Net far fro Kersmas time,<br /> +When I met wi this Feoffee Goast,<br /> + The subject ov my rhyme.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’d been hard up fer mony a week,<br /> + My way I cuddant see,<br /> +Fer trade an commerce wor as bad<br /> + As ivver they cud be.</p> +<p class="poetry">T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running +wild,<br /> + An t’combers wor quite sick,<br /> +For weeks they niver pool’d a slip,<br /> + Ner t’weivers wave a pick.</p> +<p class="poetry">An I belong’d to t’latter lot,<br +/> + An them wor t’war o t’wo,<br /> +Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase,<br /> + An nowt for em ta do.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed,<br /> + An I’d a shocking coud,<br /> +Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,<br /> + Wor nobbut three days oud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Distracted to my vary heart,<br /> + At sitch a bitter cup,<br /> +An lippening ivvery day at com,<br /> + At summat wod turn up.</p> +<p class="poetry">At t’last I started off wun neet,<br /> + To see what I could mak;<br /> +Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit,<br /> + Or else I’d noan go back.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through t’Skantraps an be t’ +Bracken Benk,<br /> + I tuke wi all mi meet;<br /> +Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin,<br /> + Reight into t’oppan street.</p> +<p class="poetry">Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,<br +/> + An I wor rare an fain,<br /> +Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage—<br /> + I cuddant be mistain.</p> +<p class="poetry">So up I went to t’Wicket Gate,<br /> + Though sad I am to say it,<br /> +Resolv’d to ax em for some breead,<br /> + Or else some brocken meit.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud just as I wor shacking it,<br /> + A form raise up afore,<br /> +<a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span>An sed +“What dus ta want, tha knave,<br /> + Shacking t’ Wicket Door?”</p> +<p class="poetry">He gav me then to understand,<br /> + If I hedant cum to pray,<br /> +At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life,<br +/> + Wor all they gav away.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk<br /> + Abaat ther breead o’ life,<br /> +An specially when they’ve plenty,<br /> + Fer t’childer an ther wife.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud I set off agean at t’run,<br /> + Fer I weel understood,<br /> +If I gat owt fra that there clan,<br /> + It woddant do ma good.</p> +<p class="poetry">E travelling on I thowt I heeard,<br /> + As I went nearer t’tahn,<br /> +A thaasand voices e mi ears<br /> + Saying “John, where are ta bahn?”</p> +<p class="poetry">An ivvery grocer’s shop I +pass’d,<br /> + A play-card I cud see,<br /> +E t’biggest type at e’er wod print—<br /> + “There’s nowt here, lad, for +thee.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I +pass’d,<br /> + Astead o’ meit wor seen,<br /> +A mighty carving-knife hung up,<br /> + Hi, fair afore me een.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>Destruction wor inviting me,<br /> + I saw it fearful clear,<br /> +Fer ivvery druggist window sed—<br /> + “Real poison is sold here.”</p> +<p class="poetry">At t’last I gav a frantic howl,<br /> + A shaat o’ dreead despair,<br /> +I seized mesen be t’toppin then,<br /> + An shack’d an lugg’d me hair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then quick as leetening ivver wor,<br /> + A thowt com e me heead—<br /> +I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry,<br /> + An meditate wi t’deead.</p> +<p class="poetry">T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking +t’time<br /> + At folk sud be asleep,<br /> +Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,<br /> + An t’Pindar after t’sheep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off<br /> + At summat like a trot;<br /> +To get to t’place I started for,<br /> + Me blooid wor boiling hot.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,<br /> + Rear’d up agean a post,<br /> +I cuddant tell—but yet I thowt<br /> + It wor another goast!</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud whether it wor goast or not,<br /> + I heddant time to luke,<br /> +<a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>Fer I wor +taken be surprise,<br /> + When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.</p> +<p class="poetry">Abaat two hundard yards e t’front,<br /> + As near as I cud think,<br /> +I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise,<br /> + An nah an then a clinck!</p> +<p class="poetry">What ivver can these noises be?<br /> + Some robbers, then I thowt!—<br /> +I’d better step aside an see,<br /> + They’re happen up to nowt!</p> +<p class="poetry">So I gat ower a fence there wor,<br /> + An peeping through a gate,<br /> +Determined I’d be satisfied,<br /> + If I’d awhile to wait.</p> +<p class="poetry">At t’last two figures com to +t’spot<br /> + Where I hed hid mesel,<br /> +Then walkers-heath and brimstone,<br /> + Most horridly did smell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,<br /> + His face as black as soit,<br /> +His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben,<br /> + He hed a clovven fooit.</p> +<p class="poetry">An t’other wor all skin an bone<br /> + His name wor Mr. Deeath;<br /> +Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor,<br /> + An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>He hed a scythe, I plainly saw,<br /> + He held it up aloft,<br /> +Just same as he wor bahn to maw<br /> + Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim +fiz?”<br /> + Sed Nickey, wi a grin,<br /> +“Tha knaws I am full up below,<br /> + An cannot tack more in.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“What is’t to thee?” sed +Spinnle Shenks,<br /> + “Tha ruffin ov a dog,<br /> +I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean,<br /> + To see wun John o’ t’Bog.</p> +<p class="poetry">I cannot see it fer me life,<br /> + What it’s to do wi thee;<br /> +Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick,<br /> + An nivver thee heed me.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks,<br /> + Whativver tha may say,<br /> +For I been roasting t’human race<br /> + For mony a weary day.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee,<br +/> + This last two years or so;<br /> +Wi Germany an Italy,<br /> + An even Mexico.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil<br +/> + Browt in some thaasands more;<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>An sooin +fra Abysinnia,<br /> + Tha’ll bring black Theodore.</p> +<p class="poetry">So drop that scythe, oud farren Death,<br /> + Let’s rest a toathree wick;<br /> +Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan,<br /> + Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” +says Deeath,<br /> + Who spack it wi a grin,<br /> +“Ise just do as I like fer thee,<br /> + So tha can hod thi din.”</p> +<p class="poetry">This made oud Nick fair raging mad,<br /> + An lifting up his whip,<br /> +He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash<br /> + Across o t’upper lip.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks,<br /> + To give oud Nick leg bail,<br /> +He started off towards the tahn,<br /> + An Nick stuck aht his tail.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then helter-skelter off they went,<br /> + As ower t’fence I lape;<br /> +I thowt—well, if it matters owt,<br /> + I’ve made a nice escape.</p> +<p class="poetry">But nah the mooin began to shine<br /> + As breet as it cud be;<br /> +An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d,<br /> + Where I cud plainly see.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw,<br /> + An t’winding Aire wor still,<br /> +An all wor quite save t’hullats,<br /> + At wor screaming up o’ t’hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oud Rivvock End an all araand<br /> + Luk’d like some fiendish heead,<br /> +Fer more I stared, an more I thowt<br /> + It did resemble t’deead.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah,<br /> + To what I’d seen afore;<br /> +An luk’d as though they’d never be<br /> + T’oud friendly Oaks no more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fer wun wor like a giant grim,<br /> + His nose com to a point,<br /> +An wi a voice like thunner sed—<br /> + “The times are aaght o’ +t’joint!”</p> +<p class="poetry">An t’other like a whipping-post,<br /> + Bud happen not as thin,<br /> +Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil,<br /> + So pray, nah, hod thi din?”</p> +<p class="poetry">I tuke no farther gawm o’ them,<br /> + Bud paddled on me way;<br /> +Fer when I ivver mack a vow,<br /> + I stick to what I say.</p> +<p class="poetry">I heddant goan so far agean,<br /> + Afoar I heeard a voice,<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>Exclaiming—wi a fearful groan—<br /> + “Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com +fro,<br /> + An cautiously I bowed,<br /> +Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice,<br /> + I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place,<br /> + A sudden change o’ scene;<br /> +Fer miles where all wor white afore,<br /> + Wor nah a bottle-green.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then com a woman donned e white,<br /> + A mantle gert she wore;<br /> +A nicer lukin, smarter form,<br /> + I nivver saw afore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her features did resemble wun<br /> + O that kind-hearted lot,<br /> +At’s ivver ready to relieve<br /> + The poor man in his cot.</p> +<p class="poetry">Benevolence wor strongly marked<br /> + Upon her noble heead;<br /> +An on her breast yo might hev read,<br /> + “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”</p> +<p class="poetry">In fact, a kinder-hearted soul<br /> + Oud Yorksher cuddant boast;<br /> +An who wod feel the least alarmed,<br /> + To talk to sitch a goast?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>I didant feel at all afraid,<br /> + As nearer me she drew;<br /> +I sed—Good evening, Mrs. Goast,<br /> + Hah ivver do yo dew?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm,<br /> + Bud pointed up at t’mooin,<br /> +An beckon’d me to follow her<br /> + Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.</p> +<p class="poetry">So on we went, an dahn we turned,<br /> + An nawther on us spack;<br /> +Bud nah an then sho twined her heead,<br /> + To see if I’d runned back.</p> +<p class="poetry">At t’last sho stopped an turned her +rahnd<br /> + An luked ma fair e t’een;<br /> +’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce,<br /> + Sho wor no human been.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sho rave a paper fra her breast,<br /> + Like some long theatre bill;<br /> +An then sho sed “Weak mortal,<br /> + Will ta read to me this will?</p> +<p class="poetry">But first, afoar tha starts to read,<br /> + I’ll tell thee who I iz;<br /> +Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff,<br /> + I judge it by thi phiz.</p> +<p class="poetry">Well, I’ve a job fer thee to do,<br /> + That is, if tha will do it;<br /> +<a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>I think +tha’rt t’likeliest man I knaw,<br /> + Becos tha art a poet.</p> +<p class="poetry">If I am not mistaken, friend,<br /> + I offan hear thi name;<br /> +I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;”<br /> + Says I—“Oud lass, it’s +t’same.”</p> +<p class="poetry">“It’s just so mony years this +day,<br /> + I knaw it by me birth,<br /> +Sin I departed mortal life,<br /> + An left this wicked earth.</p> +<p class="poetry">But ere I closed these een to go<br /> + Into eternity,<br /> +I thowt I’d do a noble act,<br /> + A deed o’ charity.</p> +<p class="poetry">I hed a bit o’ brass, tha knaws,<br /> + Some land an’ property;<br /> +I thowt it might be useful, John,<br /> + To folks e poverty.</p> +<p class="poetry">So then I made a will o t’lot,<br /> + Fer that did suit my mind;<br /> +I planned it as I thowt wor t’best,<br /> + To benefit mankind.</p> +<p class="poetry">I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil,<br /> + By reading t’will tha’ll see;<br /> +That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws,<br /> + May hev ther skooling free.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>An if tha be teetotal, John,<br /> + Tha may think it a fault,<br /> +Bud to ivvery woman ligging in<br /> + I gav a peck o’ malt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass +at’s left,<br /> + As tha’ll hev heeard afore,<br /> +Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly<br /> + Among arr Keighley poor.</p> +<p class="poetry">I certainly did mack a flaw,<br /> + Fer which I’ve rued, alas!<br /> +’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John,<br /> + Sud hev no Feoffee Brass.</p> +<p class="poetry">An nah, if tha will be so kind,<br /> + Go let mi t’trustees knaw<br /> +At I sall be obleged to them<br /> + To null that little flaw.</p> +<p class="poetry">An will ta mention this anall,<br /> + Wal tha’s an intervue?—<br /> +Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor,<br /> + Whativver else they due.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I sall rest an be at peace,<br /> + Boath here an when e Heav’n;<br /> +Wal them at need it will rejoice<br /> + Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve +giv’n.</p> +<p class="poetry">An tell em to remember thee<br /> + Upon t’next Feoffee Day!”<br /> +<a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>I +says—I sallant get a meg,<br /> + I’m getting parish pay.</p> +<p class="poetry">So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt,<br +/> + An tell’d me what to doo,<br /> +I ax’d her if sho’d harken me,<br /> + Wal I just said a word or two.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie,<br /> + As sure as my name’s ‘John;’<br /> +I think at yo are quite e t’mist<br /> + Abaht things going on.</p> +<p class="poetry">Folks gether in fra far an near,<br /> + When it is Feoffee-Day;<br /> +An think they hev another lowse<br /> + Wi t’little bit o’ pay.</p> +<p class="poetry">Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ +poor,<br /> + It’s shocking fer to tell,<br /> +They’ll hardly let em into t’door—<br /> + I knaw it be mesel.</p> +<p class="poetry">Asteead a being a peck o’ malt<br /> + Fer t’wimmen lying in,<br /> +It’s geen to rascals ower-grown,<br /> + To drink e rum an gin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then them at is—I understand—<br /> + What yo may call trustees,<br /> +They hev ther favorites, yo knaw,<br /> + An gives to who they please.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face,<br /> + An skrew ther maath awry;<br /> +An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand,<br /> + As they are passing by.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s mony a woman I knaw weel,<br /> + Boath middle-aged an oud,<br /> +At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass,<br /> + An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass,<br /> + Hes cum e all his pride,<br /> +An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass,<br /> + Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax,<br /> + If they’ve a claim, they come;<br /> +But what wi t’Railway fares an drink,<br /> + It’s done be they get home.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wal mony a poorer family<br /> + At’s nut been nam’d e t’list,<br +/> +At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil,<br /> + Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d.</p> +<p class="poetry">We see a man at hes a haase,<br /> + Or happen two or three,<br /> +They Mr. him, an hand him aaght<br /> + Five times as mitch as me.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Twor better if yo’d teed yer +brass<br /> + Tight up e sum oud seck,<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>An getten +t’Corporation brooms<br /> + To sweep it into t’Beck.”</p> +<p class="poetry">No longer like Capias’ form,<br /> + Wi a tear e boath her een,<br /> +But like the gallant Camilla,<br /> + The Volscian warrior Queen.</p> +<p class="poetry">She, kneeling, pointed up aboon,<br /> + An vow’d be all so breet,<br /> +Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads,<br /> + Or watch em day an neet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sho call’d the Furies to her aid,<br /> + An Diræ’s names sho us’d,<br /> +An sware if I hed spocken t’truth,<br /> + Sho hed been sore abus’d.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her—<br +/> + Indeed it is too true;<br /> +Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet,<br /> + Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”</p> +<h2><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Charming Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.</h2> +<p class="poetry">On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur +meadows so green,<br /> +Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen,<br /> +That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king,<br /> +Of whom the oud bards delited to sing.<br /> +Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then,<br /> +Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;<br /> +’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall,<br /> +I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hur majestik black eye does tru buty +display,<br /> +Resemblin truly the goddess of day;<br /> +Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone,<br /> +That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn.<br +/> +Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind,<br /> +But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind:<br /> +It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call,<br +/> +To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I +trow,<br /> +When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow;<br /> +The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,<br /> +Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve.<br /> +Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows,<br /> +Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose;<br /> +There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall,<br /> +To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ +grace,<br /> +Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace:<br /> +An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue,<br /> +O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue.<br /> +Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun,<br /> +An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done:<br /> +It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl,<br /> +To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will;<br +/> +Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill;<br +/> +The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!”<br +/> +Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee.<br /> +At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms<br /> +An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich +charms?”<br /> +Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call,<br +/> +On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.</p> +<h2><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan!</h2> +<p class="poetry">My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,<br /> + To thy long rest?<br /> +An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone<br /> + Close ower thy breast?<br /> +An’ are ta goan no more to see,<br /> +Excepting e fond memory;<br /> +Yes empty echo answers me—<br /> + “Shoo’s deead +an’ goan!”</p> +<p class="poetry">E vain the wafters o’ the breeze<br /> + Fan my hot brah,<br /> +E vain the birds upon the trees,<br /> + Sing sweetly nah;<br /> +E vain the early rose-bud blaws,<br /> +E vain wide Nature shows her Cause,<br /> +Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws—<br /> + “Shoo’s deead +an’ goan!”</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s more ner me that’s sore +bereft,<br /> + I pity wun,<br /> +An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly +left—<br /> + My little John;<br /> +He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day,<br /> +An’ rarely hez a word to say,<br /> +Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),<br /> + Shoo’s deead an’ +goan!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears;<br /> + At t’least we’ll +try;<br /> +Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears<br /> + The orphan’s sigh;<br /> +Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack—<br /> +An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?<br /> +An’ crying cannot bring her back;<br /> + Shoo’s deead an’ +goan!</p> +<h2>The Heroic Watchman of Calversike Hill.</h2> +<p>[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.]</p> +<p class="poetry">We’ve heard of great fires in city and +town,<br /> +And many disasters by fire are known;<br /> +But surely this fire which I’m going to tell,<br /> +Was worse than Mount Ætna, Vesuvius or hell;<br /> +For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill,<br /> +But for <i>heroic</i> watchman at Calversike Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>This fire it broke out in the night it was said,<br /> +While peacefully each villager slept in his bed;<br /> +And so greatly the flames did illumne all the skies,<br /> +That it took the big watchman all in surprise.<br /> +Yet great was the courage and undaunted skill<br /> +Of the <i>heroic</i> watchman of Calversike Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so +high,<br /> +That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;<br /> +And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,<br /> +He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!<br /> +And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,<br /> +That they fin’d the poor artist of Calversike Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, there’s some foolish people are led +to suppose,<br /> +It was by some shavings this fire first arose;<br /> +But yet, says our “hero,” I greatly suspect,<br /> +This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.<br /> +But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it will,<br +/> +Says the <i>heroic</i> watchman of Calversike Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">He needed no witness to swear what he had +done,<br /> +Yet if he had wanted he could have had one;<br /> +For one Tommy Twister, that never was there,<br /> +Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air,<br /> +The greatest sized coal pot no doubt they would fill,<br /> +Like the head of the <i>hero</i> of Calversike Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">So many brave thanks to this <i>heroic</i> +knave,<br /> +For thousands of lives no doubt he did save,<br /> +<a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>And but +for this hero disaster had spread,<br /> +And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;<br /> +But to save all his people it was the Lord’s will,<br /> +Through the <i>heroic</i> watchman at Calversike Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">So mind and be careful and put out your +lights,<br /> +All ye with red noses in case they ignite,<br /> +Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap,<br /> +In case this great watchman chances to sleep.<br /> +For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill,<br /> +Is the <i>heroic</i> watchman of Calversike Hill.</p> +<h2>Betty Blake: A Tale of Butterworth Panic.</h2> +<p class="poetry">It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in +a fix,<br /> + An’ trade it wor bad an’ are poor hearts +wor sad,<br /> +An’ we’d nout else to due bud to starve or to +flee,<br /> + An’ leave are poor hoams, or stop there +an’ dee.<br /> +Aw wor freating an’ thinking what wod be the end,<br /> + Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend—<br +/> +When my wife stagger’d in at are poor cottage door,<br /> + Gav a stare raand the house an’ fell on the +floor,<br /> +We a cry at made me both tremble an’ shake;—<br /> + Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty +Blake.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>It spite ov her troubles, aw lifted her up<br /> +To are poor wretched bed, an’ gav her a sup<br /> +O coud watter—an’ thinking, it happen mud ease +her—<br /> +An’ try’d my indevors to mend her an’ please +her;<br /> +For aw talked o’ that day that aw used to coart her,<br /> +Bud little thowt then at aw couldn’t support her;<br /> +Or that panic wod come like a dark thunner claad,<br /> +An’ scatter the homes o’ the poor an’ the +praad:<br /> +Bud my heart burned we grief, fer aw wanted to save her,<br /> +Fer aw knew at my Betty wor mad in the faver.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw sat by her side fer two neets an’ two +days,<br /> +An’ aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed;<br /> +Sho catched hod o’ my hand, an’ her senses +returned,<br /> +Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned,—<br +/> +“Awn going,” sho said—“where no hunger or +pain<br /> +Al be we us, Johny, when we meet again.<br /> +The angels have whispered my spirit to free,<br /> +We voices as soft as the hum of the bee;<br /> +It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake,<br /> +In heaven you’ll meet we your poor Betty Blake.”</p> +<p class="poetry">We a groan an’ a rattle sho dropt her +poor heead,<br /> +Aw could hardly believe at my Betty wor deead;<br /> +An’ aw felt at her side, fer aw wanted to save her,<br /> +An’ like her at wor goan—aw wor mad we the faver.<br +/> +<a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>Bud they +tuke her away the varry next day,<br /> + To a little church yard, an’ it seemed fearful +hard,<br /> + At aw couldn’t follow my +wife<br /> + At aw loved as my life.<br /> +Bud aw’ve put up a tombstone o’ peeats fer her +sake,<br /> + An aw mark’d on it letters at means Betty +Blake.</p> +<h2>The Vision.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Blest vision of departed worth,<br /> + I see thee still, I see thee still;<br /> +Thou art the shade of her that’s goan,<br /> + My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">My chaamer in this silent hour,<br /> + Were dark an’ drear, were dark an’ +drear;<br /> +But brighter far than Cynthia’s beam,<br /> + Now thou art here, now thou art here.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wild nature in her grandeur had<br /> + No charm for me, no charm for me;<br /> +Did not the songsters chant thy name<br /> + Fra ivvery tree, fra ivvery tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">Chaos wod hev com agean,<br /> + E worlds afar, e worlds afar;<br /> +<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>Could aw +not see my Mary’s face,<br /> + In ivvery star, in ivvery star;</p> +<p class="poetry">Say when the messenger o’ death,<br /> + Sal bid ma come, sal bid ma come;<br /> +Wilt thou be foremost in the van,<br /> + To tack ma hoam, to tack ma hoam.</p> +<h2>A New Devorse.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Says Pug o’ Joans o’ Haworth +Brah,<br /> + Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag—<br /> +Are Nelly’s tung’s a yard too long,<br /> + And, by’t mess it can wag.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s hell at top o’ t’earth +we me,<br /> + An’ stand it I am forst;<br /> +I’d give all t’brass at I possess,<br /> + If I could get devors’d.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then answer’d Rodge, I hev a dodge,<br /> + Az gooid a plan az onny;<br /> +A real devorse tha’ll get of course—<br /> + It willant cost a penny.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Then tell me what it iz, says +Pug,<br /> + I’m hommost +brocken-hearted;<br /> +We’ll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad,<br /> + Where man an woife are parted.</p> +<h2><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>Gooise +an’ Giblet Pie.</h2> +<p class="poetry">A Kersmass song I’ll sing, me lads,<br /> + If yoh’ll bud hearken me;<br /> +An incident e Kersmass time,<br /> + E eighteen sixty-three:<br /> +Withaht a stypher e the world—<br /> + I’d scorn to tell a lie—<br /> +I dined wi a gentleman<br /> + O’ Gooise an’ giblet pie.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve been e lots o’ feeds, me +lads,<br /> + An hed some rare tuck-aahts;<br /> +Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs,<br /> + Minch pies an’ thumping taahts;<br /> +But I wir’d in an reight anall,<br /> + An’ supp’d when I wor dry,<br /> +Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman<br /> + O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.</p> +<p class="poetry">I hardly knew what ail’d me, lads,<br /> + I felt so fearful praad;<br /> +Me ears prick’d up, me collar raise,<br /> + Taards a hauf-a-yard;<br /> +Me chest stood aaht, me charley in,<br /> + Like horns stuck aaht me tie;<br /> +Fer I dined wi a gentleman<br /> + O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>I offan think o’ t’feed, me lads,<br /> + When t’ gentleman I meet;<br /> +Bud nauther on us speiks a word<br /> + Abaht that glorious neet;<br /> +In fact, I hardly can mesel,<br /> + I feel so fearful shy;<br /> +Fer I ate a deal o’ t’roasted gooise,<br /> + And warmed his giblet pie.</p> +<h2>Ode to Wedlock!</h2> +<p class="poetry">Oh! Hymen, god of Wedlock! thou<br /> +Companion of the lover’s vow,<br /> + Thy subjects they are fearful;<br /> +If thou could nobbut see the strife,<br /> +There is sometimes ’tween man and wife,<br /> + I think thou’d be more careful.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oft has thou bound in durance vile,<br /> +De fearful frown, and cheerful smile,<br /> + And doubtless thought it famous;<br /> +When thou the mind ov fancy sweet,<br /> +Has knit the knot so nice and neat<br /> + For some blessed ignoramous.</p> +<p class="poetry">What nature, truth, and reason too,<br /> +Has oft declared would never do,<br /> + Thou’rt fool enough to do it;<br /> +<a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Thou’s bound for better and for worse,<br /> +Life’s greatest blessing with a curse,<br /> + And both were made to rue it.</p> +<p class="poetry">But luve is blind, and oft deceived,<br /> +If adage old can be believed,<br /> + And suffers much abuses;<br /> +Or never could such matches be,<br /> +O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee,<br /> + So thou has thy excuses.</p> +<h2>Com Geas a Wag o’ thee Paw.</h2> +<p>[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 <a +name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>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.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim +Wreet,<br /> + Come geas a wag o’ thee paw;<br /> +I knew thee when thi heead wor black,<br /> + Bud nah its az white as snow;<br /> +Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim,<br /> + An’ all thi kith an’ kin;<br /> +An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar,<br /> + For t’ sake o’ ould long sin,<br /> + Jim Wreet,<br /> + For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.</p> +<p class="poetry">It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,<br +/> + Sin oud Joe Constantine—<br /> +An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me,<br /> + An’ other friends o’ thine,<br /> +Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase,<br /> + Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here;<br /> +An’ t’ Squire made us welcome<br /> + <a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>To his brown October beer,<br /> + Jim Wreet;<br /> + To his brown October beer.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,<br +/> + That kept the Old King’s Arms;<br /> +Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet,<br /> + When they hed sung ther Psalms;<br /> +An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim,<br /> + Sometimes hev chang’d the string,<br /> +An’ with a merry chorus join’d,<br /> + We’ve made yond tav’ren ring,<br /> + Jim Wreet,<br /> + We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.</p> +<p class="poetry">But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,<br /> + As past away sin then;<br /> +When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art,<br /> + Cud boast her musick men;<br /> +Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim,<br /> + An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;<br /> +Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake,<br /> + Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,<br /> + Jim Wreet,<br /> + Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.</p> +<h2><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>Song +of the Months, from<br /> +January to December.</h2> +<p class="poetry">High o’er the hill-tops moans the wild +breezes,<br /> + As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:<br +/> +See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,<br /> + While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,<br +/> + To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed +steed:<br /> +As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion,<br /> + He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.</p> +<p class="poetry">No more with the tempest the river is +swelling,<br /> + No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;<br /> +The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling<br /> + That spring is established with sunshine and +showers.</p> +<p class="poetry">In the pride of its beauty the young year is +shining,<br /> + And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;<br +/> +The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,<br /> + And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the +breeze.</p> +<p class="poetry">O May, lovely goddess! what name can be +grander?<br /> + What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;<br +/> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>With thy +mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,<br /> + At whose sight the last demon of winter does +fly.</p> +<p class="poetry">From her home in the grass see the primrose is +peeping,<br /> + While diamond dew-drops around her is spread;<br /> +She smiles thro’ her tears like an infant that’s +sleeping,<br /> + And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are +fled.</p> +<p class="poetry">The landscape around is now sprinkled with +flowers,<br /> + The mountains are blue in their distant array;<br /> +The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers,<br /> + Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flees away.</p> +<p class="poetry">How joyous the reapers, their harvest songs +singing<br /> + As they see the maid bringing the flagon and +horn;<br /> +And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging<br /> + Over meadows and pastures, and her barley and +corn.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis sweet on the hills with the morning +sun shining,<br /> + To watch the rich vale as it brightens below;<br /> +’Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining,<br /> + To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its +glow.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>Now is the time when biting old Boreas<br /> + True to his calling,—the tempests impend;<br +/> +His hailstones in fury is pelting before us,<br /> + Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are +bent.</p> +<p class="poetry">The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is +falling,<br /> + The beasts of the forest from hunger doth call;<br +/> +There is desolate evenings and comfortless mornings,<br /> + And gloomy noontides for one and for all.</p> +<p class="poetry">Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December,<br +/> + O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor;<br /> +Christmas is thine, and we shall remember,<br /> + Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.</p> +<h2>My Visit ta’t Glory Band.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Last Sunday, reight early, I sett off fra +home,<br /> +Ower mountains an’ valleys, intending to roam;<br /> +As it wor a fine morning an’ no sign o’ rain,<br /> +I bethowt ma I’d go up Oakworth be t’train;<br /> +But I’m sitch a whimsical sort of a man,<br /> +I nivver get threw wi owt at I plan.</p> +<p class="poetry">For I’d hardly goan two hundred yards fra +my door,<br /> +When who did I see walking prattly before?<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>It wor oud +Jennet t’Ranter fra Avercake row,<br /> +As nice a oud body is ivver you saw;<br /> +Shoo wor dress’d up ta t’mark wi her Cashmere +shawl,<br /> +An wor bahn dahn to t’meeting at Temperance Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">When I saw it wor Jennet I lengthen’d my +pace,<br /> +An’ as soon as shoa saw me shoo look’d i’ my +face;<br /> +An’ says “Hallo, Bill! tha’s com’d aght +fearful soin<br /> +Ther’ll be a blue snaw;—pray, where are ta gooin?<br +/> +If tha’s nobbut come aht for a bit of a stroll,<br /> +Tha’d better go wi ma for t’gooid o’ thy +soul.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So I agreed to go wi her; for what could I +do,<br /> +When t’decent oud woman wor teasing ma so?<br /> +So we link’d on together an’ paddled along,<br /> +Both on us singing a Glory Band song;<br /> +Hasomivver we landed, an’ hedn’t ta wait,<br /> +For one t’panjandrums hed getten agait.</p> +<p class="poetry">So they prayed an’ they sang i’ +ther oud fashun’d way;<br /> +Until a gert chap says “I’ve summat ta say;”<br +/> +An’ bethart I’st a fallen dahn sick i’ my +pew,<br /> +But I thowt at toan hauf t’ he said worant true,<br /> +For he charged Parson Ball wi’ being drunk i’ the +street,<br /> +At he’d been put ta bed three times i’ one neet.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>“Does ta hear,” says Oud Jennet, “what +t’hullet is saying,<br /> +He’s using his scandal asteead o’ being praying,<br +/> +For John Ball is respected by ivvery one,<br /> +So I sallant believe a word about John,<br /> +Fer him an’ arr Robin are two decent men,<br /> +So pray yah nah harken, they’ll speik fer +thersen.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So all wor nah silent, they mud hear a pin +fall,<br /> +For nobody wor hissing or clapping at all;<br /> +For scarce had long Gomersall spun out his yarn,<br /> +Wi his two blazing een he hed scarcely sat dahn,<br /> +Than John stood up on his pins in a minit,—<br /> +An’ rare an’ weel please wor me and Oud Jennet.</p> +<p class="poetry">“My brethren,” he sed wi a tear in +his ee,<br /> +“Yah sall hear for yerselns my accusers an’ me,<br /> +An’ if I be guilty—man’s liable to fall<br /> +As well as yer pastor an’ servant John Ball;<br /> +But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan,<br /> +Be’t t’first, and no other to thraw the first +stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">“I’ve drunk wine and porter, I do +not deny,<br /> +But then my accusers hev not telled you why:<br /> +So their false accusation I feel it more keen,<br /> +’Cos I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my +een;<br /> +Beside mi back warked as if it wor broke,<br /> +An’ mi throit’s been so parched wal I thowt I sud +choke.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>“I’ve been so distracted and hanneled so +bad,<br /> +Wal I thowt monny a time I sud ommust go mad,<br /> +An’ t’doctors hes tell’d me there wor no other +way<br /> +Nobbut going to Blackpool or else Morecambe Bay;<br /> +An’ charged me to mind if I sat dahn to dine,<br /> +To lig into t’porter, an’t brandy, an’t +wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">“So nah, my accusers, what hev you to +say,<br /> +You can reckon that up in your awn simple way;<br /> +But if there’s a falsehood in what I’ve sed nah<br /> +I wish mi new hat wod turn into a kah,<br /> +So this is mi answer, an’ this mi defence.”<br /> +“Well done!” says oud Jennet, “he’s +spokken some sense.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So his speech nah he ended, but it +touch’d em it wick,<br /> +For we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick;<br /> +And Jennet declared—tho’ she might be too +rude,—<br /> +If he’d come up to’t dinner he’s hev some home +brew’d,<br /> +Fer it spite o’ ther scandal sho wor proud on him yet,<br +/> +An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d out to du +wi’t.</p> +<h2><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>T’ History o’t Haworth Railway.</h2> +<p>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, <a +name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>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.</p> +<p>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 +name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>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—</p> +<p class="poetry">Cum all ye lads o’ high renown<br /> +At wishes well your native town,<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>Rowl up +an’ put your money down<br /> + An’ let us hev a Railway.<br +/> +We Keighley folk we are behind,<br /> +An’s sed to wauk agin wur mind;<br /> +But sooin t’ crookt-legg’d uns they will find,<br /> + Weel kap em we a Railway.</p> +<p>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 <a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>messured, it turn’d aht to be two miles six inches +long—it moved as follows:—</p> +<h3>ORDER OF PROCESSHUN.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">The Spring-head Band wi their +hat-bruads turn’d up so as they mud see their way +clear.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">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.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Two citizens wi white cravats raand +their hats.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">The Members et Corporashun +one-abreast singin “a nuttin we will go, brave +boys.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Big Drums and Triangles.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">A Mahogany Wheelbarrow and a silver +trowel on a cart trail’d wi six donkeys, and garded wi ten +lazy policemen all sober.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">A pair of crakt bag-pipes.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">The Contractor in a sedan carried +wi two waggoners i white smocks.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">All the young maidens fra fourteen +to thirty-nine, six-abreast, drest i sky blue, and singin throo +combs.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Twenty oud wimin knittin +stockings.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Twenty navvies i their shirt +sleeves weeling barrows, wi workn tooils.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Taan skavengers wi shoulder’d +besums decorated wi ribbons.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page92"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 92</span>Bellman and Pinder arm-i-arm drest I +full uniform, and the latter now and then bawlin aht wats bahn to +tak place.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">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.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Taan chimla sweeps maanted o’ +donkies wi their face white.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">All the furiners fra the continent +o’ Haworth, and crookt-legged uns fra Keighley followed +up.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Bulk o’ the inhabitants +wauking wun-abreast, wi their hats off, and singing and +shouting</p> +<p style="text-align: center">“The Railway! the +Railway!”</p> +<p>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—</p> +<p>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’ <a +name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>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 <a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>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.</p> +<p>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:—</p> +<p>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 <a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>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:—</p> +<p class="poetry">Put yor shoulders to work, lads, and +ne’er be danted,<br /> + Think yer behint and there’s no time to +dally,<br /> +For nah is the time yor assistance is wanted<br /> + I makin yor railway along the Worth Valley.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>CHAPTER II.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Gather fra Stanbury, lads we yor carrot +heeads,<br /> +Cum dahn fra Locker tahn, lads, be the railway;<br /> +Cum we yor wives, yor dowters, and relatives,<br /> +Shout lads, shout for the Worth Valley Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">Heard you Ned Oufield mak his noration,<br /> +Yoh’l say in yohr conshunce he spak it reyt fairly,<br /> +He said poor Haworth nivver yet hed fairashun,<br /> +And spak of the thing that will flurish it rarely.<br /> + + +Railway, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">Saw yoh Icholden wi his mahogany +wheelbarrow,<br /> +Cum dig the first sod wi his trowel o’ silver,<br /> +He wheeled it dahn t’ plenk as streyt as an arrow,<br /> +And tipt it as weel as a navvy or delver.<br /> + + +Railway, &c.</p> +<p class="poetry">Saw yoh the church so anshent in history,<br /> +Read yoh the Latin words high in the steeple,<br /> +Hear to the sounds that arise from the belfry,<br /> +It seems to be shaating along wi the people,<br /> + + +Railway, &c.</p> +<p>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 <a name="page97"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 97</span>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.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>They hed a meeting tother neet,<br /> +Fair o’ t’top o’ Wutherin Street,<br /> +To see what things they’d got complete,<br /> +Concerning Haworth Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wen Penny Wabbac tuke the chair,<br /> +He lukt to be i grate despair,<br /> +He sez, good folk, are yoh aware,<br /> +Wat’s happened to the Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">We persperashun on his brah,<br /> +He sez, good folk, al tell yoh nah;<br /> +Oud Blue Beard’s nasty wizened kah<br /> +Hes swallowed plan o’ t’ Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi these remarks poor Wabbac sat,<br /> +Wen Jonny Broth doft off his hat,<br /> +His een they blazed like sum wild cat<br /> +Wi vengence for the Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">He sed my blud begins to boil,<br /> +To think et we sud work an’ toil,<br /> +And ev’n the cattle cannot thoyle<br /> +To let us hev a Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">On hearing this the Haworth foak<br /> +Began to swear it wur no joak,<br /> +An wisht at greedy cah ma choak,<br /> +At swallowed t’ plan o’ t’ Railway.</p> +<p><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 99</span>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.</p> +<p class="poetry">But sighs and tears and doubts and fears,<br /> + Prevails with greatest folly,<br /> +For ’t sinagog has cockt its clog,<br /> + And ’t parson’s melancholy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tunnils sink and navvies drink,<br /> + And chapels are upsetting;<br /> +For Railway Shares nobody cares,<br /> + And iverybody’s fretting.</p> +<p class="poetry">The iron horse they curse of course,<br /> + And fane wud it abandon;<br /> +And loyers fees their pockets ease,<br /> + A thousand pound e Lundun.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>Misfortunes speed as rank as weed,<br /> + An’ puts on sich a damper;<br /> +Wal t’ foaks declare e grate dispair,<br /> + Its up wi’t iron tramper.</p> +<p class="poetry">The volunteers prick up their ears,<br /> + An mak a famos rattle;<br /> +Thay want ta run ta Wimbleton,<br /> + Or onny field o’ battle.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their black cravats an toppen’d hats<br +/> + Are causing grate attraction;<br /> +Against Boneypart thay want ta start,<br /> + E reglar fightin action.</p> +<p class="poetry">The raw recuits hev got ther suits,<br /> + Thay brag ta wun another:<br /> +Ta’t first campaign thay’l tak the train,<br /> + Withaat the sliteist bother.</p> +<p class="poetry">But t’ oud foak thinks thair’l be +some stinks,<br /> + At menshun of invazhun;<br /> +An hopes et taan will ride em daan,<br /> + E cabs ta Howorth Stashun.</p> +<p>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 <a name="page101"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 101</span>peggy tub full o meyl an’ saar +swillins for th’ ingen, and they are preparin another +puddin for th’ passengers fra Keighley.</p> +<p class="poetry">They’re standing i’ groups and +they’re living i’ hopes,<br /> + And more disappointments they dread,<br /> +Wi’ they’re ears touching th’ grand, +they’ve harken’d for th’ saand,<br /> + Wal they’ve omust gone wrong i’ ther +head.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sez Dick o’ Grate Beckers, just keep up +yor peckers,<br /> + Yo hevn’t much longer to wait<br /> +For blue milk and porridge, yol get better forridge,<br /> + Wen the railway gets fairly agait.</p> +<p class="poetry">For its labour i’ vain to harken for +th’ train<br /> + When all’s goin on varry steady;<br /> +So pray yo be calm its takin no harm,<br /> + They’ll bring it as soin as its ready.</p> +<p class="poetry">For th’ rails are all laid, and +there’s nowt to be made,<br /> + Nobbut th’ navvies to clear off all th’ +muck;<br /> +Then all al be goin, for th’ Cowinhead mooin<br /> + Is bahn to be browt on a truck.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Sam o’ Blue Bills, wi’ +thi’ pints an’ thi’ gills,<br /> + Its bahn to be better for thee,<br /> +To Keighley an’ back tha ma go in a crack,<br /> + When tha’s bahn on a bit of a spree.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>And John o’ Pot Anns tha mun alter thi plans,<br +/> + For tha nivver can get him i’ force;<br /> +For I’m happy to tell at steead o’th’ canal<br +/> + They’re bahn to try th’ big iron +horse.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s oud Jim o’ Kyas is bahn to +be wise,<br /> + An’ th’ folk sez at he’s takkin a +hig;<br /> +He’ll see it first tried afore he will ride,<br /> + He’s dahn abaht the Paper Mill Brig.</p> +<p class="poetry">He sez he’ll be sure, it dropt in +before,<br /> + And it might do again for a pinch;<br /> +For he sez they’ll be kapt if sum on em trapt,<br /> + So he’s blest if he’ll trust it an +inch.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s oud Mally Brook hez been dahn to +look,<br /> + And shoo’s sore disappointed they say;<br /> +Shoo’s omust goan crackt for shoo sez it weant act,<br /> + For they nobbut can run it wun way.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sho sez at high class ats laid dahn all +th’ brass,<br /> + Just nah they’re beginnin ta craw;<br /> +To mak up for th’ trouble they’re bahn to charge +double,<br /> + For bad speckulashun it law.</p> +<p class="poetry">So to sattle em dahn, Sir Chrestofer Brahn,<br +/> + Hez tould em it wur his intent,<br /> +If they’d nobbut be quiet till things wur all reight,<br /> + He’d give em a trip to Chow Bent.</p> +<p><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>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’</p> +<p class="poetry">Stars wur shoiting in and aht,<br /> +And gravel ratches wur abaht,<br /> +And th’ folk, he sed, they little knew<br /> +What mischief it wur bahn ta brew.<br /> +And news he spred abaht the tahn,<br /> +What lots o’ rain wud tumble dahn;<br /> +And like his anshent sires he spoke,<br /> +The shockin news withaht a joke.</p> +<p class="poetry">For soin the rain i torrents fell,<br /> +And O what awful news to tell,<br /> +It lookt as th clahds wur bahn to shutter,<br /> +For every dyke, and ditch, and gutter,<br /> +A reguler deluge did resemble,<br /> +<a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>Which +made Haworth folk to tremble.<br /> +Some tried to stop its course wi’ stones,<br /> +And some dropt on their marrow bones,<br /> +And hoped at if the wurld wur drahnd,<br /> +The railway wud be safe an’ sahnd;</p> +<p class="poetry">But prayers like these hed no avail,<br /> +For th’ waters deluged all the dale;<br /> +And th’ latest news et I hev heerd<br /> +Th’ railway’s nearly disappeared;<br /> +But if its fun withaht a flaw,<br /> +Wha, folks, I’m like to let yo know.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER III.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“Work boys, work, and be +contented.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>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 <a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>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</p> +<p class="poetry">If my advice yoh want, poor things,<br /> + An cannut do withaht it,<br /> +Go arm yor seln to th’ teeth, he sed,<br /> + An’ doant be long abaht it;<br /> +Both rakes an’ powls an’ props an’ ropes<br /> + Yo cannot get ta sooin,<br /> +An’ take the Cowinheeader’s plan<br /> + When they discuver’d the mooin,<br /> +Doant gape abaht, but when yor arm’d<br /> + Take each a diffrent rowt;<br /> +And let yor cry be ivvery man,<br /> + Th’ poor railway’s up the spout.</p> +<p>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 <a +name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>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.</p> +<p class="poetry">And this wur a fact this wur th’ railway +they saw,<br /> +And at th’ first sight o’ th’ spectre they all +stood in awe,<br /> +For it wur smashed all i’ pieces ashamed to be seen<br /> +As tho’ it hed passed thro’ a sausidge masheen;<br /> +Wi horror some fainted, while others took fits,<br /> +Aud these at cud stand it wur piking up t’bits.</p> +<p class="poetry">But after a while when they all becum calm,<br +/> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>They +gathered together like bees in a swarm,<br /> +Resolvd to pick up all fragments and th’ wood,<br /> +And splice ’em together as weel as they cud,<br /> +Hasumever thay started a putting it streyt,<br /> +And wi’ spelking and braying they soon made it reight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Six months nah elapsed and th’ gert job +wur done,<br /> +And th’ next thing to argue wur wen it sud run,<br /> +So they sent Joe a-Stirks arahnd wi’ his bell,<br /> +And gave him strict orders at he wur to tell,<br /> +At th’ inspector hed been and examined it thro’,<br +/> +And cum to th’ conclushun et th’ railway wud do.</p> +<p class="poetry">So to wark wi a vengance, the bellman set +to,<br /> +To warn up a meeting to meet a’th’ Black Bull,<br /> +It wud dun yo all good to hear Joey shaht,<br /> +For they heard him distinctly for miles all abaht,<br /> +And i’ less ner ten minits, they flockt in so fast,<br /> +While Jonny Broth horses they couldn’t get past.</p> +<p class="poetry">So they fram’d on wi’ th’ +meeting an’ th’ chairman spak first,<br /> +And tell’d ’em at th’ railway wur +finish’d at last;<br /> +And declared at th’ inspector hed passed when he com,<br /> +Both viaducts and bridges as sahnd as a plum;<br /> +As for sinkin agean they wud do nowt et sort,<br /> +For they sailed thro’ the arches i’ Marriner’s +boat.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>So he hoped i’ this meeting they all wud +agree,<br /> +And settle when th’ oppening o’ th’ railway sud +be.<br /> +He thout for his part tho’ he nobbut wur won,<br /> +At first day o’ April wur fittest to run,<br /> +Wen a voice sed, sit dahn or I’ll pelt thee wi’ +spooils,<br /> +Duz ta think at wur bahn to be April fooils?</p> +<p class="poetry">Then up on to th’ platform jump’d +Red Dicky Brook,<br /> +Along wi’ his uncle Black Tom at Dyke Nook,<br /> +Determined to sattle and bring things arahnd,<br /> +As th’ railway wur finished both proper and sahnd;<br /> +So they pitched on a day—this wur April the fourth.<br /> +To oppen th’ grand railway fra Lunden to Haworth.</p> +<p class="poetry">It wur carried as usual, bi’ th’ +showing o’ hands,<br /> +Amidst grate rejoicing and playing o’ bands,<br /> +Both oud men and wimen hed a smile on their face,<br /> +For all wur dead certain this wur bahn to tak place,<br /> +So they fled to their homes like bees to a hive,<br /> +Impashent and anshus for th’ day to arrive.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hasumever th’ day com at wur +menshun’d before,<br /> +And folk wur all flocking fra mahntan and th’ moor,<br /> +And little they thout when they set off that morn,<br /> +Anuther disaster would laff ’em to scorn;<br /> +For Joe Stirk wur sent out to tell ’em to stop,<br /> +For poor Haworth Railway hed gotten i’ pop.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nah this wur a damper and th’ biggest +i’ th’ lot,<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>And +th’ folks they declared this wur a Keighley plot,<br /> +But one Jack o’ Ludges sed he’d stop ’em their +prate,<br /> +He’d learn ’em i’ Keighley to insinuate,<br /> +They’st hev no excurshuns for nout but their lip,<br /> +And Shipley and Bradford should hev the first trip.</p> +<p class="poetry">He sed he’d been quiet, but he’d +nah interfere,<br /> +He’d wauk up to Derby and tell em up there,<br /> +Hah they hed been skitted, sin first they begun,<br /> +And nah when this wur finished they wurnt to run;<br /> +But hah he went on I never did hear,<br /> +But won thing I’m certain he must a been there.</p> +<p class="poetry">For th’ tenth day of April bills wur put +aht,<br /> +That th’ railway wud oppen withaht any daht,<br /> +And a famous excurshun fra Bradford wod run,<br /> +And call at all stashuns wi’ th’ excepshun o’ +won;<br /> +For nowt aht o’ Keighley to Haworth sud ride,<br /> +For that day all th’ luggage wur left o’ won +side.</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarce Keighley crookt-legg’d ens heard +o’ the news,<br /> +And wur just bahn to give ’em the gratest abuse,<br /> +When a order cum aht fra sum unknawn source,<br /> +That Keighley crookt-legg’d ens cud go up of course,<br /> +They thowt it wur best, and wud cause the least bother,<br /> +For wun sud be welcum as weel as anuther.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hasumever their hopes hes not been i’ +vain,<br /> +<a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>For the +day’s arrived and yonder’s the train,<br /> +And thahsands o’ folks is flocking to th’ spot,<br /> +The gent fra his hall, the peasant fra his cot,<br /> +For all are determined as th’ weather is fine,<br /> +To hev an’ excurshun up th’ Worth Valley Line.</p> +<p class="poetry">They land up i’ Haworth, and sports et is +seen,<br /> +Wur nivver yet equalled it reign o’ the Queen,<br /> +Such processhuns wi music yo ne’er saw the like,<br /> +They wur bands fra all nashuns excepting Black Dyke,<br /> +And Sham o’ Blue Bills sed he’d kick up a shine,<br +/> +For nah they hed oppen’d the Worth Valley Line.</p> +<p class="poetry">There wur Jim o’th’ Damems, and +Will o’ th’ Gooise Coit,<br /> +And the lads at wur in that puddin exploit,<br /> +There wur Ned dahn fra Oakworth, and Ike fra Loin Ends,<br /> +Along wi their aristocratical friends,<br /> +They repair’d to Black Bull, of sahnd puddin to dine,<br /> +That day at they oppen’d the Worth Valley Line.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ all nooks and corners and chimla +tops,<br /> +Wur floating gert banners wi’ mighty big props,<br /> +And stamp’d on each flag i’ figures so nice,<br /> +Sum an’ inscripshun and sum a device;<br /> +But th’ nicest i’th’ lump at swung on a +band,<br /> +Wur welcum to Haworth fra ivvery land.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>Yor welcum, yor welcum, all men upon earth,<br /> +Yor welcum to the valley of Worth,<br /> +Fra th’ Humber to th’ Mersey, fra th’ Thames +dahn to th’ Tyne,<br /> +Yor welcum to travel the Worth Valley Line.</p> +<h3>CHAPTER IV.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“Th’ last Scene of all that ends this +strange eventful history.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p><i>Fra th’ Corrispondent o’ th’ Hoylus End +Mercury</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Good folks you’ve inkwired at home +an’ abroad,<br /> +Ha we’re gettin on wi wur famous railroad;<br /> +And when I’ve tell’d yo the disasters we’ve +hed,<br /> +Yo’ve greeved monny a time wal yo’ve tain to yor +bed,<br /> +But ha yo will gape when yo read farther dahn,<br /> +What famons big stirrins we’ve hed up i’th’ +tahn.</p> +<p class="poetry">I knaw yo’d be mad as soin as yo +heard,<br /> +Abaht that oud kah at belong’d to Blue Beard,<br /> +For I like as I saw yo just hod of its tail,<br /> +And braying it rump wi’ the end o’ yor flail;<br /> +For I wisht monny a time at yo hed been here,<br /> +For swallowing the plan yo’d a geen it what cheer.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ha ivver good folk I’ll try to be +breef,<br /> +For I knaw you’re i’ pain and I’ll give yo +releef—<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>So to +tell yo the truth in a plain, honnest way,<br /> +The railroad is finish’d an oppen’d to-day;<br /> +And I’ve tain up my pen for ill yo’d a taint,<br /> +If I hednt a geen yo a truthful ackahnt.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hasumivver this morning, as I tell’d yo +before,<br /> +I wur wakken’d wi hearin a awful uproar,<br /> +What wi’ the prating o’ wimen and the shahtin +o’th’ folk,<br /> +And the bells at wur ringin, they wur past onny joke,<br /> +For ivvery two minnits they shahted hurrah,<br /> +We are nah bahn to oppen the Haworth Railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">So I jump’d up i’ bed, an’ I +gat on the floor,<br /> +I slipt on my cloas and ran out at door,<br /> +And the first at I met, it wur one Jimmy Peg,<br /> +He cum’d up fra Bocking and brout a gert flag,<br /> +And just at his heels wur the Spring-headed band,<br /> +Playing a march—I thout it wur grand.</p> +<p class="poetry">So I fell into the step for I knaw how to +march,<br /> +For I’ve been stiffen’d up wi’ guvernment +starch;<br /> +And first smell o’ music it maks me fair dance,<br /> +And I prick up my ears like a trooper his lance,<br /> +Hasumivver, I thout as I’d gotten i’ th’ +scent,<br /> +I’d follow this music wharever it went.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then I march’d up erect, wal I come to +the grand stand,<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>And that +wur a’ th’ stashun where the train hed to land;<br /> +There wur flags of all nashuns fra the Union Jack<br /> +To Bacchus and Atlas wi’ the globe on his back,<br /> +For the Inspector and conductor and all sorts o’ fray<br /> +Wur expected directly to land at the railway.</p> +<p class="poetry">So I star’d wal both een wur varry near +bleared,<br /> +And waited and waited—at last it appear’d,<br /> +It wur filled full o’ folk as eggs full o’ meat,<br +/> +And it tuk four ingens to bring it up reight,<br /> +Two hed long chimlas and th’ tuther hed noan,<br /> +But they stuck weel together like a dog to a bone.</p> +<p class="poetry">They wur gruntin and growling wur the folks at +gat aht,<br /> +So I made some inquiries what it wur abaht;<br /> +And i’ all my born days I ne’er heard nout so +call’d,<br /> +For three or four times they sed it hed stall’d,<br /> +Wal some o’th’ crookt-legg’d ens bethout of a +scheam,<br /> +And they went back to Keighley for a hamper o’steam.</p> +<p class="poetry">And my word and honour it did mak a gert +din,<br /> +For I stud by and heard it, and saw it come in;<br /> +I expected it coming as quiet as a lamb,<br /> +But no daht at the noises wur nobbut a sham;<br /> +But what’s the use o’ telling yo ha it did come,<br +/> +I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>There wur fifty i’ number invited to dine,<br /> +All us at hed acted reight loyal to the line;<br /> +So I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff<br /> +At the puddings this time wud be made at reight stuff,<br /> +And noan o’ that stuffment they gav the Keighley band,<br +/> +Toan awf on it rubbish and the other awf sand.</p> +<p class="poetry">For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a +man)<br /> +Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kah lickin pan,<br /> +Wi gert lumps o’ suet at the cook hed put in’t,<br /> +At shane like a ginney just new aht at mint;<br /> +Wi’ knives made a purpose to cut it i’ rowls,<br /> +And the sauce wur i’ buckets and mighty big bowls.</p> +<p class="poetry">They wur chattin and taukin and souckin ther +spice,<br /> +And crackin at dainties they thout at wur nice,<br /> +Wal the oud parson gat up and pull’d a long face,<br /> +And mutter’d some words at they call saying th’ +grace,<br /> +But I nivver goam’d that, cos I knew for a fact<br /> +It wur nobbut a signal for the puddin attack.</p> +<p class="poetry">And aw’l tell yo wot, folk tho’ yo +maint beleeve,<br /> +But yo tauks abaht Wibsey fooak heytin horse beef,<br /> +Yo sud a seen Locker-taaners brandishing ther nives,<br /> +An choppin an cutting ther wollopin shives;<br /> +An all on em shaatin thay lik’d th puddin th best,<br /> +Fer nout wur like th puddin for standin th’ test.</p> +<p class="poetry">An while thay wor cutting an choppin away,<br +/> +The gallant Spring-Heeaders wor order’d ta play,<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>But thay +didn’t mich loike it fer ivvery wun,<br /> +Wur flaid at thayd play wol th puddin wor dun;<br /> +But as luck wor thay tice’d em, wi a gert deeal to do,<br +/> +Ta play Roger the Plowman an Rozzen the bow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ike Ouden wor th chairman at com to preside,<br +/> +An Will Thompson o Guiseley wor set by his soide,<br /> +Na Will’s a director o’th Midland line,<br /> +An as deeacent a chap as sat dahn ta dine;<br /> +Along wi Jin Sugden at held th Vice-chair,<br /> +Wor won Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their wor Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and +me,<br /> +And a lot o more lads at wur for a spree;<br /> +There wur Nedwin o George’s and Pete Featherstone,<br /> +They sat side by side like Darby and Joan;<br /> +And I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade,<br /> +But I knaw they wur Ingham and little Jack Wade.</p> +<p class="poetry">So he says, be silent, all the folk i’ +this hall,<br /> +So as any won on yo can hear a pin fall;<br /> +And Jone o’ Bill Olders just shut up thi’ prate,<br +/> +For I’ve summat to say and I mun let it aht;<br /> +For I mun hev silence whativer betide,<br /> +Or I’ll cum aht oth loom and some o’ yo hide.</p> +<p class="poetry">Three years hes elapsed and we’re going +on the fourth,<br /> +Sin we first started th railway fra Keighley to Haworth<br /> +What wi’ dreamin by neet, and workin by day,<br /> +Its been to poor Haworth a dearish railway.<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>And +monny a time I’ve been aht o’ patience<br /> +Wi’ the host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations.</p> +<p class="poetry">The first do at we hed wur th kah swallowing th +plan,<br /> +And then wur bad luck and misfortunes began;<br /> +For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us another,<br /> +All went on wrong and we’d a gert deal o’ bother;<br +/> +He must a been dreamin, a silly oud clahn,<br /> +For three fields o’ Oud Doodles he nivver put dahn.</p> +<p class="poetry">As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I +knaw,<br /> +For thart one o’ the best drivers at ivver I saw;<br /> +And nobody can grumble at what tha hes dun,<br /> +If thi buss driven wearisome race it is run;<br /> +For who nah cud grumble, ha fine wur thur cloth,<br /> +To ride up to Haworth wi oud Johnny Broth.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Johnny, my lad, don’t thee mak onny +fuss,<br /> +I shuttin thi horses, or sellin thi buss;<br /> +For if the railway hes done thee, there’s wun thing I +knaw;<br /> +Tha mud mak ’o th’ oud bus a stunnin peep show,<br /> +And if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles,<br /> +I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles.</p> +<p class="poetry">So strike up yor music and give it some +mahth,<br /> +And welcum all nashuns fra north to the sahth;<br /> +The black fra the east, and the red fra the west,<br /> +For they sud be welcum as weel as the rest:<br /> +And all beyond the Tiber, the Baltic or Rhine,<br /> +Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d the Worth Valley +Line.</p> +<h2><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>T’ Village Aram-Skaram.</h2> +<p class="poetry">In a little cot so dreary,<br /> +With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,<br /> +Sat a mother sad and weary,<br /> + With her darling on her knee;<br +/> +Their humble fare at best was sparing,<br /> +For the father he was shearing,<br /> +With his three brave sons o’ Erin,<br /> + Down in the Fen country.</p> +<p class="poetry">All her Saxon neighbours leave her,<br /> +With her boy and demon fever,<br /> +The midnight watch—none to relieve her,<br /> + Save a Little Bisey Bee:<br /> +He was called the Aram-Skaram,<br /> +Noisy as a drum clock laram,<br /> +Yet his treasures he would share ’em,<br /> + With his friend right merrily.</p> +<p class="poetry">Every night and every morning,<br /> +With the day sometimes at dawning,<br /> +While the mother, sick and swooning,<br /> + To his dying mate went he:<br /> +Robbing his good Saxon mother,<br /> +Giving to his Celtic brother,<br /> +Who asked—for him and no other,<br /> + Until his spirit it was free.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;<br /> +Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;<br /> +This little noble-hearted ruffin,<br /> + At the wake each night went he:<br +/> +Sabbath morning he was ready,<br /> +Warn’d the bearers to be steady,<br /> +Taking Peter to his Biddy,<br /> + And a tear stood in his +e’e.</p> +<p class="poetry">Onward as the corpse was passing,<br /> +Ere the priest gave his last blessing,<br /> +Through the dingy crowd came pressing,<br /> + The father and the brothers +three:<br /> +’Tis our mother—we will greet her;<br /> +How is this that here we meet her?<br /> +And without our little Peter,<br /> + Who will solve this mystery?</p> +<p class="poetry">The Aram-Skaram interfered,<br /> +Soon this corpse will be interred,<br /> +Come with us and see it burried,<br /> + Out in yonder cemetery:<br /> +Soon they knew the worst, and pondered<br /> +Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;—<br /> +And returning home, they wondered<br /> + Who their little friend could +be!</p> +<p class="poetry">Turning round to him they bowed,<br /> +Much they thanked him, much they owed;<br /> +<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>While +the tears each cheek bedewed,<br /> + Wisht him all prosperity:<br /> +“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,<br /> +What I have done, do ye to others;<br /> +We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,”<br +/> + Said the little Bisey Bee.</p> +<h2>Behold How the Rivers!</h2> +<p class="poetry">Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea,<br +/> +Sending their treasures so careless and free;<br /> +And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise,<br /> +Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.</p> +<p class="poetry">Find out the haunts o’ the low human +pest,<br /> +Give to the weary, the poor, and distressed;<br /> +What if unthankful and thankless they be,<br /> +Think of the giver that gave unto thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Go travel the long lanes on misery’s +virge,<br /> +Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;<br /> +Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,<br /> +Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +120</span>Give to yon widow—thy gift is thrice blest,<br /> +For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s pressed;<br +/> +A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,<br /> +God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Neath the green grassy mounds o’ +yon little church yard,<br /> +An over-wrought genius there finds his reward;<br /> +And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,<br /> +Such are the givers that give unto me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then scatter thy mite like nature her +rain,—<br /> +What if no birdie should chant thee a strain;<br /> +What if no daisy should smile on the lea;<br /> +The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">For the day will soon come, if thou gives all +thou may,<br /> +That thou mayest venture to give all away;<br /> +Ere nature again her balmy dews send,<br /> +Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.</p> +<h2>The World’s Wheels.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Aw steady an’ easy t’oud +world’s wheels wod go,<br /> +If t’folk wod be honist an’ try to keep so;<br /> +<a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>An’ at steead o’ been hastey at ivvery +wun,<br /> +Let us enquire afore we condemn.</p> +<p class="poetry">A man may do wrong an’ scarce be to +blame,<br /> +Or a woman be bad e nout bud her name;<br /> +But which on us ought ta say ought unto them,<br /> +Unless we enquire afore we condemn.</p> +<p class="poetry">If a Rose she sud flurish her sisters among,<br +/> +It izant ta say her poor sister is wrong;<br /> +That blighted one there may be nipt in the stem,<br /> +So let us enquire before we condemn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to +plough,<br /> +While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow,<br /> +May be shattered asunder from stern unto stem,<br /> +So let us inquire before we condemn.</p> +<p class="poetry">We are certain o’ wun thing an’ +that izant two,<br /> +If we do nothing wrong we have nothing to rue;<br /> +Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim,<br /> +So let us inquire afore we condemn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then speak not so harshly, withdraw that rash +word,<br /> +’Tis wrong to condemn till the story is heard;<br /> +If it worrant for summat sho might be a gem,<br /> +So let us enquire afore we condemn.</p> +<h2><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>Full +o’ Doubts an’ Fears.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Sweet sing the birds in lowly strains,<br /> + All mingled in their song;<br /> +For lovely Spring is here again,<br /> + And Winter’s cold is gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">All things around seem filled with glee,<br /> + And joy swells every breast;<br /> +The buds are peeping from each bush,<br /> + Where soon the birds will rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">The meadows now are fresh and green,<br /> + The flowers are bursting forth,<br /> +And nature seems to us serene,<br /> + And shows her sterling worth.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lark sores high up in the air,<br /> + We listen to his lays;<br /> +He knows no sorrow nor no care,<br /> + Nor weariness o’ days.</p> +<p class="poetry">But men, though born of noble birth,<br /> + Assigned for higher spheres,<br /> +Walks his sad journey here on earth<br /> + All full o’ doubts and fears.</p> +<h2><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span> It +Izant so we Me.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Bright seems the days when I was young<br /> + Fra thought, fra care, fra sorrow free;<br /> +As wild waves rippled i’ the sun,<br /> + Rolled gaily on, and so wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">More bright the flowers when I was young,<br /> + More sweet the birds sang on the tree;<br /> +While pleasure and contentment flung<br /> + Her smiles on them, and so wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">The naked truth, I told when young,<br /> + Though tempted wi hypocracy;<br /> +Though some embraced from it I sprang,<br /> + And said it izant so wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw saw the canting jibs when young,<br /> + Of saintly, sulky misery;<br /> +Yet poked aw melancholy’s ribs,<br /> + And said it izant so wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though monny a stone when aw was young,<br /> + His strong upon me memory;<br /> +Aw thru when young and hed um flung,<br /> + If they forgive ’tis so wi’ me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Could money buy o’ Nature’s +mart,<br /> + Again our brightest days to see;<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +124</span>Ther’s monny a wun wod pawn ther shirt,<br /> + Or else they’d buy—and so wi me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet after all aw oft luke back,<br /> + Without a pang o’ days gone past,<br /> +An hope all t’ wreng aw did when young,<br /> + May be forgeen to me at last.</p> +<h2>Ode to an Herring.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Wee silvery fish, who nobly braves<br /> +The dangers o’ the ocean waves,<br /> +While monsters from the unknown caves<br /> + Make thee their prey;<br /> +Escaping which the human knaves<br /> + On thee ligs way.</p> +<p class="poetry">No doubt thou was at first designed<br /> +To suit the palates o’ mankind;<br /> +Yet as I ponder now I find,<br /> + Thy fame is gone:<br /> +With dainty dish thou’rt behind<br /> + With every one.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheen<br +/> +Were welcome both at morn and e’en,<br /> +<a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>Or any +hour that’s in between,<br /> + Thy name wer good;<br /> +But now by some considered mean<br /> + For human food.</p> +<p class="poetry">When peace and plenty’s smiling brow,<br +/> +And trade and commerce speeds the plough;<br /> +Thy friends that were not long ago,<br /> + Such game they make;<br /> +Thy epitaph is soldier now,<br /> + Or two-eyed snake.</p> +<p class="poetry">When times are hard we’re scant o’ +cash,<br /> +And famine hungry bellies lash,<br /> +And tripes and trollabobble’s trash<br /> + Begins to fail,<br /> +Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash,<br /> + Hail! herring, hail!</p> +<p class="poetry">Full mony a time t’as made me groan,<br +/> +To see thee stretched, despised, alone;<br /> +While turned-up noses passed have gone,<br /> + O’ purse-proud men!<br /> +No friends, alas! save some poor one<br /> + Fra t’ paddin can.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whoe’er despise thee, let them know<br /> +The time may come when they may go<br /> +To some fish wife, and beg to know<br /> + If they can buy<br /> +<a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>The +friendship o’ their vanquished foe,<br /> + We weeping eye.</p> +<p class="poetry">To me nought could be better fun,<br /> +Than see a duke or noble don,<br /> +Or lord, or peer, or gentleman,<br /> + In search o’ thee:<br /> +And they were bidden to move on,<br /> + Or go t’at sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet I will sing thy praise, wee fish;<br /> +To me thou art a dainty dish;<br /> +For thee, ’tis true, we often wish,<br /> + My little bloater;<br /> +Either salted, cured, or shining fresh<br /> + Fra yon great water.</p> +<p class="poetry">If through thy pedigree we peep,<br /> +Philosophy from thee can keep,<br /> +To me I need not study deep,<br /> + There’s nothing foreign;<br +/> +For aw like thee, am sold too cheap,<br /> + My little herring.</p> +<h2><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>Our +Poor Little Factory Girls.</h2> +<p class="poetry">They are up in the morning right early,<br /> + They are up sometimes afore leet;<br /> +Aw hear their clogs they are clamping,<br /> + As t’ little things goes dahn the street.</p> +<p class="poetry">They are off in the morning right early,<br /> + With their baskets o’ jock on their arms;<br +/> +The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,<br /> + As they enter the mill in a swarm.</p> +<p class="poetry">They are skarpring backward and forward,<br /> + Their ends to keep up if they can;<br /> +They are doing their utmost endeavours,<br /> + For fear o’ the frown o’ man.</p> +<p class="poetry">Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple,<br /> + They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they +twirl,<br /> +Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling,<br /> + As the wee little factory girl.</p> +<p class="poetry">They are bouncing abaht like a shuttle,<br /> + They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;<br /> +While their wee little mates they are doffing,<br /> + Preparing the spindles for more.</p> +<p class="poetry">Them two little things they are thickest,<br /> + They help one another ’tis plain;<br /> +<a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 128</span>They try +to be best and the quickest,<br /> + The smiles o’ their master to gain.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now from her ten hours’ labour,<br /> + Back to her cottage sho shogs;<br /> +Aw hear by the tramping and singing,<br /> + ’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ at night when sho’s folded +i’ slumber,<br /> + Sho’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls;<br +/> +Of all human toil under-rated,<br /> + ’Tis our poor little factory girls.</p> +<h2>We Him haw call my awn.</h2> +<p class="poetry">The branches o’ the woodbine hide<br /> + My little cottage wall,<br /> +An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch,<br /> + Aw envy not the hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">The wooded hills before my eyes<br /> + Are spread both far and wide;<br /> +An’ Nature’s grandeur seems to dress,<br /> + In all her lovely pride.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is, indeed, a lovely spot,<br /> + O’ singing birds an’ flowers;<br /> +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>’Mid Nature’s grandeur it is true,<br /> + I pass away my hours.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet think not ’tis this lovely glen,<br +/> + So dear in all its charms;<br /> +Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,<br /> + Freed from the world’s alarms.</p> +<p class="poetry">For should love’s magic change the +scene,<br /> + To trackless lands unknown;<br /> +’Twor Eden in the desert wild,<br /> + Wi him aw call my own.</p> +<h2>A Yorkshireman’s Christmas.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Aw have ten or twelve pounds o gooid meit,<br +/> + A small cheese and a barrel o’ beer;<br /> +Aw’ll welcome King Christmas to neet,<br /> + For he nobbut comes once in a year.</p> +<p class="poetry">Send our Will dahn to Tommy Spoyle +Wood’s,<br /> + And tell him to send up a log;<br /> +An’ tell him and Betty to come,<br /> + For Tommy’s a jolly oud dog.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Aw mean to forget all my debts,<br /> + An’ aw mean to harbour no greef;<br /> +Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates<br /> + O’ their contents o’ beer and gooid +beef.</p> +<p class="poetry">Them barns they care nought abaht drink,<br /> + Like us at’s advanced into years;<br /> +So Sally, lass, what does ta think,<br /> + If ta buys um some apples an’ pears?</p> +<p class="poetry">Our David’s a fine little lad,<br /> + An’ our Nancy’s a fine little lass;<br +/> +When aw see um aw do feel so glad,<br /> + So bring me a quart an’ a glass!</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, Sally, an’ sit be my side?<br /> + We’ve hed both were ups and were dahns;<br /> +Awm fane at aw made thee my bride,<br /> + An’ am prahd o’ both thee an’ wer +barns.</p> +<p class="poetry">We’re as happy as them at’s more +brass,<br /> + E their festival holly-decked hall;<br /> +We envy no mortal, old lass;<br /> + Here’s peace and gooid will unto all.</p> +<p class="poetry">And may every poor crater ta neet,<br /> + If never before in his loife,<br /> +Have plenty to drink an’ ta eat,<br /> + For both him, an’ his barns, an’ his +woife.</p> +<h2><a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>The +Fethered Captive.</h2> +<p class="poetry">My little dappled-wingged fellow,<br /> +What ruffin’s hand has made thee wellow?<br /> +Haw heard while down in yonder hollow,<br /> + Thy troubled breast;<br /> +But I’ll return my little fellow,<br /> + Back to its nest.</p> +<p class="poetry">Some ruffin’s hand has set a snickle,<br +/> +And left thee in a bonny pickle;<br /> +Who e’er he be, haw hope old Nick ’al<br /> + Rise his arm,<br /> +And mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle<br /> + We summat warm.</p> +<p class="poetry">How glad am aw that fate while roaming,<br /> +Where milk-white Hawthorns’ blossoms blooming,<br /> +As sent me footsteps ere the gloaming<br /> + Into this dell.<br /> +To stop some murdering hand fra drowning<br /> + Thy bonny sell.</p> +<p class="poetry">For thou wert doomed, my bird, for ever,<br /> +Fra all thy fethered mates to sever;<br /> +Were aw not near thee to deliver<br /> + We my awn hand;<br /> +Nor never more thou’d skim the river,<br /> + Or fellowed land.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Thy fetherd friends, if thou has onny;<br /> +Tho’ friends aw fear there izant mony;<br /> +But yet thy dam for her, we Johnny,<br /> + Will fret to-day.<br /> +And think her watter-wagtail bonny<br /> + Has flown away.</p> +<p class="poetry">Be not afraid, for net a fether<br /> +Fra of thy wing shall touch the hether,<br /> +For I will give thee altogether<br /> + Sweet liberty!<br /> +And glad am aw that aw came hither,<br /> + To set thee free.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now wing thy flight my little rover,<br /> +Thy cursed captivity is over,<br /> +And if thou crosses t’ Straits o’ Dover<br /> + To warmer spheres;<br /> +Hoping thou may live in clover,<br /> + For years and years.</p> +<p class="poetry">Happily, like thee, for fortune’s +fickle,<br /> +I may, myself, be caught it snickle;<br /> +And some kind hand that sees my pickle<br /> + Through saving thee,<br /> +May snatch me, too, fra death’s grim shackle,<br /> + And set me free.</p> +<h2><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>Trip +to Malsis Hall.</h2> +<p class="poetry">The day wor fine, the sun did shine,<br /> + No sines o’ rain to fall,<br /> +When t’North Beck hands, e jovial bands,<br /> + Did visit Malsis Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill,<br /> + Both ould an’ young did meet;<br /> +To march I trow, e two-by-two,<br /> + E processhun dahn the street.</p> +<p class="poetry">An’ Marriner’s Band, we music +grand,<br /> + Struck up wi all ther might;<br /> +Then one and all, both great and small,<br /> + March’d on we great delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">The girls and boys, we jovial noise,<br /> + The fife and drum did play;<br /> +For every one would have some fun<br /> + On this eventful day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oud Joan o’ Sall wi’ all his +palls,<br /> + Marched on wi’ all ther ease;<br /> +Just for a lark, some did remark,<br /> + There goes some prime oud cheese!</p> +<p class="poetry">The Exlaheead chaps wi their girt caps,<br /> + An’ coits nut quite i’th’ +fashion;<br /> +<a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 134</span>With +arms ding-dong, they stretch along,<br /> + An’ put a fineish dash on.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tom Wilkin drest up in his best,<br /> + T’ oud wife put on her fall,<br /> +For they wor bent, what come or went,<br /> + To dine at Malsis Hall.</p> +<p class="poetry">There wor Tommy Twist, among the list,<br /> + We his magenta snaat;<br /> +Hez often said, sin he gat wed,<br /> + T’ oud lass sud hev an aht.</p> +<p class="poetry">Amongst the lot wor oud Sam Butt,<br /> + As fine as oud Lord Digby;<br /> +An’ oud Queer Doos, wi’ his strait shoos,<br /> + An’ wi’ him Joseph Rigby.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Jimmy Gill, o’ Castle +hill,—<br /> + That gentleman wi’t stick,—<br /> +There’s Will an’ Sam, and young John Lamb,<br /> + An’ Ben an’ Earby Dick.</p> +<p class="poetry">Aw scorn to lie—the reason why<br /> + It is a shame awm sure!<br /> +But among the gob, wi’ old Joe Hob,<br /> + Behould a perfect cure.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>I’d quite forgot, among the lot,<br /> + There was old Pally Pickles,<br /> +Wi’ crinoline sho walks so fine,<br /> + Sho’s like a cat e prickles.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bud to me tale, aw musant fail<br /> + Fer out on this occasion;<br /> +We heead erect, and girt respect,<br /> + We march to Keighley Station.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Maud an’ t’ woife, az large az +life,<br /> + Gat in’t train together;<br /> +They both did say, they’d have a day,<br /> + Among the blooming hether.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nah—all fane gat in t’ train,<br /> + And Ned began to scream;<br /> +Then Master Pratt doft off his hat,<br /> + An’ pept aht at the steeam.</p> +<p class="poetry">This jovial band, when they did land,<br /> + Got off the train so hearty,<br /> +For they all went, wi’ that intent,<br /> + To have a grand tea-party!</p> +<p class="poetry">The country folk did gape an’ luke,<br /> + To see us all delighted,<br /> +For every one, did say begum,<br /> + Aw wish I’d been invited.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +136</span>Its joy to tell, they march as well<br /> + As the Scots did ower the border,<br /> +Ould Wellington and all his men<br /> + Ne’er saw such marching order.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lookers on, to see them come,<br /> + Get on the second story;<br /> +Right down the park they did the mark,<br /> + Coming e full glory.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then to the place, each smiling face,<br /> + Move on in grand succession;<br /> +The lookers on did say “well done,<br /> + It iz a grand processhun!”</p> +<p class="poetry">When they’d all past the hall at last,<br +/> + They form’d into a column;<br /> +Then Jimmy Wreet, wi’ all hiz meet,<br /> + Gave aht a hymn so solemn:</p> +<p class="poetry">Then all did raise their voice in praise,<br /> + We music in the centre;<br /> +They sang a hymn e praise o’ Him,<br /> + At iz the girt inventer.</p> +<p class="poetry">That bit being done, they all did run,<br /> + To have a pleasant day in,<br /> +Some went there, an’ some went here,<br /> + An’ t’ Bands began o’ playing.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>We mich amaze, we all did gaze,<br /> + Around this splendid park;<br /> +Then little Jake began to speak,<br /> + An’ thus he did remark:—</p> +<p class="poetry">“At Morecambe Bay aw’ve been a +day,<br /> + At Bolton Woods an’ Ilkley;<br /> +But Malsis Hall outstrip them all,<br /> + At aw’ve seen aht o’ +Keighley.”</p> +<p class="poetry">The girt park wall around the hall,<br /> + Majestically does stand;<br /> +The waving trees, an pleasant breeze,<br /> + Its loike a fairy land.</p> +<p class="poetry">It fill’d wer eyes, we great surprise,<br +/> + To see the fountain sporting;<br /> +An’ on the top, stuck on a pot,<br /> + The British flags wor floating.</p> +<p class="poetry">The walks so grand, wi’ yellow sand,<br +/> + An’ splendid wor the paving,<br /> +High over all, around the wall,<br /> + Wor flags an’ banners waving.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nah some made fun, an’ some did run,<br +/> + And women they wor swinging;<br /> +Do you ken the “Muffin Man,”—<br /> + Others they wor singing.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page138"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +138</span>In sooth wor grand, to see this band,<br /> + Assemble all together;<br /> +Bud sad to say, that varry day,<br /> + Turned aht some shocking weather.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even war nert rain, aw mun explain,<br /> + At caused a girt disaster,<br /> +All but one sort o’ breead ran short,<br /> + It wor no fault o’ t’ master.</p> +<p class="poetry">O! Gormanton! thy bread an’ bun,<br /> + An’ judgment it wor scanty;<br /> +Oh! what a shame, an’ what a name,<br /> + For not providing plenty!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, silly clown! thou might have known<br /> + To eyt each one wor able;<br /> +The country air did mack some swear,<br /> + They could ommost eyt a table.</p> +<p class="poetry">The atmosphere, no longer clear,<br /> + The clouds are black an’ stormy;<br /> +Then all but one away did run,<br /> + Like some deserting army.</p> +<p class="poetry">On—on! they go! as if some foe<br /> + Wor charging at the lot!<br /> +If they got there, they didn’t care<br /> + A fig for poor Will Scott!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>Poor lame ould Will, remains there still,<br /> + His crutches has to fetch him;<br /> +But he’s seen the toime, when in his prime,<br /> + At nobody there could catch him.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like some fast steed, wi’ all its +speed,<br /> + All seem’d as they wor flying;<br /> +To escape the rain, an’ catch the train,<br /> + Both old and young wor trying.</p> +<p class="poetry">One neet, old Wills, about Crosshills,<br /> + He heeard a fearful humming,<br /> +He said t’ woife, upon my life,<br /> + Aw think the French are coming!</p> +<p class="poetry">Tha knaws reight weel at we’ve heeard +tell<br /> + O sich strange things before,<br /> +So lass look quick, an’ cut thee stick,<br /> + An’ a will bolt the door.</p> +<p class="poetry">Like drahnded rats, they pass their mates,<br +/> + An’ rans dahn to the station;<br /> +And Betty Bakes an’ Sally Shakes,<br /> + Their both plump aht o’ patience.</p> +<p class="poetry">“This is a mess,” says little +Bess,<br /> + At lives o’t top o’t garden;<br /> +“There’s my new shawl an’ fine lace fall,<br /> + They’ll nut be worth a farden.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throng,<br /> + The bell does give the sign,<br /> +With all its force, the iron horse,<br /> + Comes trotting up the line.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then one by one they all get on,<br /> + Wet, fatigued and weary;<br /> +The steam does blow, old Ned doth go,<br /> + And we come back so cheery.</p> +<p class="poetry">All satisfied we their short ride—<br /> + But sorry for the rain—<br /> +Each thenkt ther stars they’re nowt no war,<br /> + An’ we’ve got home again.</p> +<p class="poetry">Whene’er we roam away from home,<br /> + No matter where or when,<br /> +In storm or shower, if in wer power,<br /> + To home—sweet home, return!</p> +<p class="poetry">What we had seen—where we had +been—<br /> + Each to our friend wor telling:<br /> +The day being spent, we homeward went<br /> + To each respective dwelling.</p> +<h2><a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>Dame +Europe’s Lodging House.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Dame Europa kept a Lodging House,<br /> + And she was fond of brass;<br /> +She took in public lodgers,<br /> + Of every rank and class.</p> +<p class="poetry">She’d French and Germans, Dutch and +Swiss,<br /> + And other nations too;<br /> +So poor old Mrs. Europe<br /> + Had plenty work to do.</p> +<p class="poetry">I cannot just now name her beds,<br /> + Her number being so large;<br /> +But five she kept for deputies,<br /> + Which she had in her charge.</p> +<p class="poetry">So in this famous Lodging house,<br /> + John Bull he stood A ONE,<br /> +On whom she always kept an eye,<br /> + To see things rightly done.</p> +<p class="poetry">And Master Louis was her next,<br /> + And second, there’s no doubt,<br /> +For when a little row took place,<br /> + He always backed John out.</p> +<p class="poetry">For in her house was Alex Russ,<br /> + Oft him they ey’d with fear;<br /> +<a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>For Alex +was a lazy hound,<br /> + And kept a Russian Bear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her fourth was a man of grace,<br /> + And was for heaven bent;<br /> +His name was Pious William,<br /> + Guided by his testament.</p> +<p class="poetry">Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave,<br /> + And ’tis our firm belief,<br /> +He once did rob the Hungary Lads<br /> + Of their honest bread and beef.</p> +<p class="poetry">These were Dame Europe’s deputies,<br /> + In whom she put her trust,<br /> +To keep her lodging house at peace,<br /> + In case eruption burst.</p> +<p class="poetry">For many a time a row took place,<br /> + While sharing out the scran;<br /> +But John and Louis soon stepp’d in,<br /> + And cleared the <i>padding can</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Once Alex Russ’s father Nick,<br /> + A bit before he died,<br /> +Seized a little Turk one day,<br /> + And thought to warm his hide.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>But John and Louis soon stepp’d in,<br /> + Declaring it foul play;<br /> +And made old Nick remember it<br /> + Until his dying day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now all Dame Europe’s deputies,<br /> + They made themselves at home;<br /> +And every lodger knew his bed,<br /> + Likewise his sitting room.</p> +<p class="poetry">They took great interest in their beds,<br /> + And kept them very clean;<br /> +Unlike some other padding cans,<br /> + So dirty and so mean.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Louis had the nicest bed,<br /> + Of any of the lot;<br /> +And being close by a window,<br /> + He loved a flower pot.</p> +<p class="poetry">The best and choicest bed of all,<br /> + Was occupied with Johnny;<br /> +Because the Dame did favour him,<br /> + He did collect her money.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in a little bunk he lived,<br /> + Seal’d up with oak, and tarr’d;<br /> +He would not let a single one,<br /> + Come near within a yard.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>A Jack of all trades, too, was John,<br /> + And aught he’d do for brass;<br /> +And what he ever took in hand,<br /> + No one could him surpass.</p> +<p class="poetry">When tired of being shut up it bunk,<br /> + Sometimes he went across,<br /> +To spend an hour with Master Louis,<br /> + And they the wine would toss.</p> +<p class="poetry">So many a happy day they spent,<br /> + These lads, with one another;<br /> +While every lodger in the house,<br /> + Thought John was Louis’ brother.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Dame allowed John something nice,<br /> + To get well in her rent,<br /> +Which every now and then it bank,<br /> + He put it on per cent.</p> +<p class="poetry">And working very hard himself<br /> + Amongst his tar and pitch;<br /> +He soon accumulated wealth,<br /> + That made him very rich.</p> +<p class="poetry">The next to Louis’ bed was Will,<br /> + The biggest Monitor;<br /> +And though he did pretend a saint,<br /> + He was as big a cur.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>He loved to make them all believe<br /> + He was opposed to strife,<br /> +And said he never caused a row,<br /> + No, never in his life.</p> +<p class="poetry">He was so fond of singing psalms,<br /> + And read his testament;<br /> +So everybody was deceived<br /> + When he was on mischief bent.</p> +<p class="poetry">He seldom passed a lodger’s bed<br /> + But what he took a glance,<br /> +Which made them every one suspect<br /> + He’d rob them if he’d chance.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Louis had two flower pots<br /> + He nourished with much care,<br /> +But little knew that Willie’s eyes<br /> + Were set upon the pair.</p> +<p class="poetry">In one there grew an <span +class="smcap">Alsace</span> Rose,<br /> + The other a <span class="smcap">Loraine</span>,<br +/> +And Willie vowed they once were his<br /> + And must be his again.</p> +<p class="poetry">He said his father once lodg’d there,<br +/> + And that the dame did know<br /> +That Louis predecessors once<br /> + Had sneaked them in a row.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page146"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +146</span>But in Willie’s council was a lad<br /> + Up to every quirk,<br /> +To keep him out of mischief, long<br /> + Dame Europe had her work.</p> +<p class="poetry">To this smart youth Saint Willie<br /> + Did whisper his desire<br /> +One night as they sat smoking,<br /> + Besides the kitchen fire.</p> +<p class="poetry">To get them flowers back again,<br /> + Said Bissy, very low,<br /> +Meet Louis somewhere on the quiet,<br /> + And try to cause a row.</p> +<p class="poetry">But mind the other deputies<br /> + Don’t catch you on the hop,<br /> +For John and Joseph you must know<br /> + Your little game would stop.</p> +<p class="poetry">For Joseph he has not forgot<br /> + The day you warmed his rig;<br /> +And christian Denmark still thinks on<br /> + About his nice Slesvig.</p> +<p class="poetry">By your advice, my own Dear Mark,<br /> + I have been guided on,<br /> +But what about that man i’t bunk?<br /> + Pointing o’er to John.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>He’s very plucky too is John,<br /> + But yet he’s very slow,<br /> +And perhaps he never may perceive<br /> + Our scheme about the row.</p> +<p class="poetry">But not another word of this<br /> + To anybody’s ears,<br /> +The dame she plays the list’ner,<br /> + I have my doubts and fears.</p> +<p class="poetry">So let us go up-stairs at once,<br /> + I think it will be best,<br /> +And let us pray to Him above,<br /> + Before we go to rest.</p> +<p class="poetry">So with a pious countenance,<br /> + His prayers as usual said,<br /> +But squinting round the room the while,<br /> + He spied an empty bed.</p> +<p class="poetry">What a pity that these empty stocks<br /> + Should be unoccupied;<br /> +Do you think my little cousin, Mark,<br /> + To them could be denied.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis just the very thing, said Mark,<br +/> + Your cousin, sir, and you,<br /> +Would carry out my scheme first-rate,<br /> + One at each side of Lue.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +148</span>The dame being asked did not object<br /> + If he could pay the rent,<br /> +And had a decent characterz<br /> + And Louis would consent.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I do object to this says Lue,<br /> + And on this very ground,<br /> +Willy and his cousins, ma’am,<br /> + They soon will me surround.</p> +<p class="poetry">They’re nothing in my line at all<br /> + They are so near a-kin,<br /> +And so if I consent to this<br /> + At once they’ll hem me in.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, you couldn’t think it, Master Lue,<br +/> + That I should do you harm,<br /> +For don’t I read my testament<br /> + And don’t I sing my psalm.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Tis all my eye, said Louis, both<br /> + Your testament and psalms;<br /> +You use the dumbbells regular<br /> + To strengthen up your arms.</p> +<p class="poetry">So take your poor relation off,<br /> + You pious-looking prig,<br /> +And open out Kit Denmark’s box,<br /> + And give him back Slesvig.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +149</span>Come, come, says Mrs. Europe,<br /> + Let’s have no bother here,<br /> +Your trying now to breed a row<br /> + At least it does appear.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Johnny hearing from the bunk<br /> + What both of them did say,<br /> +He shouted out, Now stop it, Will,<br /> + Or else you’ll rue the day.</p> +<p class="poetry">All right friend John, I’m much +obliged,<br /> + You are my friend, I know,<br /> +And so my little cousin, sir,<br /> + I’m willing to withdraw.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Louis frothed at mouth with rage,<br /> + Like one that was insane,<br /> +And said he’d make Bill promise him<br /> + He’d not offend again.</p> +<p class="poetry">I’d promise no such thing, says Mark,<br +/> + For that would hurt your pride,<br /> +Sing on and read your testament,<br /> + Dame Europe’s on your side.</p> +<p class="poetry">If I’d to promise out at sort,<br /> + ’Twould be against my mind;<br /> +So take it right or take it wrong,<br /> + I’ll promise naught at kind.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Then I shall take and wallop thee<br /> + Unless thou cuts thy stick,<br /> +And drive thee to thy fatherland<br /> + Before another week.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come on, cried Sanctimonius,<br /> + And sending out his arm<br /> +He caught poor Louis on the nose,<br /> + Then sung another psalm.</p> +<p class="poetry">But Louis soon was on his pins,<br /> + And used his fists a bit,<br /> +But he was fairly out of breath,<br /> + And seldom ever hit.</p> +<p class="poetry">And at the end of round the first,<br /> + He got it fearful hot,<br /> +This was his baptism of fire<br /> + If we mistake it not.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Willy sent a letter home,<br /> + To his mother, old Augusta,<br /> +Telling her he’d thrashed poor Lue,<br /> + And given him such a duster.</p> +<p class="poetry">What wonderful events, says he,<br /> + Has heaven brought about,<br /> +I fight the greatest pugilist<br /> + That ever was brought out.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>And if by divine Providence<br /> + I get safe through this row,<br /> +Then I will sing “My God the spring<br /> + From whom all blessings flow.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Meanwhile the other Monitors,<br /> + Were standing looking on,<br /> +But none of them durst speak a word,<br /> + But all stared straight at John.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ought not I to interfere,<br /> + Says Johnny to the rest,<br /> +But he was told by every one<br /> + Neutrality was the best.</p> +<p class="poetry">Neutral, growl’d John, I hate the +name,<br /> + ’Tis poison to my ear,<br /> +It’s another word for cowardice,<br /> + And makes me fit to swear.</p> +<p class="poetry">At any rate I can do this,<br /> + My mind I will not mask,<br /> +I’ll give poor Lue a little drop<br /> + Out of my brandy flask.</p> +<p class="poetry">And give it up, poor Lue, my lad,<br /> + You might as well give in,<br /> +You know that I have got no power,<br /> + Besides you did begin.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>Then Louis rose, and looked at John,<br /> + And spoke of days gone by,<br /> +When he would not have seen his friend,<br /> + Have blackened Johnny’s eye.</p> +<p class="poetry">And as for giving in, friend John,<br /> + I’ll do nothing of the sort;<br /> +Do you think I’ll be a laughing stock<br /> + For everybody’s sport.</p> +<p class="poetry">This conversation that took place<br /> + Made pious Willy grin,<br /> +And told John Bull to hold his noise,<br /> + ’Twas nought to do with him.</p> +<p class="poetry">These words to John did make him stare,<br /> + And, finding to his shame,<br /> +That them were worse that did look on,<br /> + Than them that played the game.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now Dame Europe knew the facts<br /> + Which had been going on,<br /> +And with her usual dignity,<br /> + These words addressed to John:</p> +<p class="poetry">Now, Mr. Bull, pray answer me,—<br /> + Why are you gaping here?<br /> +You are my famous deputy,<br /> + Then why not interfere?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>Why, answered John, and made a bow,<br /> + But yet was very shy;<br /> +I was told to be a neutral, ma’am,<br /> + And that’s the reason why.</p> +<p class="poetry">That’s just what you should not have +done,<br /> + Being in authority;<br /> +Did I not place you in that bunk<br /> + To think and act for me?</p> +<p class="poetry">Why any baby in the house<br /> + Could not have done much worse,<br /> +But I fancy you’ve been holding back<br /> + To save your private purse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Neutrality is as fine a word<br /> + As ever a coward used,<br /> +So the honour that I gave to you<br /> + You shouldn’t have abused.</p> +<p class="poetry">The minor lodgers in the house,<br /> + On hearing this to John,<br /> +Began to whisper and to laugh,<br /> + And call’d it famous fun.</p> +<p class="poetry">At last a little urchin said,<br /> + Please ma’am I’d take my oath,<br /> +At master John were neutral,<br /> + And stuck up for them both.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>Stuck up for both, offended both,—<br /> + Is that it what you mean?<br /> +Continued Madame Europe,<br /> + Then spoke to John again:</p> +<p class="poetry">Now I’ll tell you what it is, John,<br /> + We’ve long watch’d your career,<br /> +You take your fag’s advice to save<br /> + Your paltry sums a year.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Bob and Bill, besides some +more<br /> + That I call naught but scums,<br /> +They’ve got you fairly in between<br /> + Their fingers and their thumbs.</p> +<p class="poetry">If such like men as Ben and Hugh<br /> + This day your fags had been,<br /> +They would have saved both you and me<br /> + The cursed disgraceful scene.</p> +<p class="poetry">And instead of being half-clad and shod,<br /> + As everybody knows,<br /> +You would have dared these rivals now<br /> + To come to such like blows.</p> +<p class="poetry">There was a time in this house, John,<br /> + If you put up your thumb,<br /> +The greatest blackguard tongue would stop<br /> + As if they had been dumb.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +155</span>But not a one i’t house<br /> + This moment cares a fig,<br /> +For all you say or all you do,<br /> + Although your purse be big.</p> +<p class="poetry">I couldn’t hurt poor Louis, +ma’am,<br /> + Although he did begin;<br /> +And then you see that Will and I<br /> + Are very near akin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beside, you see, said John again,<br /> + I let poor Louis sup,<br /> +On both I use my ointment, and<br /> + Their wounds I did bind up.</p> +<p class="poetry">A weel a day then said the dame,<br /> + But much affected were,<br /> +I see you have some small excuse<br /> + What you have done it for.</p> +<p class="poetry">I have some little hopes left yet<br /> + That you may yet have sense,<br /> +To know your high position, John,<br /> + Instead of saving pence.</p> +<p class="poetry">You yet will learn that duty, sir,<br /> + Cannot be ignored,<br /> +However disagreeable when<br /> + Placed before the board.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>And let me tell you he who shirks<br /> + The responsibility<br /> +Of seeing right, is doing wrong,<br /> + And deserves humility.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ’tis an empty-headed dream,<br /> + To boast of skill and power,<br /> +And dare not even interfere<br /> + At the latest hour.</p> +<p class="poetry">Better far confess at once<br /> + You’re not fit for your place,<br /> +Than have a name Heroic, sir,<br /> + Branded with disgrace.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I will not say another word,<br /> + My deputies, to you;<br /> +But hope you will a warning take,<br /> + This moment from poor Lue.</p> +<p class="poetry">And hoping, John, your enemies<br /> + May never have the chance<br /> +To see you paid for watching Will<br /> + Thrash poor weak Louis France.</p> +<h2><a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>The +Bould Bucaneers:</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A MILITARY +DESCRIPTION OF THE SECOND</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">EXCURSION TO MALSIS HALL,</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">THE RESIDENCE OF JAMES LUND, +ESQ.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I remember perusing when I was a boy,<br /> +The immortal bard—Homer’s siege of old Troy;<br /> +So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will,<br /> +How our brave army bivouced on the plains o’ Park hill.</p> +<p class="poetry">Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our +quarters we toke,<br /> +When Lieutenant-col. Don Frederick spoke,<br /> +Commanding his aide-camp Colonel de Mann,<br /> +To summons and muster the chiefs o’ the clan.</p> +<p class="poetry">Majors Wood, Lamb, and Pollard came up to the +lines,<br /> +Each marching their companies up to the nines;<br /> +The twirlers an’ twisters the knights o’ the coil,<br +/> +An’ spuzzers an’ sorters fell in at the roll.</p> +<p class="poetry">The light-infantry captains wer Robin and +Shack,<br /> +And the gallant big benners the victuals did sack;<br /> +<a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 158</span>Captain +Green he commanded the Indigo troop,<br /> +These Beer Barrel chargers none with them can cope.</p> +<p class="poetry">The amazon army led on by Queen Bess,<br /> +Each feminine soldier so grand was her dress,<br /> +Though they chatted and pratted, twor pleasant to see<br /> +Them laughing and quaffing their hot rum an’ tea.</p> +<p class="poetry">There wor music to dainties and music to +wine,<br /> +An’ for faar o’ invaders no hearts did repine;<br /> +Although a dark cloud swept over the plain,<br /> +Yet our quarter wor sheltered from famine an’ rain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Master +Wright,<br /> +Drank to each other wi’ pleasure that night;<br /> +We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music an fun,<br /> +From the larder an’ cellar o’ Field-Marshall +Lund.</p> +<p class="poetry">Private Tom Berry got into the hall,<br /> +When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small;<br /> +An’ Flintergill Billy o’ the Spuzzer’s +Brigade,<br /> +Got his beak in the barrel, an’ havock he made.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>The Field Marshall declared and his good lady too,<br +/> +They ne’er was attacked wi’ so pleasant a foe;<br /> +With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers,<br /> +In return they saluted the bold Bucaneers.</p> +<h2>The Veteran.</h2> +<p class="poetry">I left yond fields so fair to view;<br /> + I left yond mountain pass and peaks;<br /> +I left two een so bonny blue,<br /> + A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks.<br /> +For an helmet gay and suit o’ red<br /> + I did exchange my corduroy;<br /> +I mind the words the Sergeant said,<br /> + When I in sooth was but a boy.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, rouse thee, lad, be not afraid;<br /> + Come, join and be a brave dragoon:<br /> +You’ll be well clothed, well kept, well paid,<br /> + An’ captain be promoted soon.<br /> +Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see<br /> + Your manly form an’ dress so fine;<br /> +Then gea’s your hand an’ follow me,—<br /> + Our troop’s the finest in the line.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +160</span>The pyramids behold our corps<br /> + Drive back the mighty man o’ Fate!<br /> +Our ire is felt on every shore,<br /> + In every country, clime, or state.<br /> +The Cuirassers at Waterloo<br /> + We crushed;—they wor the pride o’ +France!<br /> +At Inkerman, wi’ sabre true,<br /> + We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then come, my lad, extend your hand,<br /> + Thine indolence I hold it mean;<br /> +Now follow me, at the command,<br /> + Of our most gracious Sovereign Queen?<br /> +A prancing steed you’ll have to ride;<br /> + A bonny plume will deck your brow;<br /> +Wi’ clinking spurs an’ sword beside,—<br /> + Come? here’s the shilling: take it now!</p> +<p class="poetry">The loyal pledge I took and gave,—<br /> + It was not for the silver coin;<br /> +I wish to cross the briny wave,<br /> + An’ England’s gallant sons to join.<br +/> +Since—many a summer’s sun has set,<br /> + An’ time’s graved-scar is on my brow,<br +/> +Yet I am free and willing yet<br /> + To meet ould England’s daring foe.</p> +<h2><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 161</span>The +Vale of Aire.</h2> +<p class="gutsumm">[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.]</p> +<p class="poetry">Poet Nicholson, old Ebor’s darling +bard,<br /> + Accept from me at least one tributary line;<br /> +Yet how much more should be thy just reward,<br /> + Than any wild unpolished song of mine.</p> +<p class="poetry">No monument in marble can I raise,<br /> + Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name;<br /> +But humbly try to celebrate thy praise,<br /> + And give thee that applause thou shouldst duly +claim.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>All hail, the songsters that awake the morn,<br /> + And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains;<br +/> +All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn,<br /> + Beneath whose shades wild nature’s grandeur +reigns.</p> +<p class="poetry">From off yon rock that rears its head so +high,<br /> + And overlooks the crooked river Aire;<br /> +While musing nature’s works full meet thy eye,<br /> + The envied game, the lark and timid hare.</p> +<p class="poetry">In Goitstock falls, and rugged Marley hills,<br +/> + In Bingley’s grand and quiet sequester’d +dale,<br /> +Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rills,<br /> + I see thy haunt and read thy “Poacher’s +Tale.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So, Homer like, thy harp was wont to tune,<br +/> + Thy native vale and glorious days of old,<br /> +Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone,<br /> + Her sages and her heroes great and bold.</p> +<p class="poetry">No flattering baseness could employ thy +mind,<br /> + The free-born muse detests that servile part:<br /> +In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find<br /> + More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.</p> +<p class="poetry">Though small regard be paid to worth so +rare,<br /> + And humble worth unheeded pass along;<br /> +Ages to come will sing the “Vale of Aire,”<br /> + Her Nicholson and his historic song.</p> +<h2><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 163</span>The +Pauper’s Box.</h2> +<p class="poetry">Thou odious box, as I look on thee,<br /> +I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me?<br /> +No, no! forbear!—yet then, yet then,<br /> +’Neath thy grim lid lie the men—<br /> +Men whom fortune’s blasted arrows hit,<br /> +And send them to the pauper’s pit.</p> +<p class="poetry">O, dig a grave somewhere for me,<br /> +Deep, underneath some wither’d tree;<br /> +Or bury me on the wildest heath,<br /> +Where Boreas blows his wildest breath,<br /> +Or ’mid some wild romantic rocks:<br /> +But, oh! forbear the pauper’s box.</p> +<p class="poetry">Throw me into the ocean deep,<br /> +Where many poor forgotten sleep;<br /> +Or fling my corpse in the battle mound,<br /> +With coffinless thousands ’neath the ground;<br /> +I envy not the mightiest dome,<br /> +But save me from a pauper’s tomb.</p> +<p class="poetry">I care not if ’twere the wild +wolf’s glen,<br /> +Or the prison yard, with wicked men;<br /> +Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled—<br /> +Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world!<br /> +In fire, or smoke, on land, or sea,<br /> +Than thy grim lid be closed on me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +164</span>But let me pause, ere I say more<br /> +About thee, unoffending door;<br /> +When I bethink me, now I pause,<br /> +It is not thee who makes the laws,<br /> +But villains who, if all were just,<br /> +In thy grim cell would lay their dust.</p> +<p class="poetry">But yet, ’twere grand beneath yond +wall,<br /> +To lay with friends,—relations all;<br /> +If sculptured tombstones were never there,<br /> +But simple grass with daisies fair;<br /> +And were it not, grim box, for thee<br /> +’Twere paradise, O cemetery.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/p163b.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative image" +title= +"Decorative image" +src="images/p163s.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A. +APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN, KEIGHLEY.</span></p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RANDOM RHYMES AND RAMBLES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 39198-h.htm or 39198-h.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. 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