CHAPTER II.

Transcribed from the 1876 edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org.

Many thanks to Bradford Local Studies for providing the copy from which

this transcription was made. Also to Keighley Local Studies for

supplying the title page (the Bradford copy lacks the title page).

RANDOM RHYMES

AND

RAMBLES.

—o—

By Bill o’th Hoylus End.

—o—

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether

In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither,

Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither,

Let time mak proof;

But shall I scribble down some blether

Just clean aff-loof.

I am nae poet, in a sense,

But just a rhymer, like, by chance,

And hae to learning nae pretence.

Yet, what the matter?

Whene’er my muse does on me glance,

I jingle at her.

_Burns_.

—o—

KEIGHLEY:

A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN.

1876.

Most Respectfully

Dedicated to

James Wright,

Local Musician and Composer,

North Beck Mills,

Keighley,

By the Author.

DEC. 25TH, 1876.

INTRODUCTION.

_The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES_, _in verse and prose_, _are but the

leisure musings of the uneducated_, _and cannot be expected to come up to

anything like the standard of even poetry_; _yet_, _when the fact is

known that the Author_, _like his Works_, _are rough and ready_, _without

the slightest notion of either Parnassus or the Nines_, _at least give

him credit for what they are worth_.

_WILLIAM WRIGHT_.

Random Rhymes

AND

Rambles.

Come Nivver De e Thee Shell.

Come nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

Are words but rudely said;

Tho thay may chear some stricken heart,

Or raise some wretched head;

For thay are words I love mysel,

They’re music to my ear;

Thay muster up fresh energy

Ta chase each dout an’ fear.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

Tho tha be poor indeed;

Ner lippen ta long it turning up

Sa mich ov a friend in need;

Fer few ther are, an’ far between,

That helps a poor man thru;

An God helps them at helps thersel,

An’ thay hev friends enew.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

What ivver thy crediters say;

Tell um at least tha’rt forst ta owe,

If tha artant able ta pay;

An if thay nail thy bits o’ traps,

An sell thee dish an’ spooin;

Remember fickle fortun lad,

Sho changes like the mooin.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

Tho some ma laugh an scorn;

There wor nivver a neet ’fore ta neet,

Bud what there come a morn;

An if blind fortun used thee bad,

Sho’s happen noan so meean;

Ta morn al come, an then for some

The sun will shine ageean.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

Bud let thy motto be,—

“Onward! an’ excelsior;”

And try for t’ top o’t tree:

And if thy enemies still pursue,

Which ten-to-one they will,

Show um oud lad tha’rt doing weel,

An climbing up the hill.

Oud Betty’s Advice.

So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed

It morning we young blacksmith Ned,

And tho it makes thy mother sad,

Its like to be;

I’ve nout ageean yond decent lad

No more ner thee.

Bud let me tell thee what ta due,

For my advice might help thee thru;

Be kind, and to thy husband true,

An I’ll be bun

Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue,

For out tha’s done.

Nah, try to keep thi former knack,

An due thi weshing in a crack,

Bud don’t be flaid to bend thi back,

Tha’ll nobbut sweeat;

So try an hev a bit o’ tack,

An do it neat.

Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt,

An pride thysel e being alert,—

An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt,

An keep it clean;

It wod thy poor oud mother hurt,

If tha wor mean.

Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun,

Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run;

Bud, alus hev thy dinner done,

Withaht a mooild;

If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on,

An hev it boiled.

So Mary, I’ve no more to say—

Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way;

An if tha leets to rue, I pray,

Don’t blame thy mother:

I wish you monny a happy day

We wun another.

The Fugitive: a Tale Kersmas Time.

We wor snugly set araand the hob,

’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,

Me an arr Kate an t’ family,

All happy aw believe:

Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee,

An’ awd aar little Ann,

When their come rapping at the door

A poor oud beggar man.

Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks,

That once no daht were fair;

His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale,

His neck and breast were bare;

His clooase, unworthy o’ ther name,

Were raggd an steepin wet;

His poor oud legs were stockingless,

And badly shooed his feet.

Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to him,

An get thee up to’t fire;

Sho then brought aht were humble fare,

T’wor what he did desire;

And when he’d getten what he thowt,

An his oud regs were dry,

We akst what distance he hed come,

An thus he did reply:

“Awm a native of Cheviot hills,

Some weary miles fra here;

Where I like you this neet hev seen

Mony a Kersmas cheer;

Bud I left my father’s haase, when young,

Determined aw wad roaam;

An’ like the prodigal of yore,

Am mackin toards mi hoame.

“Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines,

On India’s burning sand;

An nearly thirty years ago

Aw left me native land;

Discipline being ta hard for me,

My mind wor always bent;

So in an evil hoar aw did

Desart me regiment.

An nivver sin durst aw go see

My native hill an glen,

Whar aw mud now as well hev been

The happiest ov all men;

Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all

A merry Kersmas day;

Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones,

On Cheviot hills to lay.”

“Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife,

“Bud aw feel rather hurt;

What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht,

An finds t’oud chap a shirt.”

Sho did an all, and stockins too;

An tears stud in her e’e;

An in her face the stranger saw

Real Yorkshire sympathee.

Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh,

When he hed heard his tale,

An spak o’ some oud trouses,

At hung at chamer rail;

Then aht at door ahr Harry runs,

An back agean he shogs,

He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair

O’ my oud iron clogs.

It must be feearful coud ta neet,

Fer fouk ats aht at door;

Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all,

At’s thrown at chamer floor:

And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate,

At’s paused so up an dahn;

It will be better ner his own,

Tho’ its withaht a craan.”

So when we’d geen him what we cud,

(In fact afford to give,)

We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,

O’t poor oud fugitive;

He thank’d us ower an ower agean

And often he did pray,

At barns mud nivver be like him;

Then travelled on his way.

Sall at Bog.

Me love is like the pashan dock,

That grows it summer fog;

And tho’ sho’s but a country lass,

I like my Sall at Bog.

I walk’d her aht up Rivock End,

And dahn a bonny dale,

Whear golden balls an kahslips grow,

An butter cups do smell.

We sat us dahn at top o’t grass,

Cloyce to a runnin brook,

An harkend watter wegtails sing

Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.

Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout

Az t’sun shane in her een,

Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar

At ivver aw hed seen.

’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love,

Beneath t’oud hazel tree;

How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog,

How dearly sho liked me.

An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,

Aw vow be all aw see,

Aw wish that aw mud be a kah,

An it belong ta thee.

Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah

What awther on us said;

At onny rate we parted friends,

An boath went home ta bed.

Th’ Furst Pair o’ Briches.

Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button jacket,

Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist,

And my grand bellosed cap,—noan nicer I’ll back it,—

Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste;

Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling,

An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair,

An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden,

It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware.

Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice

Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas,

An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,

Wi’ me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose.

Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy,

Thay both gav me pennys an off aw did steer:

But aw heeard um say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy,

It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver he ware.”

Aw remember the time are Robin an’ Johnny

Wor keeping ther hens an’ ducks e the yard,

There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny

An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor hard.

But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin’

An sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair,

Aw then became maister at least o’ wun chicken,

It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

Aw remember wun Sabbath, an t’ sun it wor shining,

Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth, to sing

An t’ stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining;

And childer e white made t’ village ta ring.

We went ta auld Mecheck’s that day to wor drinking,

Tho’ poor, ther wor plenty, an’ summat ta spare;

Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m thinking,

It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha ware.”

Now them wor the days o’ grim boggards and witches,

When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp,

But nah is the days o’ cheating fer riches,

And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp.

Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary;

O them wor the days aw knew no despair;

O give me the time o’ the boggard and fairy,

Wi’t furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

And them wor the days aw sal allus remember,

Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last;

Them wor mi March days, but nah its September:

Ne’er to return again—them days are past.

But a time aw remember aboon onny other,

Aw kneeled o’ mi knees an sed the Lord’s Prayer;

Aw sed God bless me father, an God bless mi mother,

It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

Fra Haworth ta Bradford.

Fra Hawarth tahn the other day,

Bi’t rout o’ Thornton height,

Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf,

Went inta Bradford streight.

Nah Joe i’ Bradford wor afoor,

But sho hed nivver been;

Bud assomivver thay arrived

Safe intat Bowling Green.

Thay gav a lad a parkin pig,

As on the street thay went;

Ta point um aht St. George’s Hall,

An Oastler’s Monument.

Bud t’ little jackanapes being deep,

An thought thay’d nivver knaw,

Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ iz wife

T’ furst monument he saw.

Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails,

Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead;

Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel

A goan an robb’d the deead.

Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn,

Away fra poor oud Dick,

Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin,

We a dahn gooid hazel stick.

T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath,

He sooin tuke to hiz heels,

Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument,

He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s.

O, Welcome, Lovely Summer.

O! welcome, lovely summer,

With thi golden days so long,

When the throstle and the blackbird

Charm us with their song;

When the lark in early morning

Taks his aireal flight;

An’ the humming bat, an’ buzzard,

Frolic in the night.

O! welcome, lovely summer,

With her rainbow’s lovely form;

Her thunder an’ her leetnin,

An’ her grandeur in the storm:

With her sunshine and her shower,

And her wurlin of the dust;

An the maiden with her flagon,

To slack the mower’s thirst.

O! welcome, lovely summer,

When the woods wi music ring,

And the bees so hevvy laden,

To their hives their treasures bring:

When we seek some shady bower,

Or some lovely little dell,

Or bivock in the sunshine,

Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer,

With her roses in full bloom;

When the cowslaps an’ the lalack

Deck the cottage home;

When the cherry an’ the berry,

Gives a grandeur to the charm;

And the clover and the haycock

Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer,

With the partridge on the wing;

When tewit an the moorgame,

Up fra the heather spring,

From the crowber an the billber,

An the bracken an the ween;

As from the noisey tadpole,

We hear the crackin din.

O! welcome, lovely summer.

Burns’s 113th Birthday.

Go bring that tuther whisky in,

An put no watter to it;

Fer I mun drink a bumper off,

To Scotland’s darling poet.

Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah,

This Jenewary morn,

Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,

A rustic bard wor born.

He kettled up his moorland harp,

To ivv’ry rustic scene;

An sung the ways o’ honest men,

His Davey and his Jean.

Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew,

Bud what he could admire;

Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale,

That suited not his lyre.

At last ould Coilia sade enuff,

My bardy tha did sing,

Then gently tuke his moorland harp,

And brack it ivvery string.

An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,

We all its berries red,

Sho placed it on his noble brow,

An pensively sho said:—

“So long as Willies bru ther malt,

An Robs an Allans spree;

Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name,

Remember’d thay shall be.

Waiting for t’ Angels.

Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina,

Ligging alone me own darling child,

Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom,

We features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny,

Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;

Asking for sommat withaht ever speaking,

Asking thee father to say tha wor fine.

Ligging here deead, the child that so loved me,

At fane wod ha’ hidden me faults if sho could,

Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee,

While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood.

Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee coffin,

Ligging alone in this poor wretched room,

Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom,

Waiting for t’angels to carry thee home.

Spring.

There is hope in the time that is coming,

When the lambs will frolic on the plain,

Whilst the bees o’er the heather are humming,

Then the songsters will cheer us again.

For the pretty little birds from the edges,

The reeds for their nest will have riven;

While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

His musical notes to the heaven.

Then we’ll go to the banks of the river,

Through meadows that’s blooming in green,

Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r

O’er the fish as they sport in the stream:

Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting,

For the fruits of that labour he has striven,

While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll cherish,

The rose that’s unseen in the bud,

And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish,

Round the ferns in the depths of the wood:

Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy,

And the sweets that nature she has given,

While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the merry little boys they will ramble,

So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale,

Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble

Will be blown by the mild summer gale:

Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning

To the poor humble peasant will be given.

While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

His musical notes to the heaven.

Haworth Sharpness.

Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day,

“Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ t’railway,

For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,

But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.”

The porter replied, “I very mitch daht it,

But I’ll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it;

For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’ snicket,

Baht tipping to t’porter thee pass or thee ticket.”

“Tha’l rite up to Derby an’ then tha’l deceive me;”

“I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me:”

“Then aht we thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,

For I’ve walked it a foot back all rahnd be t’Bocking.”

The Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

[Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen,

indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy

pass that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning

round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale—with its running

wimpling stream—I beheld the “Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.” She was engaged

in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. Instantaneously I

was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as did Robert Tannyhill

upon his imaginary beauty, “The Flower of Dumblane.” I struck my lyre,

and, although the theme of my song turned out afterwards to be a

respectable old woman of 70 winters, yet there is still a charm in my

“Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.”]

Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind,

Thy love is all to me;

Aw cuddant in a palace find

A lass more true ner thee.

An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,

An’ thee, me Lovely Queen,

The grandest diamond e me Crown,

Wor’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

The lady gay may heed thee not,

An’ passing by may sneer;

The upstart squire’s dawters laugh,

When thou, my love, art near.

But if all ther shining sovrens

Wor wared o’ sattens green,

They mightant be as hansum then

As’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

When yollow autumn’s lustre shines,

An’ hangs her golden ear,

An’ nature’s voice fra every bush,

Is singing sweet and clear.

’Neath some white thorn to song unknown,

To mortal never seen,

’Tis there with thee I fain would be,

Me lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

Od drat, who cares fer kings or queens,

Mixt in a nation’s broil,

They never benefit the poor,

The poor mun allus toil.

An thou gilded specter royalty,

That dazzles folkses een,

Is nowt to me when I’m we thee,

Sweet lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

High from the summit of yon crag,

I view yon smoky town,

Where fortune she has deigned to smile

On monny a simple clown:

Tho’ free from want, their free from brains;

An’ no happier I ween,

Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens,

Aw saw e Newsholme Dean.

The Broken Pitcher.

[The happiest moments of a soldier in time of peace is when sat round the

hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning

yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous

battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part, othertimes he

will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will

oblige them with his song of “Nelson” or “Napoleon,” generally being the

favourite with them;—then there is the fancy tale teller which amuses

all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn or story makes himself

the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the lass he left behind

him; hence his adventure with the Lassie by the Well.”]

Three was a bonny Lassie once

Sitting by a well;

But what this bonny lassie thought

I cannot, cannot tell.

When by there went a cavalier

Well-known as Willie Wryght,

He was in full marching order

With his armour shining bright.

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why

Sits thou by the spring?

Doest thou seek a lover with

A golden wedding ring.

Or wherefore doest thou gaze on me,

With eyes so bright and wide?

Or wherefore does that pitcher lay

Broken by thy side?”

“My pitcher is broken, sir,

And this the reason is,

A villain came behind, and

He tried to steal a kiss.

I could na take his nonsense, so

Ne’er a word I spoke,

But hit him with my pitcher,

And thus you see ’tis broke.”

“My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken

Now waits for me to come;

He canna mak his Crowdy,

Till’t watter it goes home.

I canna tak him watter,

And that I ken full weel,

An’ so I’m sure to catch it,—

For he’ll play the varry de’il.”

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden,

I pray be ruled by me;

Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips,

And give me kisses three.

And we’ll suppose my helmet is

A pitcher made o’ steel,

And we’ll carry home some watter

To thy uncle Jock McNeil.”

She silently consented, for

She blink’d her bonny ee,

I threw my arms around her neck,

And gave her kisses three.

To wrong the bonny lassie

I sware ’t would be a sin;

So I knelt down by the watter

To dip my helmet in.

Out spake this bonny lassie,

“My soldier lad, forbear,

I wodna spoil thee bonny plume

That decks thy raven hair;

Come buckle up thy sword again,

Put on thy cap o’ steel,

I carena for my pitcher, nor

My uncle Jock McNeil.”

I often think, my comrades,

About this Northern queen,

And fancy that I see her smile,

Though oceans roll between.

But should you meet her Uncle Jock,

I hope you’ll never tell

How I squared the broken Pitcher,

With the lassie at the well.

The Benks o’ the Aire.

It issent the star of the evening that breetens,

Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends,

Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,

Or the benks of the river while strolling wi frends,

That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,

And leave the gay festive for others ta share;

But O there’s a charm, and a charm fer me only,

In a sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger,

In that cot, wi me Mary, I cud pass the long years:

In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,

And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.

We’d wauk aht it morning wen t’yung sun wor shining,

Wen t’birds hed awakened, and t’lark soar’d the air,

An’ I’d watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining,

From ahr dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

Then we’d tauk o’ the past, wen our loves wor forbidden,

Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny,

How ahr hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden,

Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.

An’ wen age shall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feeling

Ahr loves shud endure, an’ still wod we share

For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealing,

We’d share in ahr cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are flying,

Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;

For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying,

Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart.

The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,

Wi his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;

How different ta him is my rapture and pleasure

Near the dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

But sooin may the day cum, if cum it will ivver;

The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,

Wen fate may ordain us no longer to sever,

Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.

For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,

If it wor in the desert, Mary, we were;

But sweet an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,

In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

Dear Harden.

Dear Harden, the home o’ mi boyhood so dear,

Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere;

Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,

An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am bereft.

Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho’ rocky an’ bare;

Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare;

When I wauk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running streams,

I think o’ mi boyhood an’ innocent dreams.

No care o’ this life then trubled me breast,

I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest;

Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an’ play,

Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away.

As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close,

At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose;

An’ rose in the morning at nature’s command,

Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.

The faces that wunce were familiar to me,

Those that did laugh at my innocent glee;

I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away,

Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.

Fer sin I’ve embarked on life’s stormy seas,

Mi mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease;

Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown

E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.”

Castlear’s Address to Spain.

O weeping Spain, thy banners rear,

Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining:

Awake, nor shrink in craven fear,—

See the Carlist blades are shining.

They come with murdering dirk in hand,

Death, ruin, rapine in their train:

To arms! rouse up and clear the land,

Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Your sires were great in ancient days,

No loftier power on earth allowing;

Shall ye their mighty deeds araise,

And to these fiends your heads be bowing?

They strove for fame and liberty

On fields where blood was shed like rain:

Hark! they’re shouting from the sky,

Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Castille and Arragon, arise!

A treacherous Popish war is brewing:

Tear of the bandage from your eyes,

Are ye asleep while this is doing?

They come! Their prelates lead them on:

They carry with them thraldom’s chain.

Up! and crush their cursed Don;

Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Go forth, through every well-known spot;

O’er field and forest, rock and river:

Then draw your swords and sheathe them not,

Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever.

Do you fear the priestly hosts

Who march them on with proud disdain;

_Back_! send home their shrieking ghosts,

Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Thou surely art not sunk so low

That strangers can alone restore thee:

No; Europe waits the final blow,

When superstition flies before thee.

For Spanish might through Spanish hands

Their freedom only can restrain,

Then sweep these Carlists from the land,

Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Christmas Day.

Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,

That sings so sweetly at your door,

To tell you of the joys in store,

So grand and gay;

But one that sings remember th’ poor,

’Tis Christmas Day.

Within some gloomy walls to-day

Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,

And try to smooth their rugged way

With cheerful glow;

And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,

Crushed down with woe.

O make the weary spent-up glad,

And cheer the orphan lass and lad;

Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,

Your kindness feel;

And make old crazy-bones stark mad

To dance a reel.

Then peace and plenty be your lot,

And may your deed ne’er be forgot,

That helps the widow in her cot,

From of your store;

Nor creed nor seed should matter not,

The poor are poor.

What Profits Me.

What profits me tho’ I sud be

The lord o’ yonder castle gay;

Hev rooms in state ta imitate

The princely splendour of the day,

Fer what are all mi carved doors,

Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,

No art cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be

Decked e’ costly costumes grand,

Like the Persian king o’ kings,

With diamond rings to deck mi hand:

Fer what wor all mi grand attire,

That fooils both envy and admire,

No gems cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be

Thy worthy host, O millionaire,

Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;

My wealth increasing ivvery year.

For what wor all mi wealth to me,

Compared ta loisin immortalite,

Wealth cud not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be

Even thee gert Persian Shah,

Mi subjects stand at mi command,

Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;

For what wor a despotic rule,

Wi all th’ world at my control,

All cud not save me from the grave.

Ode to Sir Titus Salt.

Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,

And bring it here to me,

For I must sing another song,

The theme of which shall be,—

A worthy old philantropist,

Whose soul in goodness soars,

And one whose name will stand as firm

As the rocks that gird our shores;

The fine old Bradford gentleman,

The good Sir Titus Salt.

Heedless of others; some there are,

Who all their days employ

To raise themselves, no matter how,

And better men destroy:

How different is the mind of him,

Whose deeds themselves are told,

Who values worth more nobler far

Than all the heaps of gold,

His feast and revels are not such,

As those we hear and see,

No princely splendour does he indulge,

Nor feats of revelry;

But in the orphan schools they are,

Or in the cot with her,

The widow and the orphan of

The shipwrecked mariner.

When stricken down with age and care,

His good old neighbours grieved,

Or loss of family or mate,

Or all on earth bereaved;

Go see them in their houses,

When in peace their days may end,

And learn from them the name of him,

Who is their aged friend.

With good and great his worth shall live,

With high or lowly born;

His name is on the scroll of fame,

Sweet as the songs of morn;

While tyranny and villany is

Surely stamped with shame;

A nation gives her patriot

A never-dying fame.

No empty titles ever could

His principles subdue,

His queen and country too he loved,—

Was loyal and was true:

He craved no boon from royalty,

Nor wished their pomp to share,

For nobler is the soul of him,

The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philantropist,

From courtly pomp removed,

But not secluded from his friends,

For friendship’s bond he loves;

A noble reputation too

Crowns his later days;

The young men they admire him,

And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir Titus,

The darling of our town;

Around thy head while living,

We’ll weave a laurel crown.

Thy monument in marble

May suit the passer by,

But a monument in all our hearts

Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over,

And we miss thee on our isle,

Around thy tomb for ever

May unfading laurels smile:

There may the sweetest flowers

Usher in the spring;

And roses in the gentle gales,

Their balmy odours fling.

May summer’s beams shine sweetly,

Upon thy hallowed clay,

And yellow autumn o’er thy head,

Yield a placid ray;

May winter winds blow slightly,—

The green-grass softly wave,

And falling snow-drops lightly

Upon thy honoured grave.

Coud az Leead.

An’ arta fra thee father torn,

So early e thi yuthful morn,

An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,

E greef an’ pane;

Fer consalashun aw sall scorn

If tha be taen.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail

Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,

Fer nah it is too true a tale,

Tha’rt coud az lead.

An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale,

Thart deead, thart deead.

Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop,

An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;

An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop

Aw sall so freat,

And O my very heart may stop

And cease to beat.

I’d allus aimed if tha’d been spar’d,

Of summat better to hev shared

Ner what thi poor oud father fared,

E this coud sphere;

Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared

If tha’d stayen here.

But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,

’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,

Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine

Noan freely given,

But mak him same as wun o’ thine,

We thee e heven.

The Factory Girl.

Sho stud beside hur looms an’ watch’d

The shuttle passin in,

But yet hur soul wor sumweer else,

’Twor face ta face wi’ John.

They saw hur lips move az in speech,

Yet none cud heear a word,

An’ but fer t’grinding o’ the wheels,

This langwidge mite be heard.

“It spite o’ all thi trecherus art,

At length aw breeath again;

The pityin stars hez tane mi part,

An’ eased a wretch’s pain.

An’ O, aw feel az fra a chain,

Mi rescued soul is free,

Aw know it is no idle dream

Of fancied liberty.

“Extingwish’d nah iz ivvery spark,

No love for thee remains,

Fer heart-felt love e vane sall strive

Ta lurk beneath disdain,

No longer wen thi name I hear,

Mi conshus colour flies:

No longer wen thi face aw see,

Mi heart’s emoshun rise.

“Catch’t e the burd-lime’s trecherus twigs,

To weer he chanc’d to stray,

The burd iz fassend fathers leaves,

Then gladly flies away.

Hiz shatter’d wings he soon renews,

Of traps he iz awair;

Fer by experience he iz wise,

An’ shuns each futshur snair.

Awm speikin nah, an’ all mi aim

Iz but to pleas mi mind,

An’ yet aw care not if mi words

Wi thee can credit find.

Ner du I care if my decease

Sud be approved by thee;

Or wether tha wi ekwal ease

Does tawk again wi me.

“But, yet tha false decevin man,

Tha’s lost a heart sincere;

Aw naw net wich wants comfert most,

Or wich hez t’mooast ta fear.

But awm suer a lass more fond and true

No lad cud ivver find;

But a lad like thee iz easily found,

False, faithless, and unkind.”

Bonny Lark.

Sweetest warbler of the wood,

Rise thy soft bewitching strain,

And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,

Soar again.

With the sun’s returning beam,

First appearance from the east,

Dimpling every limpid stream,

Up from rest.

Thro’ the airy mountains stray,

Chant thy welcome songs above,

Full of sport and full of play,

Songs of love.

When the evening cloud prevails,

And the sun gives way for night,

When the shadows mark the vales,

Return thy flight.

Like the cottar or the swain,

Gentle shepherd, or the herd;

Best thou till the morn again,

Bonny bird.

Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,

May the poet’s rapturous spark,

Hail the first approach of spring.

Bonny lark.

T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned.

So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,

Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band,

Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand,

Yond lass an’ thee.

But if yor joinin heart an’ hand,

It pleases me.

Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,

Wile pushin thru this world o’ care,

An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare,

Its hard ta tell;

Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share,

So pleas thisell.

Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;

But age an’ care creep on us fast;

Then akt az tha can luke at past

An’ feel no shame;

Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast,

Tha’s noan ta blame.

Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,

But mind an’ shun that foolish set

At cannut mak ther awn ta fet,

Thaw shame ta say it.

An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett,

An’ tha’ll be reight.

An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will;

Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill;

Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill

The wurld sa wide.

No daht but His omnishent skill,

Al be thi guide.

So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise,

Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise,

E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise,

Tha tuke hur hand;

An’ listened to thi father’s voise,

An’ hiz command.

Address ta mi Bed.

Oud stocks on thee I first began

To be that curious crater man,

Ta travel thro this life’s short span,

By fate’s dekree;

Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan,

An’ cease ta be.

Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,

Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;

On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh,

An’ ofttimes weep;—

Till by sum means, aw knaw not why,

I fall asleep.

Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,

Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,

Ta seek thi downy brest again;

Yet heaves mi breast

For wretches in the pelting rain,

At hev no rest.

How oft within thy little space

Does mony a thout oft find a place?

Aw think at past, an’ things ta face,

My mind hiz filled,

Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase,

An’ cassels bild.

O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,

Disease or deeath, a kind releef,

Monarks of a time so breef,

Alternate reign,

Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf,

And clears the plain.

Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,

This grate important truth ta awn,

On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn,

E mortal birth;

Till a few fleetin haars flown,

Then back ta earth.

Home ov Mi Boyish Days.

Home of my boyish days, how can I call

Scenes to my memory, that did befall?

How can my trembling pen find power to tell

The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?

Can I forget the days joyously spent,

That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?

Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,

Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

Can I look back on days that’s gone by,

Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?

Oh, no! though never more these eyes may dwell

On thee, old cottage home, I love so well:

Home of my childhood, wherever I be,

Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.

Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,

Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?

Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;

Psalms for the Sabbath on Sabbath were sung;

And the young minstrels enraptured would come

To the lone cottage I once called my home.

Can I forget the dear landscape around,

Where in my boyish days I could be found,

Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,

Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?

Then would my mother say—where is he gone?

I’m waiting of shuttles that he should have won:

She in that cottage there knitting her healds,

While I her young forester was roaming the fields.

But the shades of the evening gather slowly around,

The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,

Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.

And as I turn round to look on thee again,

To take one fond look, one last fond adieu;

By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view,

But O, there’s no darkness, to me no decay;

Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away.

Ode ta Spring Sixty-four.

O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters,

An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king sixty-four,

Wi thi brah dekked wi gems o’ the purest o’ waters,

Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter is ower.

We hail thi approach wi palm-spangled banners;

The plant an’ the sapling await thy command;

An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners,

Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.

Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an’ grotto,

Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn;

Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,

Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.

O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going!

Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the wind;

Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing,

Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um behind.

My Drechen Dear.

Night’s sombre mantle is spreading over,

Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days;

Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover?

Why did thou cross the raging seas?

Its melancholy here I’m lying,

Half broken-hearted, drechen dear;

Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing,

Each billow roaring a shed tear.

How can they say that all-perfect nature

Has nothing done or made in vain?

When that beneath the roaring water,

Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain.

No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover,

That lurks beneath the raging deep;

To mark the spot where lies the lover,

That leaves the maiden to sigh and weep.

The miser robb’d of his golden pleasure,

Views tempests great in his wild despair;

But what is all his loss of treasure,

To losing thee, my drechen dear?

O cease, O cease, thou cruel ocean!

And give my lover a peaceful rest;

For what thy storming and all thy motion,

Compared with that within my breast.

O could I now over the wild waves stooping,

The floating corpse of thee could spy;

Just like a lily in autumn drooping,

I’d bow my head, kiss thee, and die.

Address t’t First Wesherwuman.

E sooth sho wor a reeal god-send,

To’t human race the greatest frend,

An’ lived no daht at t’other end

O’ history.

Hur name is nah, yah may depend,

A mistery.

But sprang sho up fra royal blood,

Or sum poor slave beyond the flud?

Me blessing on the sooap an’ sud

Sho did invent;

Hur name sall renk among the good,

If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub,

Sho did at furst begin ta skrub,

Or hed a proper weshin tub,

Its all the same;

Aw’d give a craan, if aw’d to sub,

To get hur name.

In this wide wurld aw’m let afloat,

Th’ poor possessor of wun koat;

Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote,

An’ thus assert,

Tha’rt wurthy o’ grate Shakespere’s note;

A clean lin’ shirt.

Low iz mi lot an’ hard mi ways,

While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;

Yet aw will sing t’owd lasse’s prase,

Wi’ famous glee.

Tho’ rude an’ ruff sud be mi lays,

Sho’st lass for me.

Bards hev sung the fairest fair,

There rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair,

The dying lover’s deep despair,

There harps hev rung;

But useful wimmin’s songs are rair,

An’ seldom sung.

In a Pleasant Little Valley.

In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr,

Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair;

Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly thro’ the wood,

And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood,

’Twas there in all her splendour, on a January morn,

Appeared old Colia’s genius,—when Robert Burns was born.

Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone,

And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon;

A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow,

She was the darling native muse of Scotia’s Colia:

So grand old Colia’s genius on this January morn,

Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She vowed she ne’er would leave him till he sung old Scotia’s plains,

The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains;

And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes:

And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays,

And sing how Colia’s genius, on a January morn,

Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home,

Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome:

But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among,

And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song;

This old Colia’s genius did that January morn,

Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

And in the nights of winter when stormy winds do roar,

And the fierce dashing waves is heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,

The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire,

Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;

And sing how Colia’s genius on a January morn,

Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

Johnny o’ t’ Bog an’ Keighley

Feff-fee Goast:

A Tale o’ Poverty.

“Some books are lies frae end to end,

And some great lies were never penn’d;

But this that I am gaun to tell,

* * * Lately on a night befel.”—BURNS.

* * * * *

’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet,

Net far fro Kersmas time,

When I met wi this Feoffee Goast,

The subject ov my rhyme.

I’d been hard up fer mony a week,

My way I cuddant see,

Fer trade an commerce wor as bad

As ivver they cud be.

T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,

An t’combers wor quite sick,

For weeks they niver pool’d a slip,

Ner t’weivers wave a pick.

An I belong’d to t’latter lot,

An them wor t’war o t’wo,

Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase,

An nowt for em ta do.

T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed,

An I’d a shocking coud,

Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,

Wor nobbut three days oud.

Distracted to my vary heart,

At sitch a bitter cup,

An lippening ivvery day at com,

At summat wod turn up.

At t’last I started off wun neet,

To see what I could mak;

Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit,

Or else I’d noan go back.

Through t’Skantraps an be t’ Bracken Benk,

I tuke wi all mi meet;

Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin,

Reight into t’oppan street.

Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,

An I wor rare an fain,

Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage—

I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went to t’Wicket Gate,

Though sad I am to say it,

Resolv’d to ax em for some breead,

Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shacking it,

A form raise up afore,

An sed “What dus ta want, tha knave,

Shacking t’ Wicket Door?”

He gav me then to understand,

If I hedant cum to pray,

At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life,

Wor all they gav away.

It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk

Abaat ther breead o’ life,

An specially when they’ve plenty,

Fer t’childer an ther wife.

Bud I set off agean at t’run,

Fer I weel understood,

If I gat owt fra that there clan,

It woddant do ma good.

E travelling on I thowt I heeard,

As I went nearer t’tahn,

A thaasand voices e mi ears

Saying “John, where are ta bahn?”

An ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d,

A play-card I cud see,

E t’biggest type at e’er wod print—

“There’s nowt here, lad, for thee.”

Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d,

Astead o’ meit wor seen,

A mighty carving-knife hung up,

Hi, fair afore me een.

Destruction wor inviting me,

I saw it fearful clear,

Fer ivvery druggist window sed—

“Real poison is sold here.”

At t’last I gav a frantic howl,

A shaat o’ dreead despair,

I seized mesen be t’toppin then,

An shack’d an lugg’d me hair.

Then quick as leetening ivver wor,

A thowt com e me heead—

I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry,

An meditate wi t’deead.

T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking t’time

At folk sud be asleep,

Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,

An t’Pindar after t’sheep.

Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off

At summat like a trot;

To get to t’place I started for,

Me blooid wor boiling hot.

An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,

Rear’d up agean a post,

I cuddant tell—but yet I thowt

It wor another goast!

Bud whether it wor goast or not,

I heddant time to luke,

Fer I wor taken be surprise,

When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.

Abaat two hundard yards e t’front,

As near as I cud think,

I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise,

An nah an then a clinck!

What ivver can these noises be?

Some robbers, then I thowt!—

I’d better step aside an see,

They’re happen up to nowt!

So I gat ower a fence there wor,

An peeping through a gate,

Determined I’d be satisfied,

If I’d awhile to wait.

At t’last two figures com to t’spot

Where I hed hid mesel,

Then walkers-heath and brimstone,

Most horridly did smell.

Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,

His face as black as soit,

His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben,

He hed a clovven fooit.

An t’other wor all skin an bone

His name wor Mr. Deeath;

Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor,

An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.

He hed a scythe, I plainly saw,

He held it up aloft,

Just same as he wor bahn to maw

Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft.

“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?”

Sed Nickey, wi a grin,

“Tha knaws I am full up below,

An cannot tack more in.”

“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks,

“Tha ruffin ov a dog,

I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean,

To see wun John o’ t’Bog.

I cannot see it fer me life,

What it’s to do wi thee;

Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick,

An nivver thee heed me.”

“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks,

Whativver tha may say,

For I been roasting t’human race

For mony a weary day.”

Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee,

This last two years or so;

Wi Germany an Italy,

An even Mexico.

An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil

Browt in some thaasands more;

An sooin fra Abysinnia,

Tha’ll bring black Theodore.

So drop that scythe, oud farren Death,

Let’s rest a toathree wick;

Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan,

Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”

“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath,

Who spack it wi a grin,

“Ise just do as I like fer thee,

So tha can hod thi din.”

This made oud Nick fair raging mad,

An lifting up his whip,

He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash

Across o t’upper lip.

Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks,

To give oud Nick leg bail,

He started off towards the tahn,

An Nick stuck aht his tail.

Then helter-skelter off they went,

As ower t’fence I lape;

I thowt—well, if it matters owt,

I’ve made a nice escape.

But nah the mooin began to shine

As breet as it cud be;

An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d,

Where I cud plainly see.

The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw,

An t’winding Aire wor still,

An all wor quite save t’hullats,

At wor screaming up o’ t’hill.

Oud Rivvock End an all araand

Luk’d like some fiendish heead,

Fer more I stared, an more I thowt

It did resemble t’deead.

The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah,

To what I’d seen afore;

An luk’d as though they’d never be

T’oud friendly Oaks no more.

Fer wun wor like a giant grim,

His nose com to a point,

An wi a voice like thunner sed—

“The times are aaght o’ t’joint!”

An t’other like a whipping-post,

Bud happen not as thin,

Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil,

So pray, nah, hod thi din?”

I tuke no farther gawm o’ them,

Bud paddled on me way;

Fer when I ivver mack a vow,

I stick to what I say.

I heddant goan so far agean,

Afoar I heeard a voice,

Exclaiming—wi a fearful groan—

“Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!”

I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro,

An cautiously I bowed,

Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice,

I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.

Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place,

A sudden change o’ scene;

Fer miles where all wor white afore,

Wor nah a bottle-green.

Then com a woman donned e white,

A mantle gert she wore;

A nicer lukin, smarter form,

I nivver saw afore.

Her features did resemble wun

O that kind-hearted lot,

At’s ivver ready to relieve

The poor man in his cot.

Benevolence wor strongly marked

Upon her noble heead;

An on her breast yo might hev read,

“Who dees fer want o’ breead?”

In fact, a kinder-hearted soul

Oud Yorksher cuddant boast;

An who wod feel the least alarmed,

To talk to sitch a goast?

I didant feel at all afraid,

As nearer me she drew;

I sed—Good evening, Mrs. Goast,

Hah ivver do yo dew?

Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm,

Bud pointed up at t’mooin,

An beckon’d me to follow her

Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.

So on we went, an dahn we turned,

An nawther on us spack;

Bud nah an then sho twined her heead,

To see if I’d runned back.

At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd

An luked ma fair e t’een;

’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce,

Sho wor no human been.

Sho rave a paper fra her breast,

Like some long theatre bill;

An then sho sed “Weak mortal,

Will ta read to me this will?

But first, afoar tha starts to read,

I’ll tell thee who I iz;

Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff,

I judge it by thi phiz.

Well, I’ve a job fer thee to do,

That is, if tha will do it;

I think tha’rt t’likeliest man I knaw,

Becos tha art a poet.

If I am not mistaken, friend,

I offan hear thi name;

I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;”

Says I—“Oud lass, it’s t’same.”

“It’s just so mony years this day,

I knaw it by me birth,

Sin I departed mortal life,

An left this wicked earth.

But ere I closed these een to go

Into eternity,

I thowt I’d do a noble act,

A deed o’ charity.

I hed a bit o’ brass, tha knaws,

Some land an’ property;

I thowt it might be useful, John,

To folks e poverty.

So then I made a will o t’lot,

Fer that did suit my mind;

I planned it as I thowt wor t’best,

To benefit mankind.

I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil,

By reading t’will tha’ll see;

That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws,

May hev ther skooling free.

An if tha be teetotal, John,

Tha may think it a fault,

Bud to ivvery woman ligging in

I gav a peck o’ malt.

Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass at’s left,

As tha’ll hev heeard afore,

Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly

Among arr Keighley poor.

I certainly did mack a flaw,

Fer which I’ve rued, alas!

’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John,

Sud hev no Feoffee Brass.

An nah, if tha will be so kind,

Go let mi t’trustees knaw

At I sall be obleged to them

To null that little flaw.

An will ta mention this anall,

Wal tha’s an intervue?—

Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor,

Whativver else they due.

Then I sall rest an be at peace,

Boath here an when e Heav’n;

Wal them at need it will rejoice

Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve giv’n.

An tell em to remember thee

Upon t’next Feoffee Day!”

I says—I sallant get a meg,

I’m getting parish pay.

So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt,

An tell’d me what to doo,

I ax’d her if sho’d harken me,

Wal I just said a word or two.

I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie,

As sure as my name’s ‘John;’

I think at yo are quite e t’mist

Abaht things going on.

Folks gether in fra far an near,

When it is Feoffee-Day;

An think they hev another lowse

Wi t’little bit o’ pay.

Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ poor,

It’s shocking fer to tell,

They’ll hardly let em into t’door—

I knaw it be mesel.

Asteead a being a peck o’ malt

Fer t’wimmen lying in,

It’s geen to rascals ower-grown,

To drink e rum an gin.

Then them at is—I understand—

What yo may call trustees,

They hev ther favorites, yo knaw,

An gives to who they please.

Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face,

An skrew ther maath awry;

An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand,

As they are passing by.

There’s mony a woman I knaw weel,

Boath middle-aged an oud,

At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass,

An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.

Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass,

Hes cum e all his pride,

An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass,

Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.

Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax,

If they’ve a claim, they come;

But what wi t’Railway fares an drink,

It’s done be they get home.

Wal mony a poorer family

At’s nut been nam’d e t’list,

At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil,

Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d.

We see a man at hes a haase,

Or happen two or three,

They Mr. him, an hand him aaght

Five times as mitch as me.

’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass

Tight up e sum oud seck,

An getten t’Corporation brooms

To sweep it into t’Beck.”

No longer like Capias’ form,

Wi a tear e boath her een,

But like the gallant Camilla,

The Volscian warrior Queen.

She, kneeling, pointed up aboon,

An vow’d be all so breet,

Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads,

Or watch em day an neet.

Sho call’d the Furies to her aid,

An Diræ’s names sho us’d,

An sware if I hed spocken t’truth,

Sho hed been sore abus’d.

Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her—

Indeed it is too true;

Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet,

Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”

Charming Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green,

Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen,

That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king,

Of whom the oud bards delited to sing.

Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then,

Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;

’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall,

I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display,

Resemblin truly the goddess of day;

Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone,

That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn.

Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind,

But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind:

It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call,

To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow,

When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow;

The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,

Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve.

Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows,

Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose;

There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall,

To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ grace,

Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace:

An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue,

O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue.

Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun,

An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done:

It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl,

To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will;

Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill;

The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!”

Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee.

At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms

An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?”

Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call,

On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan!

My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,

To thy long rest?

An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone

Close ower thy breast?

An’ are ta goan no more to see,

Excepting e fond memory;

Yes empty echo answers me—

“Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”

E vain the wafters o’ the breeze

Fan my hot brah,

E vain the birds upon the trees,

Sing sweetly nah;

E vain the early rose-bud blaws,

E vain wide Nature shows her Cause,

Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws—

“Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”

There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft,

I pity wun,

An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left—

My little John;

He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day,

An’ rarely hez a word to say,

Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),

Shoo’s deead an’ goan!

Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears;

At t’least we’ll try;

Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears

The orphan’s sigh;

Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack—

An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?

An’ crying cannot bring her back;

Shoo’s deead an’ goan!

The Heroic Watchman of Calversike Hill.

[This extraordinary “hero” either bore false witness against his

neighbour, a poor artisan, or (taking his own word for it) saved the

nation from great disaster and ruin by putting out a fire that no one saw

but himself.]

We’ve heard of great fires in city and town,

And many disasters by fire are known;

But surely this fire which I’m going to tell,

Was worse than Mount Ætna, Vesuvius or hell;

For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill,

But for _heroic_ watchman at Calversike Hill.

This fire it broke out in the night it was said,

While peacefully each villager slept in his bed;

And so greatly the flames did illumne all the skies,

That it took the big watchman all in surprise.

Yet great was the courage and undaunted skill

Of the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill.

He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high,

That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;

And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,

He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!

And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,

That they fin’d the poor artist of Calversike Hill.

Now, there’s some foolish people are led to suppose,

It was by some shavings this fire first arose;

But yet, says our “hero,” I greatly suspect,

This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.

But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it will,

Says the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill.

He needed no witness to swear what he had done,

Yet if he had wanted he could have had one;

For one Tommy Twister, that never was there,

Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air,

The greatest sized coal pot no doubt they would fill,

Like the head of the _hero_ of Calversike Hill.

So many brave thanks to this _heroic_ knave,

For thousands of lives no doubt he did save,

And but for this hero disaster had spread,

And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;

But to save all his people it was the Lord’s will,

Through the _heroic_ watchman at Calversike Hill.

So mind and be careful and put out your lights,

All ye with red noses in case they ignite,

Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap,

In case this great watchman chances to sleep.

For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill,

Is the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill.

Betty Blake: A Tale of Butterworth Panic.

It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in a fix,

An’ trade it wor bad an’ are poor hearts wor sad,

An’ we’d nout else to due bud to starve or to flee,

An’ leave are poor hoams, or stop there an’ dee.

Aw wor freating an’ thinking what wod be the end,

Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend—

When my wife stagger’d in at are poor cottage door,

Gav a stare raand the house an’ fell on the floor,

We a cry at made me both tremble an’ shake;—

Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty Blake.

It spite ov her troubles, aw lifted her up

To are poor wretched bed, an’ gav her a sup

O coud watter—an’ thinking, it happen mud ease her—

An’ try’d my indevors to mend her an’ please her;

For aw talked o’ that day that aw used to coart her,

Bud little thowt then at aw couldn’t support her;

Or that panic wod come like a dark thunner claad,

An’ scatter the homes o’ the poor an’ the praad:

Bud my heart burned we grief, fer aw wanted to save her,

Fer aw knew at my Betty wor mad in the faver.

Aw sat by her side fer two neets an’ two days,

An’ aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed;

Sho catched hod o’ my hand, an’ her senses returned,

Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned,—

“Awn going,” sho said—“where no hunger or pain

Al be we us, Johny, when we meet again.

The angels have whispered my spirit to free,

We voices as soft as the hum of the bee;

It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake,

In heaven you’ll meet we your poor Betty Blake.”

We a groan an’ a rattle sho dropt her poor heead,

Aw could hardly believe at my Betty wor deead;

An’ aw felt at her side, fer aw wanted to save her,

An’ like her at wor goan—aw wor mad we the faver.

Bud they tuke her away the varry next day,

To a little church yard, an’ it seemed fearful hard,

At aw couldn’t follow my wife

At aw loved as my life.

Bud aw’ve put up a tombstone o’ peeats fer her sake,

An aw mark’d on it letters at means Betty Blake.

The Vision.

Blest vision of departed worth,

I see thee still, I see thee still;

Thou art the shade of her that’s goan,

My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.

My chaamer in this silent hour,

Were dark an’ drear, were dark an’ drear;

But brighter far than Cynthia’s beam,

Now thou art here, now thou art here.

Wild nature in her grandeur had

No charm for me, no charm for me;

Did not the songsters chant thy name

Fra ivvery tree, fra ivvery tree.

Chaos wod hev com agean,

E worlds afar, e worlds afar;

Could aw not see my Mary’s face,

In ivvery star, in ivvery star;

Say when the messenger o’ death,

Sal bid ma come, sal bid ma come;

Wilt thou be foremost in the van,

To tack ma hoam, to tack ma hoam.

A New Devorse.

Says Pug o’ Joans o’ Haworth Brah,

Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag—

Are Nelly’s tung’s a yard too long,

And, by’t mess it can wag.

It’s hell at top o’ t’earth we me,

An’ stand it I am forst;

I’d give all t’brass at I possess,

If I could get devors’d.

Then answer’d Rodge, I hev a dodge,

Az gooid a plan az onny;

A real devorse tha’ll get of course—

It willant cost a penny.

Then tell me what it iz, says Pug,

I’m hommost brocken-hearted;

We’ll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad,

Where man an woife are parted.

Gooise an’ Giblet Pie.

A Kersmass song I’ll sing, me lads,

If yoh’ll bud hearken me;

An incident e Kersmass time,

E eighteen sixty-three:

Withaht a stypher e the world—

I’d scorn to tell a lie—

I dined wi a gentleman

O’ Gooise an’ giblet pie.

I’ve been e lots o’ feeds, me lads,

An hed some rare tuck-aahts;

Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs,

Minch pies an’ thumping taahts;

But I wir’d in an reight anall,

An’ supp’d when I wor dry,

Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman

O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ail’d me, lads,

I felt so fearful praad;

Me ears prick’d up, me collar raise,

Taards a hauf-a-yard;

Me chest stood aaht, me charley in,

Like horns stuck aaht me tie;

Fer I dined wi a gentleman

O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I offan think o’ t’feed, me lads,

When t’ gentleman I meet;

Bud nauther on us speiks a word

Abaht that glorious neet;

In fact, I hardly can mesel,

I feel so fearful shy;

Fer I ate a deal o’ t’roasted gooise,

And warmed his giblet pie.

Ode to Wedlock!

Oh! Hymen, god of Wedlock! thou

Companion of the lover’s vow,

Thy subjects they are fearful;

If thou could nobbut see the strife,

There is sometimes ’tween man and wife,

I think thou’d be more careful.

Oft has thou bound in durance vile,

De fearful frown, and cheerful smile,

And doubtless thought it famous;

When thou the mind ov fancy sweet,

Has knit the knot so nice and neat

For some blessed ignoramous.

What nature, truth, and reason too,

Has oft declared would never do,

Thou’rt fool enough to do it;

Thou’s bound for better and for worse,

Life’s greatest blessing with a curse,

And both were made to rue it.

But luve is blind, and oft deceived,

If adage old can be believed,

And suffers much abuses;

Or never could such matches be,

O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee,

So thou has thy excuses.

Com Geas a Wag o’ thee Paw.

[T’west Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches it fine art

line, bud t’musick aw think licks t’lump, especially abaht Haworth an’

Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom

Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorkshire in his toime. It is

said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an

Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all tother

Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an’ that willant due up at

London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood;

there’s oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an’ oud Jim

Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersmass

toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr

warm e bed. Bud there’s another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local

singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when

there’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals;—’an t’ best ale an’ crotchets mixt,

that’s the time fer musick.]

Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet,

Come geas a wag o’ thee paw;

I knew thee when thi heead wor black,

Bud nah its az white as snow;

Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim,

An’ all thi kith an’ kin;

An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar,

For t’ sake o’ ould long sin,

Jim Wreet,

For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.

It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,

Sin oud Joe Constantine—

An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me,

An’ other friends o’ thine,

Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase,

Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here;

An’ t’ Squire made us welcome

To his brown October beer,

Jim Wreet;

To his brown October beer.

An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,

That kept the Old King’s Arms;

Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet,

When they hed sung ther Psalms;

An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim,

Sometimes hev chang’d the string,

An’ with a merry chorus join’d,

We’ve made yond tav’ren ring,

Jim Wreet,

We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,

As past away sin then;

When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art,

Cud boast her musick men;

Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim,

An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;

Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake,

Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,

Jim Wreet,

Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.

Song of the Months, from

January to December.

High o’er the hill-tops moans the wild breezes,

As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:

See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,

While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.

Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,

To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed:

As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion,

He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling,

No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;

The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling

That spring is established with sunshine and showers.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,

And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;

The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,

And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the breeze.

O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander?

What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;

With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,

At whose sight the last demon of winter does fly.

From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping,

While diamond dew-drops around her is spread;

She smiles thro’ her tears like an infant that’s sleeping,

And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.

The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers,

The mountains are blue in their distant array;

The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers,

Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flees away.

How joyous the reapers, their harvest songs singing

As they see the maid bringing the flagon and horn;

And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging

Over meadows and pastures, and her barley and corn.

’Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining,

To watch the rich vale as it brightens below;

’Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining,

To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.

Now is the time when biting old Boreas

True to his calling,—the tempests impend;

His hailstones in fury is pelting before us,

Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.

The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling,

The beasts of the forest from hunger doth call;

There is desolate evenings and comfortless mornings,

And gloomy noontides for one and for all.

Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December,

O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor;

Christmas is thine, and we shall remember,

Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

My Visit ta’t Glory Band.

Last Sunday, reight early, I sett off fra home,

Ower mountains an’ valleys, intending to roam;

As it wor a fine morning an’ no sign o’ rain,

I bethowt ma I’d go up Oakworth be t’train;

But I’m sitch a whimsical sort of a man,

I nivver get threw wi owt at I plan.

For I’d hardly goan two hundred yards fra my door,

When who did I see walking prattly before?

It wor oud Jennet t’Ranter fra Avercake row,

As nice a oud body is ivver you saw;

Shoo wor dress’d up ta t’mark wi her Cashmere shawl,

An wor bahn dahn to t’meeting at Temperance Hall.

When I saw it wor Jennet I lengthen’d my pace,

An’ as soon as shoa saw me shoo look’d i’ my face;

An’ says “Hallo, Bill! tha’s com’d aght fearful soin

Ther’ll be a blue snaw;—pray, where are ta gooin?

If tha’s nobbut come aht for a bit of a stroll,

Tha’d better go wi ma for t’gooid o’ thy soul.”

So I agreed to go wi her; for what could I do,

When t’decent oud woman wor teasing ma so?

So we link’d on together an’ paddled along,

Both on us singing a Glory Band song;

Hasomivver we landed, an’ hedn’t ta wait,

For one t’panjandrums hed getten agait.

So they prayed an’ they sang i’ ther oud fashun’d way;

Until a gert chap says “I’ve summat ta say;”

An’ bethart I’st a fallen dahn sick i’ my pew,

But I thowt at toan hauf t’ he said worant true,

For he charged Parson Ball wi’ being drunk i’ the street,

At he’d been put ta bed three times i’ one neet.

“Does ta hear,” says Oud Jennet, “what t’hullet is saying,

He’s using his scandal asteead o’ being praying,

For John Ball is respected by ivvery one,

So I sallant believe a word about John,

Fer him an’ arr Robin are two decent men,

So pray yah nah harken, they’ll speik fer thersen.”

So all wor nah silent, they mud hear a pin fall,

For nobody wor hissing or clapping at all;

For scarce had long Gomersall spun out his yarn,

Wi his two blazing een he hed scarcely sat dahn,

Than John stood up on his pins in a minit,—

An’ rare an’ weel please wor me and Oud Jennet.

“My brethren,” he sed wi a tear in his ee,

“Yah sall hear for yerselns my accusers an’ me,

An’ if I be guilty—man’s liable to fall

As well as yer pastor an’ servant John Ball;

But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan,

Be’t t’first, and no other to thraw the first stone.

“I’ve drunk wine and porter, I do not deny,

But then my accusers hev not telled you why:

So their false accusation I feel it more keen,

’Cos I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my een;

Beside mi back warked as if it wor broke,

An’ mi throit’s been so parched wal I thowt I sud choke.

“I’ve been so distracted and hanneled so bad,

Wal I thowt monny a time I sud ommust go mad,

An’ t’doctors hes tell’d me there wor no other way

Nobbut going to Blackpool or else Morecambe Bay;

An’ charged me to mind if I sat dahn to dine,

To lig into t’porter, an’t brandy, an’t wine.

“So nah, my accusers, what hev you to say,

You can reckon that up in your awn simple way;

But if there’s a falsehood in what I’ve sed nah

I wish mi new hat wod turn into a kah,

So this is mi answer, an’ this mi defence.”

“Well done!” says oud Jennet, “he’s spokken some sense.”

So his speech nah he ended, but it touch’d em it wick,

For we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick;

And Jennet declared—tho’ she might be too rude,—

If he’d come up to’t dinner he’s hev some home brew’d,

Fer it spite o’ ther scandal sho wor proud on him yet,

An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d out to du wi’t.

T’ History o’t Haworth Railway.

Before I commence mi short history o’t Haworth Railway, it might be as

weel to say a word or two abaht Haworth itseln. It’s a city at’s little

knawn, if onny, it history o’ England, though ther’s no daht but its as

oud as Methuslam, if not ouder, yet with it being built so far aht at

latitude ov civilized nashuns, nobody’s scarcely knawn owt abaht it wal

latly. T’ finders ov it are sed to be people fra’t Eastern countries,

for they tuke fearful of em e Haworth it line o’ soothsayers, magishuns,

an’ asstrologers; but whether they com fra’t east or’t west, they luke

oud fashun’d enuff. Nah t’ city is situated in a very romantic part o’

Yorkshur, and within two or three miles o’t boundary mark o’ Lancashire.

Some foak sez it wer t’last place at wer made, but it’s a mistak, for it

lukes oud fashun’d enuff to be t’first ’at wer made. Gert travellers sez

it resembles t’ cities o’ Rome and Edinburgh, fer ther’s a deal o’

up-hills afore you can get to’t top on’t; but e landing you’d be struck

wi’ wonder and amazement—what wi’t tall biggens, monniments, domes,

hampitheaters, and so on; fer instance, t’Church, or rather the

Cathedral, is a famous biggen, and stands majestically o’t top at hill.

It hes been sed at Oliver Cromwell that wor so struck wi’t appearance at

Church an t’ City, altogether, wal he a mack a consented to hev it the

hed-quarters for the army and navy.

The faander o’ t’ Church is sed to be won Wang-be-Wang, won et Empror’s

o’ China as com ower in a balloon an’ browt we him all his relations, but

his granmuther; the natives at that toime wur a mack a wild, but i mixing

up we t’ balloonites they soin become civilized and big’d t’ Church at’s

studden fra that time to nah, wit exepshun o’ won end, destroyed at sum

toime, sum sez it wur be war. Sum sez west and an t’ saath end wur

destroyed, but it’s a mack a settled on wit wiseuns it wur wichcraft; but

be it as it may Haworth, an’ t’ folk a’tagether is as toff as paps, an’

hez stud aht weel, an’ no daht but it wod a flerished before Lunden,

Parriss, or Jerusulum, for sentries back, if they’d hed a Railway; but

after nearly all Grate Britten and France hed been furnished we a

Railway, the people i Haworth began to be uneazy and felt inclined no

longer to wauk several miles to get to a stashun if they were bahn off

liks. And besides, they thout it wur high time to begin and mack sum

progress i’ t’ wurld, like their naburs ’t valley. So they adjetated for

a line down the valley as far as Keighley, and after abaht a hundred

meetings they gat an Act passed for it i Parlement. So at last a

Cummittee wur formed, and they met wun neet a purpose to decide when it

wod be t’ best convenient for em to dig t’ furst sod to commerate and

start the gert event. And a bonny rumpus there wor yo mind, for yo may

think ha it wor conducted when they wur threapin wi wun another like a

lot o’ oud wimen at a parish pump when it sud be. Wun sed it mud tak

place at rushberring, another sed next muck-spreading toime, a third sed

it mud be dug et gert wind-day e memory o’ oud Jack K—. Well, noan et

proposishuns wod do for t’ lot, and there wur such opposistion wal it

omust hung on a threed, wether the railway went on or net, wal at last an

oud farmer, wun o’ the committee-men, we a voice as hoarse as a farm yard

dog, bawls aht, I propose Pancake Tuesday. So after a little more noise

it wor proposed and seconded at the Grand Trunk Railway between the

respective tahns of Keighley and Haworth sud be commemorated wi diggin t’

furst sod o’ Pancake Tuesday, it year o’ our Lord 1864; and be t’ show o’

hands it usual way it wor carried by wun, and that wor Ginger Jabus, and

t’tother cud a liked t’bowt him ower, but Jabus worn’t to be bowt that

time, for he hed his hart and sowl i the movement, and he went abaht

singin—

Cum all ye lads o’ high renown

At wishes well your native town,

Rowl up an’ put your money down

An’ let us hev a Railway.

We Keighley folk we are behind,

An’s sed to wauk agin wur mind;

But sooin t’ crookt-legg’d uns they will find,

Weel kap em we a Railway.

Well, hasumivver public notice wur made nawn, be the bellman crying it

all ower t’taan, wich he did to such a pitch, wal he’d summat to do to

keep his hat fra flyin off, but he manijed to do it at last to a nicety,

for the news spread like sparks aht of a bakehus chimla; and wen the day

com they flocked in fra all parts, sum o’ the crookt-legged uns fra

Keighley com, Lockertown and the Owertown folk com, and oud batchelors

fra Stanbury and all parts et continent o’ Haworth; folk craaded in o’

all sides, even the oud men and wimen fra Wicken Crag and the Flappeters,

and strappin folk they are yo mind, sum as fat as pigs, wi heads as red

as carrots, and nimble as a india-rubber bouncer taw; and wat wur t’ best

on’t it happened to be a fine day; for if it hed been made according to

orders it cudn’t a been finer. Shops wur all closed and ivverybody, oud

and young, hed a haliday aht o’ t’doors, for they wur all flade a missin

the Grand Processhun, wich formed itsel at the top o’ Wuthren, when it

wur messured, it turn’d aht to be two miles six inches long—it moved as

follows:—

ORDER OF PROCESSHUN.

The Spring-head Band wi their hat-bruads turn’d up so as they mud see

their way clear.

Lord et Manor i full uniform a fut back bearing Coat of Arms for Haworth,

a gert wild cratur wi two tails on, one et awthur end.

Two citizens wi white cravats raand their hats.

The Members et Corporashun one-abreast singin “a nuttin we will go, brave

boys.”

Big Drums and Triangles.

A Mahogany Wheelbarrow and a silver trowel on a cart trail’d wi six

donkeys, and garded wi ten lazy policemen all sober.

A pair of crakt bag-pipes.

The Contractor in a sedan carried wi two waggoners i white smocks.

All the young maidens fra fourteen to thirty-nine, six-abreast, drest i

sky blue, and singin throo combs.

Twenty oud wimin knittin stockings.

Twenty navvies i their shirt sleeves weeling barrows, wi workn tooils.

Taan skavengers wi shoulder’d besums decorated wi ribbons.

Bellman and Pinder arm-i-arm drest I full uniform, and the latter now and

then bawlin aht wats bahn to tak place.

All scholars at female line laking at duck-under-watter kit, and the

males laking at frog-loup, and jumping o’ one another’s backs.

Taan chimla sweeps maanted o’ donkies wi their face white.

All the furiners fra the continent o’ Haworth, and crookt-legged uns fra

Keighley followed up.

Bulk o’ the inhabitants wauking wun-abreast, wi their hats off, and

singing and shouting

“The Railway! the Railway!”

In fact, the Railway wur e ivverbody’s maath, what we singing and

shouting, them at cud do nawther whisper’d in wun another’s ears—Railway!

But getting to where the ceremuny wur to tak place the processhun halted

and formed itseln into a raand ring, and cheers wur geen wi shakin hats

and handkerchiefs, which lasted wal their showders and arms warkt wal

they’d hardly strength to shut their maaths and don their hats on. But

hasumivver they manijed to get reight agean, and then a parson called Ned

Oufield gat up and made the following narashun—

Fellow countrymen and citizens o’ Haworth,—It gives me gert plezur to see

such a gert event as this tak place i the city o’ Haworth, namely,

digging t’ furst sod o’ wat’s called Grand Trunk Line between Keighley

and yor native element, and reight pleased I am to offishiate as chairman

on this occashun. Perhaps sum on yo maint naw what I mean wi yer native

element; but I mean yer oud mountain side, and aw naw yor like yer

forefathers, yo love it dearly, tho’ yor ancestors wor nowt but

barbarians in the fourth and fifth sentries, yet they were the furst to

embrace Christianity, which they did it yer 600, be the Latin inscripshun

on the church steeple.—(Loud cheers).—And although yo been behind we yor

Railway, ye been up i different arts and sciences. Wat nashun, my

frends, can boast of a majishun like yor oud Jack K—.—(Loud cheers). He

wur a credit to yo all, and yo wur sadly indebted to him; he proffesied

twenty yer sin at this event wud cum to pass (a voice,—ha wish he wur

alive he sud be contractor), and if he’d been livin to this day, its a

hundred to wun but the Railway wud hev been made to some where else ner

Keighley, for ha feel convinced et Keighley is not worthy of amalgamashun

wi a respectable city like Haworth.—(Hear, hear.) For look wat insultin

langwidj they’ve used to yo at different times.—(Groans.) Furst, they

said yo muckt church to mak it grow bigger. Then yo walked rahnd tahn’s

post office at Keighley and thout it wur the cemetery, and to make up for

the lot, they call us wild craturs and mock wur plezant dialect, which is

better English ner theirs.—(Groans, wich lasted for ten minits.) Yes, my

fella citizens, you’ve hed to put up wi a deal o’ slang fra theas

uncultivated rascals.—(We have.) And wat’s war nur all, yah’ve hed to

wauk wet and dry, thro thick and thin, i all sorts o’ weather to

Keighley, wen you’ve wanted to go on the continent or Lundun. But soin

yo can wauk slap to the train in a jiffey.—(Loud cheers.) Mr. Oufield

then thenkt his fella taansmen and wimen and ended his speech wi

expressin his delight in the loyalty of the people for the railway, and

as the time was fast waxin, he begged leave to sit dahn, wich he did t’

midst lahd enthusiastic shouting.

This been dun and ivverybody gotten their maaths shut agean, Ike Ouden

gat up and made a speech, and a grand un it wor yo mind, for if the

arkangel hed dropt streyt dahn fra heven and let o’ t’top o’ t’platform,

it cuddant a suited t’ folk better, for he began as follows:—

Fella-citizens and tahnsmen o’ Haworth,—Wen I see before me so many

smiling faces and so many distingwisht citizens, I awn ha felt a pang as

to my unfitness for appearing afore yo on this occashun; but yor

committee wor so urgent in their appeal to me that I wor certainly

induced to akcept the honnor of diggin the furst sod o’ the Grand Trunk

Railway, wich will be the gratest blessin that ivver will be i Haworth.

But yet its not for me to say wat is kalkulated or unkalkulated for the

people o’ Haworth to do in the 19th sentry, yet I may ventur to say at

this glorious muvment nah bahn to tak place will shortly prove the

gratest blessin ivver witnessed it city o’ Haworth.—(Loud applause).

Look at the export and import of the city, and compare the spaven’d horse

and cart wi the puffin willyams and all the fine carriages. Look et

difference between wen it tuk a week to go to Liverpool, and a month to

Lundun, in a oud coach, and hev to mak wur wills afore we

went.—(Enthusiastic cheering.) Yes, my frends, we stud good chance e

being robbed and plundered if net summat war. Besides wat an immense

diffrence it will mak to Haworth, wen shoo can export her own

mannifacturs to all the civilised and uncivilised wurld, and by means o’

steam find their ways into rejuns nivver trod but by feet o’ wild craturs

and beasts o’ prey. But to mak t’ story short ha mean to say it will be

a grate cumfort and a blessin to both the lame and lazey, and speshally

to the latter. But as the time was gettin on fastish, as it allus dus

when there’s out to be dun, so Mr. Ouden finisht his speech as follows:—

Put yor shoulders to work, lads, and ne’er be danted,

Think yer behint and there’s no time to dally,

For nah is the time yor assistance is wanted

I makin yor railway along the Worth Valley.

The Spring-heead Band then played sum of their favorite tunes, “Oud Rosen

the Bow,” “Jessey’s Pig,” and ended wi “God save the Queen,” and all

departed to their homes wi smiling faces.

CHAPTER II.

Gather fra Stanbury, lads we yor carrot heeads,

Cum dahn fra Locker tahn, lads, be the railway;

Cum we yor wives, yor dowters, and relatives,

Shout lads, shout for the Worth Valley Railway.

Heard you Ned Oufield mak his noration,

Yoh’l say in yohr conshunce he spak it reyt fairly,

He said poor Haworth nivver yet hed fairashun,

And spak of the thing that will flurish it rarely.

Railway, &c.

Saw yoh Icholden wi his mahogany wheelbarrow,

Cum dig the first sod wi his trowel o’ silver,

He wheeled it dahn t’ plenk as streyt as an arrow,

And tipt it as weel as a navvy or delver.

Railway, &c.

Saw yoh the church so anshent in history,

Read yoh the Latin words high in the steeple,

Hear to the sounds that arise from the belfry,

It seems to be shaating along wi the people,

Railway, &c.

Nah then, lads, for wark; nout but wark al do, and these at can’t work

mun plan. This wor the cry all up and dahn Haworth next mornin, and for

weeks all wor vary bizzy. Won man made a weel-barra it chamber but it

wor so big wal it couldn’t be gotten aht withaht takin the haase side

dahn. Another invented a koulin-masheen to koul t’ muck up both sides to

save wheelbarras and work tooils for the navvies. Some started a

practicing for porters at the railway, wi oppenin and shutting the oven

doors wi a bang, shating aht at the same time, “All aht for Haworth.”

Wun man wor trying the dodge on, and the cat wor it ovan, and poor thing,

expecting that it wor it the wrong place, jumpt aht just at time at he

wor whistling to start, and wor catcht bi the tail and the poor thing

lost it, for it wur cut off as clean as a whistle. A crookt legg’d

pedlar com fra Keighley wun day wi winter-edges, and they tuke him for a

sapper and miner et hed cum to mezhur for the railway, and mind yoh they

did mak summat on him, they thout that the winter-edges wur the apparatus

to mezhur by. But hasumivver, the reyt uns com at after, and a sore

disaster they hed yo mind, for they laid the plans o’ t’railway dahn at

green swarth, and a oud kah belanging to Blue Beard swallowed t’ job;

they tried ta save em but all i vain: a sore do wur this for both folk

and the railway, for it put em a year or two back, and folk wur raging

mad abaht t’ kah, and if it hednt a been a wizzen’d oud thing they’d a

swallowed it alive—the nasty greedy oud thing.

They hed a meeting tother neet,

Fair o’ t’top o’ Wutherin Street,

To see what things they’d got complete,

Concerning Haworth Railway.

Wen Penny Wabbac tuke the chair,

He lukt to be i grate despair,

He sez, good folk, are yoh aware,

Wat’s happened to the Railway.

We persperashun on his brah,

He sez, good folk, al tell yoh nah;

Oud Blue Beard’s nasty wizened kah

Hes swallowed plan o’ t’ Railway.

Wi these remarks poor Wabbac sat,

Wen Jonny Broth doft off his hat,

His een they blazed like sum wild cat

Wi vengence for the Railway.

He sed my blud begins to boil,

To think et we sud work an’ toil,

And ev’n the cattle cannot thoyle

To let us hev a Railway.

On hearing this the Haworth foak

Began to swear it wur no joak,

An wisht at greedy cah ma choak,

At swallowed t’ plan o’ t’ Railway.

But hasumivver they gat ower this, and wur not long at after afore they

hed more disasters, such as tunnils shutterin, and chapels sinkin, and

law suits, and so on, wal Haworthers thout be t’ hart at both the fouk

and the grund wur soft dahn at Keighley, and threttened to comb sum o’

the crookt-legged ens their heeads if they insinuated; and the Volunteers

threttened to tak their part if there wur owt to do; and farther ner

that, they vowed that they were ready to go to war wi onny nashun that

sud insult awther them or ther railway under the present difficulties.

But sighs and tears and doubts and fears,

Prevails with greatest folly,

For ’t sinagog has cockt its clog,

And ’t parson’s melancholy.

Tunnils sink and navvies drink,

And chapels are upsetting;

For Railway Shares nobody cares,

And iverybody’s fretting.

The iron horse they curse of course,

And fane wud it abandon;

And loyers fees their pockets ease,

A thousand pound e Lundun.

Misfortunes speed as rank as weed,

An’ puts on sich a damper;

Wal t’ foaks declare e grate dispair,

Its up wi’t iron tramper.

The volunteers prick up their ears,

An mak a famos rattle;

Thay want ta run ta Wimbleton,

Or onny field o’ battle.

Their black cravats an toppen’d hats

Are causing grate attraction;

Against Boneypart thay want ta start,

E reglar fightin action.

The raw recuits hev got ther suits,

Thay brag ta wun another:

Ta’t first campaign thay’l tak the train,

Withaat the sliteist bother.

But t’ oud foak thinks thair’l be some stinks,

At menshun of invazhun;

An hopes et taan will ride em daan,

E cabs ta Howorth Stashun.

But hasumiver toime works wonders wi it an perseverance its gotten ta’t

last stage na, an foak is varry impashent fer it ta cum up, an tha’re

preparin ta give it a grand recepshun; wun oud woman hes a peggy tub full

o meyl an’ saar swillins for th’ ingen, and they are preparin another

puddin for th’ passengers fra Keighley.

They’re standing i’ groups and they’re living i’ hopes,

And more disappointments they dread,

Wi’ they’re ears touching th’ grand, they’ve harken’d for th’ saand,

Wal they’ve omust gone wrong i’ ther head.

Sez Dick o’ Grate Beckers, just keep up yor peckers,

Yo hevn’t much longer to wait

For blue milk and porridge, yol get better forridge,

Wen the railway gets fairly agait.

For its labour i’ vain to harken for th’ train

When all’s goin on varry steady;

So pray yo be calm its takin no harm,

They’ll bring it as soin as its ready.

For th’ rails are all laid, and there’s nowt to be made,

Nobbut th’ navvies to clear off all th’ muck;

Then all al be goin, for th’ Cowinhead mooin

Is bahn to be browt on a truck.

So Sam o’ Blue Bills, wi’ thi’ pints an’ thi’ gills,

Its bahn to be better for thee,

To Keighley an’ back tha ma go in a crack,

When tha’s bahn on a bit of a spree.

And John o’ Pot Anns tha mun alter thi plans,

For tha nivver can get him i’ force;

For I’m happy to tell at steead o’th’ canal

They’re bahn to try th’ big iron horse.

There’s oud Jim o’ Kyas is bahn to be wise,

An’ th’ folk sez at he’s takkin a hig;

He’ll see it first tried afore he will ride,

He’s dahn abaht the Paper Mill Brig.

He sez he’ll be sure, it dropt in before,

And it might do again for a pinch;

For he sez they’ll be kapt if sum on em trapt,

So he’s blest if he’ll trust it an inch.

There’s oud Mally Brook hez been dahn to look,

And shoo’s sore disappointed they say;

Shoo’s omust goan crackt for shoo sez it weant act,

For they nobbut can run it wun way.

Sho sez at high class ats laid dahn all th’ brass,

Just nah they’re beginnin ta craw;

To mak up for th’ trouble they’re bahn to charge double,

For bad speckulashun it law.

So to sattle em dahn, Sir Chrestofer Brahn,

Hez tould em it wur his intent,

If they’d nobbut be quiet till things wur all reight,

He’d give em a trip to Chow Bent.

Yes, and besides a trip to Chow Bent, they gat several more trips

promised bi th’ diffrent distingwisht citizens o’ Haworth. Wun promised

to give em trip to Bullock’s Smithy, anuther to Tingsley Bongs, wal they

wur getting quite up o’ thersels and th’ railway. Or else they’d been

for many a year and cudn’t sleep a wink at neet for dreamin abaht th’

railway ingens, boilers, and so on, and mony a time they’ve wakken’d i’

ther sleep shakkin th’ bed posts, thinkin they wur setting th’ ingen on

or stoppin it. But they’d gotten reight and thout they wur bahn to hev

no more trouble; but alas! it wur a mistak, for on th’ morning of the

14th o’ November an’ oud skyologer went aht a weather-gazin and

planet-ruling, and woful news and bad omens he browt back wi’ him, for he

sed at th’

Stars wur shoiting in and aht,

And gravel ratches wur abaht,

And th’ folk, he sed, they little knew

What mischief it wur bahn ta brew.

And news he spred abaht the tahn,

What lots o’ rain wud tumble dahn;

And like his anshent sires he spoke,

The shockin news withaht a joke.

For soin the rain i torrents fell,

And O what awful news to tell,

It lookt as th clahds wur bahn to shutter,

For every dyke, and ditch, and gutter,

A reguler deluge did resemble,

Which made Haworth folk to tremble.

Some tried to stop its course wi’ stones,

And some dropt on their marrow bones,

And hoped at if the wurld wur drahnd,

The railway wud be safe an’ sahnd;

But prayers like these hed no avail,

For th’ waters deluged all the dale;

And th’ latest news et I hev heerd

Th’ railway’s nearly disappeared;

But if its fun withaht a flaw,

Wha, folks, I’m like to let yo know.