Chapter II: Part 2

Ahr David's a fine little lad,
An' ahr Nancy's a fine little lass;
When aw see 'em aw do feel so glad,
So bring me a quart an' a glass!

Come, Sally, an' sit bi mi side,
We've hed both wur ups an' wur dahns;
Awm fane at aw made thee mi bride,
An' awm prahd o' both thee an' wur barns.

We're as happy as them 'at's more brass,
In a festival holly-decked hall;
We envy no mortal, owd lass;
Here's peace an' good-will unto all!

An' may ev'ry poor crater to neet,
If nivver before in his life,
Hev plenty to drink an' to eyt,
Fer both him, an' his barns, an' his wife.

Lines on the Late MR. THOMAS CRAVEN.

Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust--
The friend we had but yesterday;
His spirit to the unknown land
Hath fled away.

Ah! death's strong key hath turned the lock,
And closed again its ponderous door,
That ne'er for him shall ope again--
Ah, nevermore!

Now pity swells the tide of love,
And rolls through all our bosoms deep,
For we have lost a friend indeed;
And thus we weep.

. . . . . . .

'Twas his to learn in Nature's school
To love his fellow-creatures dear;
His bounty fed the starving poor
From year to year.

But thou, pale moon, unclouded beam,
And O! ye stars, shine doubly bright,
And light him safe across the lake
To endless light!

Gooise an' Giblet Pie.

A Kersmas song I'll sing, mi lads,
If ye'll bud hearken me;
An incident i' Kersmas time,
I' eighteen sixty-three;
Whithaht a stypher i' the world--
I'd scorn to tell a lie--
I dined wi a gentleman
O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I've been i' lots o' feeds, mi lads,
An' hed some rare tucks-aght;
Blood-puddin days with killin' pigs,
Minch pies an' thumpin' tarts;
But I wired in, an' reight an' all,
An' supp'd when I wor dry,
Fer I wor dinin' wi' a gentleman
O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ail'd ma, lads,
I felt so fearful prahd;
Mi ears pricked up, mi collar rahse,
T'ards a hawf-a-yard;
Mi chest stood aght, mi charley in,
Like horns stuck aght mi tie;
Fer I dined wi' a gentleman
O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I often think o' t'feed, mi lads,
When t' gentleman I meet;
Bud nauther on us speiks a word
Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can misel,
I feel so fearful shy;
Fer I ate a deal o' t'rosted gooise,
An' warm'd his giblet pie.

The Grand Old Man.

I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth, The grandest old statesman there is upon earth; When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree, He can level a nation as well as a tree.

He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue As fairly bewilder both old men and young; He can make some believe that's black which is white, And others believe it is morn when it's night.

He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar; His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war, Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed, He still went to Church the lessons to read.

A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent, In search of some money which long had been spent; He blew up the forts, then commended his men, And ordered them back to old England again.

In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose, No doubt he intended to crush all his foes; But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne'er was afraid, Then left him to perish without any aid.

"If I," said poor Gordon, "get out of this place, That traitor called Gladstone shall ne'er see my face-- To the Congo I'll go, if I am not slain, And never put foot in old England again."

When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum, And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom, Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box, Tho' he knew that old England was then on the rocks.

He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill, Our brave little army to torture and kill; And while our poor fellows did welter in gore, He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.

Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King, To civilised England they captive did bring; He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath, Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.

"Had I done," says Bismark, "so much in my life, As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife, I could not at this day have looked in the face Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race."

He has tampered and tarnished his national fame; He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim-- Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween, Not caring for honour of England or Queen.

He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower, As he stumps our great nation to get into power; E'en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs, That she will assist him to get on his legs.

Ode to Bacchus.

Pueple god of joyous wit, Here's to thee! Deign to let the bardie sit Near thy knee; Thy open brow, and laughing eye, Vanquishing the hidden sigh, Making care before thee fly, Smiling Bacchus, god of wine!

Thy stream intoxicates my song, For I am warm; I love thee late, I love thee long; Thou dost me charm; I ever loved thee much before, And now I love thee more and more, For thou art loved the wide world o'er, Charming Bacchus, god of wine!

"Angels hear that angels sing," Sang the bard, While the muse is on the wing, Pay regard; See how Bacchus' nectar flows, Healing up the heartstrings' woes, Making friends, and _minus_ foes, Gracious Bacchus, god of wine!

Ever on thee I depend, As my guest; Thou wilt bring to me the friend I love best; Friendship is the wine of love; Angels dwell with it above, Cooing like the turtle-dove Lovely Bacchus, god of wine!

Laughing Genius, a "Good night!" Yet, stay awhile! Ere thou tak'st thy upward flight, Upon me smile; Drop one feather from thy breast On the bard, that he may rest, Then he will be doubly bless'd, Glorious Bacchus, god of wine!

Kings are great, but thou art just, Night and day; What are kings but royal dust-- Birds of prey? Though in splendour they may be-- Menials bow, and bend the knee-- Oh, let me dwell along with thee, Famous Bacchus, god of wine!

[Picture: Picture of plant]

Sall o't' Bog.

Mi love is like the passion dock,
That grows i' t'summer fog;
An' tho' shoo's but a country lass,
I like mi Sall o' t'Bog.

I walk'd her aght up Rivock End,
An' dahn a bonny dell,
Whear golden balls an' kahslips grow,
An' buttercups do smell.

We sat us dahn on top o' t'grass,
Clois to a runnin' brook,
An' harken'd t'watter wagtails sing
Wi' t'sparrow, thrush, an' rook.

Aw lockt her in mi arms, an' thowt
As t'sun shane in her een,
Sho wor the nicest cauliflaar
At ivver aw hed seen.

'Twor here we tell'd wur tales o' love,
Beneath t'owd hezzel tree;
How fondly aw liked Sall o' t'Bog,
How dearly shoo loved me!

An' if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,
Aw vah bi all aw see,
Aw wish 'at aw mud be a kah,
An' it beleng ta thee.

But aw hev plump fergetten nah
What awther on us said;
At onny rate we parted friends,
An' boath went hooam to bed.

Song of the Months.

High o'er the hill-tops moan the wild breezes,
As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:
See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,
While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.

Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,
To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed:
As o'er the grim surge with his chariot in motion,
He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling,
No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;
The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling
That spring is established with sunshine and shower.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,
And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;
The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,
And sprinkling their sweets on the wings of the breeze.

O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander?
What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;
With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,
At whose sight the last demon of winter doth fly?

From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping,
While diamond dew-drops around her are spread;
She smiles thro' her tears like an infant that's sleeping,
And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.

The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers,
The mountains are blue in their distant array;
The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers,
Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flies away.

How joyous the reapers their harvest songs singing
As they see the maid bring the flagon and horn;
And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging
Over meadows and pastures and barley and corn.

'Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining,
To watch the rich vale as it brightens below;
'Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining,
To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.

Now is the time when biting old Boreas,
True to his calling, the tempests impend;
His hailstones in fury are pelting before us,
Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.

The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling,
The beasts of the forest from hunger do call;
There are desolate evenings, comfortless mornings,
And gloomy noontides for one and for all.

Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December,
O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor;
Christmas is thine, and well we remember,
Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

Bonnie Cliffe Castle.

Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! what sight can be grander?
Thou picture of beauty and joy to the eye,
So noble and grand in thy beauty and splendour
That envy must tremble as she passeth by.

And long may'st thou flourish and bloom like the heather,
An honour to him who's thy founder so great,
And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather,
Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date.

'Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level,
From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar,
Where Roman pack-horsemen more safely could travel,
In days when the Briton and Boman waged war.

In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc,
The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey,
But Briton's brave sons amongst them made havoc,
And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way.

Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes,
In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown,
Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches,
Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town.

'Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence,
Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war;
A castle of love is thy only pretence,
A name that is higher and nobler by far.

Thou 'mind'st me of five as kind-hearted brothers,
As ever set sail on the deep ocean's breast,
Whose lives have been spent in love toward others,
And while blessing others themselves have been blest.

Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel,
On land or on water they fought and they won,
And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle!
Tower up to the heavens, which answer, "Well done!"

Opening of Devonshire Park, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888.

Oh, well do we remember--
For the news it was so pleasant--
When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire
Made our famous town a present
Of a pretty little garden--
An Arcadia in its way--
And how the bells rang merrily
On that eventful day.

Oh, this lovely little garden
'Twill be to us a pleasure,
It will delight the great elite--
To them 'twill be a treasure.
And who are they who dare to say
The town it did not need one--
A pretty little lovely spot
And a happy little Eden.

In this pretty little Paradise
Of beauty and of splendour--
Search our land from end to end,
You could not find a grander;
The turtledove can make its love,
Not caring for the pigeon,
If he belongs his politics
And follows his religion.

In this pretty little garden,
When the bloom is on the heather,
Two minds with but one single thought
Can tell their tales together;
The maiden from the mansion,
And the lady from the villa,
Can wander there and shed a tear
Beneath the weeping willow.

This bonny little garden
Is fine for perambulators,
Where our handsome servant-lasses
Can wheel our lovely creatures,
And oh! how happy they will be!
As time they are beguiling,
When the mammy and the daddy
Are upon the babies smiling.

Oh! this pretty little garden,
Which every one admires,
Which pleased His Grace the Noble Duke
To give our little squires.
The news was something wonderful,
Like the shooting of a rocket,
When they heard that they had got a Park,
And were "nothing out o'pocket."

In this pretty little garden,
With all its blossom blooming
We can sit and sing the whole day long,
From the morning till the gloaming;
And tell Dame Keighley's blunders,
When her sons were naught but asses;
And could not even raise a Park,
To please the upper classes.

Then let us give the Noble Duke,
The praises of the Borough--
For if we did not thank His Grace,
We should commit an error--
And not forgetting Mr. Leach,
For he deserves rewarding,
For it is known he got the town
This pretty little garden.

[Picture: Picture of a rose]

Farewell to the REV. H. J. LONGSDON, Formerly Rector of Keighley.

Farewell dear friend, nor take it hard,
To leave the town where thou hast been,
Where many a joy we hope thou'st had,
Though witness'd many a sorry scene.

Thy works were good, we know it well,
We watched thee in thy weary toil;
Where oft obstruction, shame to tell,
Waits on the good their plans to spoil.

Yet thou dids't toil without a fear
From day to day, from year to year;
Beloved by all, thy foes are few,
And they are loth to bid adieu.

We saw thee in the early dawn
Up with the lark at break of morn,
Thy duties promptly to attend,
Our shepherd, pastor, and our friend.

With good advice to one and all,
The old, the young, the great, the small;
In lane or house, in church or street,
Thy presence we were glad to meet.

"Thou art a man! a man! a man!"
The Poet quotes from some old play;
"An upright, honest gentleman,
Whose likes we meet not every day."

And when thou leavest us behind,
Our recollections will not die--
Of thee whose meekness, zeal, and love,
Are known alike to low and high.

Out from thy fold, all other flocks
Were proud of thee--a shepherd true,
All other shepherds greeted thee,
Although thy flocks to theirs were few.

Thou tended with a shepherd's care,
And saw that none did go astray;
Thou led them with an honest will,
From early morn to evening's ray.

Adieu, dear sir, long may'st thou live
To be a credit to our isle;
And when thou toil'st 'midst other friends,
May fortune on thy labours smile.

[Picture: Decorative picture of a plant]

He's Thy Brother.

Turn from the rich thy steps awhile, And visit this poor domicile; Abode of flavours rank and vile? This is the home, and this the style, Where lives thy brother!

The cobwebs are his chandeliers; Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs; He has no carpet on the stairs, But, like the wild beasts to their lairs, Crawls in thy brother.

He once did stride his father's knee-- A little horseman bold and free; And, should thou trace this pedigree, Thy mother's darling pet was he-- Thy little brother.

His mind was not of thine, 'tis plain; He dreamt of wonders, thou of gain; But thou thy object didst attain For which another sought in vain-- E'en thy own brother.

Thou cunningly didst keep thy pace, While he joined in the wild-goose chase; Thou'rt now the great one of this place, While he hath lost his phantom race-- Thy wretched brother!

I see a form amongst the crowd, With stricken heart, and head that's bowed; I hear a voice, both deep and loud-- A voice of one that wanted food-- It is thy brother.

The meanest wretch that ever trod, The smallest insect 'neath the sod, Are creatures of an All-seeing God, Who may have smitten with his rod Thy foolish brother.

He careth not for wealth or show, But dares thee to neglect, e'en now, That unmanned wretch, so poor and low, Else he may deal a heavy blow, E'en for thy brother.

Lund's Excursion to Windermere.

Come hither mi muse, an' lilt me a spring, Tho'daghtless awhile tha's been on the wing; But yet tha mun try to cum up ta t'mark, An' give us sum rhyme for a bit of a lark: An' tho' at thy notes in this sensation age, Wiseacres may giggle an' critics may rage, Thou art my sole hobby there is no mistake, So sing us t'Excursion ta Windermere Lake.

'Twor a fine summer's mornin' as ivver wor seen, All nature wor wearin' her mantle o' green; The birds wor all singin' i' owd Cockle Wood, As if by their notes they all understood, As weel as the people who com wi' a smile, To see the procession march off i' grand style.

"Owd Rowland," the bell wi' his gert iron tongue, Proclaim'd to the people both owd an' young, 'Twor high time to rise for each moment wor dear As t'train wod be startin' fer Lake Windermere; An' Rowland, the bell, didn't toll, sir, i' vain, For hunderds wur ready ta start for the train.

But harken what music--grand music is here, Ower maantains, dahn valleys, it's saanding so clear; It's t'Turkey Mill Band wi ther sharps and ther flats, I' ther blue an' green coits an' ther red-toppin'd hats, 'Tis plain whear they're bahn wi' t'long paces they take, An' they'll play wi' some vengeance at Windermere Lake.

But, harken ageean! what's comin' this way? More music, grand music; hey, hear how they play! It's t'Fife an' Drum Band fra Throttlepoke Raw, Wi' as strong a big drummer as ivver yah saw, An' both his drum ends must be solid as stone, Fer bi t'way 'at he thumps he macks it fair groan.

The procession moves off in a double quick pace, An' all seem delightful--a smile on ther face, As the music strikes up wi' owd "Robin a Dair," Toan hauf o' t'wimmen scarce knaw what they ail; To see the bands marching it wod yah delight, So ably conducted by owd Jimmy Wright.

The weivers led on by Miss Hob an' Miss Hall, Each dress'd i' ther jackets, new turban, an' fall, An' if you'd o' seen 'em you'd o' thowt they wor fine, Wi' ther nice parasols an' ther gert crinoline; But as they wor marchin' foaks sed at Miss Hob, Wor t'nicest and smartest young woman i' t'job.

T'next section 'at followed wor a section o' rakes, Led on by owd blossom, an' Driver o' Jacques, Wi' Ruddock an' Rufus, an' Snowball so breet; Along wi' owd Nathan, Bill Rollin an' Wreet; An' Harry O'Bridget, Tom Twist, an' his pals, An' Benger, an' Capper, an' Jonas o Salls.

The lads an' the lasses come marchin' behind, An' rare an' weel suited wor t'youngsters yo mind; For all wor nah waitin' fer t'Fife an' Drum Band, To strike up like thunner ther music so grand; How prahd an' delighted yo might a seen some, When t'drummer wi' vengeance wor thumpin' his drum.

An' who cud hev thowt it?--but let ma go on;-- There wor Jacky o' Squires an' Cowin' Heead John, Wi' Corney o' Rushers, but not bi hissen, For there wor Joseph o' Raygills, owd Jess an' owd Ben. Ye sall seek fer a month, but between nah an' then, I defy ye ta find sitch a pick'd lot o' men.

Tom Nicholl then marched at t'heead of his clan, An' it's said 'at he muster'd his men to a man; There wor Joaney o' Bobs, an' his mates full o' glee, An' that little dark fella 'at comes fra t'Gooise Ee. All a set o' fine fellas in heighest respect, Weel up i' moustaches an' nicely shirt neckt.

But among the procession at walk'd in his pride, Wor Joey o' Willie's 'at lives at t'Beck Side; An' along wi' Bill Earby wor marchin' his friend, Wun Jemmy o' Roses fra t'Branshaw Moor End. As we pass'd dahn t'tahn the foaks did declare 'At t'best lukin' men wor Sam Butt an' Black Hare.

But t'next at com on an' made t'biggest crack, Wor t'gallant Big-benners led on wi' Bill Shack; An' t'spectators praised 'em an' seem'd i' ther joy, When they saw Johnny Throstle, an' Nolan an' Boy. Altho' not weel up i' ther armour an mail, Yet these are the lads 'at can tell yu a tale.

Hahsumivver, we push'd an' thrusted thro' t'craad, Wal we landed at t'station an' waited i' t'yard; So we all sattled dahn, for we thowt it t'best plan To wait o' wer orders to get into t'train.

Hahsumivver, after a deal o' yellin' an' screamin' o' t'injuns, Mr. Mann sed all wor reight nah, an' they mud start as sooin as they liked, for ivverybody wor i' t'train at wor bahn, but owd Pally Pickles an' Matty o' Maude's; an' their Sally cudn't go becos they had a mustard plaister to put on to their Roger's chest; he'd strain'd his lungs wi' eitin' cahcumbers. Beside, owd Pally cudn't go either, becos shoo'd nobody to wait on t'owd fella at wor laid up i' t'merly grubs; an' ivverybody wor so taen on abaght Will Scott not going, for, as owd Betty sed, what wod they do if ther legs gat asleep an' no galvanic battery to shack em reight ageean?

But, hahsumivver, t'guard blew his whistle an' off t'train started helter-skelter up bi Utley as hard as ivver it cud go. An nah for a change o' scene!--fer t'Exley-Heeaders aght wi ther rhubub pasties an' treacle parkins. Harry o' Bridget's hed a treacle parkin t'size of a pancake in his hat crahn, an' Joe o' owd Grace's fra Fell Loin hed a gert bacon collop in his pocket t'size of a oven tin. Somebody remarks, "Tha'll grease thi owd chops wi' that, Joe." He sed "I like a bit o' bacon when it isn't reezed, tha knaws, especially home-fed like this"; but just when he wor exhibitin' it rhaand t'hoile, t'train stopp'd at Kilwick Station, fer t'maister an' t'missis wor waitin' to get in; so t'Turkey Mill Band struck up "We're goin' home to glory," wi' credit to both t'conductors an' thersens. Hahsumivver, they wor forced to put double time in at t'latter end, for Puffin' Billy started o' screaming ageean fearfully, so all wor in t'carriages an' off in a crack--my word, they did leg it ower hedges an' dykes, thru valleys an' mahutains--

"Where the wind nivver blew,
Nor a cock ivver crew,
Nor the deil sahnded
His Bugle Horn."

I'll assure yu, foak, it seemed varry little afoar we wor at Clapham. Why, yu can judge for yersens; when Tom o' Twist's gat up an' popped his heead aght o' t'window an' shaated aaght "We're at Derby already!" but it turned aght to be nowt but a coil truck wi' "Derby" marked on it. Well, be it as it may, we landed at Lancaster sooin, an' some o' t'owd maids gat aght here, but it wor nivver knawn to this day what for; hahsumivver, it hes been suspected at they wor after some watter, for ther shooin wor steepin' wet when they com back. But yu mun knaw at after a deal o' twistin' an' twinin' they started for Windermere, but, my word, it worrant generally thowt so, for owd Nathan o' Johnny's an' their Samuel, an' owd Matty o' Sykes's, an' Bob o' t'Bog, stood it boldly 'at it wor goin' back to Keighley, an' wodant believe it wal they reitched Kendal; besides, ivverybody thowt at t'train wor lost, but after another start we landed at Windermere, an' nearly all t'passengers wor fair capp'd, for they thowt for sewer at t'injun hed been flaid wi' summat.

But, hod yer din, says Railway Tim,
As it is varry clear,
At t'injun's reight an' landed streight,
For this is Windermere.

So, i' landing, ivverbody seemed quite startled wi' t'appearance o' t'place. "Well, if ivver, I'm fair capp'd!', sed owd Maude o' Peter's, "it's t'nicest spot I ivver saw wi' mi een, an' I sall say so to mi deein' day. It looks like a paradise! I've seen mony a nice place i' mi life-time, both dreamin' an' wakin', but this licks all! What wi' t'grand black marble houses an' t'roses growin' up at t'front, it's ommost like bein' i' Heaven." But nobody cud hear aboon t'toan hauf o' what wor said cos t'bands wor playin' as hard as ivver they cud an' t'foak wor all in a bussle, for--

Miss Hob an' Miss Jonas tuke a cab dahn to Bowness,
An' mind yu, they luk'd fearful grand;
An' when they gat theer they tuke fer Grassmere,
Like two o' t'first ladies i' t'land.

Miss Walsh an' Miss Roddy an' another young body,
Bethowt 'em 'at it wod be t'best,
To tak a fine boat an' just hev a float
Dahn the lake as far as Dove's Nest.

Says Miss Nelly Holmes, "as I've left off mi looms
I'll show at I'm summat better;
An' I'll go ta Low Wood, it might do ma good,
An' sport both on t'land an' on t'watter."

Hahsumivver, Miss Martha Smith fra Utley, an owd maid, an' Jenny Hodgson, an' Ann Shack, an' abaght nineteen other owd maids, bethowt 'em they'd hev some teah, for there wor a paper stuck i' ivvery window wi' "Hot water sold here," as an inscription. So they went in an' bargain'd for it, an' ax'd what it wor a piece fer hot waiter. "Tuppence a piece," says t'Missis. "Tuppence a piece!" exclaim'd t'dollop of 'em, "we can get it at owd Matty Wreet's fer a penny a week. It's a burning shame, but let's hev a bucket a piece."

So thirteen cups a piece they tuke,
An' they were noan ta blame,
Fer weel shoo knew did Hannah Shack,
They'd hev to pay the same.

An' my word, t'gert foak wor capp'd when they saw us; these wor some squintin' throo glasses, yu mind, an' especially when t'band started a playin'. In fact, they wor fair charm'd wi' t'Turkey Mill Banders, an' a deal o' t'young ladies an' gentlemen admired t'conductor, fer his arm went just like a hand-loom weiver swingin' his pickin' stick.

Fer monny a noble lord did say,
An' so did monny a heiress,
"Can this be Julien's Band, I pray,
That late we've seen in Paris.

"Upon my word, I think it is
That famous French instructor,
Mon Dieu! when I behold his phiz,
It is the great conductor."

But they wor t'moast capped wi' t'Fife an' Drum Band ov owt. They tuke 'em to be a band of Esquimaux at hed just landed i' England. Hahsumivver, we followed after, marchin' ta t'tune 'at t'owd kah deed on, i' droves like a squad o' pie-bald geese, wal we com ta t'watter edge, an' then--

To Miller's Brah, an' Calf-garth Woods,
Some on 'em tuke ther route,
Some sailed across to Castle Wray,
An' some went whear they thowt.

Some tuke a yacht to Newby Brig,
To brave both wind an' tide,
Wal others sailed around Belle Isle,
An' some to Ambleside.

I' landin' at Ambleside, Joe o' Raygill's bethowt him he'd hev a glass o' ale, an' bethegs he'd t'misfortun to leave three gert curnberry pasties i' t'hotel, an' didn't bethink him wal he'd getten on ta t'top of a big hill, but when he bethowt him, my word, he did bounce dahn that hill ta some tune. When he gat back, t'missis hed geen 'em to Jonas o' Sall's, an' behold they wor luking fer one another up hills an' dahn valleys, Joe axin' ivverybody he met if they'd seen owt of his three pasties, an' Jonas axin' fer t'owner on 'em. Hahsumivver, they nivver gat ta see nowt wal they wor theer, for they didn't meet wal t'train wor just startin' back agean, an' then Joe didn't get his pasties, cos Jonas hed geen 'em to a injun-driver, an' theer--betmess he'd hetten 'em, ta Joe's mortification an' rage!

But, that worn't all t'mistak at wor made; fer Bill Rollins bethowt him at he'd lost summat, but cudn't tell fer his life what it wor. He groped his pockets, luk'd into his carpet beg, an' studied fer aboon an haar; at last he pick'd it aght 'at it wor their Peg 'at he'd lost somewheer up on t'mahntens.

Well, as I wor tellin' yu, we'd promenaded t' gigantic hills an' beautiful valleys, intermix'd wi' ower-hingin' peaks an' romantic watter-falls which form part o' t'grand Lake scenery of ahr English Switzerland to the delight of ivvery one o' t'excursionists. T'day beginnin' to advance, an' "back agean" bein' t'word i' ivverybody's maath, yu cud see t'fowk skippin' ower t'Lake ("Home-ward bound," as t'song says), some in a Indian canoe, some in a Venetian gondolier; owd Ben Rusher wor in a Chinese junk, somebody sed. But, haivver, hunderds mud be seen on board o' t'steam yachts comin' fra Newby Brig an' Ambleside. Fra t'latter place t'steamer wor fair craaded wi' foak, for i' t'first class end ther wor Mr. an' Mrs. Lund an' their illustrious friends, Mr. Mann an' staff wi' a parson an' four of his handsome dowters; at t'other end wor a German Band, some niggers, Jimmy Wright, jun., alias Jim o' Peggy's, wi' a matter o' one hunderd Ranters rhaand him. Jim wod hev his lip in; but he's a rare chorus singer, there's nowt abaght that; for, my word, t'strangers did praise him aboon a bit, an' weel he desarved it, fer he gap'd like a young throstle, wal t'foak wor fair charm'd, an' 'specially t'Germans an' t'niggers 'at wor on deck, fer they'd nivver heeard onny chorus-singin' afoar they heeard Jim strike up--

We're joyously sailin' ower the lake,
Bound fer t'opposite shore;
An' which o' yu's fooil enuff ta believe
We sall nivver see land onny more.

Let the hurrican roar,
Sall we ivver land onny more.

The skilful pilot's at the wheel,
An' his mate is watchin' near;
So the captain shouts "Cheer up, mi lads,
There's nobody nowt to fear."

Then let the hurrican roar,
We sall reitch the opposite shore.

An' summat abaght "the evergreen shore" he sang. But what wi' t'beautiful landscapes on both sides o' t'Lake, an' t'recollections o' Wordsworth, Wilson, Mrs. Hemans, Harriet Martineau, an' other famous poets, painters, an' authors, it threw one of our party into a kind o' poetical mood--

For wal he stood upon the deck,
He oft wor heeard to say,
"I'd raither oomo to Windermere,
Nor go to Morecambe Bay;
An' though I've been to Malsis Hall,
Where it is fearful grand,
It's nowt at all compared wi' this--
The nicest place i' t'land.

For, O how splendid is the Lake,
Wi' scenery like this!
If I cud nobbut stop a week,
It wod be nowt amiss;
A resolution nah I'll mack,
T'next summer what to do;--
Asteead o' comin' for a day,
I'll stop a week or two."

But nah we land at Bowness Pier,
Then sooin we jump ashore,
An' back to t'Station we did steer,
For rare an' pleased we wor:
So into t'train for back agean,
Owd friends once more to meet;
An' in a crack we're landed back--
Bi ten o'clock at neet.

All join i' praise to Mr. Mann,
For t'management he made;
An' praise the gallant Turkey Band,
For t'music 'at they play'd:
An' praise is due fra ivvery one
'At shared i' this diversion;
All praise an' thanks to Mr. Lund,
Who gav this grand Excursion.

The Tartan Plaid.

In Auld Lang Syne I've heard 'em say
My granny then she wore
A bonnie Scottish Tartan Plaid
In them good days o' yore;
An' weel I ken when I was young
Some happy days we had,
When ladies they were dress'd so gay
In Scottish Tartan Plaid.

Me thinks I see my father now
Sat working at his loom--
I see my mother at the wheel--
In our dear village home;
The swinging-stick I hear again,
Its buzzin' makes me sad,
To think those happy days are gone
When weaving Tartan Plaid.

It is not in a clannish view,
For clans are naught to me,
But 'tis our ancient Tartan Plaid
I dearly love to see.
'Tis something grand ye will agree
To see a Highland lad,
Donn'd in his Celtic native garb,
The grand old Tartan Plaid.

Our Soldier lads in tartan kilts
Outshine our warriors bold
(Who dress in scarlet, green, and blue,
Decked off with shining gold);
Just see our kilted lads so brave,
It makes my heart feel glad,
And 'minds me of my boyish days
When dress'd in Tartan Plaid.

"O wad some power" the hint we give
Our Sovereign Lady Queen,
To dress herself and lady maids
In bonnie tartan sheen.
Then treadles, shuttles, warp, and weft--
(For trade would not be bad)--
Would rattle as in days of yore,
When weaving Tartan Plaid.

The Pauper's Box.

Thou odious box, as I look on thee, I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me? No, no! forbear!--yet then, yet then, 'Neath thy grim lid do lie the men-- Men whom fortune's blasted arrows hit, And send them to the pauper's pit.

O dig a grave somewhere for me, Deep underneath some wither'd tree; Or bury me on the wildest heath, Where Boreas blows his wildest breath, Or 'mid some wild romantic rocks: But, oh! forbear the pauper's box.

Throw me into the ocean deep, Where many poor forgotten sleep; Or fling my corpse in the battle mound, With coffinless thousands 'neath the ground; I envy not the mightiest dome, But save me from a pauper's tomb.

I care not if t'were the wild wolf's glen, Or the prison yard, with wicked men: Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled-- Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world! In fire or smoke on land or sea, Than thy grim lid be closed on me.

But let me pause, ere I say more About thee, unoffending door; When I bethink me, now I pause, It is not thee who makes the laws, But villians who, if all were just, In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, t'were grand beneath yond wall, To lie with friends,--relations all; If sculptured tombstones were not there, But simple grass with daisies fair; And were it not, grim box, for thee 'Twere paradise, O cemetery.

The Vale of Aire.

[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley. My spirits began to be cheered, for lively gratitude glowed in my heart at the wild romantic scenery before me. Passing the old mansion, I wended my way towards the huge crag called the "Altar Rock." Wild and rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, and reclining on a green moss-covered bank, I framed these words.]

Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard,
Accept from me at least one tributary line;
Yet how much more should be thy just reward,
Than any wild unpolished song of mine.

No monument in marble can I raise,
Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name;
But humbly try to celebrate thy praise,
And give applause that thou shouldst duly claim.

All hail, the songsters that awake the morn,
And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains;
All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn,
Beneath whose shades wild Nature's grandeur reigns.

From off yon rock that rears its head so high,
And overlooks the crooked river Aire;
While musing Nature's works full meet the eye,
The envied game, the lark and timid hare.

In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley's hill,
In Bingley's grand and quiet sequestered dale,
Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill,
I see thy haunt and read thy "Poacher's Tale."

So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune
Thy native vale in glorious days of old,
Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone--
Her sages and her heroes great and bold.

No flattering baseness could employ thy mind,
The free-born muse detests that servile part:
In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find
More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.

Though small regard be paid to worth so rare,
And humble worth unheeded pass along;
Ages to come will sing the "Yale of Aire,"
Her Nicholson and his historic song.

[Picture: Picture of a tree]

Fra Haworth ta Bradford.

Fra Haworth tahn the other day,
Bi t'route o' Thornton Height,
Joe Hobble an' his better hauf,
Went inta Bradford straight.

Nah Joe ta Bradford hed been before,
But shoo hed nivver been;
But hahsumivver they arrived
Safe inta t'Bowlin' Green.

They gav a lad a parkin pig,
As on the street they went;
Ta point 'em aght St. George's Hall,
An' Ostler's Monument.

Bud t'little jackanapes bein'deep,
An' thowt they'd nivver knaw,
Show'd Joseph Hobble an' his wife
T'first monument he saw.

As sooin as Joe gat up ta t'rails,
His een blaz'd in his heead;
Exclamin', they mud just as weel
A gooan an' robb'd the deead.

Bud whoivver's ta'en them childer dahn,
Away fra poor owd Dick,
Desarves his heead weel larapin,
Wi' a dahn gooid hazel stick.

T'lad seein' Joe froth aght o' t'maath,
He sooin tuke to his heels,
Fer asteead o' t'Ostler's Monument,
He'd shown 'em Bobby Peel's.

The Veteran.

I left yon fields so fair to view;
I left yon mountain pass and peaks;
I left two een so bonny blue,
A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks.
For an helmet gay and suit o' red
I did exchange my corduroy;
I mind the words the Sergeant said,
When I in sooth was but a boy.

"Come, rouse my lad, be not afraid;
Come, join and be a brave dragoon:
You'll be well clothed, well kept, well paid,
To captain be promoted soon.
Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see
Your manly form and dress so fine;
Give me your hand and follow me,--
Our troop's the finest in the line.

"The pyramids beheld our corps
Drive back the mighty man of Fate!
Our ire is felt on every shore,
In every country, clime, or state.
The Cuirassiers at Waterloo
We crushed;--they were the pride of France!
At Inkerman, with sabre true,
We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!

"Then come, my lad, extend your hand,
Tame indolence I hold it mean;
Now follow me, at the command,
Of our Most Gracious Sovereign Queen!
A prancing steed you'll have to ride;
A bonny plume will deck your brow;
With clinking spurs and sword beside,--
Come! here's the shilling: take it now!"

The loyal pledge I took and gave,--
It was not for the silver coin;
I wished to cross the briny wave,
And England's gallant sons to join.
Since--many a summer's sun has set,
An' time's graved-care is on my brow,
Yet I am free and willing yet
To meet old England's daring foe.

Address to the Queen, JUNE 20th, 1887.

_To the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty_.

Most Gracious Sovereign Lady, Victoria Alexandra Guelph, Queen of the hearts of her people throughout all civilisation, one of your Majesty's loyal and faithful subjects desires most respectfully to approach your Majesty to congratulate you upon the completion of the fiftieth year of your reign. In the same year of your Majesty's coronation, in a wild part of old Yorkshire, where it is said the wind never blew nor the cock ever crew, was your Most Gracious Majesty's humble servant born; and at the very hour that your Majest ascended the Throne, a kind, good Yorkshire mother was rocking her baby in an old oak cradle, while the father was treading the treadles and picking the shuttle of his old hand-loom to the tune of "Britons never shall be slaves"; and I am proud to convey to your Majesty that the child in the old oak cradle was no less a person than your Majesty's humble and obedient servant, Bill o'th' Hoylus End, Poet and Philosopher to the plebians of Keighley, and who now rejoices in the fiftieth year of your Majesty's reign that he has been blessed with good health during that long period, having had at no time occasion to call in a physician. John Barleycorn has been my medical adviser, and when I begin to review the fifty years of your most illustrious reign, from my birth, I feel grateful indeed, for great and mighty men and nations have risen and fallen; but I am proud to think that your Most Gracious Majesty and your humble servant have weathered the storm, and I also can assure your Majesty that the lukewarm loyalty of the upper ten is not a sample of people here, for during the latter half of your Majesty's reign up to now prosperity has shone upon the once crooked, old, mis-shapen town, for wealth has been accumulated to the tune of millions, which I am sorry to inform your Majesty is in the hands of those who mean to keep it. One portion of your Majesty's lukewarm loyal subjects have the advancement of art and science so much on the brain that it is feared they will go stark mad. I have also much pleasure in informing your gracious Majesty that His Grace the Duke of Devonshire has presented the people of Keighley with a plot of ground to be called the Devonshire Park, which will be opened on the occasion of your Majesty's Jubilee; also that Henry Isaac Butterfield, Esquire, of bonny Cliffe Castle, has erected a noble-looking structure, to be called the Jubilee Tower, which will be opened on the day of your Majesty's Grand Jubilee, to commemorate your Majesty's glorious reign. This gentleman is a native of Keighley, and fairly entitled to be knighted by your gracious Majesty, seeing that he has done more to beautify the town than all the rest. It has also been given out that the town has to be honoured by a royal visit from your Majesty's grandson, Prince George. But pray take a fool's advice, your Majesty, and don't let him come unless he is able to pay his own expenses; for I can assure His Royal Highness that this is the city of number oneism. Yet with the exception of parting with the bawbees, I dare be sworn that your Majesty's subjects in Keighley are the grand and genuine men of the shire, take them in art and science, flood or field.

I sincerely hope that your Most Gracious Majesty will excuse the blunt and out-spoken Bard, who will ever remain your Majesty's most humble and obedient servant,--BILL O'TH' HOYLUS END.

P.S.--I beg your Majesty's most humble pardon, for since I addressed your most gracious Majesty a note has come to me stating that the Brewers, Bakers, Shoemakers, and Tailors, have subscribed and bought a splendid Ox, which will be roasted and served to the poor on the occasion of the celebration of your most gracious Majesty's Jubilee.

Then Hail to England's Gracious Queen!
'Tis now proclaimed afar,
The Jubilee of our Gracious Queen,
The Empire's Guiding Star.
For fifty years she's been to us
A Monarch and a Mother;
And looks her subjects in the face
As Sister or a Brother.

Then here's a health to England's Queen
Whom Jove to us hath given;
A better Monarch ne'er has been
Beneath His starry heaven.
There is no man of any clan,
O'er any land or sea,
But what will sing "God bless our Queen"
On her grand Jubilee.

The world looks on Old England's Queen
In danger for protection;
Nor never yet hath England failed
To make her grand correction.
"Fair play," she cries, no one shall harm
A child beneath my realm;
I'm Captain of Great Britain's barque
And standing at the helm.

Had England trusted wicked men,
This day where had she been?
But lo! she had a Guiding Star,
'Twas our dear Mother Queen.
There is no foe, where'er you go
This day, I vow, could hate her;
She's a blessing to her nation,
And a terror to a traitor.

As she has been, long may she reign,
The Grand Old Queen of Britain;
In letters of bright gold her name
Henceforward should be written.
All nations 'neath the stars above,
And canopy of heaven,
Rejoice to see her Jubilee
In Eighteen Eighty-seven.

Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday.

Weak bard, but thou dost try in vain To tune that mighty harp again, To try thy muse in Burns's strain-- Thou'rt far behind. And yet to praise him thou would'st fain-- It is thy mind.

He who sang of Bruce's command At Bannockburn, with sword in hand, And bid his warriors firmly stand Upon the spot; And bid the foemen leave the land, Or face the Scot.

He who freed the human mind Of superstitious weak and blind; He who peered the scenes behind Their holy fairs-- How orthodox its pockets lined With canting prayers.

Yes; he whose life's short span appears Mixed up with joyous smiles and tears; So interwove with doubts and fears His harp did ring; And made the world to ope' its ears And hear him sing.

'Twas his to walk the lonely glen, Betimes to shun the haunts of men, Searching for his magic pen-- Poetic fire; And far beyond the human ken He strung the lyre.

And well old Scotland may be proud To hear her Burns proclaimed aloud, For to her sons the world hath bowed Through Burns's name-- All races of the world are proud Of Burns's fame.

Trip to Malsis Hall.

The day wor fine, the sun did shine,
No signs o' rain to fall,
When t'North Beck hands, i' jovial bands,
Did visit Malsis Hall.

Up by the hill o' North Beck Mill,
Both owd an' young did meet;
To march I trow, i' two-by-two,
Procession dahn the street.

An' Marriner's Band, wi' music grand,
Struck up wi' all ther might;
Then one an' all, both great an' small,
March'd on wi' great delight.

The girls an' boys, wi' jovial noise,
The fife an' drum did play;
For ivvery one wod hev some fun
On this eventful day.

Owd Joan o' Sall's wi' all his pals,
March'd on wi' all ther ease:
Just for a lark, some did remark,
"There goes some prime owd cheese!"

T'Exl' Heead chaps wi' their girt caps,
An' coits nut quite i' t'fashion;
Wi' arms ding-dong, they strut along,
An' put a famous dash on.

Tom Wilkins dress'd up in his best,
T'owd wife put on her fall,
Fer they wor bent, what com or went,
To dine at Malsis Hall.

Ther wor Tommy Twist among the list,
Wi' his magenta snaht;
He's often said sin he gat wed,
T'owd lass sud hev an aght.

Among the lot wor owd Sam Butt,
As fine as owd Lord Digby;
An' owd Queer Doos, wi' his streit shoes,
An' wi' him Joseph Rigby.

There's Jimmy Gill, o' Castle Hill,--
That gentleman wi' t'stick,--
There's Will an' Sam, an' young John Lamb,
An' Ben an' Earby Dick.

I scorn to lie--the reason why
It is a shame awm sure!
But among the job wor owd Joe Hob,
Behold! a perfect kewer.

I'd quite forgot, among the lot,
There too wor Pally Pickles,
Wi' crinoline shoo walks so fine,
Shoo's like a cat i' prickles.

Bud to mi tale--aw mussant fail
I' owt on this occasion--
Wi' heead erect, an' girt respect,
We march to Keighley Station.

Nah--all reight fain gat into t'train,
Owd Ned began to screeam;
Then Master Pratt doft off his hat,
An' just pept aght at t'steeam.

This jovial band when they did land,
Got off the train so hearty,
For they all went, wi' that intent,
To hev a grand tea-party!

The country foak did gape an' luke,
To see us all delighted,
An' ivvery one did say "Begum,
Aw wish awd been invited."

'Tis joy to tell, they marched as well
As t'Scots did ower the border,
Owd Wellington an' all his men
Ne'er saw such marchin' order.

The lookers-on, to see them come,
Gat on ta t'second storey;
Reight dahn the park they did 'em mark,
Comin' i' their full glory.

Then to the place each smilin' face,
Moved on i' grand succession;
The lookers on did say "Well done,
It is a grand procession!"

When they'd all pass'd the hall at last
They form'd into a column;
Then Jimmy Wreet, wi' all his meet,
Gav aght a hymn so solemn:

Then all did raise their voice i' praise,
Wi' music in the centre;
They sang a hymn i'praise o' Him,
'At is the girt Creator.

That bit bein' done, they all did run,
To get a pleasant day in,
Some went there, an' some went here,
An' t'Bands began o' playin'.

Wi' mich amaze, we all did gaze,
Arahnd this splendid park;
Then little Jake began to talk,
An' thus he did remark:--

"At Morecambe Bay I've been a day,
At Bolton Woods an' Ilkley;
But Malsis Hall outstrips 'em all,
'At I've seen aght o' Keighley."

The girt park wall arahnd the hall,
Majestical does stand;
Wi' wavin' trees, an' pleasant breeze,
It's like a fairy land.

It fill'd wur eyes wi' gert surprise,
To see the fahnten sporting;
An' on the top, stuck on a prop,
The British flags wor floatin'.

The walks so grand, wi' yellow sand,
An' splendid wor the pavin',
High over all, arahnd the wall,
Wor flags an' banners wavin'.

Nah--some made fun, an' some did run,
Owd women they wor singin'--
"Do you ken the Moofin Man,"--
An' others they wor swingin'.

I' sooth 'twor grand to see this band,
Assembled all together;
Bud sad to say, that varry day
Turn'd aght some shockin' weather.

Bud war ner t'rain, aw mun explain,
'At caus'd a girt disaster,
All but one sort o' breead ran short--
It wor no fault o' t'maister.

O, Gormanton! thy breead an' bun,
An' judgment it wor scanty;
Oh, what a shame, an' what a name,
For not providing plenty!

Oh, silly clown! thah might hev knawn,
To eyt each one wor able;
The country air did mak some swear
They cud ommost eyt a table.

The atmosphere, no longer clear,
The clouds are black an' stormy;
Then all but one away did run,
Like some desertin' army.

On--on! they go! as if some foe
Wor chargin' at the lot!
If they got there, they didn't care
A fig for poor Will Scott!

Poor lame owd Will remains theer still,
His crutches hes to fetch him;
But he's seen t'time, when in his prime,
'At nobody theer cud catch him.

Like some fast steed wi' all its speed,
All seem'd as they wor flyin';
To escape the rain, an' catch the train,
Both owd and young wor tryin'.

One Mat o' Wills, abaght Crosshills,
He heeard a fearful hummin',
He said ta t'wife, "Upon mi life,
Aw think the French are comin'!

Tha knaws reight weel 'at we've heeard tell
O' sich strange things afore,
So lass luke quick an' cut thi stick,
An' I will bolt the door."

Like drahnded rats they pass owd Mat's,
An' ran dahn to the station;
Owd Betty Bake an' Sally Shacks
Were both plump aght o' patience.

"This is a mess," says little Bess,
'At lives on t'top o' t'garden;
"There's my new shawl an' fine lace fall,
They'll nut be worth a fardin."

But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throug,
The bell does give the sign,
Wi' all its force, the iron horse
Comes trottin' dahn the line.

Then one by one they all get in,
Wet, fatigued, an' weary;
The steam does blow, owd Ned doth go,
An' we come back so cherry.

Whene'er we roam away fra hooam,
No matter wheer or when,
In storm or shower, if in wur power,
To home, sweet home, we turn!

The Bold Buchaneers.