Chapter IV: Part 4

Give Switzerland her honour'd place
With rifles and with spears,
But give to me our grand old sport,
Our famous cricketeers.

[Picture: Rural scene]

Christmas Day.

Sweet lady, 'tis no troubadour, That sings so sweetly at your door, To tell you of the joys in store, So grand and gay; But one that sings "Remember th' poor, 'Tis Christmas Day."

Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the locks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow's heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.

O make the weary spent-up glad, And cheer the orphan lass and lad; Make frailty's heart, so long, long sad, Your kindness feel; And make old crazy bones stark mad To dance a reel.

Then peace and plenty be your lot, And may your deed ne'er be forgot, That helps the widow in her cot, From out your store; Nor creed nor seed should matter not, The poor are poor.

Wi' Him I call my own.

The branches o' the woodbine hide
My little cottage wall,
An' though 'tis but a humble thatch,
I envy not the hall.

The wooded hills before my eyes
Are spread both far and wide;
An' Nature's grandeur seems to dress,
In all her lovely pride.

It is, indeed, a lovely spot,
O' singing birds an' flowers;
'Mid Nature's grandeur it is true,
I pass away my hours.

Yet think not 'tis this lovely glen,
So dear in all its charms;
Its blossomed banks and rippled reels,
Freed from the world's alarms.

For should love's magic change the scene,
To trackless lands unknown,
'Twere Eden in the desert wild,
Wi' him I call my own.

[Picture: Decorative picture of fern]

It isn't so wi' Me.

Bright seem the days when I wor young
Fra thought, and care, and sorrow free;
As wild waves rippled i' the sun,
Rolled gaily on, 'twor so wi' me.

More bright the flowers when I wor young,
More sweet the birds sang on the tree;
While pleasure and contentment flung
Her smiles on them, and so wi' me.

The naked truth I told when young,
Though tempted wi' hypocrisy;
Though some embraced, from it I sprang,
An' said it isn't so wi' me.

I saw the canting jibs when young,
Of saintly, sulky misery;
Yet poked I melancholy's ribs,
And said it isn't so wi' me.

Though monny a stone when I wor young,
Is strong upon my memory--
I threw when young an' hed 'em flung;
If they forgive, 'tis so wi' me.

Could money buy o' Nature's mart,
Again our brightest days to see;
Ther's monny a wun wod pawn the shirt,
Or else they'd buy--and so wi' me.

Yet after all I oft look back,
Without a pang o' days gone past,
An' hope all t'wrong I did when young,
May be forgi'n to me at last.

A New Divorce.

Says Pug o' Joan's, o' Haworth Brah,
To Rodge, o' Wickin Crag--
"Ahr Nelly's tung's a yard too long,
And by t'mess it can wag.

"It's hell at top o' t'earth wi' me,
An' stand it I am forc'd;
I'd give all t'brass 'at I possess,
If I could get divorced."

Then answered Rodge, "I hev a dodge,
As good a plan as any;
A real divorce tha'll get of course--
It willn't cost a penny."

"Then tell me what it is," says Pug,
"I'm almost brocken-hearted,"
"Well, go to Keethlah Warkhase, lad,
Where man an' wife are parted."

[Picture: Picture of house in trees]

The Vision.

Blest vision of departed worth,
I see thee still, I see thee still;
Thou art the shade of her that's gone,
My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.

My chamber in this silent hour,
Were dark an' drear, were dark an' drear
But brighter far than Cynthia's beam,
Now thou art here, now thou art here.

Wild nature in her grandeur had
No charm for me, no charm for me;
Did not the songsters chant thy name
From every tree, from every tree.

Chaos would have come again,
In worlds afar, in worlds afar;
Could I not see my Mary's face,
In every star, in every star.

Say when the messenger o' death,
Shall bid me come, shall bid me come;
Wilt thou be foremost in the van,
To take me home, to take me home.

[Picture: Decorative picture of flowers]

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY
JOHN OVEREND, COOK LANE, KEIGHLEY.