Chapter X: Part III (3)

"Why on my heart such sudden fear
Came icy cold I cannot tell;
When loud the shot pealed on mine ear,
I thought by it my husband fell.

"He was I fear too rashly brave!
His heart was bold tho' warm and kind,
But now it moulders in the grave,
And we are helpless left behind.

"In health and hope he left his home,
And promised early to return,
For him I spread my choicest store,
And brighter made the fire to burn.

"For him, alas! I looked in vain,
The night closed in dark, drear, and wild,
I sigh'd and wept, then looked again,
Then looked upon my sleeping child.

"And oh! that night of dreadful grief,
Of fear, uncertainty, and sorrow,
What could I think? where seek relief?
I hoped--yet feared the coming morrow.

"I thought that night would ne'er be done,
Each minute seemed a dreary day;
My heart before was ne'er cast down,
As then it drooped at his delay.

"Each sound I heard I thought him come,
And eager looked--but looked in vain;
That dreary night he was from home,
And there he never came again.

"The morning told the fatal truth,
My hapless heart presaged my lot,
The loved companion of my youth,
Was murdered by a villain's shot.

"Oh! murderous man, what hast thou done?
Reflect upon thy awful crime!
What peace of mind to thee can come,
Oh wretch repent while thou hast time!

"Oh! I could curse thee in my grief!
Thou murderer of my peace and joy;
But I will not--'twere small relief,
Tho' justice should thy life destroy.

"'Twould not recall to life again
The man I loved in early youth:
Ah me! ah me! now all in vain
His kindness, my confiding truth.

"In thy dark cell alone to pine
From every consolation free;
I'd rather bear my lot than thine,
I'd rather be myself than thee!

"Will not before thy startled eye
Thy murdered victim ever seem?
Canst thou in slumber think to lie,
And not behold him in thy dream?

"For me, alas! what shall I do?
My children soon must cry for bread,
And he, the husband, father true,
Who was our all, is murdered.

"Deep in his grave, oh! I could rest,
There would my cares and sorrows cease;
With him I should--I should be blest!
O with him I should be at peace!

"Come death relieve me of my woe!
Come bid my sleepless eyelids close!
O gladly to his grave I'd go,
And share with him his cold repose!

"Why dost thou smile? my darling child!
Thy heavy loss thou dost not know!
Thy mother's grief is frantic, wild,
For oh thy father moulders low!

"No more will he with kindly care,
Caress thee fondly in his arms;
His loving kiss thou canst not share,
Nor lisp to him thy vain alarms.

"Forgive me, God! I wished to die,
When thou my babe so sweetly smiled;--
For thee to live in hope I'll try,
My comfort left, my darling child!"

As conscious of its parent's woe,
The artless innocent upsprung,
Its arms around her neck to throw,
While to her lips its kisses clung.

Then love dissolved the mother's grief,
What mother can desert her child?
A flood of tears now brought relief,
And hope again (though faintly) smiled.

ALICE HAWTHORN.[248]

Come all ye gay sportsmen who join in the sport,
And oft to the race-course with pleasure resort,
Come listen to me while of Alice I sing,
Who bids fair to rival the famous Bees Wing.

CHORUS.

To swift Alice Hawthorn, then fill up the glass, And give her a
bumper,--the first in the race.

Her sire was famous, Muley Moloch his name,
Her dame was Rebecca, a mare of great fame,
The pride of the turf, and the crack of the day,
They carried the cups and the prizes away.

She beat them at Richmond in the year forty-two,
Also at Northallerton swiftly she flew,
As if she was going on the wings of the wind,
And leaving the jockies to whip up behind.

At Richmond in forty-three, all of them tried,
To beat Alice Hawthorn, but vainly they vied,
'Twas glorious to see how the favourite did run,
And the Victoria Plate like a gallant she won.

At Liverpool races she beat every horse,
And at York too she triumphed, the pride of the course,
And when Alice Hawthorn to Doncaster came,
The cup was her prize, and they all gave her fame.

The Ascot Heath sporters prepared her a prize,
And she won it most nobly, and pleased all their eyes,
She won at Newcastle, and to crown all up,
She gallantly carried away Goodwood cup.

The year forty-four is the height of her fame,
Her trainer, Bob Hesseltine, joys in her name,
Her master has reaped a good harvest this year,
And swift Alice Hawthorn to Salvin[249] is dear.

At York the Queen's Hundred she then bore away,
And proved herself fairly the crack of the day,
The Yorkers stood gaping and praising the mare,
And Alice! brave Alice! rung loud in the air.

At Lewes she won the Queen's Plate in grand style,
And her rider gazed on the old mare with a smile,
Then Doncaster crown'd her the queen of the course,
By winning three prizes and never a loss.

And now to conclude, you'll allow me to say,
At Richmond she carried the gold cup away,
So here's to Sim. Templeman, drink to the man,
And beat him on Alice ye jocks if ye can.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 248: From a broadside _penes me_, written by John Tate, "the Pocklington Poet," and printed by J. Forth, Pocklington.]

[Footnote 249: Mr. Salvin purchased her of Mr. Plummer; and in another song, after enumerating "the noble prizes she won, with courage bold," concludes:--

"Unto my song I'll make an end, until I write again,
Success to Mr. Hesseltine her noble trainer's name,
Likewise to Mr. Plummer, who she often makes to smile,
And may they every coming year in racing annals shine."
]

TOMMY THUMB.

I'ze a poor country lad, as you see by my dress,
That I'ze Yorkshire, mayhap, you may pratty well guess;
My name's Zekiel Homespun, you all know me now,
It is not the first time I have here made my bow.
Tol lol de roll, &c.

To London I com'd, upon bus'ness, d'ye see,
But contriv'd to make pleasure and bus'ness agree;
For when I gets back wi' our chaps on the green,
They'll be sure to be asking me what I ha' seen.

Now having in town but a short time to stay,
Thinks I, while the sunshines, I'd better make hay;
So I ask'd what the play were? they told me, by gum,
'Twas a very fine tragedy, call'd Tommy Thumb.

In Yorkshire I'd oft heard our knowing ones say,
That a very good moral was learn'd from a play,
And that tragedy boasted of language so fine,
So I thought that, as how, it might help me wi' mine.

Well, the curtain drew up, and the first to appear,
Were two gentlemen drest, to be sure, mortal queer;
Says one, "To the king, this petition I'll show,"
Then the other to him answered, "Do, Doodle, do."

In the next scene were the king and the queen on their throne,
To whom the petition was presently shown;
But king Arthur from Doodle indignantly shrunk,
"For," says he, "'tis our pleasure this day to get drunk."

So thinks I to myself, an' that's what you're about,
There's no business for me, sure, to see the play out;
To my own native parts I will quickly go down,
I can learn to get drunk there as well as in town.

So I'ze ta'en me a place at George and Blue Boar,
Where the coach will set off in the morning at four,
And as I must be up long afore it is light,
I hope you'll not keep me here too late to night.

THE FUNNY WEDDING.

WHICH TOOK PLACE IN BRADFORD ON THE FIRST OF DECEMBER, 1851.

Just give attention, old and young,
And listen for awhile,
I'll sing to you a funny song,
Will sure to make you smile,
It is about a circumstance
Well known to all around,
I mean the funny wedding
That took place in Bradford town.

CHORUS.

Such a funny sight in Bradford town,
Was never seen before.

It was from Whipsey that the people
On that morning came,
The aged couple there did live,
You perhaps may know their name;
This couple long had wanted to
Enjoy each other's bed,
So on that happy day they went
To Bradford to get wed.
Such a funny wedding.

They often told their tales of love,
At length, good lack-a-day,
Old Johnny said to Betty,
"Love, this is our wedding day."
Such mirth and fun in Bradford town,
The people did never see,
For John is sixty-five years old,
And Betty seventy-three.
Such a funny wedding.

Invitations were sent round to their
Neighbours and their friends,
And earnestly requested them
Their wedding to attend;
So on the first day of December,
They collected in their forces,
Some mounted upon donkeys' backs,
And others upon horses.
Such a funny wedding.

To see this funny wedding
Thousands gathered round,
For in a grand procession
They march'd into the town;
Some with soot mustachios,
Others with their faces black,
And another with a monkey
Stuft with straw upon his back.
Such a funny wedding.

There was some had got red jackets on,
And others had got blue,
With rummy caps and three-cock'd hats,
They seem'd a jovial crew,
And as they came along the street,
The people they did start,
And laugh to see old John and
Betty riding in a cart.
Such a funny wedding.

At last they came up to the church,
And the cart did stand,
While John and Betty both got out,
As you shall understand;
He led her to the altar
And plac'd her by his side,
They took the oath, and Johnny then
Claim'd Betty for his bride.
Such a funny wedding.

When the marriage it was over,
Devoid of care or pain,
The procession got in readiness
For to return again.
With John and Betty in the cart
They made a grand display,
And as they homeward did return
The fifes and drums did play.
Such a funny wedding.

Now John and Betty have got wed,
Let's hope they will agree,
In unity and harmony
Always happy be,
And in nine months' time,
May they have a daughter or a son
Mark'd with this grand procession,
And December on its bum.

And such a funny wedding may
They live to see again.

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.[250]

You sportsmen all both great and small, one moment now attend,
And listen with attention to these verses I have penn'd,
'Tis of the Flying Dutchman I mean to sing my lay,
And tell you all the prizes too that he has borne away.
To the Flying Dutchman drink success who has so nobly run,
He's beat the famous Voltigeur and show'd them how 'twas done.

The first place was Newmarket the Flying Dutchman run,
Where the July stake and a sweepstake of 400_l_. he won;
And then he went to Liverpool, believe me what I say,
A sweepstake of 1200_l_. the Dutchman bore away.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

At Doncaster in 1848, the truth I do unfold,
He carried off the champion stakes, likewise the two year old;
And then in 1849 he went to Epsom town,
And won the Derby stake 6,320_l_.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

Then in July, at Liverpool, no horse would with him run,
He walked over twice and there 850_l_. he won;
From there he went to Doncaster, and through the pelting rain,
With Charley Marlow on his back the Ledger did obtain.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

The foal stakes then at Doncaster, which was 400_l_. more,
No horse would run against him so the Dutchman he walked o'er;
Then at Newmarket he was match'd, but the Dutchman, I believe,
A forfeit of 500_l_. from Honeycomb received.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

Then for the Belivor stake the famous Flying Dutchman ran,
He took the prize; then at Ascot Heath the Emperor's cup he won;
And at Goodwood too he won the prize, then to Doncaster came up,
He there was beat by Voltigeur running for the cup.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

Upon the thirteenth day of May in 1851,
The Flying Dutchman and Voltigeur upon York[251] race course did run,
'Twas for a thousand sovereigns, believe me what I say,
Which the Flying Dutchman has won and borne the prize away.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

No other horse was ever known to do what he has done,
For more than twenty thousand pounds in prizes he has won;
With Marlow mounted on his back, believe me what I say,
He never run a race but one, but he took the prize away.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

So to conclude and make an end, and finish up my song,
Unto the brave lord Eglinton, Flying Dutchman does belong,
So fill your glass and let it pass, and give a loud huzza,
For the Flying Dutchman stands unrivalled at the present day.
To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 250: From a broadside _penes me_, printed and sold by Jas. Lindsay, Glasgow.]

[Footnote 251: This event, which drew upwards of 50,000 persons to the course, was a two mile match, for 1000_l_., between the earl of Eglinton's horse Flying Dutchman, by Bay Middleton, five years old, carrying 8st. 8 1/2-lb; and the earl of Zetland's horse Voltigeur, by Voltaire, four years old, carrying 8st. The former horse won by about a length.]

THE YORKSHIREMAN IN LONDON.[252]

When first in London I arriv'd
On a visit, on a visit;
When first in London I arriv'd
'Midst heavy rain and thunder,
I 'spied a bonny lass in green,
The bonniest lass I'd ever seen,
I'd oft heard tell of a beauteous queen,
Dash me, thinks I, I've found her.

I look'd at her, she look'd at me,
So bewitching, so bewitching;
I look'd at her, she look'd at me,
I look'd so very simple.
Her cheeks were like the blooming rose,
Which on the hedge neglected blows,
Her eyes were black as any sloes,
And near her mouth a dimple.

I stood stock still, she did the same,
Gazing on her, gazing on her;
I stood stock still, she did the same,
Thinks I, I've made a blunder;
Just then her cheeks turn'd deadly pale,
Says I, "My love, what d'ye ail?"
Then she told me a dismal tale
That she was scar'd with thunder.

"Madam," says I, and made my bow,
Scraping to her, scraping to her;
"Madam," says I, and made my bow,
"I'd quite forgotten t' weather;
But if you will permission give
I'll see you home, where-e'er you live;"
So she pop'd her arm right thro' my sleeve,
And off we set tegether.

A bonny wild goose chase we had,
In an out sir, in an out sir;
A bonny wild goose chase we had,
The bollar stones so gall'd me;
At last she brought me to a door
Where twenty lasses, hey, or more,
Came out to have a better glore
At bumkin as they call'd me.

"Walk in," said she, "kind sir," to me,
Quite politely, quite politely;
"Walk in," said she, "kind sir," to me.
"Poor chap," say they, "he's undone."
"Walk in," says she. "No, no," says I,
"For I've got other fish to fry,
I've seen you home, so now good bye,
I'm Yorkshire, tho' in London."

My pockets soon I rummish'd over,
Cautious ever, cautious ever;
My pockets soon I rummish'd over,
Found there a diamond ring, sir;
For I had this precaution took,
In each to stick a small fish hook;
So in grapling for my pocket book,
The barb had strip'd her finger.

Three weeks I've been in London town,
Living idle, living idle;
Three weeks I've been in London town,
It's time to go to work, sir;
For I've sold the ring, and here's the brass,
I have not play'd the silly ass;
It will do to toast a London lass,
When I get back to Yorkshire.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 252: From _A Garland of New Songs_, printed by J. Marshall, in the Old Flesh-Market, Newcastle-upon-Tyne (_circa_ 1810).]

THE GREAT EXHIBITION; OR, PRINCE

ALBERT'S CURIOSITY SHOP.

An entirely new comic song, written and sung by Mr. Burford, at the Theatre, Whitby, on the occasion of the Foresters' bespeak, and since received every evening with great applause.

I am a native of fair Dublin city,
To Whitby I've come for a spree;
I've been up to London to visit
The Great Crystal Palace, d'ye see:
For there's wonders one top of the other,
In that wonderful place to be seen,
Faith the brains of a saint it would bother,
To know what the government mean.

You may talk of your fancy bazaars,
If you're passing Hyde Park only stop;
Faith it's there that you'll stare with surprise,
At Prince Albert's Curiosity Shop.

For the first day the charge is a guinea,
For those that have guineas to pay,
But I dont think I'll be such a ninny
As throw my good money away;
On the next day the charge is five shillings,
But the queen wont be there I'll be bound,
For altho' she's got plenty of money
She'll not like to part with her _crown_.
You may talk, &c.

I'll sing you of some of the wonders,
I hear has been sent from this town:
Of life boats I'm sure there is plenty,
And not one of which will go down.
There's Smales, Swallow, Baker, and Slater,
Have studied upon their own scale,
But the one that should weather all storms,
Is that which was made by a Gale.
You may talk, &c.

There's a genius to make weather merry--
Merryweather's the genius I mean;
Foul and fair be his studies together,
Ere long his success will be seen.
At Staithes' they say there's a man too,
Has made a rat trap goes on springs;
And another a new reefing jacket,
Provided with cast metal wings.
You may talk, &c.

No doubt but you've heard of St Hilda,
That wonderful Saint long ago,
She cut all the heads off the serpents,
With her wonderful sword at a blow.
The petrified sword has been found too,
To the Great Exhibition it's gone,
For no doubt there'll be plenty of serpents
From all parts to visit the town.
You may talk, &c.

I've got some fresh news for your seamen
To keep up your hearts my good lads,
For there's vessels to sail out of Whitby,
In which you'll be sure of your brads.
I've been watching the vessels that's passing,
That justice to seamen allows,
And so you'll be sure of your wages
For they've got £4 10_s_. on their bows.
You may talk, &c.

May every success attend Whitby,
May the star of prosperity shine
On your labours to prove your industry,
May it gain for your town a good name;
May misfortune's clouds never lower
On either your commerce or trade;
May your seamen gain all they desire,
And stick to the terms they have made.
You may talk, &c.

THE LORD OF SALTAIRE.

BY ABRAHAM HOLROYD.[253]

This song was composed to commemorate an event which created much sensation in Yorkshire, and indeed throughout all England, in September, 1853; this was the inauguration and opening of a palace dedicated to industry near Shipley in Airedale. These works were built for the manufacture of alpaca and mohair fabrics, and named Saltaire from Salt--the name of the owner, Titus Salt, esq., M.P. for Bradford--and Aire, the name of the river on which they were erected. The buildings cover an area of eleven and half acres, will contain 1,200 looms capable of producing 30,000 yards of cloth, or mixed goods, per day, or nearly 18 miles of cloth, and employing about 5,000 people.

The town of Saltaire is built upon the best principles, including every convenience necessary for promoting the health and comfort of the population. Not only will it be a model town as regards its spacious squares and streets, grounds for recreation, schools, and church, (which has lately been opened, and cost 11,000_l_., and is perhaps the most beautiful in its interior of any church in Yorkshire,) its baths and washhouses, and all that philanthropy can suggest, or art supply, to further improvement.

Roll on, gentle Aire, in thy beauty,
Renowned in story and song,
The subject of many a ditty,
From Nicholson's[254] musical tongue:
But a greater than he hath arisen,
Who has link'd thy name with his own,
He will render thee famous for ages,
And thou wilt to millions be known.

Then let us all join in the chorus,
And sing of the qualities rare,
Of one who by nature is noble,--
And hail him the lord of Saltaire!

He's rear'd up a palace to Labour,
Will equal the Cæsars of old,
The church and the school and the cottage,
And lavish'd his thousands of gold:
Where the workman may live and be happy,
Enjoying the fruit of his hand;
In contentment, in comfort, and plenty,
Secure as a peer of the land.
Then let us all join, &c.

From Peru he's brought the alpaca--
From Asia's plains the mohair--
With skill has wrought both into beauty,
Priz'd much by the wealthy and fair:
He has velvets, and camlets, and lustres,
With them there is none can compare;
Then off, off with your hats and your bonnets,
Hurrah for the lord of Saltaire.
Hip, hip, and all join, &c.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 253: Of Bradford, author of "Flow on, Gentle Aire," "Liberty, a Vision," &c.]

[Footnote 254: John Nicholson, "the Airedale Poet," who was accidentally drowned in the Aire on the 13 April, 1843, on the spot where the works now stand. A new edition of his poems, with a sketch of his life and writings, by John James, F.S.A., has recently been published, for the benefit of his widow.]

A REMARKABLE CIRCUMSTANCE CONNECTED WITH BRETTON HALL.[255]

At Bretton Hall, near Wakefield, known so well,
Sir William Wentworth Blackett once did dwell;
That mansion was his own; there, with his bride,
In pomp and splendour, he did once reside.
Yet, in the midst of all that he possest,
A rambling mind disturb'd sir William's breast;
His lady and his home he left behind;
Says he, "The end of this wide world I'll find;
The earth's extensive, but, you may depend on't,
Before e'er I return, I'll find the end on't."
So he embark'd on board a ship, we find,
And, sailing, left her ladyship behind,
Who oft in sorrow did his absence mourn,
And sighing said, "Oh, that he would return!
For, be his voyage rough or smooth at sea,
It is a cruel bitter blast to me."
Sir William, he rolls on through winds and waves;
Undaunted, he all kinds of weather braves;
Nor his strange project e'er relinquish'd he,
Till one-and-twenty years he'd been at sea;
Then, p'rhaps, he thought, "Good lack! the world is round;
The end is nowhere--so it can't be found;
And, as I'm weary of this wild-goose chase,
At home again, e'er long I'll show my face."
Then off he set, but little was aware,
What would transpire on his arrival there:
For while sir William rov'd as here express'd,
Another "Sir," his lady thus address'd:--
"Sir William's gone, (ne'er to return again)
Past this world's end, which long he sought in vain,
There's not a doubt he's found the end of life;
But don't be troubled; you shall be my wife."
She listen'd, till at length she gave consent,
And straightway to church then this couple went.
Sir William does about this wedding hear,
As he unto his journey's end draws near;
And thus he does within his mind reflect:--
"This sly usurper I shall now detect:
Soon shall he know, though much against his will,
At Bretton hall I have dominion still;
Those woods and fertile fields my own I call,
With this magnificent, this splendid hall:
And now I come to claim them as my own,
Though, by my dress, not from a beggar known;
My clothes are turn'd to rags, and, by the weather,
My skin is tann'd till it resembles leather;
So now I'll act the beggar bold and rude,
And at this wedding boldly I'll intrude,
And, though admittance I may be denied,
I'll rob the merry bridegroom of his bride."
Then at his own hall door one rap he gave,
Resolv'd the inmates' charity to crave.
So he presented his request, 'tis said,
And they presented him--a crust of bread!
The bread he took, and then, to their surprise,
He ask'd the servants for some beer likewise.
"No, no," said they, "beer we shall give you none;
You saucy drunken vagabond, begone!"
At length (with much ado) some beer he got,
And quickly he return'd the empty pot;
And straightway then into the hall went he,
And said, he wish'd her ladyship to see.
"You can by no means see her," answer'd they,
"She's newly married! 'tis her wedding-day!"
"Married!" the feigned beggarman replied,
"Then I'll not go till I have seen the bride."
Then tow'rds the dining-room his course he bent,
The servants quick pursued with one consent,
And seized him, with intent to turn him out.
"Come back, you villain; what are you about?"
"About my bus'ness, to be sure," quoth he,
"The room I'll enter, and the bride I'll see."
"We'll see you out of doors," the servants said;
And now of course, a clam'rous din they made,
Just then, the bride, on hearing such a clatter,
Open'd the door, to see what was the matter.
This noble beggar thus obtain'd a sight
Of her who erstwhile was his heart's delight,
He viewed her in her nuptial garments dress'd,
And did of her a glass of wine request,
Which she denied--who little did suppose
The ragged stranger was her wealthy spouse;
Then straight into the dining-room he went,
And down he sat among the guests content.
Says he, "You'll grant me my request I know;
A glass of wine I'll have before I go."
The bride at length, complied with his request,
Thus thinking to despatch the ragged guest,
But when he did this glass of wine obtain,
He drank and fill'd, and drank and fill'd again.
The guests astonish'd and disgusted, view'd,
Whilst he proceeded to be far more rude;
Around the bride's fair neck he threw his arm,
And gave a kiss, which did her much alarm,
On him she frown'd, and threaten'd him with law,
Says he, "Your threats I value not a straw:
My conduct to reprove is all in vain,
For what I've done I mean to do again.
Madam, your bridegroom's in an awkward case;
This night I do intend to take his place."
And while upon her countenance he pores,
The guests agree to kick him out of doors.
"The deuce is in the beggarman," they cried;
"He means to either beg or steal the bride."
"No, no," says he, "I claim her as my own."
He smil'd and then he did himself make known,
Saying, "William Wentworth Blackett is my name;
For my long absence I'm much to blame;
But safe and sound I have return'd at last,
So let's forgive each other all that's past."
The bride did her first bridegroom recognise;
With joy transported, to his arms she flies;
And, whilst they tenderly each other kiss,
The disappointed bridegroom they dismiss;
Who inwardly did his hard case lament,
Hung down his head, and out of door he went.
"I'm robb'd of this fair jewel, now," thinks he;
"How cruel is this tender spouse to me!"
Awhile he scratched his head, then heaved a sigh,
Then eyed the hall again, and wip'd his eye.
Sir William freely did forgive his wife;
They liv'd together till the end of life.
My honest story I must now conclude,
Which may by some be as a fiction view'd;
But, sirs, the boots in which sir William went,
Are kept in memory of that event;
The very hat he wore preserv'd has been,
At Bretton hall--where they may yet be seen.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 255: From a broadside _penes me_, without printer's name.]

THE BUTCHER TURNED DEVIL.[256]

Come neighbours draw near and listen awhile,
I will sing you a song it will cause you to smile,
It's concerning Old Nick, he's the father of evil,
He has long been well known by the name of the devil.

In the village of Empsall, near to Wakefield town,
To an old woman through the chimney he came down,
If you'd been there to see him, you would have thought it funny,
But he frightened the old woman, for he wanted all her money.

Says he, "Woman take warning, for now I tell you plain,
To-morrow night at twelve o'clock I'll visit you again,
One hundred bright sovereigns for me you must prepare,
Or else with me then you must go, to a place you may guess where."

Then up thro' the chimney he vanished from her sight,
And she went to the Wakefield bank as soon as it was light,
"You must pay me one hundred pounds," to the bankers she did say.
"You ought to give us notice, you can't have it to-day."

O then she wept most bitterly and told them her tale,
How the devil he would fetch her, or her money without fail,
Says the banker, "I will help you, though I beg you will be still,
And I'll apprehend the devil and send him to the tread-mill."

At Empsall a great thundering noise was heard again that night;
The devil down the chimney came with his long horns and a light,
Two men that were in readiness seized him in a trice,
And they held the devil just as fast, as if he'd been in a vice.

Next day great crowds of people went to see the devil there,
But they say he changed his shape, and so it did appear,
For when he found the old woman safe, so that he could not touch her,
He lost his horns and tail, and turned out to be a butcher!

The devil often has been blamed when innocent, 'tis true,
But now he is caught in the fact, they will give him his due,
And since he bears such a bad name, there's no doubt but they will
Keep him prisoner, as long as he lives, at Wakefield tread-mill.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 256: From a broadside _penes me_, printed by J. Harkness, of Preston and Liverpool.]

SONG.

When I was a wee little totterin bairn,
An' had nobbut just gitten short frocks;
When to gang I at first was beginnin to lairn,
On my brow I gat monie hard knocks:
For se waik, an' se silly, an' helpless was I,
I was always a tumblin down then,
While me mother wald twattle me gently, an' cry,
"Honey, Jenny, tak' care o' thysen."

But when I grew bigger, an' gat to be strang,
'At I cannily ran all about
By mysen, whor I lik'd, then I always mud gang,
Without bein' tell'd about ought.
When however I com to be sixteen year auld,
An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men.
My mother wud call o' me in, an' wald scauld,
An' cry--"Huzzy! tak' care o' thysen."

I've a sweetheart comes now upo' Setterday neeghts,
An' he swears 'at he'll mak' me his wife,
My mam grows se stingy, she scaulds and she flytes,
An' twitters me out o' my life.
But she may leuk sour, an' cansait hersen wise,
An' preach again likin young men;
Sen I'se grown a woman, her clack I'll despise,
An' I'se--marry!--tak' care o' mysen.

COLONEL THOMPSON'S VOLUNTEERS.[257]

As we march'd down to Scarbro' on the fourteenth of June,
The weather it was warm, and the soldiers in full bloom;
There it was my good fortune to meet my dearest dear,
For my heart was stole away by colonel Thompson's volunteer.

My father and my mother confined me in my room,
When I jump'd out of the window, and ran into the town,
Where it was my good fortune, to meet my dearest dear,
The man that stole my heart was colonel Thompson's volunteer.

Then in came George Etherington all with his bugle horn,
He said he'd seen the prettiest girl that ever sun shone on,
Her cheeks they were like roses, she is beautiful and fair,
And she says she'll march with none but colonel Thompson's volunteer.

Then in came captain Carter, and unto them did say,
That he had seen the prettiest girl, of any there to-day,
Her eyes were black as jet, and her hair it hung so tight,
And she says she'll march with none but colonel Thompson's men this
night.

Our officers are loyal, they are men of courage bold,
Their clothing is of scarlet and turned up with gold,
It's I could wash the linen to please my dearest dear,
When I was in the field with colonel Thompson's volunteer.

Our ladies they love music, our captain gives command,
They play the prettiest marches of all the royal bands,
They play the sweetest music that ever my ears did hear,
For my heart was stole away by colonel Thompson's volunteer.

I'll bid adieu to father, likewise to mother too,
I'll never forsake my soldier but unto him prove true,
And I'll range the country over with the lad that I love dear,
Since I'm bound in wedlock's bonds to colonel Thompson's volunteer.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 257: From a broadside _penes me_, printed by Forth, Pocklington.]

THE SLEDMERE POACHERS.[258]

Come, all you gallant poaching lads, and gan alang with me,
And let's away to Sledmere woods, some game for to see;
It's far and near, and what they say it's more to feel than see,
So come, my gallant poaching lads, and gan alang with me.

CHORUS.

We are all brave poaching lads, our names we dare not tell,
And if we meet the keeper, boys, we'll make his head to swell.

On the fifth of November last, it being a star-light night,
The time it was appointed, boys, that we were all to meet,
When at twelve o'clock at midnight, boys, we all did fire a gun,
And soon, my lads, it's we did hear, old hares begin to run.

We have a dog, they call him Sharp, he Sledmere woods did stray,
The keeper he fell in with him and fain would him betray;
He fired two barrels at the dog, intending him to kill,
But by his strength and speed of foot he tript across the hill.

All on one side and both his thighs he wounded him full sore,
Before we reached home that night with blood was covered o'er;
On recovering of his strength again, revenged for evermore,
There's never a hare shall him escape that runs on Sledmere shore.

We have a lad, they call him Jim, he's lame on all one leg,
Soon as the gun is shoulder'd up, his leg begins to wag;
When the gun presented fire, and the bird came tumbling down,
This lad he kick'd him with his club before he reached the ground.

So as we as march'd up Burlington road, we loaded every gun,
Saying if we meet a keeper bold we'll make him for to run,
For we are all bright Sledmere lads, our names we will not tell,
But if we meet a keeper bold we'll make his head to swell.

We landed into Cherry woods; we went straight up the walk;
We peak'd the pheasants in the trees, so softly we did talk;
We mark'd all out, what we did see, till we return'd again,
For we were going to Colleywoodbro' to fetch away the game.

Come, all you gallant poaching lads, if I must have my will,
Before we try to shoot this night let's try some hares to kill;
For shooting, you very well know, it makes terrible sound,
So if we shoot before we hunt we shall disturb the ground.

We landed into Suddaby fields, to set we did begin,
Our dog he was so restless there, we scarce could keep him in;
But when our dog we did let loose, 'tis true they call him Watch,
And before we left that ground that night he fifteen hares did catch.

So it's eight cock-pheasants and five hens, all these we marked right
well,
We never fired gun that night but down a pheasant fell.
You gentlemen wanting pheasants, unto me you must apply,
Both hares and pheasants you shall have, and them right speedily.

So now, my lads, it's we'll gan yam, we'll take the nearest way,
And if we meet a keeper bold his body we will bray;
For we are all bright Sledmere lads, our names we will not tell,
But if we meet a keeper bold his head we'll make to swell.

So come, you poaching lads, who love to hunt the game,
And let us fix a time when we will meet again;
For at Colleywoodbro' there's plenty of game, but we'll gan no more,
The next port shall be Kirby Hill where hares do run by scores.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 258: From a broadside in the possession of Mr. Hailstone, in addition to those mentioned in note p. 125, _ante_.]

THE YORKSHIRE CONCERT.[259]

I'ze a Yorkshireman just come to town,
And my coming to town was a gay day,
For fortune has here set me down
Waiting gentleman to a fine lady.
My lady gives galas and routs,
And her treats of the town are the talks here;
But nothing i'ze seen thereabouts,
Equal one that was given in Yorkshire.
Rum ti iddity iddity, rum ti iddity ido,
Rum ti iddity iddity, fal de ral, lal de ral lido.

Johnny Fig was a white and green grocer,
In business as brisk as an eel, sir,
None than John in the shop could stick closer,
But his wife thought it quite ungenteel, sir.
Her neighbours resolv'd to cut out, sir,
And astonish the rustic parishioners;
She invited them all to a rout sir,
And ax'd all the village musicioners.
Rum ti, &c.

The company met gay as larks, sir,
Drawn forth all as fine as blown roses;
The concert commenc'd with the clark, sir,
Who chanted the Vicar and Moses;
The barber sung Gallery of Wigs, sir,
The gentlemen all said 'twas the dandy;
And the ladies encor'd Johnny Fig, sir,
Who volunteer'd Drops of Brandy.
Rum ti, &c.

The baker he sung a good batch,
While the lawyer for harmony willing,
While the bailiff he join'd in the catch,
And the notes of the butcher were killing;
The wheelwright he put in his spoke,
The schoolmaster flogg'd on with fury;
The coachman he play'd the Black Joke,
And the fish-woman sung a Bravura.
Rum ti, &c.

To strike the assembly with wonder,
Madam Fig scream'd a song loud as Boreas,
Soon wak'd farmer Thrasher's dog Thunder,
Who starting up, joined in the chorus;
While a donkey the melody marking,
Chim'd in too, which made a wag say, sir,
"Attend to the rector of Barking's
Duet with the vicar of Bray, sir."
Rum ti, &c.

A brine tub half full of beef, salted,
Madam Fig had trick'd out for a seat, sir,
Where the taylor to sing was exalted,
But the cov'ring crack'd under his feet, sir;
Snip was sous'd in the brine, but, soon rising,
Bawl'd out, while they laugh'd at his grief, sir,
"Is it a matter so monstrous surprising,
To see pickled cabbage with beef, sir?"
Rum ti, &c.

Then a ball after the concert gave way,
And for dancing no souls could be riper,
So struck up the Devil to Pay,
While Johnny Fig paid the piper;
But the best thing came after the ball,
For finish the whole with perfection,
Madam Fig ax'd the gentlefolks all
To sup on a cold collation.
Rum ti, &c.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 259: From _a Garland of New Songs_, printed by J. Marshall, in the Old Flesh Market, Newcastle-upon-Tyne.]

THE SOLDIER IN YORKSHIRE.

There was a jolly soldier down into Yorkshire went,
And for to court a pretty girl was his whole intent;
He courted her, and told her he lov'd her as his life,
Poor girl, she little thought he had another wife.

He courted her six months, with behaviour mild and kind;
Her friends and relations did like him, so we find;
He said, "My dearest Peggy, I love you as my life,
And if your friends are willing, you shall be my wife."

Her father and her mother they both did agree,
That joined in wedlock this couple should be;
I, like a silly girl, consented to the same,
I thought to have a husband none could me blame.

The time being come, they both of them were wed,
So lovingly together, as many people said,
But early the next morning my heart was like to break,
To hear the dismal story to me he did relate.

"Farewell, my dearest Peggy, it cuts me to the heart,
For I do love you dearly, to think that we must part;
I rue what I have done, my love, for me pray don't moan,
I have got a loving wife and children at home."

With that the poor girl she screamed outright,
"So hard is my fortune, I am ruined quite;
I am married to a false man that's got another wife;
I shall have no other comfort or joy of my life."

Then raving distracted, she ran and tore her hair,
Since she must part with him, she fell into despair.
Her mother, she laments, and her father full of woe,
"I'm sorry I gave consent to ruin my daughter so."

The soldier he went home unto his loving wife;
Thinking she might hear of this, bethought to end the strife,
Saying, "I'm married to another, to tell you I'm loath."
"You villain," said she, "you have ruin'd us both."

The wife took it to heart, she bade the world adieu,
To think he lov'd another, and prov'd to her untrue;
Now he is forsaken, and thus doth sigh and mourn,
"Not long ago I had two wives, but now, alas! I've none."

Come all you brave young soldiers, a warning take by me,
And ne'er delude young women and bring to misery;
Think on your wife and children, and ne'er defile the bed,
And never wed the second wife, until the first is dead.

AW NIVIR CAN CALL HUR MY WIFE.[260]

BY THE AUTHOR OF "NATTERIN NAN," ETC.

Tune, "_Come Whoam to thi Childer an Me_."

Aw'm a weyver ya knaw, an awf deead,
So aw du all at iver aw can
Ta put away aat o' my heead
The thowts an the aims of a man!
Eight shillin a wick's whot aw arn,
When aw've varry gooid wark an full time,
An aw think it a sorry consarn
Fur a hearty young chap in his prime!

But ar maister says things is as well
As they hae been, ur ivir can be;
An aw happen sud think soa mysel,
If he'd nobud swop places wi me;
But he's welcome ta all he can get,
Aw begrudge him o' noan o' his brass,
An aw'm nowt bud a madlin ta fret,
Ur ta dream o' yond bewtiful lass!

Aw nivir can call hur my wife,
My love aw sal nivir mak knawn,
Yit the sorra that darkens hur life
Thraws a shadda across o' my awn;
An aw'm suar when hur heart is at eeas,
Thear is sunshine an singin i' mine,
An misfortunes may come as they pleeas,
Bud they nivir can mak ma repine.

That Chartist wur nowt bud a sloap,
Aw wur fooild be his speeches an rhymes,
His promises wattered my hoap,
An aw leng'd fur his sunshiny times;
But aw feel 'at my dearist desire
Is withrin within ma away,
Like an ivy-stem trailin' it mire,
An deein' fur t' want of a stay!

When aw laid i' my bed day an neet,
An wur geen up by t'doctur fur deead--
God bless hur--shoo'd come wi' a leet
An a basin o' grewil an breead;
An aw once thowt aw'd aht wi' it all,
Bud sa kindly shoo chattud an smiled,
Aw wur fain tu turn ovvur ta t'wall,
An ta bluther an sob like a child!

An aw said as aw thowt of her een,
Each breeter fur't tear at wur in't;
It's a sin ta be nivir furgeen
Ta yoke hur ta famine an stint;
So aw'l e'en travel forrud thru life,
Like a man thru a desert unknawn,
Aw mun ne'er hev a hoam an a wife,
Bud my sorras will all be my awn!

Soa aw' trudge on aloan as aw owt,
An whativir my troubles may be,
They'll be sweetened, my lass, wi' the thowt
That aw've nivir browt trouble ta thee;
Yit a burd hes its young uns ta guard,
A wild beast, a mate in his den;
An aw cannot but think that its hard--
Nay, deng it, aw'm roarin agen!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 260: _Yorkshire Songs_--No. I. (of a series to be published by Abraham Holroyd, Westgate, Bradford), 1860.]

A GLOSSARY.

Aaot, _out_.
Aar, _our_.
Abaht, aboot, _about_.
Addled, _earned_.
Afoor, _before_.
Agean, _against_.
Ah, _I_.
Ahle, _I'll_.
Aht, _out_.
Ands, _and has_.
Anen, anenst, _near_ or _against_.
Arn, _to earn_.
Ast, _asked_.
Asta, _have you_.
Aw, _I_.
Awd, auld, _old_.
Awf, _half_.
Awlus, aulas, _always_.
Awn, _own_.

Baan, _bone_.
Bairns, _children_.
Baith, _both_.
Bane, _near to_.
Baon, _going_.
Barn, _a child_.
Be, bi, _by_.
Behawfe, _by half_.
Beng-up, _showy_.
Berrid, _buried_.
Bide, _bear_.
Bods, burds, _birds_.
Brack, _broke_.
Breet, _bright_.
Brewt, _brute_.
Bud, _but_.

Capped, _surprised_.
Cawd, _cold_.
Cleas, _clothes_.
Coil, _coal_.
Cos, _because_.
Cud, _could_.

Dahnreyt, _downright_.
Daht, _doubt_.
Daz, _to stupify_.
Deant, _do not_.
Dee, _to die_.
Deeane, _done_.
Dew, _to do_.
Diddle, _to cheat_.
Ding, _to throw_.
Don't, _put it on_.
Draand, _drowned_.
Du, _do_.
Dun, _done_.

Elpin, _helping_.
Ev, _have_.

Fahve, _five_.
Farden, _farthing_.
Feeal, _fool_.
Fettle, _to put in order, prepare_.
Fiahne, _fine_.
Fick, _to struggle_.
Fitterd, _fluttered_.
Fleead, _flayed_.
Fleear, _the floor_.
Fleg, _a flag_.
Flick, _flitch_.
Freetened, _frightened_.

Gaon, _gone_.
Getten, gitten, _has got_.
Gi, gie, _give_.
Gimma, _give me_.
Gloare, _to stare, look earnestly_.
Goas, gooas, _goes_.
Goom, _the gum_.

Haa, _how_.
Haase, haaos, _house_.
Hah, _how_.
Heead, _the head_.
Het, _have it_.
His-sel _or_ his sen, _himself_.
Hod, _to hold_.

Intul, _into_.
Issant, _is not_.
Ista, _art thou_, _are you_.
Ith, _in the_.
Ivven, _even_.
Ivver, _ever_.
Ize, _I am_.
Izzent, _is not_.

Kahnd, _kind_.
Karkiss, _the body_.

Lair, _a barn_.
Leeght, leet, _light_.
Lig, _to lie down_.
Lin, _linen_.
Loase, _to loose_.
Lug, _the ear_, also _to pull_.
Luke, _to look_.

Ma, _me_.
Mah, _my_.
Mebby, _perhaps_.
Meeast, _most_.
Meenleet, _moonlight_.
Mesen, mysen, _myself_.
Mesht, _bruised_.
Minnits, _minutes_.
Mitch, _much_.
Monny, _many_.
Mud, _might_.
Mun, _must_.

Nah, _now_.
Nattry, _bad tempered_.
Neet _or_ neeght, _night_.
Neiv, _the hand_.
Nivvir, _never_.
Noa, noan, _no, none_.
Noas, _the nose_.
Nobbut, _only_.
Nont, _nothing_.
Nowt, _nothing_.
Nubdy, _nobody_.

Oth, _on the_.
Ovvur, _over_.
Owlus, _always_.
Owt, _ought_.

Pratly, _partly_.

Rade, _rode_.
Raff, _low company_.
Raond, _round_.

Sark, shark, _a shirt_, (_but at page 271, it evidently means a
surplice_).
Sarten, _certain_.
Seean, _soon_.
Seeat, _soot_.
Seeghts, _sights_.
Seet, _see it_.
Sell, _self_.
Sen, _since_.
Shap, _shape_.
Shauted, shaated, _shouted_.
Shoo, _she_.
Shraad, _a shroud_.
Shutterd, _slipped_ or _dropped out_.
Sin, _since_.
Sitch, _such_.
Slap-shod, _loosely shod_.
Sloap, _a cheat_.
Smoak, _suspect_.
Sneck, _a latch of a door_.
Sooin, _soon_.
Sope, _a sup, drop_.
Sorra, _sorrow_.
Sowl, _soul_.
Spanking, _quite new, stylish_.
Spenisjuce, _spanish juice_.
Steven, _to speak loud_.
Storance, _stirrings_.
Suddent, _should not_.
Sum, _some_.
Sumhah, _somehow_.
Sune, _soon_.
Swillin, _washing out_.
Swop, _to exchange_.

Ta, _to_.
Taon, _town_.
Teak, _took_.
Teea, _to_.
Teern, _to turn_.
Teld, _told_.
Tem'd, _poured_.
Tengin, _stinging_.
Tengs, _tongs_.
Tew, _trouble, to crumple_.
Tha, _they, thou_.
Thall, tharl, _thou wilt_.
Thart, _thou art_.
Thel, _they will_.
Tiv, _to_.
Toth, _to the_.
Towd, _the old_.
Trigg'd, _filled_.
Tu, _too_.
Tull, _to_.
Tummle, _to fall_.
Tussell, _to struggle_.
'Twad, _it would_.
T'warst, _the worst_.
Twea, _two_.
'Twor, _it was_.

Ud, _would_.
Ur, _or_.
Uther, _the other_.

Wad, _would_.
Wah, whar, _where, who_.
Wake, waik, _weak_.
War, _were_.
Wark, _to ache, to work_.
Warse, _worse_.
Weame, _the belly_.
Weea, _who_.
Weel, weal, _well_.
Weent, _will not_.
Wee'se, _we shall_.
Wer, _were_.
Weshin, _washing_.
Whahl, _while_.
Whewin, _whistling, blowing_.
Whoame, _home_.
Whoor, _where_.
Wick, _alive_.
Withaht, _without_.
Witta, _wilt thou_.
Woddunt, _would not_.
Wolivver (while ever), _so long as_.
Wor, _was_.
Wor'nt, _was not_.
Worrit, _tease by complaining_.
Wo't, _who it_.
Wots, _oats_.
Wur, _our, were_.
Wursen, _ourselves_.
Wurt, _was the_.

Ya, _you_.
Yah, _one_.
Yal, _whole, ale_.
Yam, _home_.
Yan, _one_.
Yance, _once_.
Y'are, _you are_.
Yat, _hot, a gate_.
Yatton, _the village of Ayton_, commonly called "_canny Yatton_."
Yol, _you will_.
Yor, _your_.
Yo've, _you have_.

_Recently published, 8vo. with Illustrations, cloth, price 15s. Large
paper, half bound, £1 5s._

THE HISTORY AND ANTIQUITIES OF

NORTH ALLERTON

IN THE COUNTY OF YORK.

BY C. J. DAVISON INGLEDEW,

OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE.

_Opinions of the Press._

"Here a stranger may take up his abode in a single town, and study under a skilful master the story of its career and the details of its progress in good or bad fortune."--_Athenæum_.

"The public and private history of North Allerton, its antiquities, public buildings, registers, folk-lore, are duly recorded in a way to gratify its inhabitants, and the curiosity of all who are interested in the history of this ancient town."--_Notes and Queries_.

"The author evinces great research, and presents to the reader much valuable historical and antiquarian information."--_Yorkshire Gazette_.

"Though professedly a local history, this work is rich in the records of national events."--_Leeds Intelligencer_.

"A book which will not only be interesting to all the inhabitants of the North Riding, but must also prove very helpful to any future historian of England."--_Leeds Mercury_.

"Possesses the high merit of being a book for interesting and delightful perusal by any reader."--_Newcastle Journal_.

"Full of anecdote, story, and song--manners and customs--folklore and family history."--_Gateshead Observer_.

"To archæological study generally it is no inconsiderable contribution."--_Clerical Journal_.

"A great addition to the explorist, as well as to the advanced historical scholar, and is as completely interesting as it is useful." _Military Spectator_.

* * * * *

LONDON:--BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET.

* * * * *

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