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 funOn 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 whyIt 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 failI’ 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 wellAs t’Scots did ower the border,Owd Wellington an’ all his menNe’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 lastThey 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 dayTurn’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 swearThey 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 foeWor chargin’ at the lot!If they got there, they didn’t careA 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 tellO’ 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 ShacksWere 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 horseComes 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!
A Military description of the Second Excursion to Malsis Hall, the Residence of JAMES LUND, Esq.
I remember perusing when I was a boy,The immortal bard Homer—his siege of old Troy,So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will,How our brave army “bivoked” on the plains o’ Park Hill.
Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our quarters we took,When Lieuteuant-col. Don Frederick spoke,Commanding his aid-de-camp Colonel de Mann,To summons and muster the chiefs o’ the clan.
Majors Wood, Lamb, and Pollard came up to the lines,Each marching their companies up to the nines;The twirlers and twisters, the knights of the coal,And spuzzers and sorters fell in at the roll.
The light-infantry captains were Robin and Shack,And the gallant big “benners” the victuals did sack;Captain Green he commanded the Indigo troop,These beer barrel chargers none with them can cope.
The Amazon army led on by Queen Bess,Each feminine soldier so grand was her dress,Though they chatted and pratted, ’twor pleasant to seeThem laughing and quaffing their hot rum and tea.
There was music to dainties and music to wine,And for fear of invaders no hearts did repine;Although a dark cloud swept over the plain,Yet our quarter was sheltered from famine and rain.
Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Wright,Drank to each other with pleasure that night;We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music and fun,From the larder and cellar of Field-Marshall Lund.
One Private Tom Berry got into the hall,When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small;And Flintergill Billy of the Spuzzer’s Brigade,Got his beak in the barrel, and havoc he made.
The Field-Marshall declared, and his good lady too,They ne’er were attacked with so pleasant a foe;With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers,In return they saluted the bold Buchaneers.
It isn’t the star of the evening that breetens,Wi’ fairy-like leetness the owd Rivock ends,Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,Or the benks of the river while strolling wi’ friends,That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,And leave the gay feast for others to share;But O there’s a charm, and a charm for me only,In a sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger,In that cot, wi’ my Mary, I could pass the long years:In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.We’d walk aght in t’morning when t’young sun wor shining,When t’birds hed awakened, an’ t’lark soar’d i’ t’air,An’ I’d watch its last beam, on my Mary reclining,From ahr dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
Then we’d talk o’ the past, when our loves wor forbidden,When fortune wor adverse, an’ friends wod deny,How ahr hearts wor still true, tho’ the favours wor hiddenFra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.An’ when age sall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feelin’Ahr loves should endure, an’ still wod we share;For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealin’,We’d share in ahr cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
Then hasten, my Mary, the moments are flying,Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin’Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart.The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,Wi’ his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;How different to him is my rapture and pleasureNear the dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver;The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,When fate may ordain us no longer to sever,Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi’ me;But sweeter an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,In ahr sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
He was a man, an upright manAs ever trod this mortal earth,And now upon him back we scan,Whose greatest fault was honest mirth.
But never more his friends will seeThe smiling face and laughing eye,Nor hear his jokes with heartfelt glee,Which made dull care before them fly.
Nor ever more the friend shall find,When labour lacks, the shake of handThat oft was wont to leave behindWhat proved a Brother and a Friend.
In winter’s bitter, biting frost,Or hail, or snow, or rain, or sleet,The wretch upon life’s tempest toss’dIn him found shelter from the street.
The unemployed, the aged poor,The orphan child, the lame and blind,The stranger never crossed his floorBut what a friend in him did find.
But now the hand and heart are gone,Which were so noble, kind and true,And now his friends, e’en every one,Are loth to bid a last adieu.
We wor snugly set arahnd the hob,’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,Me an ahr Kate an’ t’family,All happy I believe:Ahr Kate hed Harry on her knee,An’ I’d ahr little Ann,When there com rappin’ at the doorA poor owd beggar man.
Sleet trickl’d dahn his hoary locks,That once no daht wor fair;His hollow cheeks wor deadly pale,His neck an’ breast wor bare;His clooas, unworthy o’ ther name,Wor ragg’d an’ steepin’ wet;His poor owd legs wor stockingless,An’ badly shooed his feet.
“Come into t’haase,” said t’wife to him,An’ get thee up ta t’fire;Shoo then browt aght wur humble fare,T’wor what he did desire;And when he’d getten what he thowt,An’ his owd regs wor dry,We ax’d what distance he hed come,An’ thus he did reply:
“Awm a native of Cheviot Hills,Some weary miles fra here;Where I like you this neet hev seenFull monny a Kersmas cheer;I left my father’s hahse when young,Determined I wod rooam;An’ like the prodigal of yore,I’m mackin’ tahrds my hooam.
“I soldier’d in the Punjaub lines,On India’s burning sand;An’ nearly thirty years agoI left my native land;Discipline bein’ ta hard fer me,My mind wor allus bent;So in an evil haar aw didDesert my regiment.
“An’ nivver sin’ durst aw go seeMy native hill an’ glen,Whear aw mud nah as weel hev beenThe happiest of all men;But my blessin’—an’ aw wish ye allA merry Kersmas day;Fer me, I’ll tak my poor owd bones,On Cheviot Hills to lay.”
“Aw cannot say,” aw said to t’wife,“Bud aw feel raather hurt;What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aght,An’ finds t’owd chap a shirt.”Shoo did an’ all, an’ stockings too;An’ a tear stood in her ee;An’ in her face the stranger sawReal Yorkshire sympathy.
Ahr little Jim gav monny a sighWhen he hed heeard his tale,An’ spak o’ some owd trousers,’At hung on t’chamber rail;Then aght at door ahr Harry runs,An’ back ageean he shogs,He’d been in t’coit ta fetch a pairO’ my owd ironed clogs.
“It must be fearful cowd ta neetFer fowk ’at’s aght o’ t’door:Give him yahr owd grey coit an’ all,’At’s thrawn on t’chaamer floor:An’ then there’s thy owd hat, said Kate,’At’s pors’d so up an’ dahn;It will be better ner his awn,Tho’ it’s withaght a crahn.”
So when we’d geen him what we cud(In fact afford to give),We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,O’ t’poor owd fugitive;He thank’d us ower an’ ower ageeanAn’ often he did pray,’At t’barns wod nivver be like him;Then travell’d on his way.
My little dapple-wingèd fellow,What ruffian’s hand has made thee wellow?I heard while down in yonder hollow,Thy troubled breast;But I’ll return my little fellow,Back to its nest.
Some ruffian’s hand has set a snickle,An’ left thee in a bonny pickle;Whoe’er he be, I hope owd Nick willRise his arm,An’ mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickleWi’ summat warm.
How glad am I that fate while roaming,Where milk-white hawthorn’s blossom’s blooming,Has sent my footsteps ere the gloamingInto this dell,To stop some murdering hand fra doomingThy bonny sel’.
For thou wur doomed my bird, for ever,Fra all thy feather’d mates to sever;Were I not near thee to deliverWi’ my awn hand;Nor ever more thou’d skim the river,Or fallow’d land.
Thy feather’d friends, if thou has any;Tho’ friends I fear there isn’t many;But yet the dam for her, wi’ Johnny,Will fret to-day,And think her watter-wagtail bonnyHas flown away.
Be not afraid, for not a featherFra off thy wing shall touch the heather,For I will give thee altogetherSweet liberty!And glad am I that I came hither,To set thee free.
Now wing thy flight my little rover,Thy curs’d captivity is over,And if thou crosses t’Straits of DoverTo warmer spheres,I hope that thou may live in clover,For years and years.
Perhaps, like thee—for fortune’s fickle—I may, myself, be caught i’ t’snickle;And some kind hand that sees my pickle—Through saving thee—May snatch me too fra death’s grim shackle,And set me free.
Decorative picture of bird
A Burlesque on the Franco-Prussian war.
Dame Europe kept a Lodging-House,And she was fond of brass;She took in public lodgers,Of every rank and class.
She’d French and German, Dutch and Swiss,And other nations too;So poor old Mrs. EuropeHad lots of work to do.
I cannot just now name her beds,Her number being so large;But five she kept for deputies,Which she had in her charge.
So in this famous Lodging-House,John Bull he stood A1;On him she always kept an eye,To see things rightly done.
And Master Louis was her next,And second, there’s no doubt,For when a little row took place,He always backed John out.
And in her house was Alex. Russ;Oft him they eyed with fear;For Alex. was a lazy hound,And kept a Russian Bear.
Her fourth was a man of grace,Who was for heaven bent;His name was Pious William,He read his Testament.
Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave,And ’tis our firm belief,He once did rob the Hungary LadsOf hard-earned bread and beef.
These were Dame Europe’s deputies,In whom she put her trust,To keep her Lodging-House at peace,In case eruption burst.
For many a time a row took place,While sharing out the scran;But John and Louis soon stepp’d in,And cleared thepadding can.
Once, Alex. Russ’s father, Nick,A bit before he died,Did roughly seize a little Turk,And thought to warm his hide.
But John and Louis interfered,Declaring it foul play;And made old Nick remember itUntil his dying day.
Now all Dame Europe’s deputies,They made themselves at home;And every lodger knew his bed,Likewise his sitting room.
They took great interest in their beds,And kept them very clean;Unlike some otherpadding cans,So dirty and so mean.
The best and choicest bed of all,Was occupied by Johnny;Because the Dame did favour him,He did collect her money.
And in a little bunk he lived,Seal’d up with oak, and tarr’d;He would not let a single oneCome near within a yard.
A Jack-of-all-trades, too, was John,And aught he’d do for brass;And what he ever took in hand,No one could him surpass.
When tired of being shut in the bunk,Sometimes he went across,To spend an hour with Master Loo,And they the wine would toss.
So many a happy day they spent,These lads, with one another;While every lodger in the house,Thought John was Louis’ brother.
The Dame allowed John something nice,To get well in her rent,Which every now and then i’ t’bank,He put it on per cent.
And working very hard himselfAmongst his tar and pitch;He soon accumulated wealth,That made him very rich.
Now Louis had a pleasant cribWhich was admired by lots,And being close by a window,He had some flower pots.
The next to Louis’ bed was Will,The biggest MonitorAnd though he did pretend a saint,He was as big a cur.
He loved to make them all believeHe was opposed to strife,And said he never caused a row,No, never in his life.
He was so fond of singing psalms,And he read his testament;That everybody was deceivedWhen he was mischief bent.
He seldom passed a lodger’s bedBut what he took a glance,Which made them every one suspectHe’d rob if he’d a chance.
Now Louis had two flower potsHe nourished with much care,But little knew that Willie’s eyesWere set upon the pair.
In one there grew anAlsace Rose,The other aLorraine,And Willie vowed they once were hisAnd must be his again.
He said his father once lodged there,And that the Dame did knowThat Louis’ predecessors onceHad sneaked them in a row.
In Willie’s council was a ladWell up to every quirk;To keep him out of mischief long,Dame Europe had her work.
To this smart youth Saint WillieDid whisper his desire,One night as they sat smoking,Besides the kitchen fire—
“To get them flowers back again,”Said Bissy, very low,“Meet Louis somewhere on the quiet,And try to cause a row.
“But mind the other deputiesDon’t catch you on the hop,For John and Joseph you must knowYour little game would stop.
“For Joseph he has not forgotThe day you warmed his rig;And christian Denmark still thinks onAbout his nice Slesvig.”
“By your advice, my own Dear Mark,I have been guided on,But what about that man i’t’bunk?”(Pointing o’er to John.)
“He’s very plucky too is John,But yet he’s very slow,And perhaps he never may perceiveOur scheme about the row.
“But not another word of thisTo anybody’s ears,The Dame she plays the list’ner,I have my doubts and fears.
“So let us go upstairs at once,I think it will be best,And let us pray to Him above,Before we go to rest.”
So with a pious countenance,His prayers as usual said,But squinting round the room the while,He spied an empty bed.
“What a pity that these empty stocksShould be unoccupied;Do you think my little cousin, Mark,To them could be denied?”
“’Tis just the very thing,” said Mark,“Your cousin, sir, and you,Would carry out my scheme first-rate,One at each side of Loo.”
The Dame being asked, did not object,If he could pay the rent,And had a decent character,And Louis would consent.
“But I do object to this,” says Loo,“And on this very ground,Willie and his cousins, ma’am,They soon would me surround.
“They’re nothing in my line at allThey are so near a-kin,And so if I consent to this,At once they’ll hem me in.”
“Oh! you couldn’t think it, Master Loo,That I should do you harm,For don’t I read my testamentAnd don’t I sing my psalm.”
“’Tis all my eye,” said Louis, “bothYour testament and psalms;You use the dumbbells regularTo strengthen up your arms.
“So take your poor relation off,You pious-looking prig,And open out Kit Denmark’s box,And give him back Slesvig.”
“Come, come,” says Mrs. Europe,“Let’s have no bother here,You’re trying now to breed a row,At least it does appear.”
Now Johnny hearing from the bunkWhat both of them did say,He shouted out, “Now stop it, Will,Or else you’ll rue the day.”
“All right, friend John, I’m much obliged,You are my friend, I know,And so my little cousin, sir,I’m willing to withdraw.”
But Louis frothed at mouth with rage,Like one that was insane,And said he’d make Bill promise himHe’d not offend again.
“I’d promise no such thing,” says Mark,“For that would hurt your pride,Sing on and read your testament,Dame Europe’s on your side.”
“If I’d to promise aught like that,’Twould be against my mind;So take it right or take it wrong,I’ll promise naught o’ t’kind.”
“Then I shall take and wallop theeUnless thou cuts thy stick;And drive thee to thy fatherlandBefore another week.”
“Come on,” cried Sanctimonius,And sending out his armHe caught poor Louis on the nose,Then sung another psalm.
But Louis soon was on his pins,And used his fists a bit,But he was fairly out of breath,And seldom ever hit.
And at the end of round the first,He got it fearful hot,This was his baptism of fireIf we mistake it not.
So Willie sent a letter homeTo mother old Augusta,Telling her he’d thrashed poor Loo,And given him such a duster.
“What wonderful events,” says he,“Has heaven brought about,I’ll fight the greatest pugilistThat ever was brought out.
And if by divine ProvidenceI get safe through this row,Then I will sing ‘My God, the springFrom whom all blessings flow.’”
Meanwhile the other Monitors,Were standing looking on,But none of them dare speak a word,But all stared straight at John.
“Ought not I to interfere?”Says Johnny to the rest;But he was told by every oneNeutrality was best.
“Neutral,” growl’d John, “I hate the word,’Tis poison to my ear;It’s another word for cowardice,And makes me fit to swear.
“At any rate I can do this,My mind I will not mask,I’ll give poor Loo a little dropOut of my brandy flask.
“And give it up, poor Loo, my lad,You might as well give in,You know that I have got no power;Besides, you did begin.”
Then Louis rose, and looked at John,And spoke of days gone byWhen he would not have seen his friendHave blackened Johnny’s eye.
“And as for giving in, friend John,I’ll do nothing of the sort;Do you think I’ll be a laughing-stockFor everybody’s sport.”
This conversation that took placeMade pious Willie grin,And tell John Bull to hold his noise,’Twas nought to do with him.
These words to John did make him stare,And finding to his shame,That those were worse who did look on,Than those who played the game.
Now Mrs. Europe knew the factsWhich had been going on,And with her usual dignity,These words addressed to John:
“Now, Mr. Bull, pray answer me,—Why are you gaping here?You are my famous deputy,Then why not interfere?”
“Why,” answered John, and made a bow,But yet was very shy,“I was told to be a neutral, ma’am,And that’s the reason why.”
“That’s just what you should not have done,Being in authority;Did I not place you in that bunkTo think and act for me?
“Why any baby in the houseCould not have done much worse,But I fancy you’ve been holding backTo save your private purse.
“Neutrality is as fine a wordAs ever a coward used,The honour that I gave to youYou shouldn’t have abused.”
The minor lodgers in the house,On hearing this, to John,Began to whisper and to laugh,And call’d it famous fun.
At last a little urchin said,“Please ma’am I’d take my oath,’At master John was neutral,And stuck up for them both.”
“Stuck up for both, offended both,—Yes that is what you mean?”Continued Madame Europe,Then spoke to John again:
“Now I’ll tell you what it is, John,We’ve long watch’d your career,You take your fags’ advice to saveYour paltry sums a year.
“There’s Bob and Bill, besides some more,That I call naught but scums,They’ve got you fairly in betweenTheir fingers and their thumbs.
“If such like men as Ben and HughThis day your fags had been,They would have saved both you and meThis curs’d disgraceful scene.
“Instead of bein’ half-clad and shod,As everybody knows,You would have dared these rivals nowTo come to such like blows.
“There was a time in this house, John,If you put up your thumb,The greatest blackguard tongue would stopAs if they had been dumb.
“But not a one in this here houseThis moment cares a figFor all you say or all you do,Although your purse be big.”
“I couldn’t hurt poor Louis, ma’am,Although he did begin;And then you see that Will and IAre very near akin.
“Beside, you see,” said John again,“I let poor Louis sup;On both I use my ointment, andTheir wounds I did bind up.
“Ah! weel a day,” then said the Dame,But was affected sore,“I see you have some small excuseThat you have done it for.
“I have some little hopes left yetThat you may yet have sense,To know your high position, John,Instead of saving pence.
“You yet will learn that duty, sir,Cannot be ignored,However disagreeable whenPlaced before the board.
“And let me tell you he who shirksThe responsibilityOf seeing right, is doing wrong,And earns humility.
“And ’tis an empty-headed dream,To boast of skill and power,But dare not even interfereAt this important hour.
“Better far confess at onceYou’re not fit for your place,Than have a name ‘Heroic,’ sir,Branded with disgrace.
“But I’ll not say another word;My deputies, to you;But hope you will a warning take,This moment from poor Loo.
“And hoping, John, your enemiesMay never have the chanceTo see you paid for watching WillThrash poor weak Louis France.”
Decorative picture of plant
On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ her meadows so green,There’s an ancient owd hall to-day may be seen,That wor built in the days of some owd feudal king,Of whom the owd bards delighted to sing.Tho’ its splendour’s now faded, its greatness was thenKnown to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;’Neath its armorial shield, an’ hoary owd wall,I now see Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Her majestic black eyes true beauty display,Resemblin’ truly the goddess of day;Her dark-flowin’ ringlets, you’d think as they shone,’At Venus hed fashion’d ’em after her awn.For her tresses no ribbons nor trappins do bind,But wantonly luxurious flow in the wind:’Twod o’ pleased the great Reubens or Turner to call,To see sweet Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Like the tall mountain fir, she’s as steady, I trow,When zephyr-like winds do sighingly blow;The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,Are gentle Rebecca’s sweet gales of love.Her breath, where true wit so gracefully flows,Has the beautiful scent of the pink an’ the rose;There’s no nymph from the East to Niagara’s Fall,To equal Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Her toe points the grahnd wi’ sich beauty an’ grace,Nor varies a hair’s-breadth, sud yu measure her pace:An’ when dress’d i’ her gingham wi’ white spots an’ blue,O then is Rebecca so pleasin’ to view.Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockings by hersel knit an’ spun,An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic’ly done:It needs no rich velvets or Cashmere shawl,To deck out Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Love, grace, an’ beauty attend at her will;She wounds wi’ a look, wi’ a frown she can kill;The youths as they pass her, exclaim—“Woe is me!”Who sees her must love her, who loves her must dee.At Church on a Sabbath, owd men raise ther arms,An’ cry, “O, great heavens! wor ivver sich charms?”While matrons an’ maidens God’s blessin’ they call,On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Decorative picture of plant
[It is said that when Giles Clumps, the South-downer, first came to Keighley, the first question he asked his fellow labourer was this, “What religion be th’ master here?” “A Liberal,” was the answer; “So be I,” says Giles. “And what politics be th’ master?” asked Giles again, “He’s a Methody,” was the reply; “So be I,” says Giles again, “I be a Methody too.” Now do not imagine for a moment that Giles Clumps is theonly “So be I” in Keighley, for the whole town is full of “So be I’s,” and it is a well-known fact that if six longyellowchimneys were to turnblueto-morrow, there wouldn’t be a Liberal in six hours in the city of “So be I’s,” with the exception of the old veteranSquire Leach.]
Oh list to my dream, nor yet think it wrong,If I tell it in rhyme, or sing it in song;For when I look back on the sights that were there,I could almost, like Blondin, dance high in the air.
For when I reflect, my heart leaps with joy—What I saw in my dream in old “So be I,”For thousands were shouting on that pleasant day.We are all “So be I’s,” hip, hip, hip hurrah!
And I took the first chance to ask what it meant,Of the people who shouted, what was their intent,When an elderly lady soon gave me the cue,Of what was the matter and what was to do.
Six great millocrats, call them Whigs if you will,The gods of our labour in workshop and mill:Have all turned their colours from Yellow to Blue,Which has caused this commotion the city all through.
Led on by the nose, like a bull in a band,See how all the “So be I’s” follow so grand,The fag and the artist, the plebian also,Have now chang’d their colour from yellow to blue.
There’s twenty-eight thousand true “So be I’s” here,And there’s not a Liberal amongst them I’ll swear,For the millocrats chieftains proclaimed it they say,That all must turn Tories on this very day.
So upon the procession, I did my eyes fix,Reviewing and skewing this wonderful six;They wore blue ribands so grand in their coats,Singing “So be I” joskins come give us your votes.
The “So be I’s” exerted each nerve and limb,To follow their leaders and join in the swim;And I plainly could see, so I thought in my dream,That the way through the world is to follow the stream.
For the faces of parsons were lit up so bright,And the doctors they smiled with the greatest delight;And a lawyer he vowed that he’d have a Blue gown,For he’d been long enough a black Liberal clown.
Methought the Ranters, and Methodies too,Independents and Quakers, and Baptists, were blue;And as I looked round me, lo! what did I see,A batch of Teetotallers had got on the spree.
But what I considered the best of the sport,Took place in front of the old County Court;The Mayor and Ex-Mayor were dancing a jig,With the County Court Judge in his gown and his wig.
Methought that the Draper and Hatter filed in,Along with the Grocer, his nearest of kin;And I caught the Co-oper just in the neck,In his hand were his divi. and new silver check.
Methought as I walked I sprang up so high,That I really found out I was able to fly;So backwards and forwards methought that I flew,To the clubs of the town which I found were all Blue.
Till somehow or other, I got quite astray,And over Cliffe Castle I wingéd my way,Thinks I, there’s some Foreign “So be I” geeseHave crossed o’er the Channel from Paris or Nice.
From thence I took wing, as blithe as a lark,And crossed o’er the town to Jim Collingham’s Park;But ere I arrived at the end of my route,A lightning conductor caught the tail of my coat.
I hung there suspended high up in the air,Looking down on the mob in the wildest despair,Imploring the “So be I’s” to get me relief;But they shouted “Stop there, you Liberal thief!”
I called on the de’il and invoked the skies,To curse and set fire to all “So be I’s;”When all of a sudden I scratched at my head,Awoke from my dream—found myself snug in bed.
Picture of cattle in field
My poor owd lass, an art ta goan,To thy long rest?An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stoneClose ower thy breast?An’ art ta goan no more to see,Exceptin’ i’ fond memory?Yes, empty echo answers me—“Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”
I’ vain the wafters o’ the breezeFan my hot brah,I’ vain the birds upon the trees,Sing sweetly nah;I’ vain the early rose-bud blaws,I’ vain wide Nature shows her cause,Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws—“Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”
There’s more ner me ’at’s sad bereft,I pity wun,An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left—My little John;He wander’s up an’ dahn all t’day,An’ rarely hez a word to say,Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),“Shoo’s deead an goan!”
Bud, Johnny lad, let’s dry wer tears;At t’least we’ll try;Thy mother’s safe wi’ Him ’at hearsT’poor orphan’s sigh;Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack—An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?An’ crying cannot bring her back;“Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”
Decorative picture of flowers
Wee silvery fish, who nobly bravesThe dangers o’ the ocean wavesWhile monsters from the unknown cavesMake thee their prey;Escaping which the human knavesOn thee lig way.
No doubt thou was at first designedTo suit the palates o’ mankind;Yet as I ponder now I find,Thy fame is gone:Wee dainty dish thou art behindWith every one.
I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheenWor welcome both at morn an’ e’en,Or any hour that’s in between,Thy name wor good;But now by some considered meanFor human food.
When peace and plenty’s smiling brow,And trade and commerce speed the plough;Thy friends that were not long ago,Such game they make;Thy epitaph is “soldier” now,Or “two-eyed stake.”
When times are hard we’re scant o’ cash,And famine hungry bellies lash,And tripe and trollabobble’s trashBegin to fail,Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash,Hail! herring, hail!
Full monny a time it’s made me groan,To see thee stretched, despised, alone;While turned-up noses passed have gone,O’ purse-proud men!No friends, alas! save some poor oneFra t’paddin can.
Whoe’er despise thee, let them knowThe time may come when they may goTo some fish wife, and beg to knowIf they can buyThe friendship o’ their vanquished foe,Wi’ weeping eye.
To me naught could be better fun,Than see a duke or noble don,Or lord, or peer, or gentleman,In search o’ thee:And they were bidden to move on,Or go to t’sea.
Yet we’ll sing thy praise, wee fish;To me thou art a dainty dish;For thee, ’tis true, I often wish.My little bloater;Either salted, cured, or shining freshFra yon great water.
If through thy pedigree we peep,Philosophy from thee can keep,An’ I need not study deep,There’s nothing foreign;For I, like thee, am sold too cheap,My little herring.
Decorative pattern
How steady an’ easy t’owd world’s wheels wod go,If t’folk wod be honest an’ try to keep so;An’ at steead o’ bein’ hasty at ivvery whim,Let us inquire before we condemn.
A man may do wrong an’ scarce be to blame,Or a woman be bad i’ nowt bud her name;Bud which on us owt ta say owt unto them,Unless we inquire before we condemn.
If a Rose she sud flourish her sisters among,It isn’t to say her poor sister is wrong;That blighted one there may be nipp’d in the stem,So let us inquire before we condemn.
Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough,While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow,May be shatter’d asunder from stern unto stem,So let us inquire before we condemn.
We are certain o’ one thing an’ that isn’t two,If we do nothing wrong we’ve nothing to rue;Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim,So let us inquire before we condemn.
Then speak not so harshly—withdraw that rash word,’Tis wrong to condemn till the story is heard;If it worrant for summat sho might be a gem,So let us inquire before we condemn.
Most respectfully dedicated to the Rev. F. D. CREMER, St. ANDREW’S, Keighley, Oct. 25th, 1889.
Dear reverend sir, excuse your humble servant,Whose heart you’ve made this very night to glow;I thank you kindly, and my prayers most ferventWill ever be, dear reverend sir, for you.
My ideas lacked for want of information,And glad am I to glean a little more,About the Churches of our mighty nation,Whose chimes are heard on many a far-off shore.
My heart was moved, for I was much astounded,To view the many Churches of our land;The life-like pictures of the saints who foundedThese ruins old, so wonderful and grand.
For oft I’ve wished, and often have I pondered,And longed to learn the history of our kirk;How it was handed down to us I’ve wondered,And who were they that did this mighty work.
The veil’s removed, and now my sight is clearer,Upon the sacred history of our isle;For while I view these scenes it brings me nearerUnto the Church on which the angels smile.
Who would not shuffle off his worldly pleasures,For one short hour to bring before his sight,The pictures of the great and mighty treasures—Our English Church, which brought the world to light.
Great Men dive deep down into wisdom’s river—The poet, philosopher, and sage—For wisdom’s pearls, which showeth forth for ever,Nor waste their sweetness or grow dull with age.
Who would not walk through ruins old and hoary,And make each relic and persue his search?Who would not listen and applaud each story,Told of an ancient good and English Church?
Each view so grand, mixed up with sacred singing,Of that old Church—I humbly call it mine,For still my heart to it is ever clinging,And He who died for me in ancient Palestine.
Decorative picture of ferns
Keighley Parish Church, 1891
Lines written on the occasion of a Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor (Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891.
Come hither my muse and give me a start,And let me give praise to the one famous art;For it’s not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast,But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post.
In the brave days of old when I was a boy,I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy;Where I listened to stories and legends of old,Which to me were more precious than silver or gold.
The old Comber would tell of his travels through life,And where he had met with his darling old wife;And how he had stole her from her native vale,To help him to pull the “old tup” by the “tail.”
He would go through the tales of his youthful career,An undaunted youth without dread or fear;He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor,He knew every acre of mountain and moor.
He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State,And tell where old England would be soon or late;How nations would rise, and monarch’s would fall,And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall.
He was very well read, though papers were dear,But he gotReynold’snewspaper year after year;It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen,While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen.
He was fairly dramatic, the stage he loved well,The names of great actors and plays he would tell;And if that his notion it took the other way,He could quote the Bible a night and a day.
Full of wit, full of mirth, he could give you a sting,He could preach, he could pray, he could dance, he could sing;He could play pitch and toss, he could jump, he could run,He could shuffle the cards, he could handle a gun.
The old Constable knew him but let him alone,Because he knew better than bother with “Joan”;For the lads of the Barracks and the Pinfold as wellWould all have been there at the sound of the bell.
Old Keighley was then but a very small town,Yet she’d twelve hundred Combers that were very well known;Hundreds have gone over the dark flowing burn,Whence no traveller was ever yet known to return.
It reminds me again of the Donkey and packWhich came from the hills bringing Wool on its back;And if the poor beast perchance had to bray’Twere a true sign a Comber would die on that day.
The third day of the week, sometimes further on,The old woman would seek the King’s Arms for her son;And if she were told he had not been at all,Would bounce over the green to the Hole-in-the-Wall.
Hi! those were fine times, especially the fairs,When the Inns were kept open for dancing upstairs;The Commercial, Lord Rodney, as well as the CrownTo the ancient Wool-comber were fairly well known.
But now we’ll get back to the pot and the pad,The fair it is over, the women are glad;For now the Wool-comber his follies he sees,And makes resolutions as staunch as you please.
For now he commences to work hard and late,He is building a Castle on a phantom estate;And he toils for a time but long hoggs make him sick,Then he duffs, and his castle falls down, every brick.
When Winter comes in with its keen bitter blast,And the poor rustic hind has to cope with the frost;Yet the Comber was happy in village and town,Though he knew that his calling was fast going down.
Oh yes, it was vanquished, the once noble art,For science had bid it for ever depart;Yet for thee old Comber fresh fields have arose,That have found thee in victuals, in fuel, and clothes.
So many brave thanks to the Mayor of the townWho has made the Wool-comber once more to be known;Let us drink to the health of our worthy host,The friend of the Comber, the Knight of the post.
In a little cot so dreary,With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,Sat a mother sad and weary,With her darling on her knee;Their humble fare at best was sparingFor the father he was shearing,With his three brave sons of Erin,All down in the Fen countree.
All her Saxon neighbours leave her,With her boy and demon fever,The midnight watch—none to relieve her,Save a little Busy Bee:He was called the Harem-Skarem,Noisy as a drum-clock larum,Yet his treasures he would share ’em,With his friend right merrily.
Every night and every morning,With the day sometimes at dawning—While lay mother, sick and swooning—To his dying mate went he:Robbing his good Saxon mother,Giving to his Celtic brother,Who asked for him and no other,Until his spirit it was free.
Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;This little noble-hearted ruffian,To the wake each night went he:Sabbath morning he was ready,Warn’d the bearers to be steady,Taking Peter to his beddy,And a tear stood in his e’e.
Onward as the corpse was passing,Ere the priest gave his last blessing,Through the dingy crowd came pressing,The father and the brothers three;’Tis our mother—we will greet her;How is this that here we meet her?And without our little Peter,Who will solve this mystery?
The Harem-Skarem interfered,“Soon this corpse will be interred,Come with us and see it buried,Out in yonder cemet’ry:”Soon they knew the worst and ponderedHalf-amazed and half-dumbfounded;—And returning home, they wonderedWho their little friend could be!
Turning round to him they bowed,Much they thanked him, much they owed;While the tears each cheek bedewed,Wish’d him all prosperity:“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,What I’ve done, do ye to others;We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,”Said the little Busy Bee.
[T’West Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches i’ t’fine art line, bud t’music aw think licks t’lump, especially abaght Haworth an’ Keighley. Nah Haworth wunce hed a famous singer; he wor considered one o’ t’best i’ Yorkshire in his time. It is said ’at he once walked fra Haworth to York i’ one day, an’ sung at an Oratorio at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all t’other Haworth celebrities; he wod talk owd fashioned, an’ that willant dew up i’ London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him i’ t’neighbourhood. Nah what is thur grander ner a lot o’ local singers at Kersmas time chanting i’ t’streets; it’s ommost like bein’ i’ heaven, especially when you’re warm i’ bed. But there’s another thing at’s varry amusing abaght our local singers, when they meet together ther is some demi-semi-quavering, when ther’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals;—an’ t’best ale an’ crotchets mix’d, that’s the time fer music.]
Come, gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,Come, gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw;I knew thee when thy heead wor black,Bud nah it’s white as snow;A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim,An’ all thy kith an’ kin;An’ hoping tha’ll ha’ monny more,For t’sake o’ ould long sin’—Jim Wreet,For t’sake o’ ould long sin’.
It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,Sin owd Joe Constantine—An’ Daniel Acroyd, thee, an’ me,An other friends o’ thine,Went up ta sing at Squire’s house,Not a hauf-a-mile fra here;An’ t’Squire made us welcomeTo his brown October beer—Jim Wreet,To his brown October beer.
An’ owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,’At kept the Old King’s Arms;Whear all t’church singers used ta meet,When they hed sung ther Psalms;An’ thee an’ me amang ’em, Jim,Sometimes hev chang’d the string,An’ with a merry chorus join’d,We’ve made yon tavern ring,Jim Wreet,We’ve made yon tavern ring.
But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,Hev past away sin’ then;Then Keighley in Appolo’s Art,Could boast her trusty men;But music nah means money, Jim,An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;But just fer owd acquaintance sake.Come gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw,Jim Wreet,Come gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw.
Sweet sing the birds in lowly strain,All mingled in their song;For lovely Spring is here again,And Winter’s cold is gone.
All things around seem filled with glee,And joy swells every breast;The buds are peeping from each bush,Where soon the birds will rest.
The meadows now are fresh and green,The flowers are bursting forth,And nature seems to us serene,And shows her sterling worth.
The lark soars high up in the air,We listen to his lays;He knows no sorrow, no, nor care,Nor weariness o’ days.
But man, though born of noble birth,Assigned for higher spheres,Walks his sad journey here on earthAll full o’ doubts and fears.
Two men on bycycles
Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea,Sending their treasures so careless and free;And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise,Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.
Find out the haunts o’ the low human pest,Give to the weary, the poor, and distress’d;What if ungrateful and thankless they be,Think of the giver that gave unto thee.
Go travel the long lanes on misery’s verge,Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.
Give to yon widow—thy gift is thrice blest,For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s press’d;A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.
’Neath the green grassy mounds i’ yon little church-yardAn over-wrought genius there finds his reward;And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,Such are the givers that give unto me.
Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain,—What if no birdie should chant thee a strain;What if no daisy should smile on the lea;The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.
For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may,That thou mayest venture to give all away;Ere Nature again her balmy dews send,Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.