CHAPTER IV.

“Th’ last Scene of all that ends this strange eventful history.”

_Fra th’ Corrispondent o’ th’ Hoylus End Mercury_.

Good folks you’ve inkwired at home an’ abroad, Ha we’re gettin on wi wur famous railroad; And when I’ve tell’d yo the disasters we’ve hed, Yo’ve greeved monny a time wal yo’ve tain to yor bed, But ha yo will gape when yo read farther dahn, What famons big stirrins we’ve hed up i’th’ tahn.

I knaw yo’d be mad as soin as yo heard, Abaht that oud kah at belong’d to Blue Beard, For I like as I saw yo just hod of its tail, And braying it rump wi’ the end o’ yor flail; For I wisht monny a time at yo hed been here, For swallowing the plan yo’d a geen it what cheer.

Ha ivver good folk I’ll try to be breef, For I knaw you’re i’ pain and I’ll give yo releef— So to tell yo the truth in a plain, honnest way, The railroad is finish’d an oppen’d to-day; And I’ve tain up my pen for ill yo’d a taint, If I hednt a geen yo a truthful ackahnt.

Hasumivver this morning, as I tell’d yo before, I wur wakken’d wi hearin a awful uproar, What wi’ the prating o’ wimen and the shahtin o’th’ folk, And the bells at wur ringin, they wur past onny joke, For ivvery two minnits they shahted hurrah, We are nah bahn to oppen the Haworth Railway.

So I jump’d up i’ bed, an’ I gat on the floor, I slipt on my cloas and ran out at door, And the first at I met, it wur one Jimmy Peg, He cum’d up fra Bocking and brout a gert flag, And just at his heels wur the Spring-headed band, Playing a march—I thout it wur grand.

So I fell into the step for I knaw how to march, For I’ve been stiffen’d up wi’ guvernment starch; And first smell o’ music it maks me fair dance, And I prick up my ears like a trooper his lance, Hasumivver, I thout as I’d gotten i’ th’ scent, I’d follow this music wharever it went.

Then I march’d up erect, wal I come to the grand stand, And that wur a’ th’ stashun where the train hed to land; There wur flags of all nashuns fra the Union Jack To Bacchus and Atlas wi’ the globe on his back, For the Inspector and conductor and all sorts o’ fray Wur expected directly to land at the railway.

So I star’d wal both een wur varry near bleared, And waited and waited—at last it appear’d, It wur filled full o’ folk as eggs full o’ meat, And it tuk four ingens to bring it up reight, Two hed long chimlas and th’ tuther hed noan, But they stuck weel together like a dog to a bone.

They wur gruntin and growling wur the folks at gat aht, So I made some inquiries what it wur abaht; And i’ all my born days I ne’er heard nout so call’d, For three or four times they sed it hed stall’d, Wal some o’th’ crookt-legg’d ens bethout of a scheam, And they went back to Keighley for a hamper o’steam.

And my word and honour it did mak a gert din, For I stud by and heard it, and saw it come in; I expected it coming as quiet as a lamb, But no daht at the noises wur nobbut a sham; But what’s the use o’ telling yo ha it did come, I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum.

There wur fifty i’ number invited to dine, All us at hed acted reight loyal to the line; So I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff At the puddings this time wud be made at reight stuff, And noan o’ that stuffment they gav the Keighley band, Toan awf on it rubbish and the other awf sand.

For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a man) Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kah lickin pan, Wi gert lumps o’ suet at the cook hed put in’t, At shane like a ginney just new aht at mint; Wi’ knives made a purpose to cut it i’ rowls, And the sauce wur i’ buckets and mighty big bowls.

They wur chattin and taukin and souckin ther spice, And crackin at dainties they thout at wur nice, Wal the oud parson gat up and pull’d a long face, And mutter’d some words at they call saying th’ grace, But I nivver goam’d that, cos I knew for a fact It wur nobbut a signal for the puddin attack.

And aw’l tell yo wot, folk tho’ yo maint beleeve, But yo tauks abaht Wibsey fooak heytin horse beef, Yo sud a seen Locker-taaners brandishing ther nives, An choppin an cutting ther wollopin shives; An all on em shaatin thay lik’d th puddin th best, Fer nout wur like th puddin for standin th’ test.

An while thay wor cutting an choppin away, The gallant Spring-Heeaders wor order’d ta play, But thay didn’t mich loike it fer ivvery wun, Wur flaid at thayd play wol th puddin wor dun; But as luck wor thay tice’d em, wi a gert deeal to do, Ta play Roger the Plowman an Rozzen the bow.

Ike Ouden wor th chairman at com to preside, An Will Thompson o Guiseley wor set by his soide, Na Will’s a director o’th Midland line, An as deeacent a chap as sat dahn ta dine; Along wi Jin Sugden at held th Vice-chair, Wor won Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor.

Their wor Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and me, And a lot o more lads at wur for a spree; There wur Nedwin o George’s and Pete Featherstone, They sat side by side like Darby and Joan; And I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade, But I knaw they wur Ingham and little Jack Wade.

So he says, be silent, all the folk i’ this hall, So as any won on yo can hear a pin fall; And Jone o’ Bill Olders just shut up thi’ prate, For I’ve summat to say and I mun let it aht; For I mun hev silence whativer betide, Or I’ll cum aht oth loom and some o’ yo hide.

Three years hes elapsed and we’re going on the fourth, Sin we first started th railway fra Keighley to Haworth What wi’ dreamin by neet, and workin by day, Its been to poor Haworth a dearish railway. And monny a time I’ve been aht o’ patience Wi’ the host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations.

The first do at we hed wur th kah swallowing th plan, And then wur bad luck and misfortunes began; For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us another, All went on wrong and we’d a gert deal o’ bother; He must a been dreamin, a silly oud clahn, For three fields o’ Oud Doodles he nivver put dahn.

As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I knaw, For thart one o’ the best drivers at ivver I saw; And nobody can grumble at what tha hes dun, If thi buss driven wearisome race it is run; For who nah cud grumble, ha fine wur thur cloth, To ride up to Haworth wi oud Johnny Broth.

So Johnny, my lad, don’t thee mak onny fuss, I shuttin thi horses, or sellin thi buss; For if the railway hes done thee, there’s wun thing I knaw; Tha mud mak ’o th’ oud bus a stunnin peep show, And if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles, I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles.

So strike up yor music and give it some mahth, And welcum all nashuns fra north to the sahth; The black fra the east, and the red fra the west, For they sud be welcum as weel as the rest: And all beyond the Tiber, the Baltic or Rhine, Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d the Worth Valley Line.

T’ Village Aram-Skaram.

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 sparing, For the father he was shearing, With his three brave sons o’ Erin, Down in the Fen country.

All her Saxon neighbours leave her, With her boy and demon fever, The midnight watch—none to relieve her, Save a Little Bisey Bee: He was called the Aram-Skaram, Noisy as a drum clock laram, Yet his treasures he would share ’em, With his friend right merrily.

Every night and every morning, With the day sometimes at dawning, While the 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 ruffin, At the wake each night went he: Sabbath morning he was ready, Warn’d the bearers to be steady, Taking Peter to his Biddy, 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 Aram-Skaram interfered, Soon this corpse will be interred, Come with us and see it burried, Out in yonder cemetery: Soon they knew the worst, and pondered Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;— And returning home, they wondered Who their little friend could be!

Turning round to him they bowed, Much they thanked him, much they owed; While the tears each cheek bedewed, Wisht him all prosperity: “Never mind,” he said, “my brothers, What I have done, do ye to others; We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,” Said the little Bisey Bee.

Behold How the Rivers!

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 distressed; What if unthankful and thankless they be, Think of the giver that gave unto thee.

Go travel the long lanes on misery’s virge, 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 pressed; A small bit o’ help to the little she earns, God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.

’Neath the green grassy mounds o’ yon little church yard, An 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.

The World’s Wheels.

Aw steady an’ easy t’oud world’s wheels wod go, If t’folk wod be honist an’ try to keep so; An’ at steead o’ been hastey at ivvery wun, Let us enquire afore we condemn.

A man may do wrong an’ scarce be to blame, Or a woman be bad e nout bud her name; But which on us ought ta say ought unto them, Unless we enquire afore we condemn.

If a Rose she sud flurish her sisters among, It izant ta say her poor sister is wrong; That blighted one there may be nipt in the stem, So let us enquire before we condemn.

Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough, While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow, May be shattered asunder from stern unto stem, So let us inquire before we condemn.

We are certain o’ wun thing an’ that izant two, If we do nothing wrong we have nothing to rue; Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim, So let us inquire afore 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 enquire afore we condemn.

Full o’ Doubts an’ Fears.

Sweet sing the birds in lowly strains, 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 sores high up in the air, We listen to his lays; He knows no sorrow nor no care, Nor weariness o’ days.

But men, though born of noble birth, Assigned for higher spheres, Walks his sad journey here on earth All full o’ doubts and fears.

It Izant so we Me.

Bright seems the days when I was young Fra thought, fra care, fra sorrow free; As wild waves rippled i’ the sun, Rolled gaily on, and so wi’ me.

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

The naked truth, I told when young, Though tempted wi hypocracy; Though some embraced from it I sprang, And said it izant so wi’ me.

Aw saw the canting jibs when young, Of saintly, sulky misery; Yet poked aw melancholy’s ribs, And said it izant so wi’ me.

Though monny a stone when aw was young, His strong upon me memory; Aw thru when young and hed um flung, If they forgive ’tis so wi’ me.

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

Yet after all aw oft luke back, Without a pang o’ days gone past, An hope all t’ wreng aw did when young, May be forgeen to me at last.

Ode to an Herring.

Wee silvery fish, who nobly braves The dangers o’ the ocean waves, While monsters from the unknown caves Make thee their prey; Escaping which the human knaves On thee ligs way.

No doubt thou was at first designed To suit the palates o’ mankind; Yet as I ponder now I find, Thy fame is gone: With dainty dish thou’rt behind With every one.

I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheen Were welcome both at morn and e’en, Or any hour that’s in between, Thy name wer good; But now by some considered mean For human food.

When peace and plenty’s smiling brow, And trade and commerce speeds the plough; Thy friends that were not long ago, Such game they make; Thy epitaph is soldier now, Or two-eyed snake.

When times are hard we’re scant o’ cash, And famine hungry bellies lash, And tripes and trollabobble’s trash Begins to fail, Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash, Hail! herring, hail!

Full mony a time t’as 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 one Fra t’ paddin can.

Whoe’er despise thee, let them know The time may come when they may go To some fish wife, and beg to know If they can buy The friendship o’ their vanquished foe, We weeping eye.

To me nought 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 t’at sea.

Yet I will sing thy praise, wee fish; To me thou art a dainty dish; For thee, ’tis true, we often wish, My little bloater; Either salted, cured, or shining fresh Fra yon great water.

If through thy pedigree we peep, Philosophy from thee can keep, To me I need not study deep, There’s nothing foreign; For aw like thee, am sold too cheap, My little herring.

Our Poor Little Factory Girls.

They are up in the morning right early, They are up sometimes afore leet; Aw hear their clogs they are clamping, As t’ little things goes dahn the street.

They are off in the morning right early, With their baskets o’ jock on their arms; The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging, As they enter the mill in a swarm.

They are skarpring backward and forward, Their ends to keep up if they can; They are doing their utmost endeavours, For fear o’ the frown o’ man.

Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple, They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl, Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling, As the wee little factory girl.

They are bouncing abaht like a shuttle, They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor; While their wee little mates they are doffing, Preparing the spindles for more.

Them two little things they are thickest, They help one another ’tis plain; They try to be best and the quickest, The smiles o’ their master to gain.

And now from her ten hours’ labour, Back to her cottage sho shogs; Aw hear by the tramping and singing, ’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.

An’ at night when sho’s folded i’ slumber, Sho’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls; Of all human toil under-rated, ’Tis our poor little factory girls.

We Him haw call my awn.

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

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

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

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

For should love’s magic change the scene, To trackless lands unknown; ’Twor Eden in the desert wild, Wi him aw call my own.

A Yorkshireman’s Christmas.

Aw have ten or twelve pounds o gooid meit, A small cheese and a barrel o’ beer; Aw’ll welcome King Christmas to neet, For he nobbut comes once in a year.

Send our Will dahn to Tommy Spoyle Wood’s, And tell him to send up a log; An’ tell him and Betty to come, For Tommy’s a jolly oud dog.

Aw mean to forget all my debts, An’ aw mean to harbour no greef; Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates O’ their contents o’ beer and gooid beef.

Them barns they care nought abaht drink, Like us at’s advanced into years; So Sally, lass, what does ta think, If ta buys um some apples an’ pears?

Our David’s a fine little lad, An’ our Nancy’s a fine little lass; When aw see um aw do feel so glad, So bring me a quart an’ a glass!

Come, Sally, an’ sit be my side? We’ve hed both were ups and were dahns; Awm fane at aw made thee my bride, An’ am prahd o’ both thee an’ wer barns.

We’re as happy as them at’s more brass, E their festival holly-decked hall; We envy no mortal, old lass; Here’s peace and gooid will unto all.

And may every poor crater ta neet, If never before in his loife, Have plenty to drink an’ ta eat, For both him, an’ his barns, an’ his woife.

The Fethered Captive.

My little dappled-wingged fellow, What ruffin’s hand has made thee wellow? Haw heard while down in yonder hollow, Thy troubled breast; But I’ll return my little fellow, Back to its nest.

Some ruffin’s hand has set a snickle, And left thee in a bonny pickle; Who e’er he be, haw hope old Nick ’al Rise his arm, And mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle We summat warm.

How glad am aw that fate while roaming, Where milk-white Hawthorns’ blossoms blooming, As sent me footsteps ere the gloaming Into this dell. To stop some murdering hand fra drowning Thy bonny sell.

For thou wert doomed, my bird, for ever, Fra all thy fethered mates to sever; Were aw not near thee to deliver We my awn hand; Nor never more thou’d skim the river, Or fellowed land.

Thy fetherd friends, if thou has onny; Tho’ friends aw fear there izant mony; But yet thy dam for her, we Johnny, Will fret to-day. And think her watter-wagtail bonny Has flown away.

Be not afraid, for net a fether Fra of thy wing shall touch the hether, For I will give thee altogether Sweet liberty! And glad am aw that aw came hither, To set thee free.

Now wing thy flight my little rover, Thy cursed captivity is over, And if thou crosses t’ Straits o’ Dover To warmer spheres; Hoping thou may live in clover, For years and years.

Happily, like thee, for fortune’s fickle, I may, myself, be caught it 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.

Trip to Malsis Hall.

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

Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill, Both ould an’ young did meet; To march I trow, e two-by-two, E processhun dahn the street.

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

The girls and boys, we jovial noise, The fife and drum did play; For every one would have some fun On this eventful day.

Oud Joan o’ Sall wi’ all his palls, Marched on wi’ all ther ease; Just for a lark, some did remark, There goes some prime oud cheese!

The Exlaheead chaps wi their girt caps, An’ coits nut quite i’th’ fashion; With arms ding-dong, they stretch along, An’ put a fineish dash on.

Tom Wilkin drest up in his best, T’ oud wife put on her fall, For they wor bent, what come or went, To dine at Malsis Hall.

There wor Tommy Twist, among the list, We his magenta snaat; Hez often said, sin he gat wed, T’ oud lass sud hev an aht.

Amongst the lot wor oud Sam Butt, As fine as oud Lord Digby; An’ oud Queer Doos, wi’ his strait shoos, An’ wi’ him Joseph Rigby.

There’s Jimmy Gill, o’ Castle hill,— That gentleman wi’t stick,— There’s Will an’ Sam, and young John Lamb, An’ Ben an’ Earby Dick.

Aw scorn to lie—the reason why It is a shame awm sure! But among the gob, wi’ old Joe Hob, Behould a perfect cure.

I’d quite forgot, among the lot, There was old Pally Pickles, Wi’ crinoline sho walks so fine, Sho’s like a cat e prickles.

Bud to me tale, aw musant fail Fer out on this occasion; We heead erect, and girt respect, We march to Keighley Station.

And Maud an’ t’ woife, az large az life, Gat in’t train together; They both did say, they’d have a day, Among the blooming hether.

Nah—all fane gat in t’ train, And Ned began to scream; Then Master Pratt doft off his hat, An’ pept aht at the steeam.

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

The country folk did gape an’ luke, To see us all delighted, For every one, did say begum, Aw wish I’d been invited.

Its joy to tell, they march as well As the Scots did ower the border, Ould Wellington and all his men Ne’er saw such marching order.

The lookers on, to see them come, Get on the second story; Right down the park they did the mark, Coming e full glory.

Then to the place, each smiling face, Move on in grand succession; The lookers on did say “well done, It iz a grand processhun!”

When they’d all past the hall at last, They form’d into a column; Then Jimmy Wreet, wi’ all hiz meet, Gave aht a hymn so solemn:

Then all did raise their voice in praise, We music in the centre; They sang a hymn e praise o’ Him, At iz the girt inventer.

That bit being done, they all did run, To have a pleasant day in, Some went there, an’ some went here, An’ t’ Bands began o’ playing.

We mich amaze, we all did gaze, Around this splendid park; Then little Jake began to speak, An’ thus he did remark:—

“At Morecambe Bay aw’ve been a day, At Bolton Woods an’ Ilkley; But Malsis Hall outstrip them all, At aw’ve seen aht o’ Keighley.”

The girt park wall around the hall, Majestically does stand; The waving trees, an pleasant breeze, Its loike a fairy land.

It fill’d wer eyes, we great surprise, To see the fountain sporting; An’ on the top, stuck on a pot, The British flags wor floating.

The walks so grand, wi’ yellow sand, An’ splendid wor the paving, High over all, around the wall, Wor flags an’ banners waving.

Nah some made fun, an’ some did run, And women they wor swinging; Do you ken the “Muffin Man,”— Others they wor singing.

In sooth wor grand, to see this band, Assemble all together; Bud sad to say, that varry day, Turned aht some shocking weather.

Even war nert rain, aw mun explain, At caused a girt disaster, All but one sort o’ breead ran short, It wor no fault o’ t’ master.

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

Oh, silly clown! thou might have known To eyt each one wor able; The country air did mack some swear, They could ommost eyt a table.

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

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

Poor lame ould Will, remains there still, His crutches has to fetch him; But he’s seen the toime, when in his prime, At nobody there could catch him.

Like some fast steed, wi’ all its speed, All seem’d as they wor flying; To escape the rain, an’ catch the train, Both old and young wor trying.

One neet, old Wills, about Crosshills, He heeard a fearful humming, He said t’ woife, upon my life, Aw think the French are coming!

Tha knaws reight weel at we’ve heeard tell O sich strange things before, So lass look quick, an’ cut thee stick, An’ a will bolt the door.

Like drahnded rats, they pass their mates, An’ rans dahn to the station; And Betty Bakes an’ Sally Shakes, Their both plump aht o’ patience.

“This is a mess,” says little Bess, At lives o’t top o’t garden; “There’s my new shawl an’ fine lace fall, They’ll nut be worth a farden.”

But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throng, The bell does give the sign, With all its force, the iron horse, Comes trotting up the line.

Then one by one they all get on, Wet, fatigued and weary; The steam does blow, old Ned doth go, And we come back so cheery.

All satisfied we their short ride— But sorry for the rain— Each thenkt ther stars they’re nowt no war, An’ we’ve got home again.

Whene’er we roam away from home, No matter where or when, In storm or shower, if in wer power, To home—sweet home, return!

What we had seen—where we had been— Each to our friend wor telling: The day being spent, we homeward went To each respective dwelling.

Dame Europe’s Lodging House.

Dame Europa kept a Lodging House, And she was fond of brass; She took in public lodgers, Of every rank and class.

She’d French and Germans, Dutch and Swiss, And other nations too; So poor old Mrs. Europe Had plenty 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 A ONE, On whom 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.

For in her house was Alex Russ, Oft him they ey’d with fear; For Alex was a lazy hound, And kept a Russian Bear.

Her fourth was a man of grace, And was for heaven bent; His name was Pious William, Guided by his testament.

Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave, And ’tis our firm belief, He once did rob the Hungary Lads Of their honest 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 the _padding can_.

Once Alex Russ’s father Nick, A bit before he died, Seized a little Turk one day, And thought to warm his hide.

But John and Louis soon stepp’d in, Declaring it foul play; And made old Nick remember it Until 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 other padding cans, So dirty and so mean.

But Louis had the nicest bed, Of any of the lot; And being close by a window, He loved a flower pot.

The best and choicest bed of all, Was occupied with 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 one, Come 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 up it bunk, Sometimes he went across, To spend an hour with Master Louis, 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 it bank, He put it on per cent.

And working very hard himself Amongst his tar and pitch; He soon accumulated wealth, That made him very rich.

The next to Louis’ bed was Will, The biggest Monitor; And though he did pretend a saint, He was as big a cur.

He loved to make them all believe He was opposed to strife, And said he never caused a row, No, never in his life.

He was so fond of singing psalms, And read his testament; So everybody was deceived When he was on mischief bent.

He seldom passed a lodger’s bed But what he took a glance, Which made them every one suspect He’d rob them if he’d chance.

Now Louis had two flower pots He nourished with much care, But little knew that Willie’s eyes Were set upon the pair.

In one there grew an ALSACE Rose, The other a LORAINE, And Willie vowed they once were his And must be his again.

He said his father once lodg’d there, And that the dame did know That Louis predecessors once Had sneaked them in a row.

But in Willie’s council was a lad Up to every quirk, To keep him out of mischief, long Dame Europe had her work.

To this smart youth Saint Willie Did 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 deputies Don’t catch you on the hop, For John and Joseph you must know Your little game would stop.

For Joseph he has not forgot The day you warmed his rig; And christian Denmark still thinks on About 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 perceive Our scheme about the row.

But not another word of this To anybody’s ears, The dame she plays the list’ner, I have my doubts and fears.

So let us go up-stairs 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 stocks Should 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 Lue.

The dame being asked did not object If he could pay the rent, And had a decent characterz And Louis would consent.

But I do object to this says Lue, And on this very ground, Willy and his cousins, ma’am, They soon will me surround.

They’re nothing in my line at all They are so near a-kin, And so if I consent to this At once they’ll hem me in.

O, you couldn’t think it, Master Lue, That I should do you harm, For don’t I read my testament And don’t I sing my psalm.

’Tis all my eye, said Louis, both Your testament and psalms; You use the dumbbells regular To 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, Your trying now to breed a row At least it does appear.

Now Johnny hearing from the bunk What 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 him He’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 out at sort, ’Twould be against my mind; So take it right or take it wrong, I’ll promise naught at kind.

Then I shall take and wallop thee Unless thou cuts thy stick, And drive thee to thy fatherland Before another week.

Come on, cried Sanctimonius, And sending out his arm He 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 fire If we mistake it not.

So Willy sent a letter home, To his mother, old Augusta, Telling her he’d thrashed poor Lue, And given him such a duster.

What wonderful events, says he, Has heaven brought about, I fight the greatest pugilist That ever was brought out.

And if by divine Providence I get safe through this row, Then I will sing “My God the spring From whom all blessings flow.”

Meanwhile the other Monitors, Were standing looking on, But none of them durst 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 one Neutrality was the best.

Neutral, growl’d John, I hate the name, ’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 Lue a little drop Out of my brandy flask.

And give it up, poor Lue, 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 by, When he would not have seen his friend, Have 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 stock For everybody’s sport.

This conversation that took place Made pious Willy grin, And told 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 them were worse that did look on, Than them that played the game.

Now Dame Europe knew the facts Which 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 bunk To think and act for me?

Why any baby in the house Could not have done much worse, But I fancy you’ve been holding back To save your private purse.

Neutrality is as fine a word As ever a coward used, So the honour that I gave to you You 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 were neutral, And stuck up for them both.

Stuck up for both, offended both,— Is that it 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 fag’s advice to save Your paltry sums a year.

There’s Bob and Bill, besides some more That I call naught but scums, They’ve got you fairly in between Their fingers and their thumbs.

If such like men as Ben and Hugh This day your fags had been, They would have saved both you and me The cursed disgraceful scene.

And instead of being half-clad and shod, As everybody knows, You would have dared these rivals now To come to such like blows.

There was a time in this house, John, If you put up your thumb, The greatest blackguard tongue would stop As if they had been dumb.

But not a one i’t house This moment cares a fig, For 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 I Are very near akin.

Beside, you see, said John again, I let poor Louis sup, On both I use my ointment, and Their wounds I did bind up.

A weel a day then said the dame, But much affected were, I see you have some small excuse What you have done it for.

I have some little hopes left yet That 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 when Placed before the board.

And let me tell you he who shirks The responsibility Of seeing right, is doing wrong, And deserves humility.

And ’tis an empty-headed dream, To boast of skill and power, And dare not even interfere At the latest hour.

Better far confess at once You’re not fit for your place, Than have a name Heroic, sir, Branded with disgrace.

But I will not say another word, My deputies, to you; But hope you will a warning take, This moment from poor Lue.

And hoping, John, your enemies May never have the chance To see you paid for watching Will Thrash poor weak Louis France.

The Bould Bucaneers:

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’s siege of old Troy; So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will, How our brave army bivouced on the plains o’ Park hill.

Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our quarters we toke, When Lieutenant-col. Don Frederick spoke, Commanding his aide-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 an’ twisters the knights o’ the coil, An’ spuzzers an’ sorters fell in at the roll.

The light-infantry captains wer 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 see Them laughing and quaffing their hot rum an’ tea.

There wor music to dainties and music to wine, An’ for faar o’ invaders no hearts did repine; Although a dark cloud swept over the plain, Yet our quarter wor sheltered from famine an’ rain.

Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Master Wright, Drank to each other wi’ pleasure that night; We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music an fun, From the larder an’ cellar o’ Field-Marshall Lund.

Private Tom Berry got into the hall, When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small; An’ Flintergill Billy o’ the Spuzzer’s Brigade, Got his beak in the barrel, an’ havock he made.

The Field Marshall declared and his good lady too, They ne’er was attacked wi’ so pleasant a foe; With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers, In return they saluted the bold Bucaneers.

The Veteran.

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

Come, rouse thee, lad, be not afraid; Come, join and be a brave dragoon: You’ll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, An’ captain be promoted soon. Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see Your manly form an’ dress so fine; Then gea’s your hand an’ follow me,— Our troop’s the finest in the line.

The pyramids behold our corps Drive back the mighty man o’ Fate! Our ire is felt on every shore, In every country, clime, or state. The Cuirassers at Waterloo We crushed;—they wor the pride o’ France! At Inkerman, wi’ sabre true, We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!

Then come, my lad, extend your hand, Thine indolence I hold it mean; Now follow me, at the command, Of our most gracious Sovereign Queen? A prancing steed you’ll have to ride; A bonny plume will deck your brow; Wi’ clinking spurs an’ sword beside,— Come? here’s the shilling: take it now!

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

The Vale of Aire.

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

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

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

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

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

In Goitstock falls, and rugged Marley hills, In Bingley’s grand and quiet sequester’d dale, Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rills, I see thy haunt and read thy “Poacher’s Tale.”

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

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

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

The Pauper’s Box.

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

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

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

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

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

But yet, ’twere grand beneath yond wall, To lay with friends,—relations all; If sculptured tombstones were never there, But simple grass with daisies fair; And were it not, grim box, for thee ’Twere paradise, O cemetery.

[Picture: Decorative image]

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A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN, KEIGHLEY.