Chapter 3

"An' tell 'em to remember thee Upon t'next Feffee Day!" I says--"I sallant get a meg, I'm gettin' parish pay."

So when shoo'd spokken what shoo thowt, An' tell'd me what to do, I ax'd her if shoo'd harken me, Wal I just said a word or two.

"I'll nut tell you one word o' lie, As sure as my name's John; I think at you are quite i' t'mist Abaht things going on.

"Folks gether in fra far an' near, When it is Feffee Day, An' think they hev another lowse, Wi' t'little bit o' pay.

"Asteead o' givin' t'brass to t'poor, It's shocking fer to tell, They'll hardly let 'em into t'door-- I knaw it bi misell.

"Asteead o' bein' a peck o' malt Fer t'wimmen liggin' in, It's geen to rascals ower-grown, To drink i' rum an' gin.

"Then them at is--I understand-- What you may call trustees; They hev ther favourites, you knaw, An' gives to who they please.

"Some's nowt to do but shew ther face, An' skrew ther maath awry; An' t'brass is shuvv'd into ther hand, As they are passin' by.

"There's monny a woman I knaw weel, Boath middle-aged and owd, 'At's waited fer ther bit o' brass, An' catch'd ther deeath o' cowd;

"Wol mony a knave wi' lots o' brass Hes cum i' all his pride, An' t'flunkeys, fer to let him pass, Hes push'd t'poor folk aside.

"Fra Bradford, Leeds, an' Halifax, If they've a claim, they come; But what wi' t'railway fares an' drink, It's done bi they get hooam.

"Wol mony a poorer family 'At's nut been named i' t'list, Reight weel desarves a share o' t'spoil, But, thenk ye, they are miss'd.

"We see a man at hes a haase, Or happen two or three, They 'Mister' him, an' hand him aght Five times as mitch as me.

"'Twor better if yo'd teed yer brass Tight up i' sum owd seck, An' getten t'Corporation brooms, To sweep it into t'beck."

No longer like Capia's form, Wi' a tear i' both her een, But like the gallant Camilla, The Volscian warrior Queen.

Shoo, kneelin', pointed up aboon, An' vah'd, be all so breet, Sho'd wreak her vengence on ther heeads, Or watch 'em day an' neet.

Shoo call'd the Furies to her aid, An' Dirae's names shoo used, An' sware if I hed spocken t'truth, Shoo hed been sore abus'd.

"Alas, poor Ghoast!"--I sed to her-- "Indeed, it is too true"; Wi' that sho vanish'd aght o' t'seet, Sayin' "Johnny lad, adieu!"

In Memory of THOMAS IRELAND, _Police Superintendent_, _Keighley_. BORN 1831, DIED 1887.

"He was a man, take him for all-in-all, we shall not look upon his like again?"--SHAKSPEARE.

Who knew his virtues must his death deplore And long lament that Ireland is no more; Set is the sun that shone with all its rays, And claimed from every one their warmest praise.

Mute are those lips, whose mildest accents spoke Their sterling worth, down to the harmless joke; Clear-seeing his soul, for lo! that mind was one That envied nothing underneath the sun.

To speak the truth, he never was afraid; His country's weal, his country's laws obeyed; A pensive calm reigned on his noble brow, While in his eye you read the solemn vow:--

"I harm no one; no one will I betray; My duty is to watch and see fair play; My friendship is to no one set confined; My heart and hand are given to all mankind."

Oh ancient town of legendary strain When will his place in thee be filled again! For men like he, possessed of sterling worth, Are few and far between upon the earth.

Such was the man the weeping mourners mourn, Lost to his friends, ah! never to return; Fled to the spheres where he in peace must dwell, While all who knew him bid a long farewell.

A Yorkshireman's Christmas.

Aw hev ten or twelve pund o' gooid meit, A small cheese an' a barrel o' beer; Aw'll welcome King Kersmas to neet, For he nobbut comes once in a year.

Send ahr Will dahn ta Tommy Spoyle Wood's, An' tell him ta send up a log; An' tell him an' Betty to come, For Tommy's a jolly owd dog.

Aw mean ta forget all my debts, An' aw mean ta harbour no grief; Nobbut emptying glasses an' plates O' their contents o' beer an' gooid beef.

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

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

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

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

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

Lines on the Late MR. THOMAS CRAVEN.

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

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

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

. . . . . . .

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

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

Gooise an' Giblet Pie.

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

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

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

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

The Grand Old Man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ode to Bacchus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Picture: Picture of plant]

Sall o't' Bog.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Song of the Months.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bonnie Cliffe Castle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Opening of Devonshire Park, SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Picture: Picture of a rose]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Picture: Decorative picture of a plant]

He's Thy Brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lund's Excursion to Windermere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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