Chapter 4

But among the procession at walk'd in his pride, Wor Joey o' Willie's 'at lives at t'Beck Side; An' along wi' Bill Earby wor marchin' his friend, Wun Jemmy o' Roses fra t'Branshaw Moor End. As we pass'd dahn t'tahn the foaks did declare 'At t'best lukin' men wor Sam Butt an' Black Hare.

But t'next at com on an' made t'biggest crack, Wor t'gallant Big-benners led on wi' Bill Shack; An' t'spectators praised 'em an' seem'd i' ther joy, When they saw Johnny Throstle, an' Nolan an' Boy. Altho' not weel up i' ther armour an mail, Yet these are the lads 'at can tell yu a tale.

Hahsumivver, we push'd an' thrusted thro' t'craad, Wal we landed at t'station an' waited i' t'yard; So we all sattled dahn, for we thowt it t'best plan To wait o' wer orders to get into t'train.

Hahsumivver, after a deal o' yellin' an' screamin' o' t'injuns, Mr. Mann sed all wor reight nah, an' they mud start as sooin as they liked, for ivverybody wor i' t'train at wor bahn, but owd Pally Pickles an' Matty o' Maude's; an' their Sally cudn't go becos they had a mustard plaister to put on to their Roger's chest; he'd strain'd his lungs wi' eitin' cahcumbers. Beside, owd Pally cudn't go either, becos shoo'd nobody to wait on t'owd fella at wor laid up i' t'merly grubs; an' ivverybody wor so taen on abaght Will Scott not going, for, as owd Betty sed, what wod they do if ther legs gat asleep an' no galvanic battery to shack em reight ageean?

But, hahsumivver, t'guard blew his whistle an' off t'train started helter-skelter up bi Utley as hard as ivver it cud go. An nah for a change o' scene!--fer t'Exley-Heeaders aght wi ther rhubub pasties an' treacle parkins. Harry o' Bridget's hed a treacle parkin t'size of a pancake in his hat crahn, an' Joe o' owd Grace's fra Fell Loin hed a gert bacon collop in his pocket t'size of a oven tin. Somebody remarks, "Tha'll grease thi owd chops wi' that, Joe." He sed "I like a bit o' bacon when it isn't reezed, tha knaws, especially home-fed like this"; but just when he wor exhibitin' it rhaand t'hoile, t'train stopp'd at Kilwick Station, fer t'maister an' t'missis wor waitin' to get in; so t'Turkey Mill Band struck up "We're goin' home to glory," wi' credit to both t'conductors an' thersens. Hahsumivver, they wor forced to put double time in at t'latter end, for Puffin' Billy started o' screaming ageean fearfully, so all wor in t'carriages an' off in a crack--my word, they did leg it ower hedges an' dykes, thru valleys an' mahutains--

"Where the wind nivver blew, Nor a cock ivver crew, Nor the deil sahnded His Bugle Horn."

I'll assure yu, foak, it seemed varry little afoar we wor at Clapham. Why, yu can judge for yersens; when Tom o' Twist's gat up an' popped his heead aght o' t'window an' shaated aaght "We're at Derby already!" but it turned aght to be nowt but a coil truck wi' "Derby" marked on it. Well, be it as it may, we landed at Lancaster sooin, an' some o' t'owd maids gat aght here, but it wor nivver knawn to this day what for; hahsumivver, it hes been suspected at they wor after some watter, for ther shooin wor steepin' wet when they com back. But yu mun knaw at after a deal o' twistin' an' twinin' they started for Windermere, but, my word, it worrant generally thowt so, for owd Nathan o' Johnny's an' their Samuel, an' owd Matty o' Sykes's, an' Bob o' t'Bog, stood it boldly 'at it wor goin' back to Keighley, an' wodant believe it wal they reitched Kendal; besides, ivverybody thowt at t'train wor lost, but after another start we landed at Windermere, an' nearly all t'passengers wor fair capp'd, for they thowt for sewer at t'injun hed been flaid wi' summat.

But, hod yer din, says Railway Tim, As it is varry clear, At t'injun's reight an' landed streight, For this is Windermere.

So, i' landing, ivverbody seemed quite startled wi' t'appearance o' t'place. "Well, if ivver, I'm fair capp'd!', sed owd Maude o' Peter's, "it's t'nicest spot I ivver saw wi' mi een, an' I sall say so to mi deein' day. It looks like a paradise! I've seen mony a nice place i' mi life-time, both dreamin' an' wakin', but this licks all! What wi' t'grand black marble houses an' t'roses growin' up at t'front, it's ommost like bein' i' Heaven." But nobody cud hear aboon t'toan hauf o' what wor said cos t'bands wor playin' as hard as ivver they cud an' t'foak wor all in a bussle, for--

Miss Hob an' Miss Jonas tuke a cab dahn to Bowness, An' mind yu, they luk'd fearful grand; An' when they gat theer they tuke fer Grassmere, Like two o' t'first ladies i' t'land.

Miss Walsh an' Miss Roddy an' another young body, Bethowt 'em 'at it wod be t'best, To tak a fine boat an' just hev a float Dahn the lake as far as Dove's Nest.

Says Miss Nelly Holmes, "as I've left off mi looms I'll show at I'm summat better; An' I'll go ta Low Wood, it might do ma good, An' sport both on t'land an' on t'watter."

Hahsumivver, Miss Martha Smith fra Utley, an owd maid, an' Jenny Hodgson, an' Ann Shack, an' abaght nineteen other owd maids, bethowt 'em they'd hev some teah, for there wor a paper stuck i' ivvery window wi' "Hot water sold here," as an inscription. So they went in an' bargain'd for it, an' ax'd what it wor a piece fer hot waiter. "Tuppence a piece," says t'Missis. "Tuppence a piece!" exclaim'd t'dollop of 'em, "we can get it at owd Matty Wreet's fer a penny a week. It's a burning shame, but let's hev a bucket a piece."

So thirteen cups a piece they tuke, An' they were noan ta blame, Fer weel shoo knew did Hannah Shack, They'd hev to pay the same.

An' my word, t'gert foak wor capp'd when they saw us; these wor some squintin' throo glasses, yu mind, an' especially when t'band started a playin'. In fact, they wor fair charm'd wi' t'Turkey Mill Banders, an' a deal o' t'young ladies an' gentlemen admired t'conductor, fer his arm went just like a hand-loom weiver swingin' his pickin' stick.

Fer monny a noble lord did say, An' so did monny a heiress, "Can this be Julien's Band, I pray, That late we've seen in Paris.

"Upon my word, I think it is That famous French instructor, Mon Dieu! when I behold his phiz, It is the great conductor."

But they wor t'moast capped wi' t'Fife an' Drum Band ov owt. They tuke 'em to be a band of Esquimaux at hed just landed i' England. Hahsumivver, we followed after, marchin' ta t'tune 'at t'owd kah deed on, i' droves like a squad o' pie-bald geese, wal we com ta t'watter edge, an' then--

To Miller's Brah, an' Calf-garth Woods, Some on 'em tuke ther route, Some sailed across to Castle Wray, An' some went whear they thowt.

Some tuke a yacht to Newby Brig, To brave both wind an' tide, Wal others sailed around Belle Isle, An' some to Ambleside.

I' landin' at Ambleside, Joe o' Raygill's bethowt him he'd hev a glass o' ale, an' bethegs he'd t'misfortun to leave three gert curnberry pasties i' t'hotel, an' didn't bethink him wal he'd getten on ta t'top of a big hill, but when he bethowt him, my word, he did bounce dahn that hill ta some tune. When he gat back, t'missis hed geen 'em to Jonas o' Sall's, an' behold they wor luking fer one another up hills an' dahn valleys, Joe axin' ivverybody he met if they'd seen owt of his three pasties, an' Jonas axin' fer t'owner on 'em. Hahsumivver, they nivver gat ta see nowt wal they wor theer, for they didn't meet wal t'train wor just startin' back agean, an' then Joe didn't get his pasties, cos Jonas hed geen 'em to a injun-driver, an' theer--betmess he'd hetten 'em, ta Joe's mortification an' rage!

But, that worn't all t'mistak at wor made; fer Bill Rollins bethowt him at he'd lost summat, but cudn't tell fer his life what it wor. He groped his pockets, luk'd into his carpet beg, an' studied fer aboon an haar; at last he pick'd it aght 'at it wor their Peg 'at he'd lost somewheer up on t'mahntens.

Well, as I wor tellin' yu, we'd promenaded t' gigantic hills an' beautiful valleys, intermix'd wi' ower-hingin' peaks an' romantic watter-falls which form part o' t'grand Lake scenery of ahr English Switzerland to the delight of ivvery one o' t'excursionists. T'day beginnin' to advance, an' "back agean" bein' t'word i' ivverybody's maath, yu cud see t'fowk skippin' ower t'Lake ("Home-ward bound," as t'song says), some in a Indian canoe, some in a Venetian gondolier; owd Ben Rusher wor in a Chinese junk, somebody sed. But, haivver, hunderds mud be seen on board o' t'steam yachts comin' fra Newby Brig an' Ambleside. Fra t'latter place t'steamer wor fair craaded wi' foak, for i' t'first class end ther wor Mr. an' Mrs. Lund an' their illustrious friends, Mr. Mann an' staff wi' a parson an' four of his handsome dowters; at t'other end wor a German Band, some niggers, Jimmy Wright, jun., alias Jim o' Peggy's, wi' a matter o' one hunderd Ranters rhaand him. Jim wod hev his lip in; but he's a rare chorus singer, there's nowt abaght that; for, my word, t'strangers did praise him aboon a bit, an' weel he desarved it, fer he gap'd like a young throstle, wal t'foak wor fair charm'd, an' 'specially t'Germans an' t'niggers 'at wor on deck, fer they'd nivver heeard onny chorus-singin' afoar they heeard Jim strike up--

We're joyously sailin' ower the lake, Bound fer t'opposite shore; An' which o' yu's fooil enuff ta believe We sall nivver see land onny more.

Let the hurrican roar, Sall we ivver land onny more.

The skilful pilot's at the wheel, An' his mate is watchin' near; So the captain shouts "Cheer up, mi lads, There's nobody nowt to fear."

Then let the hurrican roar, We sall reitch the opposite shore.

An' summat abaght "the evergreen shore" he sang. But what wi' t'beautiful landscapes on both sides o' t'Lake, an' t'recollections o' Wordsworth, Wilson, Mrs. Hemans, Harriet Martineau, an' other famous poets, painters, an' authors, it threw one of our party into a kind o' poetical mood--

For wal he stood upon the deck, He oft wor heeard to say, "I'd raither oomo to Windermere, Nor go to Morecambe Bay; An' though I've been to Malsis Hall, Where it is fearful grand, It's nowt at all compared wi' this-- The nicest place i' t'land.

For, O how splendid is the Lake, Wi' scenery like this! If I cud nobbut stop a week, It wod be nowt amiss; A resolution nah I'll mack, T'next summer what to do;-- Asteead o' comin' for a day, I'll stop a week or two."

But nah we land at Bowness Pier, Then sooin we jump ashore, An' back to t'Station we did steer, For rare an' pleased we wor: So into t'train for back agean, Owd friends once more to meet; An' in a crack we're landed back-- Bi ten o'clock at neet.

All join i' praise to Mr. Mann, For t'management he made; An' praise the gallant Turkey Band, For t'music 'at they play'd: An' praise is due fra ivvery one 'At shared i' this diversion; All praise an' thanks to Mr. Lund, Who gav this grand Excursion.

The Tartan Plaid.

In Auld Lang Syne I've heard 'em say My granny then she wore A bonnie Scottish Tartan Plaid In them good days o' yore; An' weel I ken when I was young Some happy days we had, When ladies they were dress'd so gay In Scottish Tartan Plaid.

Me thinks I see my father now Sat working at his loom-- I see my mother at the wheel-- In our dear village home; The swinging-stick I hear again, Its buzzin' makes me sad, To think those happy days are gone When weaving Tartan Plaid.

It is not in a clannish view, For clans are naught to me, But 'tis our ancient Tartan Plaid I dearly love to see. 'Tis something grand ye will agree To see a Highland lad, Donn'd in his Celtic native garb, The grand old Tartan Plaid.

Our Soldier lads in tartan kilts Outshine our warriors bold (Who dress in scarlet, green, and blue, Decked off with shining gold); Just see our kilted lads so brave, It makes my heart feel glad, And 'minds me of my boyish days When dress'd in Tartan Plaid.

"O wad some power" the hint we give Our Sovereign Lady Queen, To dress herself and lady maids In bonnie tartan sheen. Then treadles, shuttles, warp, and weft-- (For trade would not be bad)-- Would rattle as in days of yore, When weaving Tartan Plaid.

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 do 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 t'were 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 villians who, if all were just, In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, t'were grand beneath yond wall, To lie with friends,--relations all; If sculptured tombstones were not there, But simple grass with daisies fair; And were it not, grim box, for thee 'Twere paradise, O cemetery.

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, 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 framed 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 applause that 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 the eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.

In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley's hill, In Bingley's grand and quiet sequestered dale, Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill, I see thy haunt and read thy "Poacher's Tale."

So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune Thy native vale in 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 "Yale of Aire," Her Nicholson and his historic song.

[Picture: Picture of a tree]

Fra Haworth ta Bradford.

Fra Haworth tahn the other day, Bi t'route o' Thornton Height, Joe Hobble an' his better hauf, Went inta Bradford straight.

Nah Joe ta Bradford hed been before, But shoo hed nivver been; But hahsumivver they arrived Safe inta t'Bowlin' Green.

They gav a lad a parkin pig, As on the street they went; Ta point 'em aght St. George's Hall, An' Ostler's Monument.

Bud t'little jackanapes bein'deep, An' thowt they'd nivver knaw, Show'd Joseph Hobble an' his wife T'first monument he saw.

As sooin as Joe gat up ta t'rails, His een blaz'd in his heead; Exclamin', they mud just as weel A gooan an' robb'd the deead.

Bud whoivver's ta'en them childer dahn, Away fra poor owd Dick, Desarves his heead weel larapin, Wi' a dahn gooid hazel stick.

T'lad seein' Joe froth aght o' t'maath, He sooin tuke to his heels, Fer asteead o' t'Ostler's Monument, He'd shown 'em Bobby Peel's.

The Veteran.

I left yon fields so fair to view; I left yon 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 my lad, be not afraid; Come, join and be a brave dragoon: You'll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, To captain be promoted soon. Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see Your manly form and dress so fine; Give me your hand and follow me,-- Our troop's the finest in the line.

"The pyramids beheld our corps Drive back the mighty man of Fate! Our ire is felt on every shore, In every country, clime, or state. The Cuirassiers at Waterloo We crushed;--they were the pride of France! At Inkerman, with sabre true, We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!

"Then come, my lad, extend your hand, Tame 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; With clinking spurs and 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 wished to cross the briny wave, And England's gallant sons to join. Since--many a summer's sun has set, An' time's graved-care is on my brow, Yet I am free and willing yet To meet old England's daring foe.

Address to the Queen, JUNE 20th, 1887.

_To the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty_.

Most Gracious Sovereign Lady, Victoria Alexandra Guelph, Queen of the hearts of her people throughout all civilisation, one of your Majesty's loyal and faithful subjects desires most respectfully to approach your Majesty to congratulate you upon the completion of the fiftieth year of your reign. In the same year of your Majesty's coronation, in a wild part of old Yorkshire, where it is said the wind never blew nor the cock ever crew, was your Most Gracious Majesty's humble servant born; and at the very hour that your Majest ascended the Throne, a kind, good Yorkshire mother was rocking her baby in an old oak cradle, while the father was treading the treadles and picking the shuttle of his old hand-loom to the tune of "Britons never shall be slaves"; and I am proud to convey to your Majesty that the child in the old oak cradle was no less a person than your Majesty's humble and obedient servant, Bill o'th' Hoylus End, Poet and Philosopher to the plebians of Keighley, and who now rejoices in the fiftieth year of your Majesty's reign that he has been blessed with good health during that long period, having had at no time occasion to call in a physician. John Barleycorn has been my medical adviser, and when I begin to review the fifty years of your most illustrious reign, from my birth, I feel grateful indeed, for great and mighty men and nations have risen and fallen; but I am proud to think that your Most Gracious Majesty and your humble servant have weathered the storm, and I also can assure your Majesty that the lukewarm loyalty of the upper ten is not a sample of people here, for during the latter half of your Majesty's reign up to now prosperity has shone upon the once crooked, old, mis-shapen town, for wealth has been accumulated to the tune of millions, which I am sorry to inform your Majesty is in the hands of those who mean to keep it. One portion of your Majesty's lukewarm loyal subjects have the advancement of art and science so much on the brain that it is feared they will go stark mad. I have also much pleasure in informing your gracious Majesty that His Grace the Duke of Devonshire has presented the people of Keighley with a plot of ground to be called the Devonshire Park, which will be opened on the occasion of your Majesty's Jubilee; also that Henry Isaac Butterfield, Esquire, of bonny Cliffe Castle, has erected a noble-looking structure, to be called the Jubilee Tower, which will be opened on the day of your Majesty's Grand Jubilee, to commemorate your Majesty's glorious reign. This gentleman is a native of Keighley, and fairly entitled to be knighted by your gracious Majesty, seeing that he has done more to beautify the town than all the rest. It has also been given out that the town has to be honoured by a royal visit from your Majesty's grandson, Prince George. But pray take a fool's advice, your Majesty, and don't let him come unless he is able to pay his own expenses; for I can assure His Royal Highness that this is the city of number oneism. Yet with the exception of parting with the bawbees, I dare be sworn that your Majesty's subjects in Keighley are the grand and genuine men of the shire, take them in art and science, flood or field.

I sincerely hope that your Most Gracious Majesty will excuse the blunt and out-spoken Bard, who will ever remain your Majesty's most humble and obedient servant,--BILL O'TH' HOYLUS END.

P.S.--I beg your Majesty's most humble pardon, for since I addressed your most gracious Majesty a note has come to me stating that the Brewers, Bakers, Shoemakers, and Tailors, have subscribed and bought a splendid Ox, which will be roasted and served to the poor on the occasion of the celebration of your most gracious Majesty's Jubilee.

Then Hail to England's Gracious Queen! 'Tis now proclaimed afar, The Jubilee of our Gracious Queen, The Empire's Guiding Star. For fifty years she's been to us A Monarch and a Mother; And looks her subjects in the face As Sister or a Brother.

Then here's a health to England's Queen Whom Jove to us hath given; A better Monarch ne'er has been Beneath His starry heaven. There is no man of any clan, O'er any land or sea, But what will sing "God bless our Queen" On her grand Jubilee.

The world looks on Old England's Queen In danger for protection; Nor never yet hath England failed To make her grand correction. "Fair play," she cries, no one shall harm A child beneath my realm; I'm Captain of Great Britain's barque And standing at the helm.

Had England trusted wicked men, This day where had she been? But lo! she had a Guiding Star, 'Twas our dear Mother Queen. There is no foe, where'er you go This day, I vow, could hate her; She's a blessing to her nation, And a terror to a traitor.

As she has been, long may she reign, The Grand Old Queen of Britain; In letters of bright gold her name Henceforward should be written. All nations 'neath the stars above, And canopy of heaven, Rejoice to see her Jubilee In Eighteen Eighty-seven.

Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday.

Weak bard, but thou dost try in vain To tune that mighty harp again, To try thy muse in Burns's strain-- Thou'rt far behind. And yet to praise him thou would'st fain-- It is thy mind.

He who sang of Bruce's command At Bannockburn, with sword in hand, And bid his warriors firmly stand Upon the spot; And bid the foemen leave the land, Or face the Scot.

He who freed the human mind Of superstitious weak and blind; He who peered the scenes behind Their holy fairs-- How orthodox its pockets lined With canting prayers.