PART III.

Soon after the knight took this maiden away, And with her did ride, till they came to the sea; Then looking on her with anger and spite, He spoke to the virgin, and bid her alight.

The maid from her horse immediately went, And trembled to think what it was that he meant; "Ne'er tremble," said he, "for this hour is your last, Then pull off your clothes, I command you in haste."

The virgin, with tears in her eyes, did reply, "Oh! what have I done that now I must die? Oh! let me but know how I did you offend, I'll study each hour for to make you amends.

"Oh! spare but my life, and I'll wander the earth, And never come near you while that I have breath." He hearing this pitiful moan she did make, Then from his own finger a ring he did take,

And unto this maiden in anger did say, "This ring in the water I'll now throw away; Pray look on it well, the posey is plain, And when you see it may know it again.

"I charge you for life, ne'er come more in my sight, For if you do, I shall owe you a spite; Unless that you bring the same ring unto me." With that, he let the ring drop into the sea:

Which when he had done, from the maid he did go, And left her to wander in sorrow and woe. She rambled all night, and at last did espy A homely poor cottage, and to it did hie.

Being hungry and cold, with a heart full of grief, She went to the cottage and asked for relief: The people reliev'd her, and the very next day, They got her a service, as I do hear say,

At a nobleman's house, not far from that place, Where she behaved herself with modest grace; She was a cook maid, and forgot all things past, But here is a wonder now comes at the last.

As she a fish dinner was dressing one day, And opening the head of a cod, as they say, She found a rich ring, and was struck with amaze; And then she with wonder upon it did gaze.

At viewing it well, she did find it to be The very same ring the knight threw into the sea. She smil'd when she saw it, and blest the kind fate, But did to no creature the secret relate.

The maid in her place did all others excel, That the lady took notice, and liked her so well; Said she was born of some noble degree And took her her own companion to be.

The hard hearted knight to this place he came, A little time after, with persons of fame; But was struck to the heart when he there did behold This charming young virgin in trappings of gold.

Then he asked the lady to grant him a boon, And said, 'twas to talk with that virgin alone; The lady consented, and the young maid, Who quickly agreed, but was sorely afraid.

When he did meet her, "Thou strumpet," said he, "Pray did not I charge you ne'er to meet me; This hour's your last, to the world bid good night, For being so bold to appear in my sight."

Said she, "In the sea, sir, you flung your own ring, And bid me not see you, unless I could bring That ring unto you, and I have it," said she, "Behold, 'tis the same that was thrown into the sea!"

When the knight saw the ring, he did fly to her arms; He kissed her, and swore she had a million of charms. Said he, "Charming creature, I pray pardon me, Who has often contrived the ruin of thee.

"'Tis in vain to alter what fate has decreed, For I find thou wast born my dear bride to be." Then married they were, as I do hear say, And now she's a lady both gallant and gay.

Then quickly unto her parents did haste, Where the knight told the story of all that was past; But asked both their pardons upon his bare knee, Which they give, and rejoice their daughter to see.

Then they for the fisherman and his wife sent, And for their past trouble did give them content; But there was great joy by all those that did see The farmer's young daughter a lady to be.

THE VIRGIN RACE; OR, YORKSHIRE'S GLORY.[190]

Being an account of a race lately run at Temple-Newsham Green; none being admitted to run but such as were virgins. The first that came to the Two Miles' Race end was to have a silver spoon; the second, a silver bodkin; the third, a silver thimble; and the fourth, nothing at all.

Tune "_New Game at Cards_."

You that do desire to hear Of a virgin race run in York-shire, Come and listen, I'le declare, Such news before you ne'er did hear; For, I think, since the world begun, But seldom virgins races run.

Four virgins that supposed were A race did run, I now declare; Sure such a race was never seen, As this at Temple Newsham Green; In half shirts and drawers these maids did run, But bonny Nan the race has won.

A silver spoon this Nan obtain'd; The next a silver bodkin gain'd; The third that was not quite so nimble, Was to have a silver thimble; And she that was the last of all, Nothing unto her share did fall.

In drawers red Ann Clayton run, And she it was the race that won; Peg Hall, as I may tell to you, Did run in drawers that were blew; Honest Alice Hall that was the third, Her drawers were white, upon my word.

A concourse great of people were, For to behold these virgins there, Who so well acted the man's part, And love a man with all their heart; But what means this, for well we know Maids through the nation all do so.

Now let us come to bonny Nan, Who won a race once of a man; In Bassing-hall street he did dwell, His name was Luke, 'tis known full well; And let me now declare to you, At something else she'l beat him too.

Let none the Yorkshire girls despise, Who are so active now a days; So brisk and nimble they do grow, That few can match them, I do know; Then let us stand up for Yorkshire, Those country girls I love most dear.

A Yorkshire girl, who can outvie? No city girls can them come nigh; They've rosy blushes in their cheeks, While city girls are green as leeks; This with my fancy will agree, A Yorkshire girl shall be for me.

Then here's a health to a Yorkshire girl, For in mine eye she is a pearl, Whose beauty doth so charm mine eye That for her I would freely dye; Her virtues do her face adorn, And makes her look fresh as the morn.

Now to conclude, unto my friend These lines I freely recommend, Advising him above the rest, To love a Yorkshire girl the best; But let him use his skill, for I Will love a Yorkshire girl until I dye.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 190: From a broadside in the Roxburgh coll., black letter. Printed for J. Wright, J. Clark, W. Thackeray, and T. Passinger.]

THE MAYOR OF DONCASTER.[191]

A true and lamentable tale, showing how his worship was dubbed a knight a day too soon, and undubbed again a day too late, not to be laughed at.

Sweet girls of Pindus, hither bring Your drums and bag-pipes hollow, THE MAYOR OF DONCASTER I sing,[192] Assist me O Apollo! His worship is a jolly squire, And loyal as a spaniel dog, His zeal as hot as kitchen fire, His head as learned and as big As that great philosophic log Whereon Puff trims his worship's wig. Nature had ta'en Herculean pains To scour his chambers clean from brains, And truly at a vast expence Had cur'd and purg'd them quite from evil sense. Brains, sense, and wit, are such low vulgar things As seldom trouble the heads of mayors or kings. What of the mayor of Doncaster, I pray? Sir he received a letter t'other day; Judge, readers, judge, what huge surprize Stretch'd like a brace of moons his eyes, Judge, how he gaped for joy, for breath, And show'd the ruins of his teeth; Judge, how his head sublimer grew, Judge, how his shoulders widen'd too, Judge, how he swung his arms about, Judge, how he mov'd his legs so stout, So big he look'd you would have swore A giant stood where stood a dwarf before. Reader, behold this wonderful epistle, And if thou canst not laugh, go whistle.-- "King George's compliments to Mr. Mayor, Queen Charlotte also greets his lady fair. Their gracious majesties have heard with pleasure How you have sacrificed both time and treasure On flannel jackets, breeches, stockings, socks, Also on good warm petticoats and smocks, To clothe our gallant troops abroad in Flanders,[193] Their pretty lasses and our smart commanders, The queen and princesses are quite delighted, And king George swears such deeds shall be requited; Come, come to London, sir, come and be knighted."

This note, signed "Granville," came by post, And (cheap enough) a silver shilling cost. No time must now be lost, he goes, he sends To all his wealthy corporation friends. The sleek-skinn'd brotherhood soon flock'd together, All in full spirits and full feather, With double chins and rosy faces, Pictures of bacchanalian graces, Expecting to behold a feast Of turtle exquisitely drest. They lick'd their chops, and stretch'd their maws, And blest the man that first invented jaws. Jaws form'd so wonderful and so complete, Jaws that can swear and pray and lie and eat; When lo! ah! disappointed paunches, Instead of vast sirloins and haunches, Bright dishes, shining knives and forks, Gay bottles, sparkling glasses, smacking corks, Up rose the mayor, with sage demeanour, And read the letter--for a dinner! He ended--and a broad prodigious grin Screw'd every face, and tugg'd up ev'ry chin. But yet mysterious silence hung A padlock upon every tongue; Then rearing his triumphant crest, Whilst knighthood caper'd in his breast, Thus the big mayor the aldermen addres't: "Ha! honest gem'men, don't ye see The king's most gracious majesty Has fall'n quite in love with me? Upon my honor, worthy gem'men, I never knew myself before. I've always been before a yeoman, Not very rich, not very poor, To-day, a man, like one of you, A knight to-morrow I shall ride In coach and six, with ribband blue, And sword-knot flaming by my side. On honor's ladder I intend to rise, Step after step until I reach the skies, A viscount, earl, a marquess, duke, I'll be, God only knows what may become of me, And really, gem'men, 'twould be no strange thing, If, in my turn, I should become a king." The aldermen all started from their places, And open'd all the windows of their faces, Each view'd the letter with a heart-heav'd groan. And wish'd a thousand times it was his own. Then bowing humbly to the mayor, Each offer'd up his solemn prayer.-- "Make me," said one, "most gracious sir, A learned lord high chancellor." "And I," exclaimed a man of weight, "I'll be your minister of state." "Make me your majesty's physician," Cried a poor mean consumptive elf. "I'll be your majesty's musician," Said one who seem'd a corporation of himself. "Ask," quoth the mayor, "whate'er you want, And all, aye, more than all, I'll grant, Should heav'n bestow the golden fleece, By George! I'll make you dukes apiece!"-- --"Fools, fools apiece," exclaim'd a fat Old wag, who in a corner sat. "Fools?" cried the mayor, abash'd, confounded, "Fools?" cried the aldermen, astounded. "Yes, fools apiece, fools altogether," Replied the wicked wag; "Fools, fools," he cried, "fools of one feather, I'll let the cat out o' the bag, This letter ne'er was writ by Granville, But forged on quite another anvil. 'Tis neither frank'd nor does the seal display A coat of arms magnificent and gay. Some Jacobin has sent the fabrication, Just to befool our learned corporation." Sneering he spake, then turn'd about, Took up his chapeau, and walked out. Ghastly and wild his worship stagger'd, And look'd as if he had been dagger'd. Stung to the stomach with vexation, The aldermen all roar'd, "Damnation!" The meeting, silent as the breaking day, Soft as the mountain snow did melt away. At first his worship stamp'd and storm'd and swore He never had been made a fool before, And therefore could not overlook it! But, second thoughts are best--his worship then Swore that he'd ne'er be made a fool again,-- So put his vengeance in his pocket!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 191: From a MS. _penes_ Charles Jackson, esq., of Doncaster.]

[Footnote 192: The civic functionary on whom these verses are traditionally said to have been made was GEORGE PEARSON, who was elected mayor 22 Sept. 1785 and 26 Sept. 1793. He died in 1798, and was interred at Stainton, co. York, where is a monument to his memory, with the following inscription:--

"This monument is erected to the memory of Geo. Pearson, esq., of Doncaster, wine-merchant (but who had some years ago retired from business). He was upwards of thirty years a member of that corporation, and had twice served the office of mayor for the said borough. He was born in this town, and was the youngest son of late Rev. Nathᴸ. Pearson, who was forty-six years vicar of this parish. He died December 25th, 1798, aged 73."]

[Footnote 193: In 1793 the corporation subscribed fifty guineas towards the purchase of flannels and other necessaries for the use of the British army serving on the Continent under the duke of York.]

THE CRAFTY PLOUGH BOY.

Please draw near and the truth you'll hear, Of a farmer who lived in Hertfordshire, A fine Yorkshire boy he had for his man, For to do his work--his name it was Dan. Fal de ral.

One morning right early he called for his man, And when he came to him he thus began:-- Says he, "Take this cow this day to the fair, She is in good order and I can her well spare."

Away went the boy with the cow in a band, And he came to the fair as you shall understand, And in a short time he met with three men, And there sold his cow for six pounds ten.

He went to the ale-house in order to drink, Where the farmer he paid down the boy all his chink, The boy to the mistress this he did say, "Now what shall I do with my money, I pray?"

"I'll sew it up in thy coat lining," said she, "For fear on the road thou robbed should be." And there sat a highwayman drinking of wine, Thought he to himself this money is mine.

The boy took his leave and homeward did go, The highwayman soon followed after also, He soon overtook him upon the highway, "You are well overtaken, young man," he did say.

"Will you get up behind me?" the highwayman said "How far are you going?" replied the lad. "Three or four miles for what I know;" So he got up behind and away they did go.

They rode till they came to a very dark lane, "Now," says the highwayman, "I will tell you plain, Deliver your money without fear or strife, Or else I will certainly take your sweet life."

The boy found that there was no time for dispute, And so he alighted without fear or doubt; He tore his coat lining, the money pulled out, And amongst the long grass he strewed it about.

The highwayman also jumped down from his horse, But little did he dream that it was for his loss; But before they could find all the money, they say The boy jumped on horseback and so rode away.

The highwayman shouted and begg'd him to stay, But the boy would not hear him so kept on his way, And to his old master the whole he did bring, Horse, saddle, and bridle, a very fine thing.

The master he came to the door and said thus:-- "What the deuce! has my cow turned into a horse?" "Oh, no, canny master, your cow I have sold, But was robbed on the road by a highwayman bold.

"My money I strewed about on the ground, For to take it up the rogue lighted down, And while he was popping it into his purse, To make him amends I came off with his horse."

The master he laughed till his sides he had to hold, He says, "For a boy thou hast been very bold; And as for the villain thou hast served him right, Thou hast put upon him a clean Yorkshire bite."

He searched his bags and quickly he told, Two hundred pounds in silver and gold, And two brace of pistols; the lad said, "I vow, I think, canny master, I've sold well your cow."

Then the boy for his courage and valour so rare, Three parts of the money he got for his share; Now since the highwayman has lost all his store, He may go a robbing until he gets more.

THE YORKSHIRE TRAGEDY; OR, A WARNING TO ALL PERJUR'D LOVERS.

Parents you that have children, pray Unto these lines attention give; And unto God for mercy crave, To be your guide while you live.

For in Yorkshire, I do declare, There is a town call'd Thursk by name, Near to the city of York so fair; Went thence a gentleman of fame.

For to enjoy a fair estate Of sixteen hundred pounds a year; And with him went his virtuous wife, Two sons, likewise two daughters fair.

When he had full possession took, He was unto the poor most kind, For he to charity, indeed, And serving God, was much inclin'd.

Yet 'twas his most unhappy fate, His youngest child to dote upon, And also did his wife, indeed, And that their ruin it begun.

This youngest daughter whom we hear, Had many suitors far and near, But none could then obtain her love And yet for truth I shall declare.

But then, at last, a grocer's son, A courting to this maiden went, Who, in a short time, for truth we hear, Brought this young maiden to consent;

For to be his lawful bride, If that her parents would agree; "Or else, my love, I ne'er must yield, Indeed, my dear, your bride to be."

With that he to her parents went, To ask of them their free good will, Which they, poor souls, did soon consent, So now observe what them befel.

For when he'd gain'd her friends' consent, He then most treacherous did prove; But pray observe, and all beware You ne'er prove treacherous in love.

He to this maiden went, we hear, A visit unto her to pay, But with a false and treacherous heart, He to this maiden fair did say,

"I'd have you now forthwith to go, And get your father to agree To settle on me his estate, Or else my bride you ne'er shall be."

At this she burst forth into tears, Saying, "Can you so cruel be, For unto that I can't presume." "Then fare thee well," replied he.

When he had left her all in woe, She yielded to the devil's will, Who did put her in a way These cruel murders to fulfil.

She strait some miles from York did go, And there she bought some poyson strong; So, then, poor wretch, without delay, She home again did soon return.

Her father, when she did return, Said, "Child, your tender mother dear, Unto a christ'ning she is gone;" So parents all, take warning here.

Her father, for her safe return, A bowl of punch prepared had, And she help'd to make it herself, So mix'd the poyson in with speed.

Then strait she feigned herself sick, Saying, "To bed I must now go." This was because she would not drink-- To work her own great overthrow.

Her father and her brothers dear, They all around the bowl was set, And then began to drink the same, Not thinking poyson was in it.

And when the bowl of punch was out, Her mother she returned home, Whose husband said, "My loving wife, Your daughter Ruth is safe return'd."

At this her mother did rejoice, Saying, "This news I'm glad to hear." But oh! poor souls, they little thought Their latter end it was so near.

For when to bed they all did go; But oh! next morning, as 'tis said, Her father, brothers, and sister dear, Were all found dead within their bed.

Next morning the old lady found Her husband dead within the bed, So she call'd for her daughter dear, For to come up to her with speed.

But she not coming, she strait went Unto her cruel daughter dear, That had this sad destruction wrought; So, parents all, I pray draw near.

She said, "My child, I pray get up, For your dear father he is dead." She seem'd amaz'd, and straitway cry'd, "Oh! then I'm ruined," she cry'd.

"Indeed, no friend I have," she said, "But you my tender mother dear;" So then to tell her brothers, they Unto the chamber did repair.

Where in their beds they there did lie In death's cold arms as doth appear, For now begins the bloodiest part Of tragedy you e'er did hear.

The noise was quickly about spread, That many went the same to see, Amongst which, for a truth, 'tis said, One Clerk, a noted surgeon he.

Who said, "They poyson'd be, indeed." With that the daughter did declare, "My mother she hath done this thing As I will quickly make appear.

"I saw my mother mix some stuff Into a bowl of punch, indeed; Then, underneath the table she, The paper she did fling, with speed

"Then burnt the paper instantly:" Which made the doctor for to say, "Madame, you have some murder done;" So to a justice went straitway.

And, altho' she was innocent, She strait to prison was convey'd, Where she, poor soul, in grief, indeed, Until the next assizes laid.

And then the morning being come, She at the bar did strait appear, Where then her cruel daughter, she Swore false against her mother dear.

Her sentence was for to be burnt; And then she back to prison went, Where the poor soul did weep and mourn, Being overprest with discontent.

So the next morning being come, Unto the stake she was convey'd; And being chain'd unto the same, Poor soul, she to the people said:--

"I now must die a cruel death As ever sinful soul did die; So, Lord, my daughter pray forgive, As Lord, you know, I am not guilty."

The psalms and prayers being done. The fire kindled was with speed; And as they pull'd the stool away, She then for mercy call'd indeed.

The daughter that this thing had done, She had a letter wrote, indeed, And coming near the fire, she Cry'd, "Pray make room for me with speed!"

She gave it to the minister:[194] Then to the people's great surprise, She in the flames did throw herself, Indeed, with dismal shrieks and cries.

And yet, before any of the crowd Had power hands on her to lay, She, and her tender mother dear, Was burnt to death that very day.

So, lovers all, a warning take, Lest Satan does your ruin prove; And, youths, slight not your parents dear, For fear it proves your destruction.

And parents all, I humbly pray, Prize not one child above the rest; For often they do prove the worst, The which you prize and love the best.

The young man he distracted run, And threw himself into a well, Unto his parents' great sorrow; So justice on his head then fell.[195]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 194: The Rev. Mr. Jones, as he stood by the fire; which runs thus:--

"Let this be published as a warning to others, not to prove false in Love for the sake of Gold, which has been my ruin, for one James Parker, whom I priz'd above my soul; to get my father's estate into my own hands, that I might have him for my husband, I poyson'd my father, two brothers, and sister, and, to save myself, I swore falsely against my aged mother, and have taken away her life wrongfully, a sure way to the utter destruction of my soul; and, sir, let this my desire be fulfilled, that all young people may shun the snares of the devil, who are drawing to the paths of destruction this being the last desire of a miserable soul.

RACHELL GLASSOCK."

The Text of the sermon, preached by the Rev. Mr. Jones, was from Romans, chap vii. ver. 9. "For I was alive without the law once: but when the commandment came, sin revived, and I died."]

[Footnote 195: Printed and sold in Bow church-yard, London.--See Horace Rodd's _Garland_, in the British Museum.]

DOLLY DUGGING.

Love's like I deant knaw what, Deevil cannot match it, Auld, young and middle aged, Is sarten sure ta catch it; I catched it yance misen, It made me quite uneasy, And when I gat a wife By gum she set me crazy.

Dolly Dugging I teak ta be my wife sir, I did noutt but cry she lid me sic a life sir, I niver efter smiled nor spent ane hour i' laughter, She war a hangel forst but she proved a deevil efter.

It happened on a time I axed a friend ta dinner, I needed some mysen I'd grown sae mickle thinner, Doll bought sum ribs o' beef when doon sits I and Davy, She gave us beans ta pick while she tuk meat and gravy.

About a week fra this, Our Dolly 'd getten collick, Now thinks I ta mysen, This is time for frolick. Dolly prayed neet and day, As lang as she prayed I swer, She prayed she might live, But I prayed she might dee sir.

Sud Bonyparte cum I'd fit him for his folly, For I cud'nt wish him warse, Than wedded tiv our Dolly; She'd bring his courage doon, And him severely handle, Ay and mak him sune as fond, As ony farden can'le.[196]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 196: Communicated by J. S. Sutton, esq., of Elton hall, Stockton, whom I also have to thank for "When at hame wi' Dad."]

SCARBORO' SANDS.

As I was a walking over Scarboro' Sands, Some dainty fine sport for to see; The lasses were crying and wringing their hands, Saying the Rout it is come for the Blues.

Dolly unto her old mother did say, "My heart's full of love that is true;" She packed up her clothes without more delay, To take the last leave of the Blues.

Our landlords and landladys walk arm in arm, And so does the young women too, You'd have laughed if you'd seen how the lasses flocked in, To take the last leave of the Blues.

We tarried all night and part of next day, For sweethearts we had got enough, The times being hard the lasses did spare, A glass of good gin for the Blues.

Such sparkling young fellows sure never was seen, As the Blues and her Majesty too; You may search the world over and Yorkshire all through, There's none to compare to the Blues.

The boats being ready these lads to jump in, The music so sweetly did play; They gave out their voices with three loud huzzas, Success to the Queen and her Blues.[197]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 197: From a broadside _penes me_.]

THE SHEFFIELD 'PRENTICE.[198]

I was brought up in Sheffield, but not of an high degree, My parents doated on me, they had no child but me; I rolled in such pleasures, just where my fancy led, Then I was bound apprentice, and all my joys were fled.

I did not like my master, he did not use me well, I made a resolution not long with him to dwell, Unknown to my parents from him I ran away, And steer'd my course to London on an unhappy day.

A wealthy rich young lady from Holland met me there, And offered me great wages to serve her for a year, At last with great persuasion with her I did agree, To go and live in Holland which proved my destiny.

I had not been in Holland passing half a year, Before my young mistress grew very fond of me, "My gold and my silver, my houses and my land, If you'll consent to wed with me shall be at your command."

I said, "Dear honoured lady, I cannot wed you now, For I have lately promised and made a solemn vow To wed none but Polly, your pretty chambermaid, Excuse me my dear mistres', she has my heart betray'd."

Then in an angry humour she went from me away, Resolved within herself to make me dearly pay, She was so much perplexed she could not be my wife, She soon contrived a tragedy to take away my life.

One day we were talking in the garden, fine and gay, A viewing of the flowers that grew so fine and gay, The gold ring on her finger, as I was passing by, She slipped into my pocket and for it I must die.

My mistress swore I'd robbed her and quickly I was brought Before a grave old justice to answer for my fault, Long time I pleaded innocent but that was all in vain, She swore point blank against me and I was sent to jail.

Then our royal assizes were drawing on apace, Presently on me the judge a sentence past, To the place of execution they brought me to a tree, And may God forgive my mistress for she has wronged me.

All you who come to see me now, hear before I die, Don't laugh at my downfall nor smile at my disgrace, Believe me I'm quite innocent, I bid this world adieu, Farewell my dearest Polly, I die thro' loving you.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 198: From a broadside in Mr. Hailstone's coll., collated with one _penes me_.]

THE YORKSHIRE VOLUNTEERS' FAREWELL TO THE GOOD FOLKS OF STOCKTON.[199]

BY HERBERT STOCKHORE, PRIVATE IN EARL FAUCONBERG'S YORKSHIRE NORTH RIDING VOLUNTEERS.

Tune, "_Push about the Jorum_."

Ye Stockton lads and lasses too, Come listen to my story, A dismal tale, because 'tis true, I've now to lay before ye; We must away, our rout is come, We scarce refrain from tears O, Shrill shrieks the fife, rough roars the drum, March, Yorkshire Volunteers, O. Fal lal lal la ral.

Yet ere we part, my comrades say, Come, Stockhore, you're the poet, If ere you'd pen a grateful lay, 'Tis now the time to show it; Such usage kind, in these good towns, We've met from age and youth, sirs, Accept our heartfelt thanks, and once A poet sings the truth, sirs. Fal lal, &c.

Ye lasses too, of all I see, Ye're fairest in the nation; Sweet buds of beauty's blooming tree, The top of the creation; Full many of our lads, I ween, Have got good wives and true, sirs, I wonder what our leaders mean, They have not done so too, sirs. Fal lal, &c.

Perhaps--but hark! the thund'ring drum From love to arms is beating; Our country calls, we come, we come, Great George's praise repeating; He's great and good, long may he here Reign, every bliss possessing, And long may each true volunteer Behold him Britain's blessing. Fal lal, &c.

Our valiant earl[200] shall lead us on, The nearest way to glory, Bright honour hails her darling son, And fame records his story; Dundas commands upon our lists The second, tho' on earth, sirs, No one his second to, exists, For courage, sense, and worth, sirs. Fal lal, &c.

No venal muse before your view, Next sets a veteran bold, sirs, The praise to merit justly due, From Paul she cannot hold, sirs; His valour oft has bore the test, In war he's brisk and handy; His private virtues stand confest, In short, he's quite the dandy. Fal lal, &c.

Brave Mackarall heads his grenadiers, They're just the lads to do it, And should the dons or lank Monsieurs Come here, he'll make them rue it. He'll roar his thunder, make them flee, With a row, row, row, row, rara, And do them o'er by land,--at sea, As Rodney did Langara.[201]

Young Thompson and his lads so light Of foot, with hearts of steel, O, His country's cause shall nobly fight, And make her foes to feel, O, For should the frog-fed sons of Gaul, Come capering à la Francois, "My lads," said he, "we'll teach them all The light-bob country dance, A." Fal lal, &c.

Our leaders all so brave and bold, Shou'd I in verse recite, A, A baggage waggon wou'd not hold The songs that I cou'd write, A: Their deeds so great, their words so mild, O take our worst commander, And to him Cæsar was a child, And so was Alexander. Fal lal, &c.

Such men as these we'll follow thro' The world, and brave all danger; Each volunteer is firm and true, His heart's to fear a stranger; Good folks farewell, God bless the king, With angels centry o'er him; Now, hark! to Winchester, we'll sing, And push about the jorum. Fal lal lal la ral.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 199: Called in the Rox. coll., "Hark to Winchester; or, The Yorkshire Volunteers, &c."]

[Footnote 200: Henry, last earl Fauconberg, only son of Thomas 1st earl. He was lord lieutenant and custos rotulorum of the North Riding of Yorkshire, and Lord of the Bedchamber to George III; died 23 March, 1802, and was buried at Coxwold.]

[Footnote 201: On the 16 Jan. 1780, admiral Rodney met a Spanish squadron off Cape St. Vincent, under the command of admiral Don Juan du Langara, and completely defeated it; capturing the Phoenix, of 80 guns, bearing the flag of the admiral, the Monarca, Princessa, and Diligenta, each of 70 guns. The St. Domingo, of 70 guns, blown up; and the San Julian and San Eugenio, of 70 guns, surrendered: while the British had the trifling loss of only 32 men killed and 120 wounded. Both houses of parliament voted Rodney thanks for his conduct upon the occasion, and the freedom of the city of London was presented him in a gold box valued at 100 guineas. Lord Rodney, K.B., died 24 May, 1792.]

FRAGMENT OF THE HAGMENA SONG.[202]

As sung at Richmond, Yorkshire, on the eve of the New-Year, by the Corporation Pinder.

To-night it is the New-year's night, to morrow is the day, And we are come for our right, and for our ray,[203] As we used to do in old king Henry's day. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the bacon-flick, cut me a good bit; Cut, cut and low, beware of your maw; Cut, cut and round, beware of your thumb, That me and my merry men may have some. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

If you go to the black-ark, bring me X mark; Ten mark, ten pound, throw it down upon the ground, That me and my merry men may have some. Sing, fellows, sing, Hagman-heigh.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 202: The custom of singing Hagmena songs is observed in different parts of the north of England, and in Scotland. The origin of the term is a matter of dispute. Some derive it from "au guy l'an neuf," _to the misletoe this new year_; others suppose the term to be a corruption of hagia mênê, _the holy month_. The Hagmena songs are sometimes sung on Christmas Eve, and sometimes, as at Richmond, on the eve of the new year. See BRAND'S _Popular Antiquities_.]

[Footnote 203: "Ray, ree, or rey, a Portuguese coin, 100 of which are equal to sixpence English."--CLARKSON'S _Richmond_.]

THE FAIR.[204]

Ye loit'ring minnits faster flee, Ye're all ower slaw behawf for me, That wait impatient for the moornin'; To-moorn's the lang, lang wish'd for fair, Ah'll try te shine the fooremust there, Mysen i' finest cleeas adoornin', Te grace the day.

Ah'll put mah best white stockings on, An' pair o' new cawf-leather shoon, My cleean-wesh'd goon o' printed cotton; Aboot my neck a muslin shawl, A new silk hankercher ower all, Wi' sike a careless air ah'll put on, Ah'll shine that day.

My partner Ned, ah knaw, thinks he, "He'll mak' his sen secure o' me," He's ofens sed he'd treeat me rarely; Bud ah sal think ov other fun, Ah'll aim for sum rich farmer's son, An' cheeat our simple Neddy fairly, Sea sly that day.

Why mud ah nut succeed as weel, An' get a man full oot genteel, As awd John Darby's dowghter Nelly; Ah think mysen as good as she, She can't mak' cheese or spin like me, That's mare 'an beauty, let me tell ye, On onny day.

Then hey! for spoorts an' puppy shows, An' temptin' spice-stalls, rang'd i' rows, An' danglin' dolls, by t' necks all hangin', An' thoosand other pratty seeghts, An' lasses, trail'd alang the streets, Wi' lads, te t' yal-house gangin', Te drink that day.

Let's leeak at t' winder,--ah can see 't, It seeams as tho' 'twas growin' leeght, The cloods wi' early rays adoornin', Ye loit'ring minnits faster flee, Ye're all ower slaw' behawf for me 'At wait impatient for the moornin', O' sike a day.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 204: From _A Garland of New Songs_, without printer's name.]

THE YORKSHIRE LAD IN LONDON.

When I left father and mother, sister and brother, They all cried you'll surely be undone; For resolved was I my fortune to try, And just take a trip to London-- Cry'd my father, "When there, dont curse and swear As the Londoners do if they teaze ye, But your passion keep down as well as you can, And say--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me."

"Lord, father, do you take me for a fool, That was in Yorkshire born and bred, man; I'm not to be done by the London chaps, As long as I've eyes in my head, man; And should they think for to go to contrive With their cunning and tricks to tease me, I, as well as they, know how many beans make five If I dont then--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me."

I went to the play, I went to the park, saw the king, To see all the grand sights I were willing, But when I came at night to count o'er my brass, Egad I found I'd took two bad shillings. "If the Yorkshire lads were to know it," says I, "Oh dear how they would teaze me." But some kind friend shall have them again, If they dont, why--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

A fine lady came up, half drunk in the street, Thinking for me to nicely trepan, sir; For you see I being drest in my best, She called me a handsome young man, sir; "And sir, if along with me you'll go," says she, "I think as how I should so please ye." So I went--and I gave her the two bad shillings, If I didn't--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

Then a stranger came up, says he, "My dear friend, I'm glad in London to meet you; Do you know me?" says he--says I, "Very well, Come to the public house and I'll treat you." So I called for the liquor--got half drunk, Where the chap he thought to ease me, But I walked me away, left him the reckoning to pay, If I didn't--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

Then another chap called me on the other side, Says he, "Look, I've found a gold ring, sir, If you'll ten shillings give me, yours it shall be." "Oh!" says I, "'tis a grand looking thing, sir, But I tell you what, my sweet London chap, Dont think of my money to ease me, For a Yorkshire lad knows brass from gold, If he don't--then Jemmy Johnson squeeze me."

I was tired of their tricks, says I, "I'll go home, While all's right, tight, and comely; For a rolling stone gathers no moss, And home is home if it's ever so homely." But I made 'em remember 'for I left town, They thought how it did please me, That the Yorkshire lad was not to be had, If he was--Jemmy Johnson squeeze me.

THE TRYAL OF PATIENCE.[205]

Being a relation of a widow in Yorkshire, who, having buried her husband, and left seven small children, was reduced to great poverty, and turned out of house and home; then going to her husband's brother, being a rich man, in hopes of finding relief, but instead thereof he threatened them with cruelty. With an account of a lady's love at the greatest time of her distress.

To the tune of "_In Summer Time_."

A loving couple in Yorkshire, They having seven children small, When poverty was so severe, They had for them no food at all.

As I the naked truth may speak, Their father was in grief and woe, Three years he lay both sick and weak, This was enough to bring them low.

They sold their cattle, corn, and hay, With other goods they parted free, Till all they had was made away, In this their sad extremity.

After the term of three long years, Which he thus languishing did lye, Upon his bed, with brinish tears, He said, "Farewell, here now I dye."

A cruel landlord the next day, Turn'd her and children out of door, Where in a field all night they lay; This griev'd the widow's heart full sore.

Poor soul, she was in sad distress. Full seven children at her feet, With hunger, cold and comfortless, And not one bit of bread to eat.

Her children cry'd to her alone; "O, give us food, mother," they said; 'Twould have broke a heart of stone, To hear the piteous moan they made.

With weeping tears she did reply, "My heart is overwhelm'd with grief; To your rich uncle we will hye, And see if he will yield relief.

"He told your father thus in love, Before this world he bid adieu, That he in tenderness would prove A brother and a father too."

With cheerfulness they did repair, Unto their uncle's house that night, And they no sooner were come there, But all their hopes were blasted quite.

As soon as he did them behold, He said to her, "What make you here? Begone, or else the whipping post, Shall surely happen to your share."

He threatened her with this abuse, Likewise with greater villany, He vow'd his dog he would let loose, If that she did his patience try.

In wrath he spurn'd them from his door, Saying they should not there abide; Her children they were frighten'd sore, She likewise wrung her hands and cry'd.

"O here we will not tarry long, Although we are in deep distress; Dear brother, pray now do not wrong The widow and the fatherless."

Tears from their eyes in showers did flow, For there they see they might not stay; Their hearts were fill'd with grief and woe, As from his house they took their way.

The mother was with grief opprest, The children in a woful plight; "We have no home nor place of rest, Where shall we lay our heads this night?"

As she did wander on the way, Alas! her very heart did bleed; "Good Lord, raise me some friend, I pray, To help us in this time of need."

Her prayer was heard to heaven high, For she no sooner this had said, But a young lady riding by, Did hear the piteous moan she made.

And call'd her to her coach with speed, Giving her ten good guineas there, In order for her present need, And bid her to her house repair.

"A farm of twenty pounds a year, I do declare I have in store, And I will give thee title clear, To you and yours for evermore."

The lady bid her cease to mourn, "For ever happy may you be;" Ten thousand thanks she did return For this her generosity.

No tongue is able to express How joy and comforts did increase, For now the farm they do possess, And live in plenty, joy, and peace.

This brother of malicious spite, Who would not pity her poor case, All that he had was blasted quite Within a very little space.

God's wrath and vengeance here we see, Was just for his sad cruel pride; He was reduc'd to poverty, Likewise upon a dunghill dy'd.

For having then no home nor friend. That would this cruel wretch receive, He made a miserable end, When he, alas! this life did leave.

Rich men, relieve the poor, I pray, Who does to you for succour cry, Lest you be brought as low as they, By making God your enemy.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 205: From a broadside in the Rox. Coll., black letter. Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden Ball in Pye Corner.]

THE BEGGAR'S BRIDGE.

BY MRS. GEORGE DAWSON.

They talk of dales and hills in Wales, As the loveliest in our isle; But the Yorkshire dells and rocky fells, Where the bright sun beams on the sparkling streams, Are all forgot the while.

You may roam for hours 'mid sweet spring flowers, With a gurgling "beck" beneath, While the rustling breeze just parts the trees, And reveals the sweep of the wild woods deep, Shut in the darkling heath.

You may hear the note of the blackbird float, From the top of each tall ash tree, When he pours his song each evening long; For in "true love" tales such romantic dales, Must needs abundant be.

The dalesmen say that their light archway Is due to an Egton[206] man, Whose love was tried by a whelming tide; I heard the tale in its native vale, And thus the legend ran:--

"Why lingers my lov'd one? Oh! why does he roam On the last winter's evening that hails him at home? He promised to see me once more ere he went, But the long rays of gloaming all lonely I've spent: The stones at the fording no longer I see; Ah! the darkness of night has concealed them from me."

The maiden of Glaisdale sat lonely at eve, And the cold stormy night saw her hopelessly grieve; But when she looked forth from her casement at morn, The maiden of Glaisdale was truly forlorn! For the stones were engulphed where she looked for them last By the deep swollen Esk, that rolled rapidly past; And vainly she strove with her tear-bedimmed eye, The pathway she gazed on last night to descry.

Her lover had come to the brink of the tide, And to stem its swift current repeatedly tried; But the rough whirling eddy still swept him ashore, And relentlessly bade him attempt it no more. Exhausted he climbed the steep side of the brae, And looked up the dale ere he turned him away; Ah! from her far window a light flickered dim, And he knew she was faithfully watching for him.

"I go to seek my fortune, love, In a far, far distant land; And without thy parting blessing, love, I am forced to quit the strand.

"But over Arncliffe's brow, my love, I see thy twinkling light; And when deeper waters part us, love, 'Twill be my beacon bright.

"If fortune ever favour me, St. Hilda! hear my vow! No lover again in my native plain, Shall be thwarted as I am now.

"One day I'll come to claim my bride, As a worthy and wealthy man! And my well earned gold shall raise a bridge Across this torrent's span."

The rover came back from a far distant land, And he claimed of the maiden her long-promised hand; But he built, ere he won her, the bridge of his vow, And the lovers of Egton pass over it now.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 206: "On first entering the village of Egton (near Whitby), instead of proceeding forward, take the road through a gate to the right, which leads past the church of Limber Hill, a winding and steep descent, which affords, from several points, fine views of Eskdale and Glaisdale, and at the foot of which the Beggar's Bridge, with its elegant single arch, bestrides the river Esk."--REED'S _Guide to Whitby_.]

THE BANKS O' MORTON O' SWALE.[207]

As autumn pour'd her teern o' good, And woe had ceased to wail, Ah wander'd forth hard by a woode, Upon the banks o' Swale.

And there ah spied a lovely nymph Yan that neean could but hail, Ah sed, "Sweet lass, come take e trip Alang the banks o' Swale."

Wi' looks as sweet as angels wear, She soon was in the vale, And ah was walking by my fair Upon the banks o' Swale.

But ah sall neear forget that night, Whale life or memory fail, The hours they pass'd wi' syke delight, Upon the banks o' Swale.

They swifter flew than did the stream, That murmur'd en the dale, For mah enjoyment was extreme Upon the banks o' Swale.

Ah lov'd that lass as meh life, Ah felt to wish her weal, Ah ask'd her to become my wife Upon the banks o' Swale.

Wi' looks bespeaking mind intent On what ah ardent tell, E' vain ah woo'd her to consent Upon the banks o' Swale.

Ah kiss'd, ah press'd her to gi way But all of no availe, She had a wooer far away Fra the sweet banks o' Swale.

A drinking ranting wretch wes hee, As ever was out o' hell, She took his hand and spurned me Far fra the banks o' Swale.

But ah! when years had roll'd away Ah met a form full frail, She recognised me that day As fra the banks o' Swale.

Said ah full low, "Can this be she, This thing of woe and wail, That ah yance kiss'd delightfully Upon the banks o' Swale?"

O, heavens it was the very one Ah met e' that sweet vale, But ah the evary charm was gone, Ah saw ont' banks o' Swale.

Wi' sorrow stamp'd on her brow She did her mind unveil, She told me all she had pass'd thro' Since on the banks o' Swale.

But O her history how sad, To sad for me to tell, T'wad mak e' heart o' stane to bleed, Ah mourn ye banks o' Swale.

Then ye nymphs that mak sea free Wi' laddies that love ale, Ah think of her that went wi' me Upon the banks o' Swale.

And spurn syke wooers that wad woo Ye to become their wife, For knaw 'e this, if ye do Ye 'd ruined be for life.[208]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 207: A pleasant straggling village, in the parish of Ainderby Steeple, near North Allerton, on the east bank of the Swale. Lambard, Bede, and other early writers, inform us that Paulinus, the first archbishop of York, baptized 10,000 persons in this river in one day,--"By cause at that tyme theare weare no churches or oratories yet buylt."]

[Footnote 208: Communicated by Mr. Wm. Todd, of Keckmondwike, author of "T' Country Chap," &c.]

THE CHASE OF THE BLACK FOX.

This ballad, communicated by Mr. Wm. Grainge,[209] of Minskip, has never been printed, and is little known. The tradition on which it is founded is yet related by old people in the midland parts of Yorkshire, and the incidents recited in the narrative are very nearly those related by the tongue of "hoary eld."

Listen, Yorkshire gentlemen, Unto the tale I tell, 'Tis of a strange adventure That once a lord befel,

Who took his way with horse and hound, With huntsman and with horn, To chase the wily fox I ween, One autumn's merry morn.

Long did they seek the cunning one, And roamed with labour vain, Through many a thorny thicket, O'er many a woody plain;

No traces of sly reynard, Their closest search can find, There is no track upon the ground, No scent upon the wind.

The hunters are impatient all, The huntsman swears, "In vain We've beaten round, we've beaten square, No fox is on the plain.

"We might as well call off the hounds And come another day, Old N--k must have been hunting here And driven them away."

"If we had caught him in the act," The angry lord replies, "We would have chased him home again, And made his brush our prize:

"Or if he would but come to day, We'd give him such a run, As he ne'er had in all his life, O, 'twould be noble fun!"

So spake the lord and huntsman, When to their great surprise, A noble fox unkenelled Before their wondering eyes,

As black as any raven, As glossy and as bright, Save that his brush--no hunter's prize, Is tipp'd with shining white.

The huntsman wakes from wonder, And gives a cheering blast, The hounds reply in thunder, The hunters follow fast.

Away they go a gallant band, Ye would have thought they flew; Their horses were the fleetest That Yorkshire ever knew.

O'er many a lofty fence they pass, O'er many a gate and stile, The sable one is leading them Many a dreary mile.

And always full before their eyes, Nor far before the hound, But all their speed to catch him Is ever fruitless found.

The hunters now are tiring, Or lagging far behind, But yet the fox is running As merrily as the wind.

The staunchest hounds are wearied With the fruitless chase, The angry lord and huntsman Alone maintain the race.

When at the sinking of the day They gain'd a river's side, Without a moment's stop or stay The fox takes to the tide.

Here stop the lord and huntsman, Their courage is no more, They dare not trust their horses Amidst the waves of Yore.

Both hound, and horse, and hunters, Are fairly tired and done, For since the game was started, Full three score miles they'd run.

While light as cork on water The fox was floating on, You could not tell by seeing him, A furlong he had run.

He swam into the middle, Then turned him round about, And by the hunters on the bank Was heard to laugh and shout.

"Ho! ho! ye gallant hunters! When must I come again? For never shall ye want a fox, To chase along the plain.

"And when your need is greatest, But call upon my name, And I will come--and you shall have The best of sport and game."

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 209: Author of the "Vale of Mowbray," &c: to whom I am indebted for the "Collingham Ghost," and "The Widow's Lament."]

MISS BAILEY'S GHOST.[210]

A captain bold in Halifax, who dwelt in country quarters Seduced a maid who hang'd herself one morning in her garters; His wicked conscience smited him, he lost his stomach daily, He took to drinking ratafia, and thought upon miss Bailey. Oh miss Bailey! unfortunate miss Bailey.

One night, betimes, he went to rest, for he had caught a fever, Says he, "I am a handsome man, but I'm a gay deceiver." His candle just at twelve o'clock began to burn quite palely, A ghost stepp'd up to his bed-side and said, "Behold miss Bailey!" Oh miss Bailey! unfortunate miss Bailey!

"Avaunt, miss Bailey," then he cried, "your face looks white and mealy." "Dear captain Smith," the ghost replied, "you've used me ungenteely; The crowner's 'quest goes hard with me, because I've acted frailly, And Parson Biggs won't bury me, though I am dead miss Bailey." Oh miss Bailey! unfortunate miss Bailey!

"Dear corpse," said he, "since you and I, accounts must once for all close, I've got a one pound note in my regimental small clothes; 'Twill bribe the sexton for your grave."--The ghost then vanish'd gaily, Crying, "Bless you, wicked captain Smith, remember poor miss Bailey." Oh miss Bailey! unfortunate miss Bailey.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 210: This song first appeared, in 1805, in Colman's "Love laughs at Locksmiths." See a Latin version of this song by the Rev. G. H. Glasse, in Gent. Mag. for Aug. 1805.]

THE TWO YORKSHIRE LOVERS.[211]

To the Tune of "_Willy_."

When Willy once he stayed, To fetch home a lamb that straied, Under a hill-side, A bonny lasse he spide, Of whom he was well apaied.

Her cheeks like cherries growing, Her lips like rose-buds blowing; Her eyes black and cleare, As the sloe upon the breere, Or the worme in the hedge lies glowing.

Her waist so small and slender, Her skin so soft and tender, He sigh'd and he said That she was a fair maid, And his love to her he'd render.

The wind did seem to play With her tresses as she lay; Betwixt hope and feare, He was in despaire, To give her the time of the day.

Yet resolv'd to court this minion, There stept in a new opinion; This timorous clowne Thought Phoebe had come down To speake with her loved Endimion.

His errand quite forgotten, He lean'd to a tree was rotten; He swore by the masse, There was never such a lasse! His heart with a shaft was shotten.

Then boldly he stept unto her, His eyes shot affection through her; He cast away fears, And pricking up his ears, Thus Willy began to wooe her.

"Good day," quoth he, "my honny! Thou dearer to me than money; I'le lose my little lambe, And gladly give the damme, To be lov'd by a lasse so bonny.

"Now list to what I'le tell thee, There's none in shape doth excell thee, So thou wilt wed me, None happier than thee; For better day ere befell me.

"Of nuts I'le give thee plenty, And red side apples twenty; My butter I'le leese, To make thee summer cheese, And creame to make egge-pies dainty.

"My lambs new gowns shall bear thee, No daylockes shall ere come near thee; The poultry of the towne Shall cackle without downe, Ere I'le want a soft bed to cheer thee.

"My bagpipes mirth shall make thee, Each morn with a song I'le wake thee; At night I'le not faile To tell a merry tale, And make thy sad thoughts forsake thee."

THE SECOND PART.

"White lillies shall pave the closes, Each brier shall blush with roses; The gross green and sweet, Shall kiss thy tender feet, And the medows shall yield thee posies.

"With shady bowers set ore thee, With thousand contents I'le store thee; While by some clear brooke, With my little dog and hooke, I'le bring my fine ewes before thee."

While thus he was close set at her, Quoth she, "I suspect the matter, For an houres sport; Like the false alluring court, The country has learned to flatter.

"Therefore leave off thy wooing; I love not such short doing, And come unto the matter; I love not for to flatter, True affection hates long suing.

"But if your love will prove steady, Till Hymen had made him ready, Then surfeit all night In a captive maids delight, Which yet but ayre hath fed ye."

Quoth he, "I love none above thee, For chastity I prove thee; As constant I'le prove, As the mate unto the dove, Nay, though thou wert dead, I'le love thee!

"And all contents I'le give thee, So that thou wilt live with me; My life and all I'le loose, Ere I my love abuse, And all my rich kith unto me."

As Willy thus was talking, The shepherd's eyes were walking; Each legge and each limbe, So tricked, so trim, She thought it no time of balking.

Her heart with love was taken, God Cupid did her awaken; And cast a cheerfull eye, Upon him by and by, To show he was not forsaken.

His lips to hers he laid, She never a word gain-said; Thus joyning their hands, They tyed the nuptiall bands, Which never till death decai'd.

Such happy joy God send me, When I to wed intend me; And to each faithfull lover, Where they be one or other, I heartily commend thee.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 211: From a broadside in the Rox. Coll., black letter. London, printed for John Wright.]

NATTERIN NAN.

BE A YORKSHUR LIKENASS TAKER.[212]

Noa daht ye'll all ev eard abaht T' Appolloa Belvidere, A statty, thowt be sum ta be Fro' ivvery failin tlear.

All reyt an streyt i' mak and shap, A mould for t'race o' men, A dahnreyt, upreyt, beng-up chap, Nut mitch unlike mesen.

Nah, thaw ye knaw he's nowt bud stoan, He lewks sa grand an big, That little durst ya pool his noas, Ur lug his twisted wig.

Pratly, reyt pratly, ovver t'floor, A tep e toas ye walk, An hod yur breeath for varry awe, An whisper when ya tauk.

There's that abaht him, bud I knaw'nt Nut reytly hah ta say't, That maks ya feel as small as thieves Anent a magistrate.

Yee've seen that dolt o'mucky tlay, O't face o' Pudsa Doas, T'owd madlin 's worn it all his life, An fancied it a noas.

Yond props is like a pair o' tengs O' Sykes's, yet by t' megs, When he wur souber as a judge, A've eard him call em legs.

So Heaven be praised for self-consate, Withaht it ah sud say Wee'se hate wursen we all wur meet For ivver an a day.

When sitch like lewks at t' marble God Egoy! ha wide they gape, An wunder which they favver t'moast, A boggard or an ape.

An sum we envy and we spite Get filled ta that degree, They'd knock his noas off if they durst, Or give him a black ee.

He sumhah kests a leet on things 'At fowk noan wants ta see, Thear's few likes tellin what they are Or what they owt ta be.

Wah, wah, purfecshun nivver did To Adam's bairns beleng, An lewk at mortals as we will We fynd a summat wreng.

For Adam gate so mesht wi't fall, That all o't human race Grow sadly aht o' shap it mind, I't karkiss an it' face.

There's noan sa blynd bud tha can see Sum fawts i' other men; A've sumtimes met we fowk 'at thowt They saw sum i' thersen.

An t'best o' chaps al fynd thersen At times i' t' fawty dlass, A've doubled t'neiv, afoar ta day, At t' fooil i't seemin dlass.

Bud twarst o' fawts at a've seen yet, I' woman ur i' man, Is t'weary naagin nengin turn, 'At plagued poor Natterin Nan.

A' went one summer afternoin Ta see hur poar owd man, An aadly bed I darkened t'door, When t'worrit thus began:

"A-wah did ivver! wot a treat, Ta see thy father's sun, Come forrad lad an sit ta dahn, An al set t' kettle on."

"Nay, nay," says ah, "ah'm noan o' them 'At calls at t'time by t'clock;" An bumps em dahn it corner chair, An gloares reyt hard at t'jock.

"Tha nontkate witta hod thee tung, He'll sooin be hear I'ce think, Soa if thall sit an leet thee pipe, Ah'll fotch a sope o' drink."

"Owd lass," says ah, "thart hey i' bone An rayther low i' beef;" "Ah barn," says shoo, "this year or two, 'Av hed a deal o' grief.

"Ah'm nut a wuman 'at oft speyks, Or sings fowk doleful sengs, Bud ah can tell me mind ta thee, Tha knaws wot things belengs.

"Tha noaticed ah noan lewked sa staat, An ah can trewly say, Fro t'last back end o' t'year ta nah, A've nut been weel a day.

"An wot we sickness, wot we grief, Ah'm doin tha may depend; It's been a weary moild an tew, Bud nah it gets near t'end.

"A've bowt all t'sister 'at ah hev A black merina gaan; Fowk thinks ah'm rarely off, but, lad, A'm thenkful 'at ah'm baan.

"We' t'world an ivvery thing at's in't, Ah'm crost to that degree, That mony a time i't day ah've pra'd To lig ma doan an dee.

"What ah've ta tak fro t'least i't haase Is moar nur flesh can beear, It is'nt just a time be chonce Bud ivvery day i't year.

"Noa livin sowl a'top o' t'earth, Wor tried as ah've been tried; There's noabdy bud the Lord an me, 'At knaws what ah've ta bide.

"Fro t'wind at t'stomach, t'rewmatism, An tengin pains it goom; Fro coffs an cowds, an t'spine it back, Ah suffer martyrdom.

"Bud noabdy pities ma, or thinks Ah'm ailin owt at all; T'poor slave mun tug an tew we t'wark Wolivver shoo can crawl.

"An Johnny's t' moast unfeelin brewt 'At ivver ware a heead; He woddunt weg a hand ur fooit If ah wur all bud deead.

"It mid'st o' all ah've hed ta dew, That roag wur nivver t'man Ta fotch a coil, or scar a fleg, Ur wesh a pot ur pan.

"Fowk says 'ar Sal 'al sooin be wed. Bud t'thowt on't turns ma sick, 'Ah'd rayther hing hur up by t'neck, Ur see her berrid wick.

"An if ah new a barn o' mine, Wur born ta lead my life, Ah suddent think it wor a sin Ta stick hur wi' a knife.

"Ah've ax'd ar Johnny twenty times Ta bring a sweep ta t' doar, Bud nah, afoar a'll speyk agean, Ah'll sit it t'haase an smoar.

"An then, gooid grashus, what a wind Comes whewin throo t'doar sneck, Ah felt it all t'last winter like A whittle at my neck.

"That sink-pipe tu gate stopt wi' muck, Aboon a fortnit sin; So ivvery aar it day wi' t'slops, Am treshin aht an in.

"Aw! when ah think hah ah've been tret, An hah ah tew an strive, Ta tell thee t'honest trewth, ah'm capped Ta fynd mesen alive.

"When he's been rakin aht a't neet At market ur a't fair; Sitch thowts hes coom inta me heead As lifted up me air.

"Ah've thowt, ay lad, when tha cums hoam, Tha'll fynd ma hung by 't neck, Bud then ah've mebbe thowt agean At t' coord ud happen brek.

"Or else ah've mutterd if i't wor'nt Sa dark, an cowd, an weet, Ah'd go ta't navvy, or ta't dam, An draand mesen ta neet.

"It's greef, lad, nowt at all bud greef, At wastes me day be day; So Sattan temps ma cos ah'm wake Ta put mesen away."

Towd chap heerd pairt o'what shoo sed, As he cam clompin in, An shauted in a red-fac'd rage, "Od rot it, hod the din."

Then Nan began to froth an fume, An fiz like botteld drink, "Wat then, tha's enterd t'haase agean, Tha offald lewkin slink.

"Tha nivver cums theas doars within Bud tha mun curse an sweear, An try ta bring ma ta me grave We breedin hurries hear.

"At thee an thine sin wed we wor Ah've taen no end o' greef, An nah tha stamps ma under t'fooit, Tha murderin roag an theef.

"Tha villan gimma wat ah browt, 'At day at we wur wed, An nivver moar wi' one like thee Will ah set fooit e' bed."

Here t' dowdy lifted tull her een A yard a gooid lin check, An sob'd, an roar'd, an rock'd hersen, As if her art ud breck.

An then shoo rave reit up be't rooits A andful of her air, An fitterd like a deein duk An shutturd aht a't chair.

"Aw! Jonny! run for't doctur, lad, Ah feel ah can tel hah." Sais Jonny, "Leet thee pipe agean, Shoo'l coom abaht enah."

Sais ah, "Ah nivver saw a chap Sa eeasyful and fat, Tha'll suarly lend a elpin and Ta lift hur of a't plat."

Bud better hed it been for him If he'd neer sturr'd a peg; My garturs! what a pawse he gat Fra Nan rumatic leg.

Sooin, varry sooin, sho coom abaht An flang, an tare, an rave, E sich a way as fu cud dew We' one fooit i' ther grave.

An at it went hur tongue ageean, That minnit shoo fan eease, "Tha villan tha, tha knaws thee ways Brings on sitch girds as theeas.

"Aw if tha'd strike ma stiff at once, Ur stab ma ta me hart, I then cud dee content, for fowk Ud naw reyt what ta art.

"Unfeelin brewt, unfeelin brewt, Ah neer wur weel an strong; There's nobbut one thing cheers ma nah, Ah cannut last sa long.

"Ta stand up in a thing at's reyt, It isant i' me natur, There is at knaws I awlus wur A poor, soft, quiat cratur.

"One thing ah can say if me life Ta neet sud end it leease; Ah've doin my dewty an tha knaws Ah awlus strave for peease.

"Ah knaw, ah knaw at ah'm it gate, Tha's other oats ta thresh; So when ah's dun for tha ma wed You gooid for nowt young tresh."

Then Nan pool'd summat aht o't drawer White as a summer claad; Ses I ta Jonny, "What's that thear?" Ses Jonny, "It's a shraad.

"An t'coffin coom tu, bud ah sware I woddunt ha't it haase, So, when shoo's muled, shoo sews at that, As quiat as a maase."

Then Nan lewkt at me we a lewk, So yonderly an sad, "Tha'll coom ta t'berrin?" "Yus," says ah, "Ah sall be varry dlad."

"An bid the Mother," Jonny cried, "An ax the Uncle Ben, Fur all hur prayers for suddan deeath, Sal hev my best 'Amen.'"

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 212: Benjamin Preston, of Bradford, author of "T' Spicy Man," &c. Mr. Preston purposes giving a series of twelve, similar to the above, in the dialect of Bradford Dale. Published by Abraham Holroyd, Westgate, Bradford.]

THE BARBER OF THIRSK'S FORFEITS.

First come, first served--Then come not late. And when arrived keep your sate; For he who from these rules shall swerve, Shall pay his forfeit--so observe.

Who enters here with boots and spurs, Must keep his nook, for if he stirs, And gives with arm'd heel a kick, A pint he pays for every prick.

Who rudely takes another's turn, By forfeit glass--may manners learn; Who reverentless shall swear or curse, Must lug seven ha'-pence from his purse.

Who checks the barber in his tale, Shall pay for that a gill of yale; Who will, or cannot miss his hat, Whilst trimming pays a pint for that.

And he who can but will not pay, Shall hence be sent half trimmed away; For will he--nill he--if in fault, He forfeit must in meal or malt. But mark the man who is in drink, Must the cannikin oh, never, never, clink.

THE YORKSHIRE IRISHMAN; OR, THE

ADVENTURES OF A POTATO MERCHANT.

My father was once a great merchant, As any in Ireland was found, But, faith, he could never save a shilling, Tho' potatoes he sold by the pound. So says he to my mother one night, To England suppose you and I go, And the very next day, by moonlight, They took leave of the county of Slygo. Sing de ral, ral de ral la, fal lal de, &c.

That the land is all cover'd with water, 'Twixt England and Ireland, you'll own, And single misfortunes, they say, To Irishmen ne'er come alone. So my father, poor man! was first drown'd, Then shipwreck'd, in sailing from Cork, But my mother she got safe to land, And a whisky shop open'd in York. Fal de ral, &c.

Just a year after father was dead, One night about five i' th' morn, An odd accident happen'd to me, For 'twas then that myself was first born. All this I've been told by my mammy, And surely she'll not tell me wrong, But I don't remember nought of it, 'Caze it happen'd when I was quite young. Fal de ral, &c.

On the very same day the next year, (For so ran the story of mother,) The same accident happen'd again, But not to me then, that were brother. So 'twas settled by old father Luke, Who dissolved all our family sins, As we both were born on the same day, That we sartainly must have been twins. Fal de ral, &c.

'Twas agreed I should not go to school, As learning I never should want; Nor would they e'en teach me to read, For my genius they said it would cramp. Now this genius of mine, where it lay, Do but listen awhile and you'll hear, 'Twas in drawing,--not landscapes or pictures, No, mine was for drawing of beer. Fal de ral, &c.

Some with only one genius are blest, But I, it appears, had got two, For when I had drawn off some beer, I'd a genius for drinking it too, At last I was drawn up to town, Without in my pocket a farden, But since I've earn'd many a crown By the shop here in sweet Covvon Garden. Fal de ral, &c.

WHEN AT HAME WI' DAD.

When at hame wi' dad, We niver had nae fun sir, Which mead me sae mad, I swore away I'd run sir; I packed up cleas sae smart, Ribbed stocking, weastcoats pratty, Wi' money and leet heart, Tripped off te Lunnun city. Fal de ral de ra.

When I did git there, I geaped about quite silly, At all the shows te stare, In a spot called Piccerdilly; Lord sic charming seets, Bods i' cages thrive sir, Coaches, fiddles, fights, And crocodiles alive sir. Fal de ral, &c.

Then I did ge te see, The gentry in Hyde Park sir, When a lass pushed reedely by, Te whoam I did remark sir, "Tho' your feace be een sae fair, I've seen a beer mare civil." Then the little cleas they wear, God Lunnun is the devil. Fal de ral, &c.

Te 't play-house then I gaus, Whar I seed merry feaces, And in the lower rows, Were sarvents keeping pleaces; T' players I saw seun, They managed things quite funny, By gock they'd Hunny-mean, Afore they'd Mattrimony. Fal de ral, &c.

Now having seen all I cud, And passed away my time sir, If you think fit and good, I'le een give up my rhyme sir; And sud my ditty please, The popies in this garden, Te me t'wad be hearts-ease, If not I ax yer pardon. Fal de ral de ra.

I'M YORKSHIRE TOO.

By t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook, I was sent by times to school; I went wi' the stream as I studied my book, And was thought to be no small fool. I never yet bought a pig in a poke, For to give auld Nick his due; Tho' oft I've dealt wi' Yorkshire folk, Yet I was Yorkshire too.

I was pretty well lik'd by each village maid, At races, wake or fair, For my father had addled a vast in trade, And I were his son and heir. And seeing that I didn't want for brass, Poor girls came first to woo, But tho' I delight in a Yorkshire lass, Yet I was Yorkshire too!

To Lunnon by father I was sent, Genteeler manners to see; But fashion's so dear, I came back as I went, And so they made nothing o' me. My kind relations wou'd soon have found out What was best wi' my money to do: Says I, "My dear cousins, I thank ye for nought, But I'm not to be cozen'd by you! For I'm Yorkshire too."[213]

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 213: From _A Garland of New Songs_, printed by W. Appleton, Darlington, 1811.]

THE SWEEPER AND THIEVES.

BY D. LEWIS.

The incident here recorded happened at a farm house, on Leeming Lane, some years ago, and is a favourite chap-book history.

A sweeper's lad was late o' th' neeght, His slap-shod shoon had leeam'd his feet; He call'd te see a good awd deeame, 'At monny a time had trigg'd his weame; (For he wor then fahve miles fra yam.) He ax'd i' t' lair te let him sleep, An' he'd next day their chimlers sweep. They supper'd him wi' country fare, Then show'd him tul his hooal i' t' lair. He crept intul his streeahy bed, His pooak o' seeat beneath his heead; He wor content, nur car'd a pin, An' his good friend then lock'd him in. The lair frae t' hoose a distance stood, Between 'em grew a lahtle wood. Aboot midneeght, or nearer moorn, Twea thieves brack in te steeal their coorn; Hevin a leeght i' t' lantern dark, Seean they te winder fell te wark; An' wishing they'd a lad te fill, Young brush, (whea yet had ligg'd quite still,) Thinkin' 'at t' men belang'd te t' hoose, An' that he noo mud be o' use, Jump'd doon directly on te t' fleear, An' t' thieves beeath ran oot at deear; Nur stopt at owt nur thin nur thick, Fully convinc'd it wor awd Nick. The sweeper lad then ran reeght seean Te t' hoose, an' tell'd 'em what wor deean: Maister an' men then quickly raise, An' ran te t' lair wi' hawf ther cleeas. Twea horses, secks, an' leeght they fand, Which had been left by t' thievish band; These round i' t' neybourheead they cried, Bud nut an awner e'er applied; For neean durst horses awn nur secks, They wor seea freeghten'd o' ther necks. They seld the horses, an' of course, Put awf o' the brass i' sooty's purse; Desiring when he com that way, He'd awlus them a visit pay, When harty welcome he sud have Because he did ther barley save. Brush chink'd the guineas in his hand, An' oft te leeak at 'em did stand, As heeame he wistlin' teak his way; Blessin' t' awd deeame wha let him stay, An' sleep i' t' lair, when, late o' t' neeght, His slap-shod shoon had leeam'd his feet.

HOWELL WOOD;[214] OR, THE RABY HUNT, IN YORKSHIRE,

FEBRUARY, 1803.

To the tune of "_Ballynamonaora_."

"Let those ride hard, who never rode before, And those who always rode, now ride the more."

Whilst passing o'er Barnsdale,[215] I happen'd to spy, A fox stealing on and the hounds in full cry; They are DARLINGTON'S sure, for his voice I well know, Crying forward--hark forward; from Skelbrook[216] below.

With my Ballynamonaora, The hounds of old Raby for me.

See Binchester leads them, whose speed seldom fails, And now let us see who can tread on their tails; For, like pigeons in flight, the best hunter would blow, Should his master attempt to ride over them now. Chorus. With my, &c.

From HOWELL WOOD come--they to STAPLETON[217] go, What confusion I see, in the valley below; My friends in _black collars_,[218] nearly beat out of sight, And BADSWORTH'S old heroes in sorrowful plight. Chorus. With my, &c.

'Tis hard to describe all the frolic and fun, Which, of course, must ensue, in this capital run; But I quote the old proverb, howe'er trite and lame, That--"_The looker on sees most by half of the game_." Chorus. With my, &c.

Then first in the burst, see dashing away, Taking all on his stroke, on RALPHO the grey; With _persuaders_ in flank, comes DARLINGTON'S peer,[219] With his chin sticking out, and his cap on one ear. Chorus. With my, &c.

Never heeding a tumble, a scratch, or a fall, Laying close in his quarter, see SCOTT of WOODHALL;[220] And mind how he cheers them, with "Hark to the cry!" Whilst on him the peer keeps a _pretty sharp eye_. Chorus. With my, &c.

And next him on MORGAN, all rattle and talk, Cramming over the fences, comes wild MARTIN HAWKE,[221] But his neck he must break, surely sooner or late, As he'd rather _ride over_ than _open_ a gate. Chorus. With my, &c.

Then there's dashing FRANK BOYNTON, who rides thorough breds, Their carcases nearly as small as their heads: But he rides so d----d hard that it makes my heart ache, For fear his long legs should be left on a stake. Chorus. With my, &c.

Behold HARRY MELLISH,[222] as wild as the wind, On LANCASTER mounted, leaving numbers behind; But lately return'd from democrat France, Where forgetting to bet--he's been learning to dance. Chorus. With my, &c.

That eagle-ey'd sportsman, CHARLES BRANDLING, behold, Laying in a snug place, which needs scarcely be told; But from riding so hard, my friend CHARLEY forbear, For fear you should tire you _thirty pound mare_! Chorus. With my, &c.

And close at his heels, see BOB LASCELLES advance, Dress'd as gay for the field, as if leading the dance, Resolv'd to ride hard, nor be counted the last, Pretty sure of the speed of his fav'rite OUTCAST. Chorus. With my, &c.

Next mounted on PANCAKE, see yonder comes LEN,[223] A sportsman, I'm sure, well deserving my pen; He looks in high glee, and enjoying the fun, Tho' truly I fear that his _cake's over done_. Chorus. With my, &c.

On METHODIST perched, in a very good station, FRANK BARLOW behold, that firm prop of the nation, But nothing could greater offend the good soul, Than to _Coventry sent_ from the chase and the bowl. Chorus. With my, &c.

Then those two little fellows, as light as a feather, CHARLES PARKER and CLOWES[224] come racing together, And riding behind them, see OLIVER DICK,[225] With SLAP-DASH half blown, looking sharp for a nick. Chorus. With my, &c.

On EBONY mounted, behold my LORD BARNARD,[226] To live near the pack, now oblig'd is to strain hard; But mount my friend BARNY, on something that's quick, I warrant, my lads, he would show you a trick. Chorus. With my, &c.

Then BLAND[227] and TOM GASCOIGNE,[228] I spy in the van, Riding hard as two devils, at catch as catch can, But racing along, to try which can get first, Already, I see, both _their_ horses are burst. Chorus. With my, &c.

Then smack at a yawner falls my friend BILLY CLOUGH,[229] He gets up, stares around him, faith! silly enough; While PILKINGTON[230] near him, cries "Pr'ythee get bled." "Oh no, never mind, Sir, I fell on my head." Chorus. With my, &c.

But where's that hard rider, my friend COL. BELL?[231] At the first setting off from the cover he fell; But I see the old crop, thus the whole chase will carry, In respectable style, the good-temper'd HARRY. Chorus. With my, &c.

With very small feet, sticking fast in the mud, FRANK HAWKSWORTH[232] I see, on his neat bit of blood; But, pull up, my friend, say you've lost a _fore shoe_, Else _bleeding_, I fear, must be shortly for you. Chorus. With my, &c.

To keep their nags fresh for the end of the day, SIR EDWARD[233] and LASCELLES just canter away; Not enjoying the pace our Raby hounds go, But preferring the maxim of "_certain and slow_." Chorus. With my, &c.

At the top of his speed, sadly beat and forlorn, Behold CAPT. HORTON is steering for BALN; For accustom'd at sea, both to _shift_ and to _tack_, He hopes by _manoeuv'ring_ to gain the fleet pack. Chorus. With my, &c.

The two LEES,[234] HARVEY HAWKE,[235] FRANK SOTH'RON,[236] and all, Are skirting away for STAPLETON HALL; Whilst far in the rear, behold ALVERLEY COOKE,[237] Endeav'ring to scramble o'er HAMPOLE'S wide brook. Chorus. With my, &c.

Far aloof to the right, and op'ning a gate, There's a sportsman by system, who never rides straight; But why, my good GODFREY,[238] thus far will you roam, When a pack of fine beagles hunt close to your home? Chorus. With my, &c.

Safe o'er the brook--but where's CAPTAIN DANSER?[239] Oh! he's stopping to catch SIR ROWLAND WINN'S prancer; But what is the use of that, my friend WINN,[240] If on foot you attempt it, you'll _sure_ tumble in. Chorus. With my, &c.

On his chesnut nag mounted, and heaving in flank, At a very great distance, behold BACON FRANK;[241] So true's the old maxim, we even now find, That, "_justice will always come limping behind_." Chorus. With my, &c.

See STARKEY and HOPWOOD, so full of their jokes, From BRAMHAM MOOR come, to be quizzing the folks; And when they return the whole chase they'll explain, Tho' they saw little of it--to crony FOX LANE. Chorus. With my, &c.

Lost, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but showing some blood, For from COXCOMB'S poor shoulders it streams in a flood; Behold Mr. HODGSON,[242] how he fumes and he frets, While his black lays entangled in cursed sheep nets. Chorus. With my, &c.

If his name I pass'd over, I fear he would cavil, I just wish to say that I _saw_ Mr. SAVILLE; And with very long coat on, (a friend to his tailor) With some more WAKEFIELD heroes, behold Mr. NAYLOR. Chorus. With my, &c.

A large posse see in the valley below, Who serve very well for to make up a show; But broad as the brook is, it made many stop, It's not ev'ry man's luck for to get to the top. Chorus. With my, &c.

JOHNNY DALTON[243] so sure at Went made a slip, His nag tumbl'd in and he cry'd for his whip; His groom coming up found his master so cross, D----n your fine whip, what's become of the horse? Chorus. With my, &c.

Now all having pass'd, I'll to FERRYBRIDGE go,[244] Each event of the day at the club I shall know; Where bright bumpers of claret enliven the night, And chase far away hated envy, and spite. Chorus. With my, &c.

Then forgive me, my friends, if you think me severe, 'Tis but meant as a joke, not intended to sneer; Come I'll give you a toast, in a bumper of wine, Here's success to this club, and to sport so divine. And the hounds of old Raby for me.[245]

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 214: Howell Wood is situated about ten miles westward from Doncaster. Amongst the possessions of the priory of St. Oswald at Nostel that passed to Dr. Leigh, the original grantee from the crown, on the 22nd March, 31 H. viii., 1540, were a capital messuage called Holewell or Hovel hall, in the parish of Thurnscoe, with a _wood_ of 160 acres. This wood is now the property of William Aldam, esq., of Frickley.]

[Footnote 215: The district called Barnsdale begins at a short distance northwards of Robin Hood's well. It is situated about midway between Doncaster and Ferrybridge, or Doncaster and Pontefract, and is celebrated for having been one of the favourite haunts of the "bold Robin Hood." See p. 35, _ante_.]

[Footnote 216: Skelbrook, about seven miles from Doncaster, a handsome gentleman's residence, was then the property of H. Perryn Brown, esq., and occupied by Dawson Humble, esq. It passed to the family of John Pate Nevile, esq., formerly of Badsworth, in which it remains, and is now the seat of Mrs. Nevile. Situated in the vicinity of Barnsdale, and close to the well of Robin Hood, there seemed to be kept up a lingering remnant of ancient forestry in the maintenance here, for many years, of a small park of deer, but which has been lately discontinued. Dr. Miller, in his "Hist. of Doncaster," p. 343, states that this park was famous for the fine venison it produced.]

[Footnote 217: Stapleton, in the parish of Darrington, is about five or six miles from Skelbrook, northwards, on the right-hand side of the Great North Road. The owner at that time was Ellis Hodgson, esq. (mentioned afterwards). It was afterwards the property of the Hon. Ed. R. Petre, and is now that of J. H. Barton, esq.]

[Footnote 218: The members of the Raby Hunt wear black velvet collars with a gold fox thereon, _courant_, to their scarlet coats.]

[Footnote 219: William Henry Vane, 3rd earl of Darlington, afterwards 1st marquess, and duke of Cleveland, K. G. &c. &c., of Raby Castle, co. Durham, born 27 July, 1766. His grace, when earl of Darlington, for several years occupied Bilham house, near Doncaster, as a sporting seat, and hunted that part of the country. He died 5 Feb. 1842.]

[Footnote 220: Joseph Scott, esq., for many years resident at Badsworth hall.]

[Footnote 221: The Hon. Martin Bladen Edward Hawke, 2nd son of Martin Bladen, 2nd lord Hawke; born 1 April, 1777.]

[Footnote 222: Henry Francis Mellish, esq., of Blythe hall, Notts; died 24 July, 1817.]

[Footnote 223: Leonard Walbanke Childers, esq., of Doncaster, died 24 Jany. 1826, aged 57.]

[Footnote 224: Samuel Clowes, esq., lived at Warmsworth, and Sprotbrough hall.]

[Footnote 225: Richard Oliver, esq., of Darrington hall.]

[Footnote 226: Henry Vane, viscount Barnard, eldest son of the above earl of Darlington, and the present duke of Cleveland.]

[Footnote 227: Thomas Davison Bland, esq., of Kippax.]

[Footnote 228: Thomas Gascoigne, esq., of Parlington.]

[Footnote 229: Wm. Clough, esq., of Oxton, near Tadcaster.]

[Footnote 230: Of Chevet, probably.]

[Footnote 231: Robert Bell, of Newcastle, married Anne Mildreda, d. of C. W. Childers, esq., of Cantley.]

[Footnote 232: Francis Hawksworth, esq., of Barnbro' Grange.]

[Footnote 233: Sir Edward Dodworth, bart., of Newland.]

[Footnote 234: Wm. Lee, esq., of Grove, near Pontefract, many years treasurer of the West Riding, (father of R. T. Lee, esq., now of Grove,) and his brother James Lee, esq., of Carlton, afterwards of West Retford house, Notts.]

[Footnote 235: The Hon. Edward Harvey Hawke, afterwards the 3rd lord Hawke, born 3 May, 1774.]

[Footnote 236: Frank Sotheron, afterwards admiral, of Darrington, and Kirklington, Notts.]

[Footnote 237: Brian Wm. Darwin Cooke, esq., of Alverley, near Doncaster; died 26 April, 1823.]

[Footnote 238: Probably Godfrey Wentworth Wentworth, esq., of Wolley, high sheriff, 1796; died Sept. 14, 1834.]

[Footnote 239: William Danser, Lt. Col. Royal Regt., who, when captain 4th Grenadiers, led the landing in Egypt; died at Doncaster, 19th March, 1812, aged 49.]

[Footnote 240: Of Nostell.]

[Footnote 241: Bacon Frank, esq., of Campsall, an active justice of the peace, and for many years chairman of the quarter sessions. High sheriff 1777; died 4 April, 1812, aged 73.]

[Footnote 242: Ellis Hodgson, esq., of Stapleton, before alluded to.]

[Footnote 243: Probably of Slenningford, near Ripon.]

[Footnote 244: Ferrybridge, fifteen miles from Doncaster, on the Great North Road, once celebrated for its excellent inns--the Angel and the Swan.]

[Footnote 245: Kindly favoured by Charles Jackson, esq., of Doncaster.]

THE COLLINGHAM GHOST.

I'll tell ye aboot the Collingham ghost, An' a rare aud ghost was he; For he cud laff, an' he cud talk, An' run, an' jump, an' flee.

He went aboot hither an' thither, An' freeten'd sum out o' thir wits, He freeten'd the parson as weel as the clark, An' lots beside them into fits.

The poor aud man wha teak the towl At Collingham bar for monny a year, He dursn't cum out to opp'n his yat For fear the ghost sud be near.

He teak to his bed an' there he laid, For monny a neet an' day; His yat was aulas wide opp'n thrown, An' nean ivver stopp't to pay.

And Jerry wha kept the public house, An' sell'd gud yal to all, Curs'd the ghost wi' hearty gud will, For neabody stopp'd to call.

It made sike a noise all round aboot, That folks com far to see; Sum sed it was a dreadful thing, An' sum sed it was a lee.

Gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns, Thinking it was some comical beast; An' they wad aither kill him or catch him, Or drive him awa at least.

Sea into Lady wood right they went Yah beautiful meenleet neet; A lot o' great men an' a lot o' ruff dogs, Enew a poor ghost to eat.

They watid lang--the ghost didn't come, They began to laff an' rail,-- "If he cum oot ov hiz den," says yan, "We'll clap a bit o' saut ov hiz tail."

"Nay he knoos better then turn oot, When we are here to watch him, He'd git a bullit through his lug, Or Mungo there wad catch him."

When close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter The ghost went wherrin up, An' ower the woods he lafft an' shoutid, "Bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!"

The gamkeepers all tummled doon, Their hair thrast off their hat, They gaped an' grean'd an' roll'd aboot, An' their hearts went pit-a-pat.

Thir feaces were white as onny clout, An' they sed nivver a word, They cudn't tell what the ghost was like, Whether 'twas a beast or a bird.

They stay'd nea langer i' th' wood that neet, Poor men were nivver dafter, They ran awa hame as fast as they cud, An' thir dogs ran yelping after.

The parson then, a larned man, Sed he wad conjur the ghost; He was sure it was nea wandrin beast, But a spirit that was lost.

All languages this parson knew That onny man can chat in, The Ebrew, Greek, an' Irish too, As weel as Dutch an' Latin.

O! he cud talk an' read an' preach, Few men knew mair or better, An' nearly all the bukes he read, Wer printed in black letter.

He read a neet, he read a day, To mak him fit for his wark, An' when he thowt he was quite up, He sent for the awd clark.

The clark was quickly by his side, He took but little fettlin, An' awa they went wi' right gud will To gie the ghost a settlin.

Aye off they set wi' all thir might, Nor stoppt at thin or thick, The parson wi' his sark an' buke, The clark wi' a thick stick.

At last by t' side o' th' bank they stoppt Where Wharfe runs murmrin clear, A beautiful river breet an' fine, As onny in wide Yorkshire.

The parson then began to read, An' read full loud an' lang, The rabbits they ran in an' oot, An' wonder'd what was rang.

The ghost was listnin in a hole, An' oot he bang'd at last, The fluttrin o' his mighty wings, Was like a whirlwind blast.

He lafft an' shooted as he flew Until the wild woods rang; His who-who-whoop was nivver heard Sea lood an' clear, an' strang.

The parson he fell backwards ower Into a bush o' whins, An' lost his buke, an' rave his sark, An' prickt his hans an' shins.

The clark he tried to run awa But tumm'ld ower his stick, An' there he made a nasty smell While he did yell an' fick.

An' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd That here I dar'nt tell, For if I did folks wad declare I was as ill as his-sel.

For eighteen[246] months an' mair he stay'd, An' just did as he thowt; For lord nor duke, parson nor clark, He fear'd, nor cared nowt.

Efter that time he went awa, Just when it pleas'd his-sel; But what he was, or whar he com fra Nea mortal man can tell.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 246: Commencing in the year 1836.]

THE TWEA THRESHERS.

A story of two rustics, and the history of their several mistakes during a holiday which they took, in 1842, to go to Scarborough to see the Florentine Venus, then being exhibited in that town.

'Twas on a fiahne cleer sunny day, Aboot the end o' summer, When all the goa was Scarbro' spo, Between the Tees an Hummer.

Coaches grained 'neath top heavy leeads, Gigs, carriages an sike like, Skew'd dust like fun fra' all the rooads, At' end at Scarbro' tonpike.

Lauk! what a dust there was kick'd up Like deed what blustrin storance, A waint queer seeght was seen that da, Some waxwark thing fra Florence.

Jerry an Jack, twea treshers bold, Wer bangin 'oot and barley, A dusty trade, hard by the rooad Sweatin an broilin rarly.

"Dod dang," says Jack, "yau knocks an delves, Digs, plews, sows, maws, an what for? Pately at yau may live yau's sens, Bud mare to keep up that, Jer."

He pointed ti twea carriage leead 'O fashionable people; Wea seem'd to knoo the arts 'o ease, Sat couple feeacing couple.

"Why can't we hev a bit 'o spree, As weel as uther folks, Jer?" "I deean't see why," quoth Jer, "dang me! If ahle ageean strike strooak, ser.

"Afoor I'v seen that Florance thing, It nobbut costs a shillin; Besides I lang ti hev a spree, An get a thorough swillin."

"Bonni!" says Jack, "bonni, my lad, I like the risolution; Let's hev thi hand, thi scheeam's weel plan'd, We'll het i' execution."

Seea Jack and Jer shack'd hands and showd 'At peasant cud wi peasant, Like prince wi prince, an lord wi lord, Laugh loud, feel pleased, luke pleasant.

Seea yam tha went, wesh'd, scrub'd, an brush'd, An sware tha wad hev rare spooat; An eeach put on his bran new suit, New breeches, cooat, an waiscooat.

An off tha went: "God speed ya weel!" Cried Jinny, that was Jack's wife; "An i' yer harts his love reveeal," Cried Fan, the soul 'o Jer's life.

"I wop yoo'll hev a pleasant da." "I wop you will," said Jenny: "I wop we sal," said Jack, "hurra!" "I wop we sal," said Jerry.

An tha wer gone, lauk hoo tha preached, An laugh'd all't way tha though; Far on afoor their voices reach'd, Ther mirth was getin vent so.

The wavy fiels 'o yallow wheat, Spread wide i' view ther treasure; The side swung wots, an bearded John, 'At fills the tankard measure,

Did sweetly vie wi promises Zi fill oor barns wi plenty: "Thank God," says Jack, "these are his gifts, Ye fields 'twas him at sent ye."

Plenty thronged like an empress sat Upon the broo 'o Cayton; Wea laughed an made the hills ti smile For miles round bonny Ayton.

DOLLY'S GAON; OR, THE EFFECTS OF PRIDE.[247]

The neighbours all remember weel Once Dolly bought a gaon; A painted lin, the grandest thing; Ther but one piece ith taon.

The boy ith shop he teld her soa; A merry joaking lad: He said it wor t' first gaon o't piece That ony one had had:--

And if shoo'd come when it wor made, And let him see it on, A handkerchy he'd give to her, If he're a living man.

The gaon wor made, to 'th church shoo went; But what gave most delight, Shoo heeard foulks whisper as shoo past, I never so the like!

But when shoo coom at Rubin's cot, A hut that stood o'th moor, Old Rubin sat, and Grace his wife, Both smooking at the door.

"Good morning, Dolly," old Grace said, "I wonder'd wo't could be." Surprised shoo stud, her hands both up, "What mun I live to see!"

"Is tat thy choice," old Rubin said,-- "Tha beots old Judy Gazer, Shoo'd fifty gaons, but nooan like that,-- I'gy it is a blazer!"

Gay Dolly laugh'd, old Rubin said-- "Come in and sit te daon;" But Dolly tript along the green, Delighted with her gaon.

The church shoo enter'd, 'twor begun, The best time to be seen; Some sat and star'd, and some stood up, As if shoo'd been the queen.

This confirm'd Dolly in her choice; Her gaon wurt first in stile: The priest, and clark, and all did stare, And some, shoo thought, did smile.

This printed gaon had broad green leaves, With branches thick and tall; Red burds and yollow, ducks and geese, The huntsman, haonds and all.

Thus Dolly sat, like Sheba's queen, The grandest in the place; A sidelong glance sometimes shoo cast But did not turn her face.

Her prayer-book shoo seem'd to read, As other people do; But her devotion was her dress, Her gaon wor spanking new.

The church did loase, and still they star'd; Some laugh'd and made a stur: The childer too came running raond, One pointing said, "That's hur."

"Ah! what a gaon!" shoo heeard 'em say, "Wi yollow burds and red: It's just sich stuff as gentle fooak Makes curtains for their bed."

This confused Dolly all at once, Shoo knew not where shoo'er baon; For fooaks shoo met, they laugh'd and said-- "Haa like ye yo'r new gaon?"

But Dolly shoo would speyk to nooan; To meet fouk shoo were feard: For some took hold o' Dolly's gaon, And ast what twor a yeord.

Shoo call'd to see old Betty Hay, While chapel fouk went past; As shoo went in shoo heeard 'em say, "Shoo's getten here at last."

This wor a spice shop, where t' lads met; A merry hoil it ware: Lads making fun o' all they could, And Dolly gat her share.

The haaos wor fill'd, but all gave place; "Come, Dolly, sit ye daon:" When hoaf a dozen lads cried aaot-- "That is a bonny gaon!"

"Yo've bet'em, Dolly, all to day; Yo'r gaon is first in stile: It's been admir'd by all ith church, Old priest, we saw him smile.

"Yo've vext old Mrs. Smith to day; Her dress is nout like this: Shoo knows it too, they all do say, And's taen it quite amiss.

"When t' childer laugh'd at yo'r new gaon, Shoo turn'd her face toth wal; When church did loase, shoo went back way, So as to miss 'em all."

Some thought this gaon could not be bought At Halifax at all: It wor a London print, they thought; 'T piece sud be sent for--all.

A what a profit Dolly'd got! Shoo'd sell it in a crack; "This dress beoats all, come, lads, and see A hunt o' Dolly's back!"

The noise wor great, the laugh wor loud; Lads shaoting hard a-way: Poor Dolly rag'd, some said shoo swore, At last we heeard her say--

"Gooid God!" said Dolly, stamping mad, "Whatever sall I hear? I'm t' laughing stock for all, egad, I'm war nor ever here."

Up Dolly jumps--this is a hoil; Ol gooa, it dos'n't meon: Shoo heeard t' lads say oth aaotside door-- "Shoo's coming aaot ageon."

Lads pull'd her daon, but still shoo'd goa; And running straight at door: Chears and tables, spice and nuts Shoo tumbled on toth floor.

"What will yo do," old Betty said, When chears and tables crash'd; "Me spice and apples daon oth floor, And cumfit glass is smash'd."

Lads ran at apples, spice and nuts, All sprawling daon o'th floor; Poor Dolly said, "If I get aaot, Yol catch me here no moore."

"Naa, flint-faced Tom," old Betty said, "There's not a war ith taon;" Tha held her fast, then late her slip, Tha new shoo'd nock stuff daon.

"Aye, tha my laugh, tha brazen'd thing, But will ta mak it up; There is not hoaf oth stuff just naa I had before ith shop.

"Such sturs as these I hate to see;"-- Tom said he ne'er begunt; "Old tale ageon, its none o'me, It's olas nubdy's dunt.

"There's winkin Will, and Jack ith oil, Thes not two war ith shop; I saw yo pushing lasses daon, Then picking lads oth top.

"There's Dolly here, theyn tore her cap; And t' screed wor London lace; Shoe blacking temd o'hur new gaon, And spotted black her face.

"Me chears theyn mash'd, me stoils theyn smash'd, And crack'd t' new table top; My apple pooak theyn taen away, An put puttates ith spot.

"Sich sturs wud ruin ony man; Whate'er I says no use: There's three or four oth back oth door, Eighting my spenisjuce.

"I'll fotch a warrant, if I live; I'll transpoort ten to-morn: Reit ovver sea I'll send yo all, As sure as 'ere yor born.

"Nan, ta me cap toth frilling shop, Them get it up best way; Ol be at justices at morn, Be it be breyk o' day.

"I'll not go there a daggletail, Like mucky onion Ann; I'll tell a tale, (yol seet ith news,) As weel as ony man."

Ther scores o' people craaded raond, Twor like a village fair: When shoo went aaot ther sich a noise, As if they'd rais'd a hare.

Sly Billy took her by the arm; "Come, Dolly, stick to me:" But Dolly struck him plump oth face; "I'll nooan be fooil'd by thee."

His nose did bleed, the people laugh'd, "Reyt, thump him," they did cry; But Billy 'er fain to run away, His bloody nose to dry.

Another scene gave Dolly pain: It struck her like a blast; Her old sweetheart wi bonny Jane, Stud laaghing as shoo past.

This wor too much, the tears did flow, Her trubbled brest did beat; When love for love expects a smile, A scornful taunt did meet.

"Thal wed her naa," Jane laughing said; "Shoo beots fine fouk ith taon; Shoo's like a walking cortan'd bed; I wish I'd sich a gaon."

This Dolly heeard, but on shoo mov'd; Sad, mourning, all furlorn: "I wor in different trim, God knows, When I coom on at morn."

I must be dreaming, Dolly thought; But to be sure shoo put Hur hands both up to touch her een, To feel if they wor shut.

"This gaon, I'll burn it if I live, I'll burn it every bit; For, warst of all, where'er e go, Thel say I'm short o' wit."

Then Dolly went at sich a speed, Shoo never went before; When shoo gat home shoo doft her gaon, Declar'd shoo'd dont no more.

THE MORAL.

O what a change we undergo By fate's unfriendly touch; When we're asham'd and laugh'd at too, For what we've priz'd so much.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 247: By a Native Genius. Printed by Crabtree and son, Cheapside, Halifax. To which is added, "Rose and Dolly," &c.]

THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.

This ballad is founded on an event which took place in the latter part of the year 1848. A gamekeeper of the earl of Ripon went out one night about his usual business, and was found next morning, near one of the plantations on Hutton Moor, shot dead. A notorious poacher, who was seen in the neighbourhood on the day of the murder, was apprehended and tried at York assizes, but acquitted for want of evidence; he subsequently emigrated to America, where he died, and is said to have confessed that he was the murderer.

The cheerless day is closing fast, The angry night-wind howls around, And hurried by the sweeping blast, Cold sleet and snow drive o'er the ground.

Nought pleasing can the scene impart, Far as the weary eye can scan; But colder far the widow's heart,-- The widow of the murdered man.

The scene is o'er--the grave has closed Above the form she loved the best; The heart where all her trust reposed Was driven to untimely rest.

Amid her children weeping round, She stands an image of despair, Clasping her arms her infant round,-- Yet from her eye there falls no tear;

Hers is a keener, deeper woe, A more intense and heavy grief, Than those whence tears in torrents flow, And give the burdened heart relief.

"Well may ye weep," at length she cried, "Poor orphans to a father's care, By villain's shot your father died, And left us hopeless, friendless here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALICE HAWTHORN.[248]

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

TOMMY THUMB.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FUNNY WEDDING.

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

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.[250]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

THE YORKSHIREMAN IN LONDON.[252]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

THE GREAT EXHIBITION; OR, PRINCE

ALBERT'S CURIOSITY SHOP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LORD OF SALTAIRE.

BY ABRAHAM HOLROYD.[253]

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

A REMARKABLE CIRCUMSTANCE CONNECTED WITH BRETTON HALL.[255]

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

THE BUTCHER TURNED DEVIL.[256]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

SONG.

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

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

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

COLONEL THOMPSON'S VOLUNTEERS.[257]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

THE SLEDMERE POACHERS.[258]

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

CHORUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

THE YORKSHIRE CONCERT.[259]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

THE SOLDIER IN YORKSHIRE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AW NIVIR CAN CALL HUR MY WIFE.[260]

BY THE AUTHOR OF "NATTERIN NAN," ETC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTE:

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

A GLOSSARY.

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

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

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

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

Elpin, _helping_. Ev, _have_.

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

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

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

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

Kahnd, _kind_. Karkiss, _the body_.

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

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

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

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

Pratly, _partly_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE HISTORY AND ANTIQUITIES OF

NORTH ALLERTON

IN THE COUNTY OF YORK.

BY C. J. DAVISON INGLEDEW,

OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE.

_Opinions of the Press._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

+------------------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Tags that surround the word _Hartford Courant._ indicate italics.| | | | Transcriber's notes: | | | | Footnote: 202. Typo'dipsute' changed to 'dispute'. | | | +------------------------------------------------------------------+