Random Rhymes and Rambles
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What Profits Me
What profits me tho’ I sud be The lord o’ yonder castle gay;Hev rooms in state ta imitate The princely splendour of the day,Fer what are all mi carved doors,Mi shandeliers or carpet floors, No art cud save me from the grave.What profits me tho’ I sud be Decked e’ costly costumes grand,Like the Persian king o’ kings, With diamond rings to deck mi hand:Fer what wor all mi grand attire,That fooils both envy and admire, No gems cud save me from the grave.What profits me tho’ I sud be Thy worthy host, O millionaire,Hev cent. for cent. for money lent; My wealth increasing ivvery year.For what wor all mi wealth to me,Compared ta loisin immortalite, Wealth cud not save me from the grave.What profits me tho’ I sud be Even thee gert Persian Shah,Mi subjects stand at mi command, Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;For what wor a despotic rule,Wi all th’ world at my control, All cud not save me from the grave.Ode to Sir Titus Salt
Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp, And bring it here to me,For I must sing another song, The theme of which shall be, —A worthy old philantropist, Whose soul in goodness soars,And one whose name will stand as firm As the rocks that gird our shores;The fine old Bradford gentleman,The good Sir Titus Salt.Heedless of others; some there are, Who all their days employTo raise themselves, no matter how, And better men destroy:How different is the mind of him, Whose deeds themselves are told,Who values worth more nobler far Than all the heaps of gold,His feast and revels are not such, As those we hear and see,No princely splendour does he indulge, Nor feats of revelry;But in the orphan schools they are, Or in the cot with her,The widow and the orphan of The shipwrecked mariner.When stricken down with age and care, His good old neighbours grieved,Or loss of family or mate, Or all on earth bereaved;Go see them in their houses, When in peace their days may end,And learn from them the name of him, Who is their aged friend.With good and great his worth shall live, With high or lowly born;His name is on the scroll of fame, Sweet as the songs of morn;While tyranny and villany is Surely stamped with shame;A nation gives her patriot A never-dying fame.No empty titles ever could His principles subdue,His queen and country too he loved, — Was loyal and was true:He craved no boon from royalty, Nor wished their pomp to share,For nobler is the soul of him, The founder of Saltaire.Thus lives this sage philantropist, From courtly pomp removed,But not secluded from his friends, For friendship’s bond he loves;A noble reputation too Crowns his later days;The young men they admire him, And the aged they him praise.Long life to thee, Sir Titus, The darling of our town;Around thy head while living, We’ll weave a laurel crown.Thy monument in marble May suit the passer by,But a monument in all our hearts Will never, never die.And when thy days are over, And we miss thee on our isle,Around thy tomb for ever May unfading laurels smile:There may the sweetest flowers Usher in the spring;And roses in the gentle gales, Their balmy odours fling.May summer’s beams shine sweetly, Upon thy hallowed clay,And yellow autumn o’er thy head, Yield a placid ray;May winter winds blow slightly, — The green-grass softly wave,And falling snow-drops lightly Upon thy honoured grave.Coud az Leead
An’ arta fra thee father torn,So early e thi yuthful morn,An’ mun aw pine away forlorn, E greef an’ pane;Fer consalashun aw sall scorn If tha be taen.O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wailThy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,Fer nah it is too true a tale, Tha’rt coud az lead.An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale, Thart deead, thart deead.Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop,An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop Aw sall so freat,And O my very heart may stop And cease to beat.I’d allus aimed if tha’d been spar’d,Of summat better to hev sharedNer what thi poor oud father fared, E this coud sphere;Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared If tha’d stayen here.But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine Noan freely given,But mak him same as wun o’ thine, We thee e heven.The Factory Girl
Sho stud beside hur looms an’ watch’d The shuttle passin in,But yet hur soul wor sumweer else, ’Twor face ta face wi’ John.They saw hur lips move az in speech, Yet none cud heear a word,An’ but fer t’grinding o’ the wheels, This langwidge mite be heard.“It spite o’ all thi trecherus art, At length aw breeath again;The pityin stars hez tane mi part, An’ eased a wretch’s pain.An’ O, aw feel az fra a chain, Mi rescued soul is free,Aw know it is no idle dream Of fancied liberty.“Extingwish’d nah iz ivvery spark, No love for thee remains,Fer heart-felt love e vane sall strive Ta lurk beneath disdain,No longer wen thi name I hear, Mi conshus colour flies:No longer wen thi face aw see, Mi heart’s emoshun rise.“Catch’t e the burd-lime’s trecherus twigs, To weer he chanc’d to stray,The burd iz fassend fathers leaves, Then gladly flies away.Hiz shatter’d wings he soon renews, Of traps he iz awair;Fer by experience he iz wise, An’ shuns each futshur snair.Awm speikin nah, an’ all mi aim Iz but to pleas mi mind,An’ yet aw care not if mi words Wi thee can credit find.Ner du I care if my decease Sud be approved by thee;Or wether tha wi ekwal ease Does tawk again wi me.“But, yet tha false decevin man, Tha’s lost a heart sincere;Aw naw net wich wants comfert most, Or wich hez t’mooast ta fear.But awm suer a lass more fond and true No lad cud ivver find;But a lad like thee iz easily found, False, faithless, and unkind.”Bonny Lark
Sweetest warbler of the wood, Rise thy soft bewitching strain,And in pleasure’s sprightly mood, Soar again.With the sun’s returning beam, First appearance from the east,Dimpling every limpid stream, Up from rest.Thro’ the airy mountains stray, Chant thy welcome songs above,Full of sport and full of play, Songs of love.When the evening cloud prevails, And the sun gives way for night,When the shadows mark the vales, Return thy flight.Like the cottar or the swain, Gentle shepherd, or the herd;Best thou till the morn again, Bonny bird.Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing, May the poet’s rapturous spark,Hail the first approach of spring. Bonny lark.T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned
So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band,Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand, Yond lass an’ thee.But if yor joinin heart an’ hand, It pleases me.Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,Wile pushin thru this world o’ care,An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare, Its hard ta tell;Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share, So pleas thisell.Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;But age an’ care creep on us fast;Then akt az tha can luke at past An’ feel no shame;Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast, Tha’s noan ta blame.Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,But mind an’ shun that foolish setAt cannut mak ther awn ta fet, Thaw shame ta say it.An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett, An’ tha’ll be reight.An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will;Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill;Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill The wurld sa wide.No daht but His omnishent skill, Al be thi guide.So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise,Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise,E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise, Tha tuke hur hand;An’ listened to thi father’s voise, An’ hiz command.Address ta mi Bed
Oud stocks on thee I first beganTo be that curious crater man,Ta travel thro this life’s short span, By fate’s dekree;Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan, An’ cease ta be.Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh, An’ ofttimes weep; —Till by sum means, aw knaw not why, I fall asleep.Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,Ta seek thi downy brest again; Yet heaves mi breastFor wretches in the pelting rain, At hev no rest.How oft within thy little spaceDoes mony a thout oft find a place?Aw think at past, an’ things ta face, My mind hiz filled,Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase, An’ cassels bild.O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,Disease or deeath, a kind releef,Monarks of a time so breef, Alternate reign,Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf, And clears the plain.Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,This grate important truth ta awn,On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn, E mortal birth;Till a few fleetin haars flown, Then back ta earth.Home ov Mi Boyish Days
Home of my boyish days, how can I callScenes to my memory, that did befall?How can my trembling pen find power to tellThe grief I experienced in bidding farewell?Can I forget the days joyously spent,That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,Home of my boyish days, without one tear?Can I look back on days that’s gone by,Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?Oh, no! though never more these eyes may dwellOn thee, old cottage home, I love so well:Home of my childhood, wherever I be,Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;Psalms for the Sabbath on Sabbath were sung;And the young minstrels enraptured would comeTo the lone cottage I once called my home.Can I forget the dear landscape around,Where in my boyish days I could be found,Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?Then would my mother say – where is he gone?I’m waiting of shuttles that he should have won:She in that cottage there knitting her healds,While I her young forester was roaming the fields.But the shades of the evening gather slowly around,The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.And as I turn round to look on thee again,To take one fond look, one last fond adieu;By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view,But O, there’s no darkness, to me no decay;Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away.Ode ta Spring Sixty-four
O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters, An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king sixty-four,Wi thi brah dekked wi gems o’ the purest o’ waters, Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter is ower.We hail thi approach wi palm-spangled banners; The plant an’ the sapling await thy command;An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners, Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an’ grotto, Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn;Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going! Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the wind;Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing, Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um behind.My Drechen Dear
Night’s sombre mantle is spreading over, Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days;Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover? Why did thou cross the raging seas?Its melancholy here I’m lying, Half broken-hearted, drechen dear;Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing, Each billow roaring a shed tear.How can they say that all-perfect nature Has nothing done or made in vain?When that beneath the roaring water, Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain.No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover, That lurks beneath the raging deep;To mark the spot where lies the lover, That leaves the maiden to sigh and weep.The miser robb’d of his golden pleasure, Views tempests great in his wild despair;But what is all his loss of treasure, To losing thee, my drechen dear?O cease, O cease, thou cruel ocean! And give my lover a peaceful rest;For what thy storming and all thy motion, Compared with that within my breast.O could I now over the wild waves stooping, The floating corpse of thee could spy;Just like a lily in autumn drooping, I’d bow my head, kiss thee, and die.Address t’t First Wesherwuman
E sooth sho wor a reeal god-send,To’t human race the greatest frend,An’ lived no daht at t’other end O’ history.Hur name is nah, yah may depend, A mistery.But sprang sho up fra royal blood,Or sum poor slave beyond the flud?Me blessing on the sooap an’ sud Sho did invent;Hur name sall renk among the good, If aw get sent.If nobbut in a rainy dub,Sho did at furst begin ta skrub,Or hed a proper weshin tub, Its all the same;Aw’d give a craan, if aw’d to sub, To get hur name.In this wide wurld aw’m let afloat,Th’ poor possessor of wun koat;Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote, An’ thus assert,Tha’rt wurthy o’ grate Shakespere’s note; A clean lin’ shirt.Low iz mi lot an’ hard mi ways,While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;Yet aw will sing t’owd lasse’s prase, Wi’ famous glee.Tho’ rude an’ ruff sud be mi lays, Sho’st lass for me.Bards hev sung the fairest fair,There rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair,The dying lover’s deep despair, There harps hev rung;But useful wimmin’s songs are rair, An’ seldom sung.In a Pleasant Little Valley
In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr,Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair;Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly thro’ the wood,And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood,’Twas there in all her splendour, on a January morn,Appeared old Colia’s genius, – when Robert Burns was born.Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone,And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon;A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow,She was the darling native muse of Scotia’s Colia:So grand old Colia’s genius on this January morn,Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.She vowed she ne’er would leave him till he sung old Scotia’s plains,The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains;And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes:And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays,And sing how Colia’s genius, on a January morn,Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home,Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome:But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among,And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song;This old Colia’s genius did that January morn,Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.And in the nights of winter when stormy winds do roar,And the fierce dashing waves is heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire,Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;And sing how Colia’s genius on a January morn,Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.Johnny o’ t’ Bog an’ Keighley
Feff-fee Goast:
A Tale o’ Poverty
“Some books are lies frae end to end,And some great lies were never penn’d;But this that I am gaun to tell,* * * Lately on a night befel.” – Burns.’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet, Net far fro Kersmas time,When I met wi this Feoffee Goast, The subject ov my rhyme.I’d been hard up fer mony a week, My way I cuddant see,Fer trade an commerce wor as bad As ivver they cud be.T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An t’combers wor quite sick,For weeks they niver pool’d a slip, Ner t’weivers wave a pick.An I belong’d to t’latter lot, An them wor t’war o t’wo,Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase, An nowt for em ta do.T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed, An I’d a shocking coud,Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home, Wor nobbut three days oud.Distracted to my vary heart, At sitch a bitter cup,An lippening ivvery day at com, At summat wod turn up.At t’last I started off wun neet, To see what I could mak;Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit, Or else I’d noan go back.Through t’Skantraps an be t’ Bracken Benk, I tuke wi all mi meet;Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin, Reight into t’oppan street.Saint John’s Church spire then I saw, An I wor rare an fain,Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage — I cuddant be mistain.So up I went to t’Wicket Gate, Though sad I am to say it,Resolv’d to ax em for some breead, Or else some brocken meit.Bud just as I wor shacking it, A form raise up afore,An sed “What dus ta want, tha knave, Shacking t’ Wicket Door?”He gav me then to understand, If I hedant cum to pray,At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life, Wor all they gav away.It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk Abaat ther breead o’ life,An specially when they’ve plenty, Fer t’childer an ther wife.Bud I set off agean at t’run, Fer I weel understood,If I gat owt fra that there clan, It woddant do ma good.E travelling on I thowt I heeard, As I went nearer t’tahn,A thaasand voices e mi ears Saying “John, where are ta bahn?”An ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d, A play-card I cud see,E t’biggest type at e’er wod print — “There’s nowt here, lad, for thee.”Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d, Astead o’ meit wor seen,A mighty carving-knife hung up, Hi, fair afore me een.Destruction wor inviting me, I saw it fearful clear,Fer ivvery druggist window sed — “Real poison is sold here.”At t’last I gav a frantic howl, A shaat o’ dreead despair,I seized mesen be t’toppin then, An shack’d an lugg’d me hair.Then quick as leetening ivver wor, A thowt com e me heead —I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry, An meditate wi t’deead.T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking t’time At folk sud be asleep,Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat, An t’Pindar after t’sheep.Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off At summat like a trot;To get to t’place I started for, Me blooid wor boiling hot.An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate, Rear’d up agean a post,I cuddant tell – but yet I thowt It wor another goast!Bud whether it wor goast or not, I heddant time to luke,Fer I wor taken be surprise, When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.Abaat two hundard yards e t’front, As near as I cud think,I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise, An nah an then a clinck!What ivver can these noises be? Some robbers, then I thowt! —I’d better step aside an see, They’re happen up to nowt!So I gat ower a fence there wor, An peeping through a gate,Determined I’d be satisfied, If I’d awhile to wait.At t’last two figures com to t’spot Where I hed hid mesel,Then walkers-heath and brimstone, Most horridly did smell.Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat, His face as black as soit,His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben, He hed a clovven fooit.An t’other wor all skin an bone His name wor Mr. Deeath;Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor, An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.He hed a scythe, I plainly saw, He held it up aloft,Just same as he wor bahn to maw Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft.“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?” Sed Nickey, wi a grin,“Tha knaws I am full up below, An cannot tack more in.”“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks, “Tha ruffin ov a dog,I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean, To see wun John o’ t’Bog.I cannot see it fer me life, What it’s to do wi thee;Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick, An nivver thee heed me.”“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks, Whativver tha may say,For I been roasting t’human race For mony a weary day.”Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee, This last two years or so;Wi Germany an Italy, An even Mexico.An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil Browt in some thaasands more;An sooin fra Abysinnia, Tha’ll bring black Theodore.So drop that scythe, oud farren Death, Let’s rest a toathree wick;Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan, Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath, Who spack it wi a grin,“Ise just do as I like fer thee, So tha can hod thi din.”This made oud Nick fair raging mad, An lifting up his whip,He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash Across o t’upper lip.Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks, To give oud Nick leg bail,He started off towards the tahn, An Nick stuck aht his tail.Then helter-skelter off they went, As ower t’fence I lape;I thowt – well, if it matters owt, I’ve made a nice escape.But nah the mooin began to shine As breet as it cud be;An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d, Where I cud plainly see.The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw, An t’winding Aire wor still,An all wor quite save t’hullats, At wor screaming up o’ t’hill.Oud Rivvock End an all araand Luk’d like some fiendish heead,Fer more I stared, an more I thowt It did resemble t’deead.The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah, To what I’d seen afore;An luk’d as though they’d never be T’oud friendly Oaks no more.Fer wun wor like a giant grim, His nose com to a point,An wi a voice like thunner sed — “The times are aaght o’ t’joint!”An t’other like a whipping-post, Bud happen not as thin,Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil, So pray, nah, hod thi din?”I tuke no farther gawm o’ them, Bud paddled on me way;Fer when I ivver mack a vow, I stick to what I say.I heddant goan so far agean, Afoar I heeard a voice,Exclaiming – wi a fearful groan — “Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!”I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro, An cautiously I bowed,Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice, I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place, A sudden change o’ scene;Fer miles where all wor white afore, Wor nah a bottle-green.Then com a woman donned e white, A mantle gert she wore;A nicer lukin, smarter form, I nivver saw afore.Her features did resemble wun O that kind-hearted lot,At’s ivver ready to relieve The poor man in his cot.Benevolence wor strongly marked Upon her noble heead;An on her breast yo might hev read, “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”In fact, a kinder-hearted soul Oud Yorksher cuddant boast;An who wod feel the least alarmed, To talk to sitch a goast?I didant feel at all afraid, As nearer me she drew;I sed – Good evening, Mrs. Goast, Hah ivver do yo dew?Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm, Bud pointed up at t’mooin,An beckon’d me to follow her Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.So on we went, an dahn we turned, An nawther on us spack;Bud nah an then sho twined her heead, To see if I’d runned back.At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd An luked ma fair e t’een;’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce, Sho wor no human been.Sho rave a paper fra her breast, Like some long theatre bill;An then sho sed “Weak mortal, Will ta read to me this will?But first, afoar tha starts to read, I’ll tell thee who I iz;Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff, I judge it by thi phiz.Well, I’ve a job fer thee to do, That is, if tha will do it;I think tha’rt t’likeliest man I knaw, Becos tha art a poet.If I am not mistaken, friend, I offan hear thi name;I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;” Says I – “Oud lass, it’s t’same.”“It’s just so mony years this day, I knaw it by me birth,Sin I departed mortal life, An left this wicked earth.But ere I closed these een to go Into eternity,I thowt I’d do a noble act, A deed o’ charity.I hed a bit o’ brass, tha knaws, Some land an’ property;I thowt it might be useful, John, To folks e poverty.So then I made a will o t’lot, Fer that did suit my mind;I planned it as I thowt wor t’best, To benefit mankind.I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil, By reading t’will tha’ll see;That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws, May hev ther skooling free.An if tha be teetotal, John, Tha may think it a fault,Bud to ivvery woman ligging in I gav a peck o’ malt.Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass at’s left, As tha’ll hev heeard afore,Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly Among arr Keighley poor.I certainly did mack a flaw, Fer which I’ve rued, alas!’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John, Sud hev no Feoffee Brass.An nah, if tha will be so kind, Go let mi t’trustees knawAt I sall be obleged to them To null that little flaw.An will ta mention this anall, Wal tha’s an intervue? —Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor, Whativver else they due.Then I sall rest an be at peace, Boath here an when e Heav’n;Wal them at need it will rejoice Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve giv’n.An tell em to remember thee Upon t’next Feoffee Day!”I says – I sallant get a meg, I’m getting parish pay.So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt, An tell’d me what to doo,I ax’d her if sho’d harken me, Wal I just said a word or two.I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie, As sure as my name’s ‘John;’I think at yo are quite e t’mist Abaht things going on.Folks gether in fra far an near, When it is Feoffee-Day;An think they hev another lowse Wi t’little bit o’ pay.Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ poor, It’s shocking fer to tell,They’ll hardly let em into t’door — I knaw it be mesel.Asteead a being a peck o’ malt Fer t’wimmen lying in,It’s geen to rascals ower-grown, To drink e rum an gin.Then them at is – I understand — What yo may call trustees,They hev ther favorites, yo knaw, An gives to who they please.Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face, An skrew ther maath awry;An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand, As they are passing by.There’s mony a woman I knaw weel, Boath middle-aged an oud,At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass, An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass, Hes cum e all his pride,An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass, Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax, If they’ve a claim, they come;But what wi t’Railway fares an drink, It’s done be they get home.Wal mony a poorer family At’s nut been nam’d e t’list,At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil, Bud thenk yo – they are miss’d.We see a man at hes a haase, Or happen two or three,They Mr. him, an hand him aaght Five times as mitch as me.’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass Tight up e sum oud seck,An getten t’Corporation brooms To sweep it into t’Beck.”No longer like Capias’ form, Wi a tear e boath her een,But like the gallant Camilla, The Volscian warrior Queen.She, kneeling, pointed up aboon, An vow’d be all so breet,Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads, Or watch em day an neet.Sho call’d the Furies to her aid, An Diræ’s names sho us’d,An sware if I hed spocken t’truth, Sho hed been sore abus’d.Alas, poor Goast! – I sed to her — Indeed it is too true;Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet, Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”