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Cowd az Leead
An’ arta fra thi father torn,So early i’ thi youthful morn,An’ mun aw pine away forlorn, I’ grief an’ pain?Fer consolashun I sall scorn If tha be ta’en.O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wailThi loss through ivvery hill an’ dale,Fer nah it is too true a tale, Tha’rt cowd az leead.An’ nah thi bonny face iz pale, Tha’rt deead! tha’rt deead’!Aw’s miss tha when aw cum fra t’shop,An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;An’ aw’s be ommust fit ta drop, Aw sall so freeat,An’ Oh! mi varry heart may stop An’ cease to beeat!Ah’d allus aimed, if tha’d been spar’d,Of summat better to hev sharedNer what thi poor owd father fared, I’ this cowd sphere;Yet, after all, aw’st noan o’ cared If tha’d stayed here.But O! Tha Conquerer Divine,’At vanquished deeath i’ Palestine,Tak to Thi arms this lad o’ mine Noan freely given;But mak him same as wun o’ Thine, Wi’ Thee i’ Heaven.The Factory Girl
Shoo stud beside her looms an’ watch’d The shuttle passin’ through,But yet her soul wur sumweer else, ’Twor face ta face wi’ Joe.They saw her lips move as in speech, Yet none cud hear a word,An’ but fer t’grindin’ o’ the wheels, This language might be heard.“I’t’ spite o’ all thi treacherous art, At length aw breeathe again;The pityin’ stars hes tane mi part, An’ eas’d a wretch’s pain.An’ Oh! aw feel as fra a maze, Mi rescued soul is free,Aw knaw aw do not dream an daze I’ fancied liberty.“Extinguished nah is ivvery spark, No love for thee remains,Fer heart-felt love i’ vain sall strive Ta live, when tha disdains.No longer when thi name I hear, Mi conscious colour flies!No longer when thi face aw see, Mi heart’s emotions rise.“Catcht i’ the bird-lime’s treacherous twigs, Ta wheer he chonc’d ta stray,The bird his fastened feathers leaves, Then gladly flies away.His shatter’d wings he sooin renews, Of traps he is aware;Fer by experience he is wise, An’ shuns each future snare.“Awm speikin’ nah, an’ all mi aim Is but ta pleeas mi mind;An’ yet aw care not if mi words Wi’ thee can credit find.Ner dew I care if my decease Sud be approved bi thee;Or whether tha wi’ equal ease Does tawk ageean wi’ me.“But, yet, tha false deceivin’ man, Tha’s lost a heart sincere;Aw naw net which wants comfort mooast, Or which hes t’mooast ta fear.But awm suer a lass more fond an’ true No lad could ivver find:But a lad like thee is easily fun — 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;Rest 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!Some of My 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 happy days gone by,Without one pleasant thought, without one sighAh, 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 little 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 for shuttles that he should have ‘wun’?” —She in that cottage there, knitting her healds,And I, her young forester, 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 Oh! there’s no darkness – to me – no decay,Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away!Ode ta Spring Sixty-four
O welcome, young princess, thou sweetest of dowters, An’ furst bloomin’ issue o’ King Sixty-four,Wi’ thi brah deck’d 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 saplin’ await thi command;An’ Natur herseln, to show her good manners, Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land.Tha appears in t’ orchard, in t’ garden, an’ t’ grotto, Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn;Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, For thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin’! These words they are borne on the wings o’ the wind;That bids us be early i’ plewin’ an’ sowin’, Fer him at neglects, tha’ll leave him behind.Address ta t’ First Wesherwoman
I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send,Ta t’ human race the greatest friend,An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end O’ history.Her name is nah, yah may depend, A mystery.But sprang shoo up fra royal blood,Or some poor slave beyond the Flood,Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud Shoo did invent;Her name sall renk ameng the good, If aw get sent.If nobbut in a rainy dub,Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub,Or hed a proper weshin’ tub — It’s all the same;Aw’d give a crahn, if aw’d to sub, To get her name.I’ this wide world aw’m set afloat,Th’ poor regg’d possessor of one coat;Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote, An’ thus assert,Tha’rt worthy o’ great Shakespeare’s note — A clean lin’ shirt.Low is mi lot, an’ hard mi ways,While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;Yet aw will sing t’owd lass’s praise, Wi’ famous glee;Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays, Shoo’s t’lass for me.Bards hev sung the fairest fair,Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair;The dying lover’s deep despair, Their harps hev rung;But useful wimmin’s songs are rare, 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 through 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 Coila’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 then, as now:So grand old Coila’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 Coila’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 Coila’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 are heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire,Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;And sing how Coila’s genius on a January morn,Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.John o’f’ Bog an’ Keighley Feffy Goast:
A TALE O’ POVERTY
“Some books are lies fra 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 fra Kersmas time,When I met wee this Feffy Goast, The subject of mi rhyme.I’d been hard up fer monny a week, Mi way I cuddant see,Fer trade an’ commerce wor as bad As ivver they could be.T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An’ t’combers wor quite sick,Fer weeks they nivver pool’d a slip, Ner t’weivers wave a pick.An’ I belong’d ta t’latter lot, An’ them wor t’war o’t’ two,Fer I’d nine pair o’ jaws i’ t’haase, An nowt for ’em ta do.T’owd wife at t’ time wor sick i’ bed, An’ I’d a shockin’ cowd,Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home, Wor nobbut three days owd.Distracted to mi varry heart, At sitch a bitter cup,An’ lippenin’ ivvery day at com, At summat wod turn up;At last I started off wun neet, To see what I could mak;Determin’d I’d hev summat ta 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’ oppen street.Saint John’s Church spire then I saw, An’ I wor rare an’ fain,Fer near it stood t’owd parsonage — I cuddant be mistain.So up I went ta t’ Wicket Gate, Though sad I am ta say it,Resolv’d to ax ’em for some breead, Or else some brocken meit.Bud just as I wor shackin’ it, A form raase up before,An’ sed “What does ta want, tha knave, Shackin’ t’ Wicket Door?”He gav me then ta understand, If I hedant come to pray,At t’grace o’ God an’ t’breead o’ life, Wor all they gav away.It’s fearful nice fer folk ta talk Abaat ther breead o’ life,An’ specially when they’ve plenty, Fer t’childer an’ ther wife.Bud I set off ageean at t’run, Fer I weel understood,If I gat owt fra that thear clahn, It woddant do ma good.I’ travellin’ on I thowt I heeard, As I went nearer t’tahn,A thaasand voices i’ mi ears, Sayin’ “John, whear are ta bahn?”In ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d, A play-card I could see,I’ t’biggest type at e’er wod print — “There’s nowt here, lad, fer thee.”Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d, Asteead o’ meit wor seen,A mighty carvin’-knife hung up, Reight fair afore mi een.Destruction wor invitin’ me, I saw it fearful clear,Fer ivvery druggist window sed — “Real poison is sold here.”At last I gav a frantic howl, A shaat o’ dreead despair,I seized missen by t’toppin then, An’ shack’d an’ lugged mi hair.Then quick as leetnin’ ivver wor, A thowt com i’ mi heead —I’d tak a walk to t’Simetry, An’ meditate wi’ t’deead.T’owd Church clock wor striking’ t’ time At folk sud be asleep,Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat, An’ t’Pindar after t’sheep.Wi’ lengthen’d pace I hasten’d off At summat like a trot;Ta get ta t’place I started for, Mi blood wor boiling hot.An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate, Rear’d up ageean a post,I cuddant tell – but yet I thowt It wor another goast!But whether it wor a goast or net, I heddant time ta luke,Fer I wor takken bi surprise When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.Abaat two hunderd yards i’ t’front, As near as I could think,I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise, An’ nah an’ then a clink!Whativver can these noises be? Some robbers, then I thowt! —I’d better step aside an’ see, They’re happen up ta nowt!So I gat ower a fence ther wor, An’ peeping threw a gate,Determin’d to be satisfied, If I’d a while to wait.At last two figures com ta t’spot Whear I hed hid misel,Then walkers’-earth and brimstone, Most horridly did smell.Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat, His face as black as sooit,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’ clooas 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 ta maw Owd Jack O’Doodle’s Croft.“Where are ta bahn ta neet, grim phiz?” Sed Nickey, wi’ a grin,“Tha knaws I am full up below, An’ cannot tak more in.”“What is’t ta thee?” said Spinnel Shanks, “Tha ruffin of a dog,I’m nobbut bahn mi raands ageean, Ta see wun John o’t’ Bog.“I cannot see it fer mi life, What it’s ta dew wi’ thee;Go mind thi awn affairs, owd Nick, An’ nivver thee heed me.”“It is my business, Spinnel Shanks, Whativver tha may say,Fer I been rostin’ t’human race Fer monny a weary day.”Just luke what wark, I’ve hed wi’ thee, This last two yer or so;Wi’ Germany an Italy, An’ even Mexico.An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil Browt in some thaasands more;An’ sooin fra Abyssinia, They’ll bring black Theodore.“So drop that scythe, owd farren deeath, Let’s rest a toathree wick;Fer what wi’ t’seet o’t’ frying pan, Tha knows I’m ommost sick.”“I sall do nowt o’t’ sort,” says Deeath, Who spack it wi’ a grin,I’s just do as I like fer thee, So tha can hod thi din.”This made owd Nick fair raging mad, An’ liftin’ up his whip,He gav owd Spinnel Shanks a lash Across his upper lip.Then like a neighin’ steed, lean Shanks, To give owd Nick leg bail,He started off towards the tahn, Wi’ Nick hard on his trail.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 ta shine As breet as it could be;An dahn the vale of t’Aire I luked, Whear I could plainly see.The trees wor deeadly pale wi’ snaw, An’ t’windin’ Aire wor still,An’ all wor quite save t’hullats, At wor screamin’ up o’t’ hill.Owd Rivock End an’ all arahnd Luk’d like some fiendish heead,Fer t’more I star’d an’ t’more I thowt It did resemble t’deead.The Friendly Oaks wor alter’d nah, Ta what I’d seen afore;An’ luk’d as though they’d nivver be T’owd Friendly Oaks no more.Fer wun wor like a giant grim, His nooas com to a point,An’ wi’ a voice like thunner sed — “The times are aaght o’t’joint!”An’ t’other, like a whippin’-post, Bud happen net as thin,Sed “T’ times el alter yet, owd fooil, So pray nah, hod thi din!”I tuke no farther gawm o’ them, But paddl’d on mi way;Fer when I ivver mak a vah, I stick ta what I say.I heddant goan so far agean, Afoar I heeard a voice,Exclaiming – wi’ a fearful groan — “Go mak a hoil i’ t’ice!”I turned ma rahnd wheer t’sahnd com fro, An’ cautiously I bowed,Sayin’ “Thenk ye, Mr. Magic Voice, I’m flaid o’ gettin’ cowd.”But nah a sudden shack tuke place, A sudden change o’ scene;Fer miles wheer all wor white afoar, Wor nah a bottle-green.Then com a woman donn’d i’ white, A mantle gert shoo wore;A nicer lukin’, smarter form I nivver saw afoar.Her featers did resemble wun O’ that kind-hearted lot,’At’s ivver ready to relieve The poor man in his cot.Benevolence wor strongly mark’d Upon her noble heead;An’ on her bruhst ye might ha’ read, “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”In fact, a kinder-hearted soul Owd Yorkshire cuddant boast;An’ who wod feel the least alarmed Ta talk ta sitch a ghoast?I didn’t feel at all afraid, As nearer me shoo drew:I sed – “Good evening, Mrs. Ghoast, Hahivver do ye dew?”Sho nivver seem’d to tak no gawm, Bud pointed up at t’mooin,An’ beckon’d me ta follow her Reight dahn bi t’Wattery Loin.So on we went, an’ dahn we turn’d, An’ nawther on us spak;Bud nah an’ then shoo twined her heead, Ta see if I’d runn’d back.At t’last sho stopped and turned arahnd, An’ luk’d ma fair i’ t’een;’Twor nah I picked it aght at wunce, Sho wor no human bein’.Sho rave a paper fra her bruhst, Like some long theatre bill;An’ then shoo sed “Wake mortal, Will ta read to me this will?“Bud first, afoar tha starts to read, I’ll tell thee who I is;Tha lukes a dacent chap eniff — 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’likliest man I knaw, Becos tha art a poet.If I am not mistaen, mi friend, I often hear thi name;I think they call tha John o’ t’Bog”; — Says I – “Owd lass, it’s t’same.”“It’s just so mony years this day, I knaw it by mi 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 dew 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 i’ poverty.“So then I made a will o’t’ lot, Fer that did suit mi mind;I planned it as I thowt wor t’best, To benefit mankind.“I left a lot ta t’ Grammar Skooil; By reading t’will tha’ll see,That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws, May hev ther skooilin’ free.“An’ if tha be teetotal, John — Tha may think it a fault —To ivvery woman liggin’ in I gav a peck o’ malt.“Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass ’at’s left, As tha’ll hev heeard afooar,Wor to be dealt half-yearly Among ahr Keighley poor.“I certainly did mak a flaw, Fer which I’ve rued, alas!’Twor them ’at troubled t’parish, John, Sud hev no Feffee Brass.“An’ nah, if tha will be so kind, Go let mi trustees knaw’At I sall be oblidg’d to them To null that little flaw.“An’ will ta meushun this an’ all, Wal tha’s an interview? —Tell ’em to share t’moast brass to t’poor, Whativver else they do.“Then I sall rest an’ be at peace, Both here an’ when i’ Heaven;When them ’at need it will rejoice Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve given;“An’ tell ’em to remember thee Upon t’next Feffee Day!”I says – “I sallant get a meg, I’m gettin’ parish pay.”So when shoo’d spokken what shoo thowt, An’ tell’d me what to do,I ax’d her if shoo’d harken me, Wal I just said a word or two.“I’ll nut tell you one word o’ lie, As sure as my name’s John;I think at you are quite i’ t’mist Abaht things going on.“Folks gether in fra far an’ near, When it is Feffee Day,An’ think they hev another lowse, Wi’ t’little bit o’ pay.“Asteead o’ givin’ t’brass to t’poor, It’s shocking fer to tell,They’ll hardly let ’em into t’door — I knaw it bi misell.“Asteead o’ bein’ a peck o’ malt Fer t’wimmen liggin’ in,It’s geen to rascals ower-grown, To drink i’ rum an’ gin.“Then them at is – I understand — What you may call trustees;They hev ther favourites, you knaw, An’ gives to who they please.“Some’s nowt to do but shew ther face, An’ skrew ther maath awry;An’ t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand, As they are passin’ by.“There’s monny a woman I knaw weel, Boath middle-aged and owd,’At’s waited fer ther bit o’ brass, An’ catch’d ther deeath o’ cowd;“Wol mony a knave wi’ lots o’ brass Hes cum i’ all his pride,An’ t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass, Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.“Fra Bradford, Leeds, an’ Halifax, If they’ve a claim, they come;But what wi’ t’railway fares an’ drink, It’s done bi they get hooam.“Wol mony a poorer family ’At’s nut been named i’ t’list,Reight weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil, But, thenk ye, they are miss’d.“We see a man at hes a haase, Or happen two or three,They ‘Mister’ him, an’ hand him aght Five times as mitch as me.“’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass Tight up i’ sum owd seck,An’ getten t’Corporation brooms, To sweep it into t’beck.”No longer like Capia’s form, Wi’ a tear i’ both her een,But like the gallant Camilla, The Volscian warrior Queen.Shoo, kneelin’, pointed up aboon, An’ vah’d, be all so breet,Sho’d wreak her vengence on ther heeads, Or watch ’em day an’ neet.Shoo call’d the Furies to her aid, An’ Diræ’s names shoo used,An’ sware if I hed spocken t’truth, Shoo hed been sore abus’d.“Alas, poor Ghoast!” – I sed to her — “Indeed, it is too true”;Wi’ that sho vanish’d aght o’ t’seet, Sayin’ “Johnny lad, adieu!”In Memory of THOMAS IRELAND, Police Superintendent, Keighley.
BORN 1831, DIED 1887
“He was a man, take him for all-in-all, we shall not look upon his like again?” – Shakspeare.Who knew his virtues must his death deploreAnd long lament that Ireland is no more;Set is the sun that shone with all its rays,And claimed from every one their warmest praise.Mute are those lips, whose mildest accents spokeTheir sterling worth, down to the harmless joke;Clear-seeing his soul, for lo! that mind was oneThat envied nothing underneath the sun.To speak the truth, he never was afraid;His country’s weal, his country’s laws obeyed;A pensive calm reigned on his noble brow,While in his eye you read the solemn vow: —“I harm no one; no one will I betray;My duty is to watch and see fair play;My friendship is to no one set confined;My heart and hand are given to all mankind.”Oh ancient town of legendary strainWhen will his place in thee be filled again!For men like he, possessed of sterling worth,Are few and far between upon the earth.Such was the man the weeping mourners mourn,Lost to his friends, ah! never to return;Fled to the spheres where he in peace must dwell,While all who knew him bid a long farewell.A Yorkshireman’s Christmas
Aw hev ten or twelve pund o’ gooid meit, A small cheese an’ a barrel o’ beer;Aw’ll welcome King Kersmas to neet, For he nobbut comes once in a year.Send ahr Will dahn ta Tommy Spoyle Wood’s, An’ tell him ta send up a log;An’ tell him an’ Betty to come, For Tommy’s a jolly owd dog.Aw mean ta forget all my debts, An’ aw mean ta harbour no grief;Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates O’ their contents o’ beer an’ gooid beef.Them barns they care nowt abaht drink, Like us ’at’s advanced into years;So Sally, lass, what does ta think, If ta buys ’em some apples an’ pears?Ahr David’s a fine little lad, An’ ahr Nancy’s a fine little lass;When aw see ’em aw do feel so glad, So bring me a quart an’ a glass!Come, Sally, an’ sit bi mi side, We’ve hed both wur ups an’ wur dahns;Awm fane at aw made thee mi bride, An’ awm prahd o’ both thee an’ wur barns.We’re as happy as them ’at’s more brass, In a festival holly-decked hall;We envy no mortal, owd lass; Here’s peace an’ good-will unto all!An’ may ev’ry poor crater to neet, If nivver before in his life,Hev plenty to drink an’ to eyt, Fer both him, an’ his barns, an’ his wife.Lines on the Late
MR. THOMAS CRAVEN
Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust — The friend we had but yesterday;His spirit to the unknown land Hath fled away.Ah! death’s strong key hath turned the lock, And closed again its ponderous door,That ne’er for him shall ope again — Ah, nevermore!Now pity swells the tide of love, And rolls through all our bosoms deep,For we have lost a friend indeed; And thus we weep.…’Twas his to learn in Nature’s school To love his fellow-creatures dear;His bounty fed the starving poor From year to year.But thou, pale moon, unclouded beam, And O! ye stars, shine doubly bright,And light him safe across the lake To endless light!Gooise an’ Giblet Pie
A Kersmas song I’ll sing, mi lads, If ye’ll bud hearken me;An incident i’ Kersmas time, I’ eighteen sixty-three;Whithaht a stypher i’ the world — I’d scorn to tell a lie —I dinéd wi a gentleman O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.I’ve been i’ lots o’ feeds, mi lads, An’ hed some rare tucks-aght;Blood-puddin days with killin’ pigs, Minch pies an’ thumpin’ tarts;But I wired in, an’ reight an’ all, An’ supp’d when I wor dry,Fer I wor dinin’ wi’ a gentleman O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.I hardly knew what ail’d ma, lads, I felt so fearful prahd;Mi ears pricked up, mi collar rahse, T’ards a hawf-a-yard;Mi chest stood aght, mi charley in, Like horns stuck aght mi tie;Fer I dinéd wi’ a gentleman O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.I often think o’ t’feed, mi lads, When t’ gentleman I meet;Bud nauther on us speiks a word Abaht that glorious neet;In fact, I hardly can misel, I feel so fearful shy;Fer I ate a deal o’ t’rosted gooise, An’ warm’d his giblet pie.The Grand Old Man
I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth,The grandest old statesman there is upon earth;When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree,He can level a nation as well as a tree.He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongueAs fairly bewilder both old men and young;He can make some believe that’s black which is white,And others believe it is morn when it’s night.He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar;His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war,Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed,He still went to Church the lessons to read.A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent,In search of some money which long had been spent;He blew up the forts, then commended his men,And ordered them back to old England again.In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose,No doubt he intended to crush all his foes;But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne’er was afraid,Then left him to perish without any aid.“If I,” said poor Gordon, “get out of this place,That traitor called Gladstone shall ne’er see my face —To the Congo I’ll go, if I am not slain,And never put foot in old England again.”When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum,And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom,Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box,Tho’ he knew that old England was then on the rocks.He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill,Our brave little army to torture and kill;And while our poor fellows did welter in gore,He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King,To civilised England they captive did bring;He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath,Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.“Had I done,” says Bismark, “so much in my life,As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife,I could not at this day have looked in the faceOf king, prince or peasant of my noble race.”He has tampered and tarnished his national fame;He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim —Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween,Not caring for honour of England or Queen.He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower,As he stumps our great nation to get into power;E’en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs,That she will assist him to get on his legs.