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The Tartan Plaid
In Auld Lang Syne I’ve heard ’em say My granny then she woreA bonnie Scottish Tartan Plaid In them good days o’ yore;An’ weel I ken when I was young Some happy days we had,When ladies they were dress’d so gay In Scottish Tartan Plaid.Me thinks I see my father now Sat working at his loom —I see my mother at the wheel — In our dear village home;The swinging-stick I hear again, Its buzzin’ makes me sad,To think those happy days are gone When weaving Tartan Plaid.It is not in a clannish view, For clans are naught to me,But ’tis our ancient Tartan Plaid I dearly love to see.’Tis something grand ye will agree To see a Highland lad,Donn’d in his Celtic native garb, The grand old Tartan Plaid.Our Soldier lads in tartan kilts Outshine our warriors bold(Who dress in scarlet, green, and blue, Decked off with shining gold);Just see our kilted lads so brave, It makes my heart feel glad,And ’minds me of my boyish days When dress’d in Tartan Plaid.“O wad some power” the hint we give Our Sovereign Lady Queen,To dress herself and lady maids In bonnie tartan sheen.Then treadles, shuttles, warp, and weft — (For trade would not be bad) —Would rattle as in days of yore, When weaving Tartan Plaid.The Pauper’s Box
Thou odious box, as I look on thee,I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me?No, no! forbear! – yet then, yet then,’Neath thy grim lid do lie the men —Men whom fortune’s blasted arrows hit,And send them to the pauper’s pit.O dig a grave somewhere for me,Deep underneath some wither’d tree;Or bury me on the wildest heath,Where Boreas blows his wildest breath,Or ’mid some wild romantic rocks:But, oh! forbear the pauper’s box.Throw me into the ocean deep,Where many poor forgotten sleep;Or fling my corpse in the battle mound,With coffinless thousands ’neath the ground;I envy not the mightiest dome,But save me from a pauper’s tomb.I care not if t’were the wild wolf’s glen,Or the prison yard, with wicked men:Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled —Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world!In fire or smoke on land or sea,Than thy grim lid be closed on me.But let me pause, ere I say moreAbout thee, unoffending door;When I bethink me, now I pause,It is not thee who makes the laws,But villians who, if all were just,In thy grim cell would lay their dust.But yet, t’were grand beneath yond wall,To lie with friends, – relations all;If sculptured tombstones were not there,But simple grass with daisies fair;And were it not, grim box, for thee’Twere paradise, O cemetery.The Vale of Aire
[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley. My spirits began to be cheered, for lively gratitude glowed in my heart at the wild romantic scenery before me. Passing the old mansion, I wended my way towards the huge crag called the “Altar Rock.” Wild and rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, and reclining on a green moss-covered bank, I framed these words.]
Poet Nicholson, old Ebor’s darling bard, Accept from me at least one tributary line;Yet how much more should be thy just reward, Than any wild unpolished song of mine.No monument in marble can I raise, Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name;But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, And give applause that thou shouldst duly claim.All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains;All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, Beneath whose shades wild Nature’s grandeur reigns.From off yon rock that rears its head so high, And overlooks the crooked river Aire;While musing Nature’s works full meet the eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley’s hill, In Bingley’s grand and quiet sequestered dale,Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill, I see thy haunt and read thy “Poacher’s Tale.”So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune Thy native vale in glorious days of old,Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone — Her sages and her heroes great and bold.No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, The free-born muse detests that servile part:In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, And humble worth unheeded pass along;Ages to come will sing the “Yale of Aire,” Her Nicholson and his historic song.Fra Haworth ta Bradford
Fra Haworth tahn the other day, Bi t’route o’ Thornton Height,Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf, Went inta Bradford straight.Nah Joe ta Bradford hed been before, But shoo hed nivver been;But hahsumivver they arrived Safe inta t’Bowlin’ Green.They gav a lad a parkin pig, As on the street they went;Ta point ’em aght St. George’s Hall, An’ Ostler’s Monument.Bud t’little jackanapes bein’deep, An’ thowt they’d nivver knaw,Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ his wife T’first monument he saw.As sooin as Joe gat up ta t’rails, His een blaz’d in his heead;Exclamin’, they mud just as weel A gooan an’ robb’d the deead.Bud whoivver’s ta’en them childer dahn, Away fra poor owd Dick,Desarves his heead weel larapin, Wi’ a dahn gooid hazel stick.T’lad seein’ Joe froth aght o’ t’maath, He sooin tuke to his heels,Fer asteead o’ t’Ostler’s Monument, He’d shown ’em Bobby Peel’s.The Veteran
I left yon fields so fair to view; I left yon mountain pass and peaks;I left two een so bonny blue, A dimpled chin and rosy cheeks.For an helmet gay and suit o’ red I did exchange my corduroy;I mind the words the Sergeant said, When I in sooth was but a boy.“Come, rouse my lad, be not afraid; Come, join and be a brave dragoon:You’ll be well clothed, well kept, well paid, To captain be promoted soon.Your sweetheart, too, will smile to see Your manly form and dress so fine;Give me your hand and follow me, — Our troop’s the finest in the line.“The pyramids beheld our corps Drive back the mighty man of Fate!Our ire is felt on every shore, In every country, clime, or state.The Cuirassiers at Waterloo We crushed; – they were the pride of France!At Inkerman, with sabre true, We broke the Russ and Cossack lance!“Then come, my lad, extend your hand, Tame indolence I hold it mean;Now follow me, at the command, Of our Most Gracious Sovereign Queen!A prancing steed you’ll have to ride; A bonny plume will deck your brow;With clinking spurs and sword beside, — Come! here’s the shilling: take it now!”The loyal pledge I took and gave, — It was not for the silver coin;I wished to cross the briny wave, And England’s gallant sons to join.Since – many a summer’s sun has set, An’ time’s graved-care is on my brow,Yet I am free and willing yet To meet old England’s daring foe.Address to the Queen,
JUNE 20TH, 1887
To the Queen’s Most Excellent MajestyMost Gracious Sovereign Lady, Victoria Alexandra Guelph, Queen of the hearts of her people throughout all civilisation, one of your Majesty’s loyal and faithful subjects desires most respectfully to approach your Majesty to congratulate you upon the completion of the fiftieth year of your reign. In the same year of your Majesty’s coronation, in a wild part of old Yorkshire, where it is said the wind never blew nor the cock ever crew, was your Most Gracious Majesty’s humble servant born; and at the very hour that your Majest ascended the Throne, a kind, good Yorkshire mother was rocking her baby in an old oak cradle, while the father was treading the treadles and picking the shuttle of his old hand-loom to the tune of “Britons never shall be slaves”; and I am proud to convey to your Majesty that the child in the old oak cradle was no less a person than your Majesty’s humble and obedient servant, Bill o’th’ Hoylus End, Poet and Philosopher to the plebians of Keighley, and who now rejoices in the fiftieth year of your Majesty’s reign that he has been blessed with good health during that long period, having had at no time occasion to call in a physician. John Barleycorn has been my medical adviser, and when I begin to review the fifty years of your most illustrious reign, from my birth, I feel grateful indeed, for great and mighty men and nations have risen and fallen; but I am proud to think that your Most Gracious Majesty and your humble servant have weathered the storm, and I also can assure your Majesty that the lukewarm loyalty of the upper ten is not a sample of people here, for during the latter half of your Majesty’s reign up to now prosperity has shone upon the once crooked, old, mis-shapen town, for wealth has been accumulated to the tune of millions, which I am sorry to inform your Majesty is in the hands of those who mean to keep it. One portion of your Majesty’s lukewarm loyal subjects have the advancement of art and science so much on the brain that it is feared they will go stark mad. I have also much pleasure in informing your gracious Majesty that His Grace the Duke of Devonshire has presented the people of Keighley with a plot of ground to be called the Devonshire Park, which will be opened on the occasion of your Majesty’s Jubilee; also that Henry Isaac Butterfield, Esquire, of bonny Cliffe Castle, has erected a noble-looking structure, to be called the Jubilee Tower, which will be opened on the day of your Majesty’s Grand Jubilee, to commemorate your Majesty’s glorious reign. This gentleman is a native of Keighley, and fairly entitled to be knighted by your gracious Majesty, seeing that he has done more to beautify the town than all the rest. It has also been given out that the town has to be honoured by a royal visit from your Majesty’s grandson, Prince George. But pray take a fool’s advice, your Majesty, and don’t let him come unless he is able to pay his own expenses; for I can assure His Royal Highness that this is the city of number oneism. Yet with the exception of parting with the bawbees, I dare be sworn that your Majesty’s subjects in Keighley are the grand and genuine men of the shire, take them in art and science, flood or field.
I sincerely hope that your Most Gracious Majesty will excuse the blunt and out-spoken Bard, who will ever remain your Majesty’s most humble and obedient servant, – BILL O’TH’ HOYLUS END.
P.S. – I beg your Majesty’s most humble pardon, for since I addressed your most gracious Majesty a note has come to me stating that the Brewers, Bakers, Shoemakers, and Tailors, have subscribed and bought a splendid Ox, which will be roasted and served to the poor on the occasion of the celebration of your most gracious Majesty’s Jubilee.
Then Hail to England’s Gracious Queen! ’Tis now proclaimed afar,The Jubilee of our Gracious Queen, The Empire’s Guiding Star.For fifty years she’s been to us A Monarch and a Mother;And looks her subjects in the face As Sister or a Brother.Then here’s a health to England’s Queen Whom Jove to us hath given;A better Monarch ne’er has been Beneath His starry heaven.There is no man of any clan, O’er any land or sea,But what will sing “God bless our Queen” On her grand Jubilee.The world looks on Old England’s Queen In danger for protection;Nor never yet hath England failed To make her grand correction.“Fair play,” she cries, no one shall harm A child beneath my realm;I’m Captain of Great Britain’s barque And standing at the helm.Had England trusted wicked men, This day where had she been?But lo! she had a Guiding Star, ’Twas our dear Mother Queen.There is no foe, where’er you go This day, I vow, could hate her;She’s a blessing to her nation, And a terror to a traitor.As she has been, long may she reign, The Grand Old Queen of Britain;In letters of bright gold her name Henceforward should be written.All nations ’neath the stars above, And canopy of heaven,Rejoice to see her Jubilee In Eighteen Eighty-seven.Ode to Burns on his 130th Birthday
Weak bard, but thou dost try in vainTo tune that mighty harp again,To try thy muse in Burns’s strain — Thou’rt far behind.And yet to praise him thou would’st fain — It is thy mind.He who sang of Bruce’s commandAt Bannockburn, with sword in hand,And bid his warriors firmly stand Upon the spot;And bid the foemen leave the land, Or face the Scot.He who freed the human mindOf superstitious weak and blind;He who peered the scenes behind Their holy fairs —How orthodox its pockets lined With canting prayers.Yes; he whose life’s short span appearsMixed up with joyous smiles and tears;So interwove with doubts and fears His harp did ring;And made the world to ope’ its ears And hear him sing.’Twas his to walk the lonely glen,Betimes to shun the haunts of men,Searching for his magic pen — Poetic fire;And far beyond the human ken He strung the lyre.And well old Scotland may be proudTo hear her Burns proclaimed aloud,For to her sons the world hath bowed Through Burns’s name —All races of the world are proud Of Burns’s fame.Trip to Malsis Hall
The day wor fine, the sun did shine, No signs o’ rain to fall,When t’North Beck hands, i’ jovial bands, Did visit Malsis Hall.Up by the hill o’ North Beck Mill, Both owd an’ young did meet;To march I trow, i’ two-by-two, Procession dahn the street.An’ Marriner’s Band, wi’ music grand, Struck up wi’ all ther might;Then one an’ all, both great an’ small, March’d on wi’ great delight.The girls an’ boys, wi’ jovial noise, The fife an’ drum did play;For ivvery one wod hev some fun On this eventful day.Owd Joan o’ Sall’s wi’ all his pals, March’d on wi’ all ther ease:Just for a lark, some did remark, “There goes some prime owd cheese!”T’Exl’ Heead chaps wi’ their girt caps, An’ coits nut quite i’ t’fashion;Wi’ arms ding-dong, they strut along, An’ put a famous dash on.Tom Wilkins dress’d up in his best, T’owd wife put on her fall,Fer they wor bent, what com or went, To dine at Malsis Hall.Ther wor Tommy Twist among the list, Wi’ his magenta snaht;He’s often said sin he gat wed, T’owd lass sud hev an aght.Among the lot wor owd Sam Butt, As fine as owd Lord Digby;An’ owd Queer Doos, wi’ his streit shoes, An’ wi’ him Joseph Rigby.There’s Jimmy Gill, o’ Castle Hill, — That gentleman wi’ t’stick, —There’s Will an’ Sam, an’ young John Lamb, An’ Ben an’ Earby Dick.I scorn to lie – the reason why It is a shame awm sure!But among the job wor owd Joe Hob, Behold! a perfect kewer.I’d quite forgot, among the lot, There too wor Pally Pickles,Wi’ crinoline shoo walks so fine, Shoo’s like a cat i’ prickles.Bud to mi tale – aw mussant fail I’ owt on this occasion —Wi’ heead erect, an’ girt respect, We march to Keighley Station.Nah – all reight fain gat into t’train, Owd Ned began to screeam;Then Master Pratt doft off his hat, An’ just pept aght at t’steeam.This jovial band when they did land, Got off the train so hearty,For they all went, wi’ that intent, To hev a grand tea-party!The country foak did gape an’ luke, To see us all delighted,An’ ivvery one did say “Begum, Aw wish awd been invited.”’Tis joy to tell, they marched as well As t’Scots did ower the border,Owd Wellington an’ all his men Ne’er saw such marchin’ order.The lookers-on, to see them come, Gat on ta t’second storey;Reight dahn the park they did ’em mark, Comin’ i’ their full glory.Then to the place each smilin’ face, Moved on i’ grand succession;The lookers on did say “Well done, It is a grand procession!”When they’d all pass’d the hall at last They form’d into a column;Then Jimmy Wreet, wi’ all his meet, Gav aght a hymn so solemn:Then all did raise their voice i’ praise, Wi’ music in the centre;They sang a hymn i’praise o’ Him, ’At is the girt Creator.That bit bein’ done, they all did run, To get a pleasant day in,Some went there, an’ some went here, An’ t’Bands began o’ playin’.Wi’ mich amaze, we all did gaze, Arahnd this splendid park;Then little Jake began to talk, An’ thus he did remark: —“At Morecambe Bay I’ve been a day, At Bolton Woods an’ Ilkley;But Malsis Hall outstrips ’em all, ’At I’ve seen aght o’ Keighley.”The girt park wall arahnd the hall, Majestical does stand;Wi’ wavin’ trees, an’ pleasant breeze, It’s like a fairy land.It fill’d wur eyes wi’ gert surprise, To see the fahnten sporting;An’ on the top, stuck on a prop, The British flags wor floatin’.The walks so grand, wi’ yellow sand, An’ splendid wor the pavin’,High over all, arahnd the wall, Wor flags an’ banners wavin’.Nah – some made fun, an’ some did run, Owd women they wor singin’ —“Do you ken the Moofin Man,” — An’ others they wor swingin’.I’ sooth ’twor grand to see this band, Assembled all together;Bud sad to say, that varry day Turn’d aght some shockin’ weather.Bud war ner t’rain, aw mun explain, ’At caus’d a girt disaster,All but one sort o’ breead ran short — It wor no fault o’ t’maister.O, Gormanton! thy breead an’ bun, An’ judgment it wor scanty;Oh, what a shame, an’ what a name, For not providing plenty!Oh, silly clown! thah might hev knawn, To eyt each one wor able;The country air did mak some swear They cud ommost eyt a table.The atmosphere, no longer clear, The clouds are black an’ stormy;Then all but one away did run, Like some desertin’ army.On – on! they go! as if some foe Wor chargin’ at the lot!If they got there, they didn’t care A fig for poor Will Scott!Poor lame owd Will remains theer still, His crutches hes to fetch him;But he’s seen t’time, when in his prime, ’At nobody theer cud catch him.Like some fast steed wi’ all its speed, All seem’d as they wor flyin’;To escape the rain, an’ catch the train, Both owd and young wor tryin’.One Mat o’ Wills, abaght Crosshills, He heeard a fearful hummin’,He said ta t’wife, “Upon mi life, Aw think the French are comin’!Tha knaws reight weel ’at we’ve heeard tell O’ sich strange things afore,So lass luke quick an’ cut thi stick, An’ I will bolt the door.”Like drahnded rats they pass owd Mat’s, An’ ran dahn to the station;Owd Betty Bake an’ Sally Shacks Were both plump aght o’ patience.“This is a mess,” says little Bess, ’At lives on t’top o’ t’garden;“There’s my new shawl an’ fine lace fall, They’ll nut be worth a fardin.”But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throug, The bell does give the sign,Wi’ all its force, the iron horse Comes trottin’ dahn the line.Then one by one they all get in, Wet, fatigued, an’ weary;The steam does blow, owd Ned doth go, An’ we come back so cherry.Whene’er we roam away fra hooam, No matter wheer or when,In storm or shower, if in wur power, To home, sweet home, we turn!The Bold Buchaneers
A Military description of the Second Excursion to Malsis Hall, the Residence of JAMES LUND, Esq.
I remember perusing when I was a boy,The immortal bard Homer – his siege of old Troy,So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will,How our brave army “bivoked” on the plains o’ Park Hill.Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our quarters we took,When Lieuteuant-col. Don Frederick spoke,Commanding his aid-de-camp Colonel de Mann,To summons and muster the chiefs o’ the clan.Majors Wood, Lamb, and Pollard came up to the lines,Each marching their companies up to the nines;The twirlers and twisters, the knights of the coal,And spuzzers and sorters fell in at the roll.The light-infantry captains were Robin and Shack,And the gallant big “benners” the victuals did sack;Captain Green he commanded the Indigo troop,These beer barrel chargers none with them can cope.The Amazon army led on by Queen Bess,Each feminine soldier so grand was her dress,Though they chatted and pratted, ’twor pleasant to seeThem laughing and quaffing their hot rum and tea.There was music to dainties and music to wine,And for fear of invaders no hearts did repine;Although a dark cloud swept over the plain,Yet our quarter was sheltered from famine and rain.Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Wright,Drank to each other with pleasure that night;We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music and fun,From the larder and cellar of Field-Marshall Lund.One Private Tom Berry got into the hall,When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small;And Flintergill Billy of the Spuzzer’s Brigade,Got his beak in the barrel, and havoc he made.The Field-Marshall declared, and his good lady too,They ne’er were attacked with so pleasant a foe;With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers,In return they saluted the bold Buchaneers.The Benks o’ the Aire
It isn’t the star of the evening that breetens, Wi’ fairy-like leetness the owd Rivock ends,Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton, Or the benks of the river while strolling wi’ friends,That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely, And leave the gay feast for others to share;But O there’s a charm, and a charm for me only, In a sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger, In that cot, wi’ my Mary, I could pass the long years:In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger, And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.We’d walk aght in t’morning when t’young sun wor shining, When t’birds hed awakened, an’ t’lark soar’d i’ t’air,An’ I’d watch its last beam, on my Mary reclining, From ahr dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.Then we’d talk o’ the past, when our loves wor forbidden, When fortune wor adverse, an’ friends wod deny,How ahr hearts wor still true, tho’ the favours wor hidden Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.An’ when age sall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feelin’ Ahr loves should endure, an’ still wod we share;For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealin’, We’d share in ahr cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.Then hasten, my Mary, the moments are flying, Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin’ Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart.The miser that wanders besides buried treasure, Wi’ his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;How different to him is my rapture and pleasure Near the dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver; The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,When fate may ordain us no longer to sever, Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee, If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi’ me;But sweeter an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee, In ahr sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.In Memory of J. W. PECKOVER,
Died July 10th, 1888
He was a man, an upright man As ever trod this mortal earth,And now upon him back we scan, Whose greatest fault was honest mirth.But never more his friends will see The smiling face and laughing eye,Nor hear his jokes with heartfelt glee, Which made dull care before them fly.Nor ever more the friend shall find, When labour lacks, the shake of handThat oft was wont to leave behind What proved a Brother and a Friend.In winter’s bitter, biting frost, Or hail, or snow, or rain, or sleet,The wretch upon life’s tempest toss’d In him found shelter from the street.The unemployed, the aged poor, The orphan child, the lame and blind,The stranger never crossed his floor But what a friend in him did find.But now the hand and heart are gone, Which were so noble, kind and true,And now his friends, e’en every one, Are loth to bid a last adieu.The Fugitive: A Tale of Kersmas Time
We wor snugly set arahnd the hob, ’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,Me an ahr Kate an’ t’family, All happy I believe:Ahr Kate hed Harry on her knee, An’ I’d ahr little Ann,When there com rappin’ at the door A poor owd beggar man.Sleet trickl’d dahn his hoary locks, That once no daht wor fair;His hollow cheeks wor deadly pale, His neck an’ breast wor bare;His clooas, unworthy o’ ther name, Wor ragg’d an’ steepin’ wet;His poor owd legs wor stockingless, An’ badly shooed his feet.“Come into t’haase,” said t’wife to him, An’ get thee up ta t’fire;Shoo then browt aght wur humble fare, T’wor what he did desire;And when he’d getten what he thowt, An’ his owd regs wor dry,We ax’d what distance he hed come, An’ thus he did reply:“Awm a native of Cheviot Hills, Some weary miles fra here;Where I like you this neet hev seen Full monny a Kersmas cheer;I left my father’s hahse when young, Determined I wod rooam;An’ like the prodigal of yore, I’m mackin’ tahrds my hooam.“I soldier’d in the Punjaub lines, On India’s burning sand;An’ nearly thirty years ago I left my native land;Discipline bein’ ta hard fer me, My mind wor allus bent;So in an evil haar aw did Desert my regiment.“An’ nivver sin’ durst aw go see My native hill an’ glen,Whear aw mud nah as weel hev been The happiest of all men;But my blessin’ – an’ aw wish ye all A merry Kersmas day;Fer me, I’ll tak my poor owd bones, On Cheviot Hills to lay.”“Aw cannot say,” aw said to t’wife, “Bud aw feel raather hurt;What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aght, An’ finds t’owd chap a shirt.”Shoo did an’ all, an’ stockings too; An’ a tear stood in her ee;An’ in her face the stranger saw Real Yorkshire sympathy.Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh When he hed heeard his tale,An’ spak o’ some owd trousers, ’At hung on t’chamber rail;Then aght at door ahr Harry runs, An’ back ageean he shogs,He’d been in t’coit ta fetch a pair O’ my owd ironed clogs.“It must be fearful cowd ta neet Fer fowk ’at’s aght o’ t’door:Give him yahr owd grey coit an’ all, ’At’s thrawn on t’chaamer floor:An’ then there’s thy owd hat, said Kate, ’At’s pors’d so up an’ dahn;It will be better ner his awn, Tho’ it’s withaght a crahn.”So when we’d geen him what we cud (In fact afford to give),We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks, O’ t’poor owd fugitive;He thank’d us ower an’ ower ageean An’ often he did pray,’At t’barns wod nivver be like him; Then travell’d on his way.