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The Feather’d Captive
My little dapple-wingèd fellow,What ruffian’s hand has made thee wellow?I heard while down in yonder hollow, Thy troubled breast;But I’ll return my little fellow, Back to its nest.Some ruffian’s hand has set a snickle,An’ left thee in a bonny pickle;Whoe’er he be, I hope owd Nick will Rise his arm,An’ mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle Wi’ summat warm.How glad am I that fate while roaming,Where milk-white hawthorn’s blossom’s blooming,Has sent my footsteps ere the gloaming Into this dell,To stop some murdering hand fra dooming Thy bonny sel’.For thou wur doomed my bird, for ever,Fra all thy feather’d mates to sever;Were I not near thee to deliver Wi’ my awn hand;Nor ever more thou’d skim the river, Or fallow’d land.Thy feather’d friends, if thou has any;Tho’ friends I fear there isn’t many;But yet the dam for her, wi’ Johnny, Will fret to-day,And think her watter-wagtail bonny Has flown away.Be not afraid, for not a featherFra off thy wing shall touch the heather,For I will give thee altogether Sweet liberty!And glad am I that I came hither, To set thee free.Now wing thy flight my little rover,Thy curs’d captivity is over,And if thou crosses t’Straits of Dover To warmer spheres,I hope that thou may live in clover, For years and years.Perhaps, like thee – for fortune’s fickle —I may, myself, be caught i’ t’snickle;And some kind hand that sees my pickle — Through saving thee —May snatch me too fra death’s grim shackle, And set me free.Dame Europe’s Lodging-House
A Burlesque on the Franco-Prussian war.
Dame Europe kept a Lodging-House, And she was fond of brass;She took in public lodgers, Of every rank and class.She’d French and German, Dutch and Swiss, And other nations too;So poor old Mrs. Europe Had lots of work to do.I cannot just now name her beds, Her number being so large;But five she kept for deputies, Which she had in her charge.So in this famous Lodging-House, John Bull he stood A1;On him she always kept an eye, To see things rightly done.And Master Louis was her next, And second, there’s no doubt,For when a little row took place, He always backed John out.And in her house was Alex. Russ; Oft him they eyed with fear;For Alex. was a lazy hound, And kept a Russian Bear.Her fourth was a man of grace, Who was for heaven bent;His name was Pious William, He read his Testament.Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave, And ’tis our firm belief,He once did rob the Hungary Lads Of hard-earned bread and beef.These were Dame Europe’s deputies, In whom she put her trust,To keep her Lodging-House at peace, In case eruption burst.For many a time a row took place, While sharing out the scran;But John and Louis soon stepp’d in, And cleared the padding can.Once, Alex. Russ’s father, Nick, A bit before he died,Did roughly seize a little Turk, And thought to warm his hide.But John and Louis interfered, Declaring it foul play;And made old Nick remember it Until his dying day.Now all Dame Europe’s deputies, They made themselves at home;And every lodger knew his bed, Likewise his sitting room.They took great interest in their beds, And kept them very clean;Unlike some other padding cans, So dirty and so mean.The best and choicest bed of all, Was occupied by Johnny;Because the Dame did favour him, He did collect her money.And in a little bunk he lived, Seal’d up with oak, and tarr’d;He would not let a single one Come near within a yard.A Jack-of-all-trades, too, was John, And aught he’d do for brass;And what he ever took in hand, No one could him surpass.When tired of being shut in the bunk, Sometimes he went across,To spend an hour with Master Loo, And they the wine would toss.So many a happy day they spent, These lads, with one another;While every lodger in the house, Thought John was Louis’ brother.The Dame allowed John something nice, To get well in her rent,Which every now and then i’ t’bank, He put it on per cent.And working very hard himself Amongst his tar and pitch;He soon accumulated wealth, That made him very rich.Now Louis had a pleasant crib Which was admired by lots,And being close by a window, He had some flower pots.The next to Louis’ bed was Will, The biggest MonitorAnd though he did pretend a saint, He was as big a cur.He loved to make them all believe He was opposed to strife,And said he never caused a row, No, never in his life.He was so fond of singing psalms, And he read his testament;That everybody was deceived When he was mischief bent.He seldom passed a lodger’s bed But what he took a glance,Which made them every one suspect He’d rob if he’d a chance.Now Louis had two flower pots He nourished with much care,But little knew that Willie’s eyes Were set upon the pair.In one there grew an Alsace Rose, The other a Lorraine,And Willie vowed they once were his And must be his again.He said his father once lodged there, And that the Dame did knowThat Louis’ predecessors once Had sneaked them in a row.In Willie’s council was a lad Well up to every quirk;To keep him out of mischief long, Dame Europe had her work.To this smart youth Saint Willie Did whisper his desire,One night as they sat smoking, Besides the kitchen fire —“To get them flowers back again,” Said Bissy, very low,“Meet Louis somewhere on the quiet, And try to cause a row.“But mind the other deputies Don’t catch you on the hop,For John and Joseph you must know Your little game would stop.“For Joseph he has not forgot The day you warmed his rig;And christian Denmark still thinks on About his nice Slesvig.”“By your advice, my own Dear Mark, I have been guided on,But what about that man i’t’bunk?” (Pointing o’er to John.)“He’s very plucky too is John, But yet he’s very slow,And perhaps he never may perceive Our scheme about the row.“But not another word of this To anybody’s ears,The Dame she plays the list’ner, I have my doubts and fears.“So let us go upstairs at once, I think it will be best,And let us pray to Him above, Before we go to rest.”So with a pious countenance, His prayers as usual said,But squinting round the room the while, He spied an empty bed.“What a pity that these empty stocks Should be unoccupied;Do you think my little cousin, Mark, To them could be denied?”“’Tis just the very thing,” said Mark, “Your cousin, sir, and you,Would carry out my scheme first-rate, One at each side of Loo.”The Dame being asked, did not object, If he could pay the rent,And had a decent character, And Louis would consent.“But I do object to this,” says Loo, “And on this very ground,Willie and his cousins, ma’am, They soon would me surround.“They’re nothing in my line at all They are so near a-kin,And so if I consent to this, At once they’ll hem me in.”“Oh! you couldn’t think it, Master Loo, That I should do you harm,For don’t I read my testament And don’t I sing my psalm.”“’Tis all my eye,” said Louis, “both Your testament and psalms;You use the dumbbells regular To strengthen up your arms.“So take your poor relation off, You pious-looking prig,And open out Kit Denmark’s box, And give him back Slesvig.”“Come, come,” says Mrs. Europe, “Let’s have no bother here,You’re trying now to breed a row, At least it does appear.”Now Johnny hearing from the bunk What both of them did say,He shouted out, “Now stop it, Will, Or else you’ll rue the day.”“All right, friend John, I’m much obliged, You are my friend, I know,And so my little cousin, sir, I’m willing to withdraw.”But Louis frothed at mouth with rage, Like one that was insane,And said he’d make Bill promise him He’d not offend again.“I’d promise no such thing,” says Mark, “For that would hurt your pride,Sing on and read your testament, Dame Europe’s on your side.”“If I’d to promise aught like that, ’Twould be against my mind;So take it right or take it wrong, I’ll promise naught o’ t’kind.”“Then I shall take and wallop thee Unless thou cuts thy stick;And drive thee to thy fatherland Before another week.”“Come on,” cried Sanctimonius, And sending out his armHe caught poor Louis on the nose, Then sung another psalm.But Louis soon was on his pins, And used his fists a bit,But he was fairly out of breath, And seldom ever hit.And at the end of round the first, He got it fearful hot,This was his baptism of fire If we mistake it not.So Willie sent a letter home To mother old Augusta,Telling her he’d thrashed poor Loo, And given him such a duster.“What wonderful events,” says he, “Has heaven brought about,I’ll fight the greatest pugilist That ever was brought out.And if by divine Providence I get safe through this row,Then I will sing ‘My God, the spring From whom all blessings flow.’”Meanwhile the other Monitors, Were standing looking on,But none of them dare speak a word, But all stared straight at John.“Ought not I to interfere?” Says Johnny to the rest;But he was told by every one Neutrality was best.“Neutral,” growl’d John, “I hate the word, ’Tis poison to my ear;It’s another word for cowardice, And makes me fit to swear.“At any rate I can do this, My mind I will not mask,I’ll give poor Loo a little drop Out of my brandy flask.“And give it up, poor Loo, my lad, You might as well give in,You know that I have got no power; Besides, you did begin.”Then Louis rose, and looked at John, And spoke of days gone byWhen he would not have seen his friend Have blackened Johnny’s eye.“And as for giving in, friend John, I’ll do nothing of the sort;Do you think I’ll be a laughing-stock For everybody’s sport.”This conversation that took place Made pious Willie grin,And tell John Bull to hold his noise, ’Twas nought to do with him.These words to John did make him stare, And finding to his shame,That those were worse who did look on, Than those who played the game.Now Mrs. Europe knew the facts Which had been going on,And with her usual dignity, These words addressed to John:“Now, Mr. Bull, pray answer me, — Why are you gaping here?You are my famous deputy, Then why not interfere?”“Why,” answered John, and made a bow, But yet was very shy,“I was told to be a neutral, ma’am, And that’s the reason why.”“That’s just what you should not have done, Being in authority;Did I not place you in that bunk To think and act for me?“Why any baby in the house Could not have done much worse,But I fancy you’ve been holding back To save your private purse.“Neutrality is as fine a word As ever a coward used,The honour that I gave to you You shouldn’t have abused.”The minor lodgers in the house, On hearing this, to John,Began to whisper and to laugh, And call’d it famous fun.At last a little urchin said, “Please ma’am I’d take my oath,’At master John was neutral, And stuck up for them both.”“Stuck up for both, offended both, — Yes that is what you mean?”Continued Madame Europe, Then spoke to John again:“Now I’ll tell you what it is, John, We’ve long watch’d your career,You take your fags’ advice to save Your paltry sums a year.“There’s Bob and Bill, besides some more, That I call naught but scums,They’ve got you fairly in between Their fingers and their thumbs.“If such like men as Ben and Hugh This day your fags had been,They would have saved both you and me This curs’d disgraceful scene.“Instead of bein’ half-clad and shod, As everybody knows,You would have dared these rivals now To come to such like blows.“There was a time in this house, John, If you put up your thumb,The greatest blackguard tongue would stop As if they had been dumb.“But not a one in this here house This moment cares a figFor all you say or all you do, Although your purse be big.”“I couldn’t hurt poor Louis, ma’am, Although he did begin;And then you see that Will and I Are very near akin.“Beside, you see,” said John again, “I let poor Louis sup;On both I use my ointment, and Their wounds I did bind up.“Ah! weel a day,” then said the Dame, But was affected sore,“I see you have some small excuse That you have done it for.“I have some little hopes left yet That you may yet have sense,To know your high position, John, Instead of saving pence.“You yet will learn that duty, sir, Cannot be ignored,However disagreeable when Placed before the board.“And let me tell you he who shirks The responsibilityOf seeing right, is doing wrong, And earns humility.“And ’tis an empty-headed dream, To boast of skill and power,But dare not even interfere At this important hour.“Better far confess at once You’re not fit for your place,Than have a name ‘Heroic,’ sir, Branded with disgrace.“But I’ll not say another word; My deputies, to you;But hope you will a warning take, This moment from poor Loo.“And hoping, John, your enemies May never have the chanceTo see you paid for watching Will Thrash poor weak Louis France.”Charmin’ Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall
On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ her meadows so green,There’s an ancient owd hall to-day may be seen,That wor built in the days of some owd feudal king,Of whom the owd bards delighted to sing.Tho’ its splendour’s now faded, its greatness was thenKnown to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;’Neath its armorial shield, an’ hoary owd wall,I now see Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.Her majestic black eyes true beauty display,Resemblin’ truly the goddess of day;Her dark-flowin’ ringlets, you’d think as they shone,’At Venus hed fashion’d ’em after her awn.For her tresses no ribbons nor trappins do bind,But wantonly luxurious flow in the wind:’Twod o’ pleased the great Reubens or Turner to call,To see sweet Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.Like the tall mountain fir, she’s as steady, I trow,When zephyr-like winds do sighingly blow;The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,Are gentle Rebecca’s sweet gales of love.Her breath, where true wit so gracefully flows,Has the beautiful scent of the pink an’ the rose;There’s no nymph from the East to Niagara’s Fall,To equal Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.Her toe points the grahnd wi’ sich beauty an’ grace,Nor varies a hair’s-breadth, sud yu measure her pace:An’ when dress’d i’ her gingham wi’ white spots an’ blue,O then is Rebecca so pleasin’ to view.Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockings by hersel knit an’ spun,An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic’ly done:It needs no rich velvets or Cashmere shawl,To deck out Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.Love, grace, an’ beauty attend at her will;She wounds wi’ a look, wi’ a frown she can kill;The youths as they pass her, exclaim – “Woe is me!”Who sees her must love her, who loves her must dee.At Church on a Sabbath, owd men raise ther arms,An’ cry, “O, great heavens! wor ivver sich charms?”While matrons an’ maidens God’s blessin’ they call,On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.The City of “So be I’s.”
(a dream)
[It is said that when Giles Clumps, the South-downer, first came to Keighley, the first question he asked his fellow labourer was this, “What religion be th’ master here?” “A Liberal,” was the answer; “So be I,” says Giles. “And what politics be th’ master?” asked Giles again, “He’s a Methody,” was the reply; “So be I,” says Giles again, “I be a Methody too.” Now do not imagine for a moment that Giles Clumps is the only “So be I” in Keighley, for the whole town is full of “So be I’s,” and it is a well-known fact that if six long yellow chimneys were to turn blue to-morrow, there wouldn’t be a Liberal in six hours in the city of “So be I’s,” with the exception of the old veteran Squire Leach.]
Oh list to my dream, nor yet think it wrong,If I tell it in rhyme, or sing it in song;For when I look back on the sights that were there,I could almost, like Blondin, dance high in the air.For when I reflect, my heart leaps with joy —What I saw in my dream in old “So be I,”For thousands were shouting on that pleasant day.We are all “So be I’s,” hip, hip, hip hurrah!And I took the first chance to ask what it meant,Of the people who shouted, what was their intent,When an elderly lady soon gave me the cue,Of what was the matter and what was to do.Six great millocrats, call them Whigs if you will,The gods of our labour in workshop and mill:Have all turned their colours from Yellow to Blue,Which has caused this commotion the city all through.Led on by the nose, like a bull in a band,See how all the “So be I’s” follow so grand,The fag and the artist, the plebian also,Have now chang’d their colour from yellow to blue.There’s twenty-eight thousand true “So be I’s” here,And there’s not a Liberal amongst them I’ll swear,For the millocrats chieftains proclaimed it they say,That all must turn Tories on this very day.So upon the procession, I did my eyes fix,Reviewing and skewing this wonderful six;They wore blue ribands so grand in their coats,Singing “So be I” joskins come give us your votes.The “So be I’s” exerted each nerve and limb,To follow their leaders and join in the swim;And I plainly could see, so I thought in my dream,That the way through the world is to follow the stream.For the faces of parsons were lit up so bright,And the doctors they smiled with the greatest delight;And a lawyer he vowed that he’d have a Blue gown,For he’d been long enough a black Liberal clown.Methought the Ranters, and Methodies too,Independents and Quakers, and Baptists, were blue;And as I looked round me, lo! what did I see,A batch of Teetotallers had got on the spree.But what I considered the best of the sport,Took place in front of the old County Court;The Mayor and Ex-Mayor were dancing a jig,With the County Court Judge in his gown and his wig.Methought that the Draper and Hatter filed in,Along with the Grocer, his nearest of kin;And I caught the Co-oper just in the neck,In his hand were his divi. and new silver check.Methought as I walked I sprang up so high,That I really found out I was able to fly;So backwards and forwards methought that I flew,To the clubs of the town which I found were all Blue.Till somehow or other, I got quite astray,And over Cliffe Castle I wingéd my way,Thinks I, there’s some Foreign “So be I” geeseHave crossed o’er the Channel from Paris or Nice.From thence I took wing, as blithe as a lark,And crossed o’er the town to Jim Collingham’s Park;But ere I arrived at the end of my route,A lightning conductor caught the tail of my coat.I hung there suspended high up in the air,Looking down on the mob in the wildest despair,Imploring the “So be I’s” to get me relief;But they shouted “Stop there, you Liberal thief!”I called on the de’il and invoked the skies,To curse and set fire to all “So be I’s;”When all of a sudden I scratched at my head,Awoke from my dream – found myself snug in bed.Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan
My poor owd lass, an art ta goan, To thy long rest?An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone Close ower thy breast?An’ art ta goan no more to see,Exceptin’ i’ fond memory?Yes, empty echo answers me — “Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”I’ vain the wafters o’ the breeze Fan my hot brah,I’ vain the birds upon the trees, Sing sweetly nah;I’ vain the early rose-bud blaws,I’ vain wide Nature shows her cause,Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws — “Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”There’s more ner me ’at’s sad bereft, I pity wun,An’ that’s my lad – he’s sadly left — My little John;He wander’s up an’ dahn all t’day,An’ rarely hez a word to say,Save murmuring (an’ weel he may), “Shoo’s deead an goan!”Bud, Johnny lad, let’s dry wer tears; At t’least we’ll try;Thy mother’s safe wi’ Him ’at hears T’poor orphan’s sigh;Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack —An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?An’ crying cannot bring her back; “Shoe’s deead an’ goan!”Ode to an Herring
Wee silvery fish, who nobly bravesThe dangers o’ the ocean wavesWhile monsters from the unknown caves Make thee their prey;Escaping which the human knaves On thee lig way.No doubt thou was at first designedTo suit the palates o’ mankind;Yet as I ponder now I find, Thy fame is gone:Wee dainty dish thou art behind With every one.I’ve seen the time thy silvery sheenWor welcome both at morn an’ e’en,Or any hour that’s in between, Thy name wor good;But now by some considered mean For human food.When peace and plenty’s smiling brow,And trade and commerce speed the plough;Thy friends that were not long ago, Such game they make;Thy epitaph is “soldier” now, Or “two-eyed stake.”When times are hard we’re scant o’ cash,And famine hungry bellies lash,And tripe and trollabobble’s trash Begin to fail,Asteead o’ soups an’ oxtail ash, Hail! herring, hail!Full monny a time it’s made me groan,To see thee stretched, despised, alone;While turned-up noses passed have gone, O’ purse-proud men!No friends, alas! save some poor one Fra t’paddin can.Whoe’er despise thee, let them knowThe time may come when they may goTo some fish wife, and beg to know If they can buyThe friendship o’ their vanquished foe, Wi’ weeping eye.To me naught could be better fun,Than see a duke or noble don,Or lord, or peer, or gentleman, In search o’ thee:And they were bidden to move on, Or go to t’sea.Yet we’ll sing thy praise, wee fish;To me thou art a dainty dish;For thee, ’tis true, I often wish. My little bloater;Either salted, cured, or shining fresh Fra yon great water.If through thy pedigree we peep,Philosophy from thee can keep,An’ I need not study deep, There’s nothing foreign;For I, like thee, am sold too cheap, My little herring.The World’s Wheels
How steady an’ easy t’owd world’s wheels wod go,If t’folk wod be honest an’ try to keep so;An’ at steead o’ bein’ hasty at ivvery whim,Let us inquire before we condemn.A man may do wrong an’ scarce be to blame,Or a woman be bad i’ nowt bud her name;Bud which on us owt ta say owt unto them,Unless we inquire before we condemn.If a Rose she sud flourish her sisters among,It isn’t to say her poor sister is wrong;That blighted one there may be nipp’d in the stem,So let us inquire before we condemn.Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough,While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow,May be shatter’d asunder from stern unto stem,So let us inquire before we condemn.We are certain o’ one thing an’ that isn’t two,If we do nothing wrong we’ve nothing to rue;Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim,So let us inquire before we condemn.Then speak not so harshly – withdraw that rash word,’Tis wrong to condemn till the story is heard;If it worrant for summat sho might be a gem,So let us inquire before we condemn.English Church History
Most respectfully dedicated to the Rev. F. D. CREMER, St. ANDREW’S, Keighley, Oct. 25th, 1889.
Dear reverend sir, excuse your humble servant, Whose heart you’ve made this very night to glow;I thank you kindly, and my prayers most fervent Will ever be, dear reverend sir, for you.My ideas lacked for want of information, And glad am I to glean a little more,About the Churches of our mighty nation, Whose chimes are heard on many a far-off shore.My heart was moved, for I was much astounded, To view the many Churches of our land;The life-like pictures of the saints who founded These ruins old, so wonderful and grand.For oft I’ve wished, and often have I pondered, And longed to learn the history of our kirk;How it was handed down to us I’ve wondered, And who were they that did this mighty work.The veil’s removed, and now my sight is clearer, Upon the sacred history of our isle;For while I view these scenes it brings me nearer Unto the Church on which the angels smile.Who would not shuffle off his worldly pleasures, For one short hour to bring before his sight,The pictures of the great and mighty treasures — Our English Church, which brought the world to light.Great Men dive deep down into wisdom’s river — The poet, philosopher, and sage —For wisdom’s pearls, which showeth forth for ever, Nor waste their sweetness or grow dull with age.Who would not walk through ruins old and hoary, And make each relic and persue his search?Who would not listen and applaud each story, Told of an ancient good and English Church?Each view so grand, mixed up with sacred singing, Of that old Church – I humbly call it mine,For still my heart to it is ever clinging, And He who died for me in ancient Palestine.The Old Hand-Wool-Combers:
Lines written on the occasion of a Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor (Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891.
Come hither my muse and give me a start,And let me give praise to the one famous art;For it’s not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast,But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post.In the brave days of old when I was a boy,I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy;Where I listened to stories and legends of old,Which to me were more precious than silver or gold.The old Comber would tell of his travels through life,And where he had met with his darling old wife;And how he had stole her from her native vale,To help him to pull the “old tup” by the “tail.”He would go through the tales of his youthful career,An undaunted youth without dread or fear;He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor,He knew every acre of mountain and moor.He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State,And tell where old England would be soon or late;How nations would rise, and monarch’s would fall,And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall.He was very well read, though papers were dear,But he got Reynold’s newspaper year after year;It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen,While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen.He was fairly dramatic, the stage he loved well,The names of great actors and plays he would tell;And if that his notion it took the other way,He could quote the Bible a night and a day.Full of wit, full of mirth, he could give you a sting,He could preach, he could pray, he could dance, he could sing;He could play pitch and toss, he could jump, he could run,He could shuffle the cards, he could handle a gun.The old Constable knew him but let him alone,Because he knew better than bother with “Joan”;For the lads of the Barracks and the Pinfold as wellWould all have been there at the sound of the bell.Old Keighley was then but a very small town,Yet she’d twelve hundred Combers that were very well known;Hundreds have gone over the dark flowing burn,Whence no traveller was ever yet known to return.It reminds me again of the Donkey and packWhich came from the hills bringing Wool on its back;And if the poor beast perchance had to bray’Twere a true sign a Comber would die on that day.The third day of the week, sometimes further on,The old woman would seek the King’s Arms for her son;And if she were told he had not been at all,Would bounce over the green to the Hole-in-the-Wall.Hi! those were fine times, especially the fairs,When the Inns were kept open for dancing upstairs;The Commercial, Lord Rodney, as well as the CrownTo the ancient Wool-comber were fairly well known.But now we’ll get back to the pot and the pad,The fair it is over, the women are glad;For now the Wool-comber his follies he sees,And makes resolutions as staunch as you please.For now he commences to work hard and late,He is building a Castle on a phantom estate;And he toils for a time but long hoggs make him sick,Then he duffs, and his castle falls down, every brick.When Winter comes in with its keen bitter blast,And the poor rustic hind has to cope with the frost;Yet the Comber was happy in village and town,Though he knew that his calling was fast going down.Oh yes, it was vanquished, the once noble art,For science had bid it for ever depart;Yet for thee old Comber fresh fields have arose,That have found thee in victuals, in fuel, and clothes.So many brave thanks to the Mayor of the townWho has made the Wool-comber once more to be known;Let us drink to the health of our worthy host,The friend of the Comber, the Knight of the post.