Revised Edition of Poems
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T’ Village Harem-Skarem
In a little cot so dreary,With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,Sat a mother sad and weary, With her darling on her knee;Their humble fare at best was sparingFor the father he was shearing,With his three brave sons of Erin, All down in the Fen countree.All her Saxon neighbours leave her,With her boy and demon fever,The midnight watch – none to relieve her, Save a little Busy Bee:He was called the Harem-Skarem,Noisy as a drum-clock larum,Yet his treasures he would share ’em, With his friend right merrily.Every night and every morning,With the day sometimes at dawning —While lay mother, sick and swooning — To his dying mate went he:Robbing his good Saxon mother,Giving to his Celtic brother,Who asked for him and no other, Until his spirit it was free.Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;This little noble-hearted ruffian, To the wake each night went he:Sabbath morning he was ready,Warn’d the bearers to be steady,Taking Peter to his beddy, And a tear stood in his e’e.Onward as the corpse was passing,Ere the priest gave his last blessing,Through the dingy crowd came pressing, The father and the brothers three;’Tis our mother – we will greet her;How is this that here we meet her?And without our little Peter, Who will solve this mystery?The Harem-Skarem interfered,“Soon this corpse will be interred,Come with us and see it buried, Out in yonder cemet’ry:”Soon they knew the worst and ponderedHalf-amazed and half-dumbfounded; —And returning home, they wondered Who their little friend could be!Turning round to him they bowed,Much they thanked him, much they owed;While the tears each cheek bedewed, Wish’d him all prosperity:“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,What I’ve done, do ye to others;We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,” Said the little Busy Bee.Come, Gi’ us a Wag o’ Thy Paw
[T’West Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches i’ t’fine art line, bud t’music aw think licks t’lump, especially abaght Haworth an’ Keighley. Nah Haworth wunce hed a famous singer; he wor considered one o’ t’best i’ Yorkshire in his time. It is said ’at he once walked fra Haworth to York i’ one day, an’ sung at an Oratorio at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all t’other Haworth celebrities; he wod talk owd fashioned, an’ that willant dew up i’ London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him i’ t’neighbourhood. Nah what is thur grander ner a lot o’ local singers at Kersmas time chanting i’ t’streets; it’s ommost like bein’ i’ heaven, especially when you’re warm i’ bed. But there’s another thing at’s varry amusing abaght our local singers, when they meet together ther is some demi-semi-quavering, when ther’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals; – an’ t’best ale an’ crotchets mix’d, that’s the time fer music.]
Come, gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet, Come, gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw;I knew thee when thy heead wor black, Bud nah it’s white as snow;A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim, An’ all thy kith an’ kin;An’ hoping tha’ll ha’ monny more, For t’sake o’ ould long sin’ — Jim Wreet, For t’sake o’ ould long sin’.It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, Sin owd Joe Constantine —An’ Daniel Acroyd, thee, an’ me, An other friends o’ thine,Went up ta sing at Squire’s house, Not a hauf-a-mile fra here;An’ t’Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer — Jim Wreet, To his brown October beer.An’ owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, ’At kept the Old King’s Arms;Whear all t’church singers used ta meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms;An’ thee an’ me amang ’em, Jim, Sometimes hev chang’d the string,An’ with a merry chorus join’d, We’ve made yon tavern ring, Jim Wreet, We’ve made yon tavern ring.But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, Hev past away sin’ then;Then Keighley in Appolo’s Art, Could boast her trusty men;But music nah means money, Jim, An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;But just fer owd acquaintance sake. Come gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet, Come gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw.Full o’ Doubts and Fears
Sweet sing the birds in lowly strain, All mingled in their song;For lovely Spring is here again, And Winter’s cold is gone.All things around seem filled with glee, And joy swells every breast;The buds are peeping from each bush, Where soon the birds will rest.The meadows now are fresh and green, The flowers are bursting forth,And nature seems to us serene, And shows her sterling worth.The lark soars high up in the air, We listen to his lays;He knows no sorrow, no, nor care, Nor weariness o’ days.But man, though born of noble birth, Assigned for higher spheres,Walks his sad journey here on earth All full o’ doubts and fears.Behold How the Rivers!
Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea,Sending their treasures so careless and free;And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise,Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.Find out the haunts o’ the low human pest,Give to the weary, the poor, and distress’d;What if ungrateful and thankless they be,Think of the giver that gave unto thee.Go travel the long lanes on misery’s verge,Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.Give to yon widow – thy gift is thrice blest,For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s press’d;A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.’Neath the green grassy mounds i’ yon little church-yardAn over-wrought genius there finds his reward;And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,Such are the givers that give unto me.Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain, —What if no birdie should chant thee a strain;What if no daisy should smile on the lea;The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may,That thou mayest venture to give all away;Ere Nature again her balmy dews send,Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.Our Poor Little Factory Girls
They are up in the morning right early, They are up sometimes afore leet;I hear their clogs they are clamping, As t’little things go dahn the street.They are off in the morning right early, With their baskets o’ jock on their arm;The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging, As they enter the mill in a swarm.They are kapering backward and forward, Their ends to keep up if they can;They are doing their utmost endeavours, For fear o’ the frown o’ man.Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple, They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl,Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling, Does the wee little factory girl.They are bouncing about like a shuttle, They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;While their wee little mates they are doffing, Preparing the spindles for more.Them two little things they are t’thickest, They help one another ’tis plain;They try to be t’best and t’quickest, The smiles o’ their master to gain.And now from her ten hours’ labour, Back to her cottage shoo shogs;Aw hear by the tramping an’ singing, ’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.And at night when shoo’s folded i’ slumber, Shoo’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls:Of all human toil under-rated, ’Tis our poor little factory girl’s.Haworth Sharpness
Says a wag to a porter i’ Haworth one day,“Yahr not ower sharp ye drones o’t’railway,For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid ye begoff.”The porter replied, “I vary mitch daht it,But I’ll give a quart to hear all about it;For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’snicket,Baht tipping to t’porter thy pass or thy ticket.”“Tha’ll write up to Derby an’ then tha’ll deceive me”;“I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me”:“Then aght wi thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,For I’ve walk’d it on foot, by t’Cross Roads an’ t’ Bocking.”Dear Harden
Dear Harden, the home o’ my boyhood so dear,Thy wanderin’ son sall thee ivver revere;Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am bereft.Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho’ rocky an’ bare;Thy dowters are handsome, thy sons they are rare;When I walk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running streams,I think o’ my boyhood an’ innocent dreams.No care o’ this life then troubled my breast,I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest;Wi’ my dear little mates did I frolic and play,Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away.As the dew kissed the daisies their portals to close,At neet i’ my bed I did sweetly repose;An’ rose in the morning at Nature’s command,Till fra boyhood to manhood my frame did expand.The faces that once were familiar to me,Those that did laugh at my innocent glee;I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away,Or p’r’aps i’ Bingley church-yard they may lay.For since I’ve embarked on life’s stormy seas,My mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease;Yet I still hev a hope my last moments to crown —In thee, dearest village, to lay myself down.The Heroic Watchman of Calversyke Hill
[This extraordinary “hero” either bore false witness against his neighbour, a poor artisan, or (taking his own word for it) saved the nation from great disaster and ruin by putting out a fire that no one saw but himself.]
We’ve heard of great fires in city and town,And many disasters by fire are known;But surely this fire which I’m going to tell,Was worse than Mount Etna, Vesuvius, or hell;For the great prophecy it no doubt would fulfil,But for t’heroic watchman at Calversyke Hill.This fire broke out in the night it was said,While peaceful each villager slept in his bed;And so greatly the flames did light up the skies,That it took the big watchman all in surprise,Yet great was the courage and undaunted the skillOf the heroic watchman of Calversyke Hill.He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high,That within a few yards, they reached to the sky;And so greatly they lighted up mountains and dales,He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!And so easily the beaks did swallow his pill,They fined the poor artist of Calversyke Hill.Now, there’s some foolish people are led to suppose,It was by some shavings this fire first arose;But yet says our hero, “I greatly suspect,This fire was caused by the grossest neglect;But I’m glad its put out, let it be as it will,”Says the heroic watchman of Calversyke Hill.He needed no witness to swear what he’d done,Yet if he had wanted he could have had one;For one Tommy Twister, that never was there,Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air,The greatest sized coal-pot no doubt they would fill,Like the head of the hero of Calversyke Hill.So many brave thanks to this heroic knave,For thousands of lives no doubt he did save,And but for this hero, disaster had spread,And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;But to save all his people it was the Lord’s will,Through the heroic watchman at Calversyke Hill.So mind and be careful and put out your lights,All ye with red noses in case they ignite,Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap,In case this great watchman chances to sleep,For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill,Is the heroic watchman of Calversyke Hill.The English “Cricketeer.”
Lines written on the Keighley Cricket Club Bazaar of 1889, and most respectfully dedicated to the late William Luke Brown, Esq.
I sing not of grim-visaged war, Nor diplomatic rage,But I shall string my harp in praise Of the worthies of our age.They are a class of noble men, Whom England holds most dear.Whose feats so grand adorn our land, Like the famous cricketeer?The Ancient Greek his chariot ran, It was his Royal sport;The Roman gladiator fought To please the Royal Court.The Spaniard with his javelin knife The wild bull’s flesh he tears;But alack a-day! what sports are they With our grand cricketeers.And well old Keighley can be proud Of her famed sons to-day;Some of them are with us yet, While others are away.Brave Brown! brave Foulds and Waring, With good men in the rear,And not forgetting Emmett, The brave old cricketeer.Then while they have their Grand Bazaar, Pray let us rally round,And give a hand to renovate Their well-loved cricket ground.For well I wot both young and old, Will find from year to year,More interest in the noble sport Of the grand old cricketeer.The Mexican may throw his lance, The Scotchman put his stone,With all the scientific skill Of muscle and of bone.Give Switzerland her honour’d place With rifles and with spears,But give to me our grand old sport, Our famous cricketeers.Christmas Day
Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,That sings so sweetly at your door,To tell you of the joys in store, So grand and gay;But one that sings “Remember th’ poor, ’Tis Christmas Day.”Within some gloomy walls to-day Just cheer the locks of hoary gray,And try to smooth their rugged way With cheerful glow;And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray, Crushed down with woe.O make the weary spent-up glad,And cheer the orphan lass and lad;Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad, Your kindness feel;And make old crazy bones stark mad To dance a reel.Then peace and plenty be your lot,And may your deed ne’er be forgot,That helps the widow in her cot, From out your store;Nor creed nor seed should matter not, The poor are poor.Wi’ Him I call my own
The branches o’ the woodbine hide My little cottage wall,An’ though ’tis but a humble thatch, I envy not the hall.The wooded hills before my eyes Are spread both far and wide;An’ Nature’s grandeur seems to dress, In all her lovely pride.It is, indeed, a lovely spot, O’ singing birds an’ flowers;’Mid Nature’s grandeur it is true, I pass away my hours.Yet think not ’tis this lovely glen, So dear in all its charms;Its blossomed banks and rippled reels, Freed from the world’s alarms.For should love’s magic change the scene, To trackless lands unknown,’Twere Eden in the desert wild, Wi’ him I call my own.It isn’t so wi’ Me
Bright seem the days when I wor young Fra thought, and care, and sorrow free;As wild waves rippled i’ the sun, Rolled gaily on, ’twor so wi’ me.More bright the flowers when I wor young, More sweet the birds sang on the tree;While pleasure and contentment flung Her smiles on them, and so wi’ me.The naked truth I told when young, Though tempted wi’ hypocrisy;Though some embraced, from it I sprang, An’ said it isn’t so wi’ me.I saw the canting jibs when young, Of saintly, sulky misery;Yet poked I melancholy’s ribs, And said it isn’t so wi’ me.Though monny a stone when I wor young, Is strong upon my memory —I threw when young an’ hed ’em flung; If they forgive, ’tis so wi’ me.Could money buy o’ Nature’s mart, Again our brightest days to see;Ther’s monny a wun wod pawn the shirt, Or else they’d buy – and so wi’ me.Yet after all I oft look back, Without a pang o’ days gone past,An’ hope all t’wrong I did when young, May be forgi’n to me at last.A New Divorce
Says Pug o’ Joan’s, o’ Haworth Brah, To Rodge, o’ Wickin Crag —“Ahr Nelly’s tung’s a yard too long, And by t’mess it can wag.“It’s hell at top o’ t’earth wi’ me, An’ stand it I am forc’d;I’d give all t’brass ’at I possess, If I could get divorced.”Then answered Rodge, “I hev a dodge, As good a plan as any;A real divorce tha’ll get of course — It willn’t cost a penny.”“Then tell me what it is,” says Pug, “I’m almost brocken-hearted,”“Well, go to Keethlah Warkhase, lad, Where man an’ wife are parted.”The Vision
Blest vision of departed worth, I see thee still, I see thee still;Thou art the shade of her that’s gone, My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.My chamber in this silent hour, Were dark an’ drear, were dark an’ drearBut brighter far than Cynthia’s beam, Now thou art here, now thou art here.Wild nature in her grandeur had No charm for me, no charm for me;Did not the songsters chant thy name From every tree, from every tree.Chaos would have come again, In worlds afar, in worlds afar;Could I not see my Mary’s face, In every star, in every star.Say when the messenger o’ death, Shall bid me come, shall bid me come;Wilt thou be foremost in the van, To take me home, to take me home.