Revised Edition of Poems

The Broken Pitcher

[The happiest moments of a soldier in times of peace are when sat round the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part; other times he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will oblige them with his song of “Nelson” or “Napoleon” (generally being the favourites with them); – then there is the fancy tale teller, who amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn, or story, makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the lass he left behind him; hence this adventure with the “Lassie by the Well.”]

 
There was a bonny Lassie once
   Sitting by a well —
But what this bonny Lassie thought
   I cannot, cannot tell —
When by there went a cavalier
   Well known as Willie Wright,
Just in full marching order,
   His armour shining bright.
 
 
“Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why
   Sits thou by the spring?
Dost thou seek a lover, with
   A golden wedding ring?
Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me,
   With eyes so bright and wide?
Or wherefore does that pitcher lay
   Broken by thy side?”
 
 
“My pitcher it is broken, sir,
   And this the reason is,
A villian came behind me,
   An’ he tried to steal a kiss.
I could na take his nonsense,
   So ne’er a word I spoke,
But hit him with my pitcher,
   And thus you see ’tis broke.”
 
 
“My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken
   Now waits for me to come;
He canna mak his Crowdy,
   Till t’watter it goes home.
I canna tak him watter,
   And that I ken full weel,
And so I’m sure to catch it, —
   For he’ll play the varry de’il.”
 
 
“Ah maiden, lovely maiden,
   I pray be ruled by me;
Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips,
   And give me kisses three.
And we’ll suppose my helmet is
   A pitcher made o’ steel,
And we’ll carry home some watter
   To thy uncle Jock McNeil.”
 
 
She silently consented, for
   She blink’d her bonny ee,
I threw mi arms around her,
   And gave her kisses three.
To wrong the bonny Lassie
   I sware ’twould be a sin;
So knelt dahn by the watter
   To dip mi helmet in.
 
 
Out spake this bonny Lassie,
   “My soldier lad, forbear,
I wadna spoil thi bonny plume
   That decks thi raven hair;
Come buckle up thy sword again,
   Put on thi cap o’ steel,
I carena for my pitcher, nor
   My uncle Jock McNeil.”
 
 
I often think, my comrades,
   About this Northern queen,
And fancy that I see her smile,
   Though mountains lay between.
But should you meet her Uncle Jock,
   I hope you’ll never tell
How I squared the broken pitcher,
   With the Lassie at the well.
 

Ode to Sir Titus Salt

 
Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,
   And bring it here to me,
For I must sing another song,
   The theme of which shall be, —
A worthy old philanthropist,
   Whose soul in goodness soars,
And one whose name will stand as firm
   As rocks that gird our shores;
The fine old Bradford gentleman,
   The good Sir Titus Salt.
 
 
Heedless of others; some there are,
   Who all their days employ
To raise themselves, no matter how,
   And better men destroy:
How different is the mind of him,
   Whose deeds themselves are told,
Who values worth more nobly far
   Than all the heaps of gold.
 
 
His feast and revels are not such,
   As those we hear and see,
No princely show does he indulge,
   Nor feats of revelry;
But in the orphan schools they are,
   Or in the cot with her,
The widow and the orphan of
   The shipwrecked mariner,
 
 
When stricken down with age and care,
   His good old neighbours grieved,
Or loss of family or mate,
   Or all on earth bereaved;
Go see them in their houses,
   Where peace their days may end,
And learn from them the name of him
   Who is their aged friend.
 
 
With good and great his worth shall live,
   With high or lowly born;
His name is on the scroll of fame,
   Sweet as the songs of morn;
While tyranny and villany
   Is surely stamped with shame;
A nation gives her patriot
   A never-dying fame.
 
 
No empty titles ever could
   His principles subdue,
His queen and country too he loved, —
   Was loyal and was true:
He craved no boon from royalty,
   Nor wished their pomp to share,
Far nobler is the soul of him,
   The founder of Saltaire.
 
 
Thus lives this sage philanthropist,
   From courtly pomp removed,
But not secluded from his friends,
   For frienship’s bond he loved;
A noble reputation too
   Crowns all his latter days;
The young men they admire him,
   And the aged they him praise.
 
 
Long life to thee, Sir Titus,
   The darling of our town;
Around thy head while living,
   We’ll weave a laurel crown.
Thy monument in marble
   May suit the passer by,
But a monument in all our hearts
   Will never, never die.
 
 
And when thy days are over,
   And we miss thee on our isle,
Around thy tomb for ever
   May unfading laurels smile:
Then may the sweetest flowers
   Usher in the spring;
And roses in the gentle gales,
   Their balmy odours fling.
 
 
May summer’s beams shine sweetly,
   Upon thy hallowed clay,
And yellow autumn o’er thy head,
   Yield many a placid ray;
May winter winds blow slightly, —
   The green-grass softly wave,
And falling snow drop lightly
   Upon thy honoured grave.
 

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 wail
Thi 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 shared
Ner 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 call
Scenes to my memory, that did befall?
How can my trembling pen find power to tell
The 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 sigh
Ah, no! though never more these eyes may dwell
On 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 come
To 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!”