Revised Edition of Poems

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 then
Known 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” geese
Have 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 braves
The dangers o’ the ocean waves
While monsters from the unknown caves
      Make thee their prey;
Escaping which the human knaves
      On thee lig way.
 
 
No doubt thou was at first designed
To 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 sheen
Wor 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 know
The time may come when they may go
To some fish wife, and beg to know
      If they can buy
The 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 well
Would 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 pack
Which 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 Crown
To 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 town
Who 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.
 

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 sparing
For 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 pondered
Half-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.