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 looks 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 of your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
The poor are poor.
What Profits Me.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
The lord o’ yonder castle gay;
Hev rooms in state ta imitate
The princely splendour of the day,
Fer what are all mi carved doors,
Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,
No art cud save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Decked e’ costly costumes grand,
Like the Persian king o’ kings,
With diamond rings to deck mi hand:
Fer what wor all mi grand attire,
That fooils both envy and admire,
No gems cud save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Thy worthy host, O millionaire,
Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;
My wealth increasing ivvery year.
For what wor all mi wealth to me,
Compared ta loisin immortalite,
Wealth cud not save me from the grave.
What profits me tho’ I sud be
Even thee gert Persian Shah,
Mi subjects stand at mi command,
Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;
For what wor a despotic rule,
Wi all th’ world at my control,
All cud not save me from the grave.
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 philantropist,
Whose soul in goodness soars,
And one whose name will stand as firm
As the 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 nobler far
Than all the heaps of gold,
His feast and revels are not such,
As those we hear and see,
No princely splendour 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,
When in 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,
For nobler is the soul of him,
The founder of Saltaire.
Thus lives this sage philantropist,
From courtly pomp removed,
But not secluded from his friends,
For friendship’s bond he loves;
A noble reputation too
Crowns his later 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:
There 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 a placid ray;
May winter winds blow slightly,—
The green-grass softly wave,
And falling snow-drops lightly
Upon thy honoured grave.
Coud az Leead.
An’ arta fra thee father torn,
So early e thi yuthful morn,
An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,
E greef an’ pane;
Fer consalashun aw sall scorn
If tha be taen.
O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail
Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,
Fer nah it is too true a tale,
Tha’rt coud az lead.
An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale,
Thart deead, thart deead.
Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop,
An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;
An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop
Aw sall so freat,
And O my very heart may stop
And cease to beat.
I’d allus aimed if tha’d been spar’d,
Of summat better to hev shared
Ner what thi poor oud father fared,
E this coud sphere;
Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared
If tha’d stayen here.
But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,
’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,
Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine
Noan freely given,
But mak him same as wun o’ thine,
We thee e heven.