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 skill
Of 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’ drear
But 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.
Printed for the Author by
John Overend, Cook Lane, Keighley.