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!”
In Memory of
THOMAS IRELAND,
Police Superintendent, Keighley.
born 1831, died 1887.
“He was a man, take him for all-in-all, we shall not look upon his like again?”—Shakspeare.
Who knew his virtues must his death deplore
And long lament that Ireland is no more;
Set is the sun that shone with all its rays,
And claimed from every one their warmest praise.
Mute are those lips, whose mildest accents spoke
Their sterling worth, down to the harmless joke;
Clear-seeing his soul, for lo! that mind was one
That envied nothing underneath the sun.
To speak the truth, he never was afraid;
His country’s weal, his country’s laws obeyed;
A pensive calm reigned on his noble brow,
While in his eye you read the solemn vow:—
“I harm no one; no one will I betray;
My duty is to watch and see fair play;
My friendship is to no one set confined;
My heart and hand are given to all mankind.”
Oh ancient town of legendary strain
When will his place in thee be filled again!
For men like he, possessed of sterling worth,
Are few and far between upon the earth.
Such was the man the weeping mourners mourn,
Lost to his friends, ah! never to return;
Fled to the spheres where he in peace must dwell,
While all who knew him bid a long farewell.
A Yorkshireman’s Christmas.
Aw hev ten or twelve pund o’ gooid meit,
A small cheese an’ a barrel o’ beer;
Aw’ll welcome King Kersmas to neet,
For he nobbut comes once in a year.
Send ahr Will dahn ta Tommy Spoyle Wood’s,
An’ tell him ta send up a log;
An’ tell him an’ Betty to come,
For Tommy’s a jolly owd dog.
Aw mean ta forget all my debts,
An’ aw mean ta harbour no grief;
Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates
O’ their contents o’ beer an’ gooid beef.
Them barns they care nowt abaht drink,
Like us ’at’s advanced into years;
So Sally, lass, what does ta think,
If ta buys ’em some apples an’ pears?
Ahr David’s a fine little lad,
An’ ahr Nancy’s a fine little lass;
When aw see ’em aw do feel so glad,
So bring me a quart an’ a glass!
Come, Sally, an’ sit bi mi side,
We’ve hed both wur ups an’ wur dahns;
Awm fane at aw made thee mi bride,
An’ awm prahd o’ both thee an’ wur barns.
We’re as happy as them ’at’s more brass,
In a festival holly-decked hall;
We envy no mortal, owd lass;
Here’s peace an’ good-will unto all!
An’ may ev’ry poor crater to neet,
If nivver before in his life,
Hev plenty to drink an’ to eyt,
Fer both him, an’ his barns, an’ his wife.
Lines on the Late
MR. THOMAS CRAVEN.
Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust—
The friend we had but yesterday;
His spirit to the unknown land
Hath fled away.
Ah! death’s strong key hath turned the lock,
And closed again its ponderous door,
That ne’er for him shall ope again—
Ah, nevermore!
Now pity swells the tide of love,
And rolls through all our bosoms deep,
For we have lost a friend indeed;
And thus we weep.
. . . . . . .
’Twas his to learn in Nature’s school
To love his fellow-creatures dear;
His bounty fed the starving poor
From year to year.
But thou, pale moon, unclouded beam,
And O! ye stars, shine doubly bright,
And light him safe across the lake
To endless light!
Gooise an’ Giblet Pie.
A Kersmas song I’ll sing, mi lads,
If ye’ll bud hearken me;
An incident i’ Kersmas time,
I’ eighteen sixty-three;
Whithaht a stypher i’ the world—
I’d scorn to tell a lie—
I dinéd wi a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I’ve been i’ lots o’ feeds, mi lads,
An’ hed some rare tucks-aght;
Blood-puddin days with killin’ pigs,
Minch pies an’ thumpin’ tarts;
But I wired in, an’ reight an’ all,
An’ supp’d when I wor dry,
Fer I wor dinin’ wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I hardly knew what ail’d ma, lads,
I felt so fearful prahd;
Mi ears pricked up, mi collar rahse,
T’ards a hawf-a-yard;
Mi chest stood aght, mi charley in,
Like horns stuck aght mi tie;
Fer I dinéd wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I often think o’ t’feed, mi lads,
When t’ gentleman I meet;
Bud nauther on us speiks a word
Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can misel,
I feel so fearful shy;
Fer I ate a deal o’ t’rosted gooise,
An’ warm’d his giblet pie.
The Grand Old Man.
I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth,
The grandest old statesman there is upon earth;
When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree,
He can level a nation as well as a tree.
He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue
As fairly bewilder both old men and young;
He can make some believe that’s black which is white,
And others believe it is morn when it’s night.
He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar;
His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war,
Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed,
He still went to Church the lessons to read.
A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent,
In search of some money which long had been spent;
He blew up the forts, then commended his men,
And ordered them back to old England again.
In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose,
No doubt he intended to crush all his foes;
But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne’er was afraid,
Then left him to perish without any aid.
“If I,” said poor Gordon, “get out of this place,
That traitor called Gladstone shall ne’er see my face—
To the Congo I’ll go, if I am not slain,
And never put foot in old England again.”
When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum,
And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom,
Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box,
Tho’ he knew that old England was then on the rocks.
He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill,
Our brave little army to torture and kill;
And while our poor fellows did welter in gore,
He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.
Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King,
To civilised England they captive did bring;
He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath,
Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.
“Had I done,” says Bismark, “so much in my life,
As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife,
I could not at this day have looked in the face
Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race.”
He has tampered and tarnished his national fame;
He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim—
Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween,
Not caring for honour of England or Queen.
He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower,
As he stumps our great nation to get into power;
E’en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs,
That she will assist him to get on his legs.
Ode to Bacchus.
Pueple god of joyous wit,
Here’s to thee!
Deign to let the bardie sit
Near thy knee;
Thy open brow, and laughing eye,
Vanquishing the hidden sigh,
Making care before thee fly,
Smiling Bacchus, god of wine!
Thy stream intoxicates my song,
For I am warm;
I love thee late, I love thee long;
Thou dost me charm;
I ever loved thee much before,
And now I love thee more and more,
For thou art loved the wide world o’er,
Charming Bacchus, god of wine!
“Angels hear that angels sing,”
Sang the bard,
While the muse is on the wing,
Pay regard;
See how Bacchus’ nectar flows,
Healing up the heartstrings’ woes,
Making friends, and minus foes,
Gracious Bacchus, god of wine!
Ever on thee I depend,
As my guest;
Thou wilt bring to me the friend
I love best;
Friendship is the wine of love;
Angels dwell with it above,
Cooing like the turtle-dove
Lovely Bacchus, god of wine!
Laughing Genius, a “Good night!”
Yet, stay awhile!
Ere thou tak’st thy upward flight,
Upon me smile;
Drop one feather from thy breast
On the bard, that he may rest,
Then he will be doubly bless’d,
Glorious Bacchus, god of wine!
Kings are great, but thou art just,
Night and day;
What are kings but royal dust—
Birds of prey?
Though in splendour they may be—
Menials bow, and bend the knee—
Oh, let me dwell along with thee,
Famous Bacchus, god of wine!
Sall o’t’ Bog.
Mi love is like the passion dock,
That grows i’ t’summer fog;
An’ tho’ shoo’s but a country lass,
I like mi Sall o’ t’Bog.
I walk’d her aght up Rivock End,
An’ dahn a bonny dell,
Whear golden balls an’ kahslips grow,
An’ buttercups do smell.
We sat us dahn on top o’ t’grass,
Clois to a runnin’ brook,
An’ harken’d t’watter wagtails sing
Wi’ t’sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.
Aw lockt her in mi arms, an’ thowt
As t’sun shane in her een,
Sho wor the nicest cauliflaar
At ivver aw hed seen.
’Twor here we tell’d wur tales o’ love,
Beneath t’owd hezzel tree;
How fondly aw liked Sall o’ t’Bog,
How dearly shoo loved me!
An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,
Aw vah bi all aw see,
Aw wish ’at aw mud be a kah,
An’ it beleng ta thee.
But aw hev plump fergetten nah
What awther on us said;
At onny rate we parted friends,
An’ boath went hooam to bed.
Song of the Months.
High o’er the hill-tops moan the wild breezes,
As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:
See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,
While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.
Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,
To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed:
As o’er the grim surge with his chariot in motion,
He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.
No more with the tempest the river is swelling,
No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;
The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling
That spring is established with sunshine and shower.
In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,
And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;
The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,
And sprinkling their sweets on the wings of the breeze.
O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander?
What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;
With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,
At whose sight the last demon of winter doth fly?
From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping,
While diamond dew-drops around her are spread;
She smiles thro’ her tears like an infant that’s sleeping,
And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.
The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers,
The mountains are blue in their distant array;
The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers,
Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flies away.
How joyous the reapers their harvest songs singing
As they see the maid bring the flagon and horn;
And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging
Over meadows and pastures and barley and corn.
’Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining,
To watch the rich vale as it brightens below;
’Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining,
To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.
Now is the time when biting old Boreas,
True to his calling, the tempests impend;
His hailstones in fury are pelting before us,
Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.
The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling,
The beasts of the forest from hunger do call;
There are desolate evenings, comfortless mornings,
And gloomy noontides for one and for all.
Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December,
O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor;
Christmas is thine, and well we remember,
Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.
Bonnie Cliffe Castle.
Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! what sight can be grander?
Thou picture of beauty and joy to the eye,
So noble and grand in thy beauty and splendour
That envy must tremble as she passeth by.
And long may’st thou flourish and bloom like the heather,
An honour to him who’s thy founder so great,
And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather,
Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date.
’Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level,
From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar,
Where Roman pack-horsemen more safely could travel,
In days when the Briton and Boman waged war.
In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc,
The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey,
But Briton’s brave sons amongst them made havoc,
And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way.
Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes,
In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown,
Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches,
Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town.
’Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence,
Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war;
A castle of love is thy only pretence,
A name that is higher and nobler by far.
Thou ’mind’st me of five as kind-hearted brothers,
As ever set sail on the deep ocean’s breast,
Whose lives have been spent in love toward others,
And while blessing others themselves have been blest.
Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel,
On land or on water they fought and they won,
And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle!
Tower up to the heavens, which answer, “Well done!”
Opening of Devonshire Park,
september 4th, 1888.
Oh, well do we remember—
For the news it was so pleasant—
When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire
Made our famous town a present
Of a pretty little garden—
An Arcadia in its way—
And how the bells rang merrily
On that eventful day.
Oh, this lovely little garden
’Twill be to us a pleasure,
It will delight the great elite—
To them ’twill be a treasure.
And who are they who dare to say
The town it did not need one—
A pretty little lovely spot
And a happy little Eden.
In this pretty little Paradise
Of beauty and of splendour—
Search our land from end to end,
You could not find a grander;
The turtledove can make its love,
Not caring for the pigeon,
If he belongs his politics
And follows his religion.
In this pretty little garden,
When the bloom is on the heather,
Two minds with but one single thought
Can tell their tales together;
The maiden from the mansion,
And the lady from the villa,
Can wander there and shed a tear
Beneath the weeping willow.
This bonny little garden
Is fine for perambulators,
Where our handsome servant-lasses
Can wheel our lovely creatures,
And oh! how happy they will be!
As time they are beguiling,
When the mammy and the daddy
Are upon the babies smiling.
Oh! this pretty little garden,
Which every one admires,
Which pleased His Grace the Noble Duke
To give our little squires.
The news was something wonderful,
Like the shooting of a rocket,
When they heard that they had got a Park,
And were “nothing out o’pocket.”
In this pretty little garden,
With all its blossom blooming
We can sit and sing the whole day long,
From the morning till the gloaming;
And tell Dame Keighley’s blunders,
When her sons were naught but asses;
And could not even raise a Park,
To please the upper classes.
Then let us give the Noble Duke,
The praises of the Borough—
For if we did not thank His Grace,
We should commit an error—
And not forgetting Mr. Leach,
For he deserves rewarding,
For it is known he got the town
This pretty little garden.
Farewell to the
REV. H. J. LONGSDON,
Formerly Rector of Keighley.
Farewell dear friend, nor take it hard,
To leave the town where thou hast been,
Where many a joy we hope thou’st had,
Though witness’d many a sorry scene.
Thy works were good, we know it well,
We watched thee in thy weary toil;
Where oft obstruction, shame to tell,
Waits on the good their plans to spoil.
Yet thou dids’t toil without a fear
From day to day, from year to year;
Beloved by all, thy foes are few,
And they are loth to bid adieu.
We saw thee in the early dawn
Up with the lark at break of morn,
Thy duties promptly to attend,
Our shepherd, pastor, and our friend.
With good advice to one and all,
The old, the young, the great, the small;
In lane or house, in church or street,
Thy presence we were glad to meet.
“Thou art a man! a man! a man!”
The Poet quotes from some old play;
“An upright, honest gentleman,
Whose likes we meet not every day.”
And when thou leavest us behind,
Our recollections will not die—
Of thee whose meekness, zeal, and love,
Are known alike to low and high.
Out from thy fold, all other flocks
Were proud of thee—a shepherd true,
All other shepherds greeted thee,
Although thy flocks to theirs were few.
Thou tended with a shepherd’s care,
And saw that none did go astray;
Thou led them with an honest will,
From early morn to evening’s ray.
Adieu, dear sir, long may’st thou live
To be a credit to our isle;
And when thou toil’st ’midst other friends,
May fortune on thy labours smile.
He’s Thy Brother.
Turn from the rich thy steps awhile,
And visit this poor domicile;
Abode of flavours rank and vile?
This is the home, and this the style,
Where lives thy brother!
The cobwebs are his chandeliers;
Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs;
He has no carpet on the stairs,
But, like the wild beasts to their lairs,
Crawls in thy brother.
He once did stride his father’s knee—
A little horseman bold and free;
And, should thou trace this pedigree,
Thy mother’s darling pet was he—
Thy little brother.
His mind was not of thine, ’tis plain;
He dreamt of wonders, thou of gain;
But thou thy object didst attain
For which another sought in vain—
E’en thy own brother.
Thou cunningly didst keep thy pace,
While he joined in the wild-goose chase;
Thou’rt now the great one of this place,
While he hath lost his phantom race—
Thy wretched brother!
I see a form amongst the crowd,
With stricken heart, and head that’s bowed;
I hear a voice, both deep and loud—
A voice of one that wanted food—
It is thy brother.
The meanest wretch that ever trod,
The smallest insect ’neath the sod,
Are creatures of an All-seeing God,
Who may have smitten with his rod
Thy foolish brother.
He careth not for wealth or show,
But dares thee to neglect, e’en now,
That unmanned wretch, so poor and low,
Else he may deal a heavy blow,
E’en for thy brother.