Revised Edition of Poems

by Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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.

Full o’ Doubts and Fears.

Sweet sing the birds in lowly strain,
All mingled in their song;
For lovely Spring is here again,
And Winter’s cold is gone.

All things around seem filled with glee,
And joy swells every breast;
The buds are peeping from each bush,
Where soon the birds will rest.

The meadows now are fresh and green,
The flowers are bursting forth,
And nature seems to us serene,
And shows her sterling worth.

The lark soars high up in the air,
We listen to his lays;
He knows no sorrow, no, nor care,
Nor weariness o’ days.

But man, though born of noble birth,
Assigned for higher spheres,
Walks his sad journey here on earth
All full o’ doubts and fears.

Behold How the Rivers!

Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea,
Sending their treasures so careless and free;
And to give their assistance each Spring doth arise,
Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.

Find out the haunts o’ the low human pest,
Give to the weary, the poor, and distress’d;
What if ungrateful and thankless they be,
Think of the giver that gave unto thee.

Go travel the long lanes on misery’s verge,
Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge;
Where want and famine, and by ourselves made,
Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.

Give to yon widow—thy gift is thrice blest,
For tho’ she be silent, the harder she’s press’d;
A small bit o’ help to the little she earns,
God blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.

’Neath the green grassy mounds i’ yon little church-yard
An over-wrought genius there finds his reward;
And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee,
Such are the givers that give unto me.

Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain,—
What if no birdie should chant thee a strain;
What if no daisy should smile on the lea;
The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.

For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may,
That thou mayest venture to give all away;
Ere Nature again her balmy dews send,
Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.

Our Poor Little Factory Girls.

They are up in the morning right early,
They are up sometimes afore leet;
I hear their clogs they are clamping,
As t’little things go dahn the street.

They are off in the morning right early,
With their baskets o’ jock on their arm;
The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging,
As they enter the mill in a swarm.

They are kapering backward and forward,
Their ends to keep up if they can;
They are doing their utmost endeavours,
For fear o’ the frown o’ man.

Wi’ fingers so nimble and supple,
They twist, an’ they twine, an’ they twirl,
Such walking, an’ running, an’ kneeling,
Does the wee little factory girl.

They are bouncing about like a shuttle,
They are kneeling an’ rubbing the floor;
While their wee little mates they are doffing,
Preparing the spindles for more.

Them two little things they are t’thickest,
They help one another ’tis plain;
They try to be t’best and t’quickest,
The smiles o’ their master to gain.

And now from her ten hours’ labour,
Back to her cottage shoo shogs;
Aw hear by the tramping an’ singing,
’Tis the factory girl in her clogs.

And at night when shoo’s folded i’ slumber,
Shoo’s dreaming o’ noises and drawls:
Of all human toil under-rated,
’Tis our poor little factory girl’s.