The second Part.

"White lillies shall pave the closes,

Each brier shall blush with roses;

The gross green and sweet,

Shall kiss thy tender feet,

And the medows shall yield thee posies.

"With shady bowers set ore thee,

With thousand contents I'le store thee;

While by some clear brooke,

With my little dog and hooke,

I'le bring my fine ewes before thee."

While thus he was close set at her,

Quoth she, "I suspect the matter,

For an houres sport;

Like the false alluring court,

The country has learned to flatter.

"Therefore leave off thy wooing;

I love not such short doing,

And come unto the matter;

I love not for to flatter,

True affection hates long suing.

"But if your love will prove steady,

Till Hymen had made him ready,

Then surfeit all night

In a captive maids delight,

Which yet but ayre hath fed ye."

Quoth he, "I love none above thee,

For chastity I prove thee;

As constant I'le prove,

As the mate unto the dove,

Nay, though thou wert dead, I'le love thee!

"And all contents I'le give thee,

So that thou wilt live with me;

My life and all I'le loose,

Ere I my love abuse,

And all my rich kith unto me."

As Willy thus was talking,

The shepherd's eyes were walking;

Each legge and each limbe,

So tricked, so trim,

She thought it no time of balking.

Her heart with love was taken,

God Cupid did her awaken;

And cast a cheerfull eye,

Upon him by and by,

To show he was not forsaken.

His lips to hers he laid,

She never a word gain-said;

Thus joyning their hands,

They tyed the nuptiall bands,

Which never till death decai'd.

Such happy joy God send me,

When I to wed intend me;

And to each faithfull lover,

Where they be one or other,

I heartily commend thee.

NATTERIN NAN.

BE A YORKSHUR LIKENASS TAKER.[212]

NOA daht ye'll all ev eard abaht

T' Appolloa Belvidere,

A statty, thowt be sum ta be

Fro' ivvery failin tlear.

All reyt an streyt i' mak and shap,

A mould for t'race o' men,

A dahnreyt, upreyt, beng-up chap,

Nut mitch unlike mesen.

Nah, thaw ye knaw he's nowt bud stoan,

He lewks sa grand an big,

That little durst ya pool his noas,

Ur lug his twisted wig.

Pratly, reyt pratly, ovver t'floor,

A tep e toas ye walk,

An hod yur breeath for varry awe,

An whisper when ya tauk.

There's that abaht him, bud I knaw'nt

Nut reytly hah ta say't,

That maks ya feel as small as thieves

Anent a magistrate.

Yee've seen that dolt o'mucky tlay,

O't face o' Pudsa Doas,

T'owd madlin 's worn it all his life,

An fancied it a noas.

Yond props is like a pair o' tengs

O' Sykes's, yet by t' megs,

When he wur souber as a judge,

A've eard him call em legs.

So Heaven be praised for self-consate,

Withaht it ah sud say

Wee'se hate wursen we all wur meet

For ivver an a day.

When sitch like lewks at t' marble God

Egoy! ha wide they gape,

An wunder which they favver t'moast,

A boggard or an ape.

An sum we envy and we spite

Get filled ta that degree,

They'd knock his noas off if they durst,

Or give him a black ee.

He sumhah kests a leet on things

'At fowk noan wants ta see,

Thear's few likes tellin what they are

Or what they owt ta be.

Wah, wah, purfecshun nivver did

To Adam's bairns beleng,

An lewk at mortals as we will

We fynd a summat wreng.

For Adam gate so mesht wi't fall,

That all o't human race

Grow sadly aht o' shap it mind,

I't karkiss an it' face.

There's noan sa blynd bud tha can see

Sum fawts i' other men;

A've sumtimes met we fowk 'at thowt

They saw sum i' thersen.

An t'best o' chaps al fynd thersen

At times i' t' fawty dlass,

A've doubled t'neiv, afoar ta day,

At t' fooil i't seemin dlass.

Bud twarst o' fawts at a've seen yet,

I' woman ur i' man,

Is t'weary naagin nengin turn,

'At plagued poor Natterin Nan.

A' went one summer afternoin

Ta see hur poar owd man,

An aadly bed I darkened t'door,

When t'worrit thus began:

"A-wah did ivver! wot a treat,

Ta see thy father's sun,

Come forrad lad an sit ta dahn,

An al set t' kettle on."

"Nay, nay," says ah, "ah'm noan o' them

'At calls at t'time by t'clock;"

An bumps em dahn it corner chair,

An gloares reyt hard at t'jock.

"Tha nontkate witta hod thee tung,

He'll sooin be hear I'ce think,

Soa if thall sit an leet thee pipe,

Ah'll fotch a sope o' drink."

"Owd lass," says ah, "thart hey i' bone

An rayther low i' beef;"

"Ah barn," says shoo, "this year or two,

'Av hed a deal o' grief.

"Ah'm nut a wuman 'at oft speyks,

Or sings fowk doleful sengs,

Bud ah can tell me mind ta thee,

Tha knaws wot things belengs.

"Tha noaticed ah noan lewked sa staat,

An ah can trewly say,

Fro t'last back end o' t'year ta nah,

A've nut been weel a day.

"An wot we sickness, wot we grief,

Ah'm doin tha may depend;

It's been a weary moild an tew,

Bud nah it gets near t'end.

"A've bowt all t'sister 'at ah hev

A black merina gaan;

Fowk thinks ah'm rarely off, but, lad,

A'm thenkful 'at ah'm baan.

"We' t'world an ivvery thing at's in't,

Ah'm crost to that degree,

That mony a time i't day ah've pra'd

To lig ma doan an dee.

"What ah've ta tak fro t'least i't haase

Is moar nur flesh can beear,

It is'nt just a time be chonce

Bud ivvery day i't year.

"Noa livin sowl a'top o' t'earth,

Wor tried as ah've been tried;

There's noabdy bud the Lord an me,

'At knaws what ah've ta bide.

"Fro t'wind at t'stomach, t'rewmatism,

An tengin pains it goom;

Fro coffs an cowds, an t'spine it back,

Ah suffer martyrdom.

"Bud noabdy pities ma, or thinks

Ah'm ailin owt at all;

T'poor slave mun tug an tew we t'wark

Wolivver shoo can crawl.

"An Johnny's t' moast unfeelin brewt

'At ivver ware a heead;

He woddunt weg a hand ur fooit

If ah wur all bud deead.

"It mid'st o' all ah've hed ta dew,

That roag wur nivver t'man

Ta fotch a coil, or scar a fleg,

Ur wesh a pot ur pan.

"Fowk says 'ar Sal 'al sooin be wed.

Bud t'thowt on't turns ma sick,

'Ah'd rayther hing hur up by t'neck,

Ur see her berrid wick.

"An if ah new a barn o' mine,

Wur born ta lead my life,

Ah suddent think it wor a sin

Ta stick hur wi' a knife.

"Ah've ax'd ar Johnny twenty times

Ta bring a sweep ta t' doar,

Bud nah, afoar a'll speyk agean,

Ah'll sit it t'haase an smoar.

"An then, gooid grashus, what a wind

Comes whewin throo t'doar sneck,

Ah felt it all t'last winter like

A whittle at my neck.

"That sink-pipe tu gate stopt wi' muck,

Aboon a fortnit sin;

So ivvery aar it day wi' t'slops,

Am treshin aht an in.

"Aw! when ah think hah ah've been tret,

An hah ah tew an strive,

Ta tell thee t'honest trewth, ah'm capped

Ta fynd mesen alive.

"When he's been rakin aht a't neet

At market ur a't fair;

Sitch thowts hes coom inta me heead

As lifted up me air.

"Ah've thowt, ay lad, when tha cums hoam,

Tha'll fynd ma hung by 't neck,

Bud then ah've mebbe thowt agean

At t' coord ud happen brek.

"Or else ah've mutterd if i't wor'nt

Sa dark, an cowd, an weet,

Ah'd go ta't navvy, or ta't dam,

An draand mesen ta neet.

"It's greef, lad, nowt at all bud greef,

At wastes me day be day;

So Sattan temps ma cos ah'm wake

Ta put mesen away."

Towd chap heerd pairt o'what shoo sed,

As he cam clompin in,

An shauted in a red-fac'd rage,

"Od rot it, hod the din."

Then Nan began to froth an fume,

An fiz like botteld drink,

"Wat then, tha's enterd t'haase agean,

Tha offald lewkin slink.

"Tha nivver cums theas doars within

Bud tha mun curse an sweear,

An try ta bring ma ta me grave

We breedin hurries hear.

"At thee an thine sin wed we wor

Ah've taen no end o' greef,

An nah tha stamps ma under t'fooit,

Tha murderin roag an theef.

"Tha villan gimma wat ah browt,

'At day at we wur wed,

An nivver moar wi' one like thee

Will ah set fooit e' bed."

Here t' dowdy lifted tull her een

A yard a gooid lin check,

An sob'd, an roar'd, an rock'd hersen,

As if her art ud breck.

An then shoo rave reit up be't rooits

A andful of her air,

An fitterd like a deein duk

An shutturd aht a't chair.

"Aw! Jonny! run for't doctur, lad,

Ah feel ah can tel hah."

Sais Jonny, "Leet thee pipe agean,

Shoo'l coom abaht enah."

Sais ah, "Ah nivver saw a chap

Sa eeasyful and fat,

Tha'll suarly lend a elpin and

Ta lift hur of a't plat."

Bud better hed it been for him

If he'd neer sturr'd a peg;

My garturs! what a pawse he gat

Fra Nan rumatic leg.

Sooin, varry sooin, sho coom abaht

An flang, an tare, an rave,

E sich a way as fu cud dew

We' one fooit i' ther grave.

An at it went hur tongue ageean,

That minnit shoo fan eease,

"Tha villan tha, tha knaws thee ways

Brings on sitch girds as theeas.

"Aw if tha'd strike ma stiff at once,

Ur stab ma ta me hart,

I then cud dee content, for fowk

Ud naw reyt what ta art.

"Unfeelin brewt, unfeelin brewt,

Ah neer wur weel an strong;

There's nobbut one thing cheers ma nah,

Ah cannut last sa long.

"Ta stand up in a thing at's reyt,

It isant i' me natur,

There is at knaws I awlus wur

A poor, soft, quiat cratur.

"One thing ah can say if me life

Ta neet sud end it leease;

Ah've doin my dewty an tha knaws

Ah awlus strave for peease.

"Ah knaw, ah knaw at ah'm it gate,

Tha's other oats ta thresh;

So when ah's dun for tha ma wed

You gooid for nowt young tresh."

Then Nan pool'd summat aht o't drawer

White as a summer claad;

Ses I ta Jonny, "What's that thear?"

Ses Jonny, "It's a shraad.

"An t'coffin coom tu, bud ah sware

I woddunt ha't it haase,

So, when shoo's muled, shoo sews at that,

As quiat as a maase."

Then Nan lewkt at me we a lewk,

So yonderly an sad,

"Tha'll coom ta t'berrin?" "Yus," says ah,

"Ah sall be varry dlad."

"An bid the Mother," Jonny cried,

"An ax the Uncle Ben,

Fur all hur prayers for suddan deeath,

Sal hev my best 'Amen.'"

THE BARBER OF THIRSK'S FORFEITS.

FIRST come, first served—Then come not late.

And when arrived keep your sate;

For he who from these rules shall swerve,

Shall pay his forfeit—so observe.

Who enters here with boots and spurs,

Must keep his nook, for if he stirs,

And gives with arm'd heel a kick,

A pint he pays for every prick.

Who rudely takes another's turn,

By forfeit glass—may manners learn;

Who reverentless shall swear or curse,

Must lug seven ha'-pence from his purse.

Who checks the barber in his tale,

Shall pay for that a gill of yale;

Who will, or cannot miss his hat,

Whilst trimming pays a pint for that.

And he who can but will not pay,

Shall hence be sent half trimmed away;

For will he—nill he—if in fault,

He forfeit must in meal or malt.

But mark the man who is in drink,

Must the cannikin oh, never, never, clink.

THE YORKSHIRE IRISHMAN; OR, THE ADVENTURES OF A POTATO MERCHANT.

MY father was once a great merchant,

As any in Ireland was found,

But, faith, he could never save a shilling,

Tho' potatoes he sold by the pound.

So says he to my mother one night,

To England suppose you and I go,

And the very next day, by moonlight,

They took leave of the county of Slygo.

Sing de ral, ral de ral la, fal lal de, &c.

That the land is all cover'd with water,

'Twixt England and Ireland, you'll own,

And single misfortunes, they say,

To Irishmen ne'er come alone.

So my father, poor man! was first drown'd,

Then shipwreck'd, in sailing from Cork,

But my mother she got safe to land,

And a whisky shop open'd in York.

Fal de ral, &c.

Just a year after father was dead,

One night about five i' th' morn,

An odd accident happen'd to me,

For 'twas then that myself was first born.

All this I've been told by my mammy,

And surely she'll not tell me wrong,

But I don't remember nought of it,

'Caze it happen'd when I was quite young.

Fal de ral, &c.

On the very same day the next year,

(For so ran the story of mother,)

The same accident happen'd again,

But not to me then, that were brother.

So 'twas settled by old father Luke,

Who dissolved all our family sins,

As we both were born on the same day,

That we sartainly must have been twins.

Fal de ral, &c.

'Twas agreed I should not go to school,

As learning I never should want;

Nor would they e'en teach me to read,

For my genius they said it would cramp.

Now this genius of mine, where it lay,

Do but listen awhile and you'll hear,

'Twas in drawing,—not landscapes or pictures,

No, mine was for drawing of beer.

Fal de ral, &c.

Some with only one genius are blest,

But I, it appears, had got two,

For when I had drawn off some beer,

I'd a genius for drinking it too,

At last I was drawn up to town,

Without in my pocket a farden,

But since I've earn'd many a crown

By the shop here in sweet Covvon Garden.

Fal de ral, &c.

WHEN AT HAME WI' DAD.

WHEN at hame wi' dad,

We niver had nae fun sir,

Which mead me sae mad,

I swore away I'd run sir;

I packed up cleas sae smart,

Ribbed stocking, weastcoats pratty,

Wi' money and leet heart,

Tripped off te Lunnun city.

Fal de ral de ra.

When I did git there,

I geaped about quite silly,

At all the shows te stare,

In a spot called Piccerdilly;

Lord sic charming seets,

Bods i' cages thrive sir,

Coaches, fiddles, fights,

And crocodiles alive sir.

Fal de ral, &c.

Then I did ge te see,

The gentry in Hyde Park sir,

When a lass pushed reedely by,

Te whoam I did remark sir,

"Tho' your feace be een sae fair,

I've seen a beer mare civil."

Then the little cleas they wear,

God Lunnun is the devil.

Fal de ral, &c.

Te 't play-house then I gaus,

Whar I seed merry feaces,

And in the lower rows,

Were sarvents keeping pleaces;

T' players I saw seun,

They managed things quite funny,

By gock they'd Hunny-mean,

Afore they'd Mattrimony.

Fal de ral, &c.

Now having seen all I cud,

And passed away my time sir,

If you think fit and good,

I'le een give up my rhyme sir;

And sud my ditty please,

The popies in this garden,

Te me t'wad be hearts-ease,

If not I ax yer pardon.

Fal de ral de ra.

I'M YORKSHIRE TOO.

BY t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook,

I was sent by times to school;

I went wi' the stream as I studied my book,

And was thought to be no small fool.

I never yet bought a pig in a poke,

For to give auld Nick his due;

Tho' oft I've dealt wi' Yorkshire folk,

Yet I was Yorkshire too.

I was pretty well lik'd by each village maid,

At races, wake or fair,

For my father had addled a vast in trade,

And I were his son and heir.

And seeing that I didn't want for brass,

Poor girls came first to woo,

But tho' I delight in a Yorkshire lass,

Yet I was Yorkshire too!

To Lunnon by father I was sent,

Genteeler manners to see;

But fashion's so dear, I came back as I went,

And so they made nothing o' me.

My kind relations wou'd soon have found out

What was best wi' my money to do:

Says I, "My dear cousins, I thank ye for nought,

But I'm not to be cozen'd by you!

For I'm Yorkshire too."[213]

THE SWEEPER AND THIEVES.

By D. Lewis.

The incident here recorded happened at a farm house, on Leeming Lane, some years ago, and is a favourite chap-book history.

A sweeper's lad was late o' th' neeght,

His slap-shod shoon had leeam'd his feet;

He call'd te see a good awd deeame,

'At monny a time had trigg'd his weame;

(For he wor then fahve miles fra yam.)

He ax'd i' t' lair te let him sleep,

An' he'd next day their chimlers sweep.

They supper'd him wi' country fare,

Then show'd him tul his hooal i' t' lair.

He crept intul his streeahy bed,

His pooak o' seeat beneath his heead;

He wor content, nur car'd a pin,

An' his good friend then lock'd him in.

The lair frae t' hoose a distance stood,

Between 'em grew a lahtle wood.

Aboot midneeght, or nearer moorn,

Twea thieves brack in te steeal their coorn;

Hevin a leeght i' t' lantern dark,

Seean they te winder fell te wark;

An' wishing they'd a lad te fill,

Young brush, (whea yet had ligg'd quite still,)

Thinkin' 'at t' men belang'd te t' hoose,

An' that he noo mud be o' use,

Jump'd doon directly on te t' fleear,

An' t' thieves beeath ran oot at deear;

Nur stopt at owt nur thin nur thick,

Fully convinc'd it wor awd Nick.

The sweeper lad then ran reeght seean

Te t' hoose, an' tell'd 'em what wor deean:

Maister an' men then quickly raise,

An' ran te t' lair wi' hawf ther cleeas.

Twea horses, secks, an' leeght they fand,

Which had been left by t' thievish band;

These round i' t' neybourheead they cried,

Bud nut an awner e'er applied;

For neean durst horses awn nur secks,

They wor seea freeghten'd o' ther necks.

They seld the horses, an' of course,

Put awf o' the brass i' sooty's purse;

Desiring when he com that way,

He'd awlus them a visit pay,

When harty welcome he sud have

Because he did ther barley save.

Brush chink'd the guineas in his hand,

An' oft te leeak at 'em did stand,

As heeame he wistlin' teak his way;

Blessin' t' awd deeame wha let him stay,

An' sleep i' t' lair, when, late o' t' neeght,

His slap-shod shoon had leeam'd his feet.

HOWELL WOOD;[214] OR, THE RABY HUNT, IN YORKSHIRE,

FEBRUARY, 1803.

To the tune of "Ballynamonaora."

"Let those ride hard, who never rode before,
And those who always rode, now ride the more."

WHILST passing o'er Barnsdale,[215] I happen'd to spy,

A fox stealing on and the hounds in full cry;

They are Darlington's sure, for his voice I well know,

Crying forward—hark forward; from Skelbrook[216] below.

With my Ballynamonaora,

The hounds of old Raby for me.

See Binchester leads them, whose speed seldom fails,

And now let us see who can tread on their tails;

For, like pigeons in flight, the best hunter would blow,

Should his master attempt to ride over them now.

Chorus. With my, &c.

From Howell Wood come—they to Stapleton[217] go,

What confusion I see, in the valley below;

My friends in black collars,[218] nearly beat out of sight,

And Badsworth's old heroes in sorrowful plight.

Chorus. With my, &c.

'Tis hard to describe all the frolic and fun,

Which, of course, must ensue, in this capital run;

But I quote the old proverb, howe'er trite and lame,

That—"The looker on sees most by half of the game."

Chorus. With my, &c.

Then first in the burst, see dashing away,

Taking all on his stroke, on Ralpho the grey;

With persuaders in flank, comes Darlington's peer,[219]

With his chin sticking out, and his cap on one ear.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Never heeding a tumble, a scratch, or a fall,

Laying close in his quarter, see Scott of Woodhall;[220]

And mind how he cheers them, with "Hark to the cry!"

Whilst on him the peer keeps a pretty sharp eye.

Chorus. With my, &c.

And next him on Morgan, all rattle and talk,

Cramming over the fences, comes wild Martin Hawke,[221]

But his neck he must break, surely sooner or late,

As he'd rather ride over than open a gate.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Then there's dashing Frank Boynton, who rides thorough breds,

Their carcases nearly as small as their heads:

But he rides so d——d hard that it makes my heart ache,

For fear his long legs should be left on a stake.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Behold Harry Mellish,[222] as wild as the wind,

On Lancaster mounted, leaving numbers behind;

But lately return'd from democrat France,

Where forgetting to bet—he's been learning to dance.

Chorus. With my, &c.

That eagle-ey'd sportsman, Charles Brandling, behold,

Laying in a snug place, which needs scarcely be told;

But from riding so hard, my friend Charley forbear,

For fear you should tire you thirty pound mare!

Chorus. With my, &c.

And close at his heels, see Bob Lascelles advance,

Dress'd as gay for the field, as if leading the dance,

Resolv'd to ride hard, nor be counted the last,

Pretty sure of the speed of his fav'rite Outcast.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Next mounted on Pancake, see yonder comes Len,[223]

A sportsman, I'm sure, well deserving my pen;

He looks in high glee, and enjoying the fun,

Tho' truly I fear that his cake's over done.

Chorus. With my, &c.

On Methodist perched, in a very good station,

Frank Barlow behold, that firm prop of the nation,

But nothing could greater offend the good soul,

Than to Coventry sent from the chase and the bowl.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Then those two little fellows, as light as a feather,

Charles Parker and Clowes[224] come racing together,

And riding behind them, see Oliver Dick,[225]

With Slap-dash half blown, looking sharp for a nick.

Chorus. With my, &c.

On Ebony mounted, behold my Lord Barnard,[226]

To live near the pack, now oblig'd is to strain hard;

But mount my friend Barny, on something that's quick,

I warrant, my lads, he would show you a trick.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Then Bland[227] and Tom Gascoigne,[228] I spy in the van,

Riding hard as two devils, at catch as catch can,

But racing along, to try which can get first,

Already, I see, both their horses are burst.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Then smack at a yawner falls my friend Billy Clough,[229]

He gets up, stares around him, faith! silly enough;

While Pilkington[230] near him, cries "Pr'ythee get bled."

"Oh no, never mind, Sir, I fell on my head."

Chorus. With my, &c.

But where's that hard rider, my friend Col. Bell?[231]

At the first setting off from the cover he fell;

But I see the old crop, thus the whole chase will carry,

In respectable style, the good-temper'd Harry.

Chorus. With my, &c.

With very small feet, sticking fast in the mud,

Frank Hawksworth[232] I see, on his neat bit of blood;

But, pull up, my friend, say you've lost a fore shoe,

Else bleeding, I fear, must be shortly for you.

Chorus. With my, &c.

To keep their nags fresh for the end of the day,

Sir Edward[233] and Lascelles just canter away;

Not enjoying the pace our Raby hounds go,

But preferring the maxim of "certain and slow."

Chorus. With my, &c.

At the top of his speed, sadly beat and forlorn,

Behold Capt. Horton is steering for Baln;

For accustom'd at sea, both to shift and to tack,

He hopes by manœuv'ring to gain the fleet pack.

Chorus. With my, &c.

The two Lees,[234] Harvey Hawke,[235] Frank Soth'ron,[236] and all,

Are skirting away for Stapleton Hall;

Whilst far in the rear, behold Alverley Cooke,[237]

Endeav'ring to scramble o'er Hampole's wide brook.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Far aloof to the right, and op'ning a gate,

There's a sportsman by system, who never rides straight;

But why, my good Godfrey,[238] thus far will you roam,

When a pack of fine beagles hunt close to your home?

Chorus. With my, &c.

Safe o'er the brook—but where's Captain Danser?[239]

Oh! he's stopping to catch Sir Rowland Winn's prancer;

But what is the use of that, my friend Winn,[240]

If on foot you attempt it, you'll sure tumble in.

Chorus. With my, &c.

On his chesnut nag mounted, and heaving in flank,

At a very great distance, behold Bacon Frank;[241]

So true's the old maxim, we even now find,

That, "justice will always come limping behind."

Chorus. With my, &c.

See Starkey and Hopwood, so full of their jokes,

From Bramham Moor come, to be quizzing the folks;

And when they return the whole chase they'll explain,

Tho' they saw little of it—to crony Fox Lane.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Lost, spavin'd, and wind-gall'd, but showing some blood,

For from Coxcomb's poor shoulders it streams in a flood;

Behold Mr. Hodgson,[242] how he fumes and he frets,

While his black lays entangled in cursed sheep nets.

Chorus. With my, &c.

If his name I pass'd over, I fear he would cavil,

I just wish to say that I saw Mr. Saville;

And with very long coat on, (a friend to his tailor)

With some more Wakefield heroes, behold Mr. Naylor.

Chorus. With my, &c.

A large posse see in the valley below,

Who serve very well for to make up a show;

But broad as the brook is, it made many stop,

It's not ev'ry man's luck for to get to the top.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Johnny Dalton[243] so sure at Went made a slip,

His nag tumbl'd in and he cry'd for his whip;

His groom coming up found his master so cross,

D——n your fine whip, what's become of the horse?

Chorus. With my, &c.

Now all having pass'd, I'll to Ferrybridge go,[244]

Each event of the day at the club I shall know;

Where bright bumpers of claret enliven the night,

And chase far away hated envy, and spite.

Chorus. With my, &c.

Then forgive me, my friends, if you think me severe,

'Tis but meant as a joke, not intended to sneer;

Come I'll give you a toast, in a bumper of wine,

Here's success to this club, and to sport so divine.

And the hounds of old Raby for me.[245]

THE COLLINGHAM GHOST.

I'LL tell ye aboot the Collingham ghost,

An' a rare aud ghost was he;

For he cud laff, an' he cud talk,

An' run, an' jump, an' flee.

He went aboot hither an' thither,

An' freeten'd sum out o' thir wits,

He freeten'd the parson as weel as the clark,

An' lots beside them into fits.

The poor aud man wha teak the towl

At Collingham bar for monny a year,

He dursn't cum out to opp'n his yat

For fear the ghost sud be near.

He teak to his bed an' there he laid,

For monny a neet an' day;

His yat was aulas wide opp'n thrown,

An' nean ivver stopp't to pay.

And Jerry wha kept the public house,

An' sell'd gud yal to all,

Curs'd the ghost wi' hearty gud will,

For neabody stopp'd to call.

It made sike a noise all round aboot,

That folks com far to see;

Sum sed it was a dreadful thing,

An' sum sed it was a lee.

Gamkeepers com wi' dogs an' guns,

Thinking it was some comical beast;

An' they wad aither kill him or catch him,

Or drive him awa at least.

Sea into Lady wood right they went

Yah beautiful meenleet neet;

A lot o' great men an' a lot o' ruff dogs,

Enew a poor ghost to eat.

They watid lang—the ghost didn't come,

They began to laff an' rail,—

"If he cum oot ov hiz den," says yan,

"We'll clap a bit o' saut ov hiz tail."

"Nay he knoos better then turn oot,

When we are here to watch him,

He'd git a bullit through his lug,

Or Mungo there wad catch him."

When close to their heads wi' a terrible clatter

The ghost went wherrin up,

An' ower the woods he lafft an' shoutid,

"Bobo, bobo! who whoop, who whoop!"

The gamkeepers all tummled doon,

Their hair thrast off their hat,

They gaped an' grean'd an' roll'd aboot,

An' their hearts went pit-a-pat.

Thir feaces were white as onny clout,

An' they sed nivver a word,

They cudn't tell what the ghost was like,

Whether 'twas a beast or a bird.

They stay'd nea langer i' th' wood that neet,

Poor men were nivver dafter,

They ran awa hame as fast as they cud,

An' thir dogs ran yelping after.

The parson then, a larned man,

Sed he wad conjur the ghost;

He was sure it was nea wandrin beast,

But a spirit that was lost.

All languages this parson knew

That onny man can chat in,

The Ebrew, Greek, an' Irish too,

As weel as Dutch an' Latin.

O! he cud talk an' read an' preach,

Few men knew mair or better,

An' nearly all the bukes he read,

Wer printed in black letter.

He read a neet, he read a day,

To mak him fit for his wark,

An' when he thowt he was quite up,

He sent for the awd clark.

The clark was quickly by his side,

He took but little fettlin,

An' awa they went wi' right gud will

To gie the ghost a settlin.

Aye off they set wi' all thir might,

Nor stoppt at thin or thick,

The parson wi' his sark an' buke,

The clark wi' a thick stick.

At last by t' side o' th' bank they stoppt

Where Wharfe runs murmrin clear,

A beautiful river breet an' fine,

As onny in wide Yorkshire.

The parson then began to read,

An' read full loud an' lang,

The rabbits they ran in an' oot,

An' wonder'd what was rang.

The ghost was listnin in a hole,

An' oot he bang'd at last,

The fluttrin o' his mighty wings,

Was like a whirlwind blast.

He lafft an' shooted as he flew

Until the wild woods rang;

His who-who-whoop was nivver heard

Sea lood an' clear, an' strang.

The parson he fell backwards ower

Into a bush o' whins,

An' lost his buke, an' rave his sark,

An' prickt his hans an' shins.

The clark he tried to run awa

But tumm'ld ower his stick,

An' there he made a nasty smell

While he did yell an' fick.

An' lots o' pranks this ghost he play'd

That here I dar'nt tell,

For if I did folks wad declare

I was as ill as his-sel.

For eighteen[246] months an' mair he stay'd,

An' just did as he thowt;

For lord nor duke, parson nor clark,

He fear'd, nor cared nowt.

Efter that time he went awa,

Just when it pleas'd his-sel;

But what he was, or whar he com fra

Nea mortal man can tell.

THE TWEA THRESHERS.

A story of two rustics, and the history of their several mistakes during a holiday which they took, in 1842, to go to Scarborough to see the Florentine Venus, then being exhibited in that town.

'Twas on a fiahne cleer sunny day,

Aboot the end o' summer,

When all the goa was Scarbro' spo,

Between the Tees an Hummer.

Coaches grained 'neath top heavy leeads,

Gigs, carriages an sike like,

Skew'd dust like fun fra' all the rooads,

At' end at Scarbro' tonpike.

Lauk! what a dust there was kick'd up

Like deed what blustrin storance,

A waint queer seeght was seen that da,

Some waxwark thing fra Florence.

Jerry an Jack, twea treshers bold,

Wer bangin 'oot and barley,

A dusty trade, hard by the rooad

Sweatin an broilin rarly.

"Dod dang," says Jack, "yau knocks an delves,

Digs, plews, sows, maws, an what for?

Pately at yau may live yau's sens,

Bud mare to keep up that, Jer."

He pointed ti twea carriage leead

'O fashionable people;

Wea seem'd to knoo the arts 'o ease,

Sat couple feeacing couple.

"Why can't we hev a bit 'o spree,

As weel as uther folks, Jer?"

"I deean't see why," quoth Jer, "dang me!

If ahle ageean strike strooak, ser.

"Afoor I'v seen that Florance thing,

It nobbut costs a shillin;

Besides I lang ti hev a spree,

An get a thorough swillin."

"Bonni!" says Jack, "bonni, my lad,

I like the risolution;

Let's hev thi hand, thi scheeam's weel plan'd,

We'll het i' execution."

Seea Jack and Jer shack'd hands and showd

'At peasant cud wi peasant,

Like prince wi prince, an lord wi lord,

Laugh loud, feel pleased, luke pleasant.

Seea yam tha went, wesh'd, scrub'd, an brush'd,

An sware tha wad hev rare spooat;

An eeach put on his bran new suit,

New breeches, cooat, an waiscooat.

An off tha went: "God speed ya weel!"

Cried Jinny, that was Jack's wife;

"An i' yer harts his love reveeal,"

"I wop yoo'll hev a pleasant da."

"I wop you will," said Jenny:

"I wop we sal," said Jack, "hurra!"

"I wop we sal," said Jerry.

An tha wer gone, lauk hoo tha preached,

An laugh'd all't way tha though;

Far on afoor their voices reach'd,

Ther mirth was getin vent so.

The wavy fiels 'o yallow wheat,

Spread wide i' view ther treasure;

The side swung wots, an bearded John,

'At fills the tankard measure,

Did sweetly vie wi promises

Zi fill oor barns wi plenty:

"Thank God," says Jack, "these are his gifts,

Ye fields 'twas him at sent ye."

Plenty thronged like an empress sat

Upon the broo 'o Cayton;

Wea laughed an made the hills ti smile

For miles round bonny Ayton.

DOLLY'S GAON; OR, THE EFFECTS OF PRIDE.[247]

THE neighbours all remember weel

Once Dolly bought a gaon;

A painted lin, the grandest thing;

Ther but one piece ith taon.

The boy ith shop he teld her soa;

A merry joaking lad:

He said it wor t' first gaon o't piece

That ony one had had:—

And if shoo'd come when it wor made,

And let him see it on,

A handkerchy he'd give to her,

If he're a living man.

The gaon wor made, to 'th church shoo went;

But what gave most delight,

Shoo heeard foulks whisper as shoo past,

I never so the like!

But when shoo coom at Rubin's cot,

A hut that stood o'th moor,

Old Rubin sat, and Grace his wife,

Both smooking at the door.

"Good morning, Dolly," old Grace said,

"I wonder'd wo't could be."

Surprised shoo stud, her hands both up,

"What mun I live to see!"

"Is tat thy choice," old Rubin said,—

"Tha beots old Judy Gazer,

Shoo'd fifty gaons, but nooan like that,—

I'gy it is a blazer!"

Gay Dolly laugh'd, old Rubin said—

"Come in and sit te daon;"

But Dolly tript along the green,

Delighted with her gaon.

The church shoo enter'd, 'twor begun,

The best time to be seen;

Some sat and star'd, and some stood up,

As if shoo'd been the queen.

This confirm'd Dolly in her choice;

Her gaon wurt first in stile:

The priest, and clark, and all did stare,

And some, shoo thought, did smile.

This printed gaon had broad green leaves,

With branches thick and tall;

Red burds and yollow, ducks and geese,

The huntsman, haonds and all.

Thus Dolly sat, like Sheba's queen,

The grandest in the place;

A sidelong glance sometimes shoo cast

But did not turn her face.

Her prayer-book shoo seem'd to read,

As other people do;

But her devotion was her dress,

Her gaon wor spanking new.

The church did loase, and still they star'd;

Some laugh'd and made a stur:

The childer too came running raond,

One pointing said, "That's hur."

"Ah! what a gaon!" shoo heeard 'em say,

"Wi yollow burds and red:

It's just sich stuff as gentle fooak

Makes curtains for their bed."

This confused Dolly all at once,

Shoo knew not where shoo'er baon;

For fooaks shoo met, they laugh'd and said—

"Haa like ye yo'r new gaon?"

But Dolly shoo would speyk to nooan;

To meet fouk shoo were feard:

For some took hold o' Dolly's gaon,

And ast what twor a yeord.

Shoo call'd to see old Betty Hay,

While chapel fouk went past;

As shoo went in shoo heeard 'em say,

"Shoo's getten here at last."

This wor a spice shop, where t' lads met;

A merry hoil it ware:

Lads making fun o' all they could,

And Dolly gat her share.

The haaos wor fill'd, but all gave place;

"Come, Dolly, sit ye daon:"

When hoaf a dozen lads cried aaot—

"That is a bonny gaon!"

"Yo've bet'em, Dolly, all to day;

Yo'r gaon is first in stile:

It's been admir'd by all ith church,

Old priest, we saw him smile.

"Yo've vext old Mrs. Smith to day;

Her dress is nout like this:

Shoo knows it too, they all do say,

And's taen it quite amiss.

"When t' childer laugh'd at yo'r new gaon,

Shoo turn'd her face toth wal;

When church did loase, shoo went back way,

So as to miss 'em all."

Some thought this gaon could not be bought

At Halifax at all:

It wor a London print, they thought;

'T piece sud be sent for—all.

A what a profit Dolly'd got!

Shoo'd sell it in a crack;

"This dress beoats all, come, lads, and see

A hunt o' Dolly's back!"

The noise wor great, the laugh wor loud;

Lads shaoting hard a-way:

Poor Dolly rag'd, some said shoo swore,

At last we heeard her say—

"Gooid God!" said Dolly, stamping mad,

"Whatever sall I hear?

I'm t' laughing stock for all, egad,

I'm war nor ever here."

Up Dolly jumps—this is a hoil;

Ol gooa, it dos'n't meon:

Shoo heeard t' lads say oth aaotside door—

"Shoo's coming aaot ageon."

Lads pull'd her daon, but still shoo'd goa;

And running straight at door:

Chears and tables, spice and nuts

Shoo tumbled on toth floor.

"What will yo do," old Betty said,

When chears and tables crash'd;

"Me spice and apples daon oth floor,

And cumfit glass is smash'd."

Lads ran at apples, spice and nuts,

All sprawling daon o'th floor;

Poor Dolly said, "If I get aaot,

Yol catch me here no moore."

"Naa, flint-faced Tom," old Betty said,

"There's not a war ith taon;"

Tha held her fast, then late her slip,

Tha new shoo'd nock stuff daon.

"Aye, tha my laugh, tha brazen'd thing,

But will ta mak it up;

There is not hoaf oth stuff just naa

I had before ith shop.

"Such sturs as these I hate to see;"—

Tom said he ne'er begunt;

"Old tale ageon, its none o'me,

It's olas nubdy's dunt.

"There's winkin Will, and Jack ith oil,

Thes not two war ith shop;

I saw yo pushing lasses daon,

Then picking lads oth top.

"There's Dolly here, theyn tore her cap;

And t' screed wor London lace;

Shoe blacking temd o'hur new gaon,

And spotted black her face.

"Me chears theyn mash'd, me stoils theyn smash'd,

And crack'd t' new table top;

My apple pooak theyn taen away,

An put puttates ith spot.

"Sich sturs wud ruin ony man;

Whate'er I says no use:

There's three or four oth back oth door,

Eighting my spenisjuce.

"I'll fotch a warrant, if I live;

I'll transpoort ten to-morn:

Reit ovver sea I'll send yo all,

As sure as 'ere yor born.

"Nan, ta me cap toth frilling shop,

Them get it up best way;

Ol be at justices at morn,

Be it be breyk o' day.

"I'll not go there a daggletail,

Like mucky onion Ann;

I'll tell a tale, (yol seet ith news,)

As weel as ony man."

Ther scores o' people craaded raond,

Twor like a village fair:

When shoo went aaot ther sich a noise,

As if they'd rais'd a hare.

Sly Billy took her by the arm;

"Come, Dolly, stick to me:"

But Dolly struck him plump oth face;

"I'll nooan be fooil'd by thee."

His nose did bleed, the people laugh'd,

"Reyt, thump him," they did cry;

But Billy 'er fain to run away,

His bloody nose to dry.

Another scene gave Dolly pain:

It struck her like a blast;

Her old sweetheart wi bonny Jane,

Stud laaghing as shoo past.

This wor too much, the tears did flow,

Her trubbled brest did beat;

When love for love expects a smile,

A scornful taunt did meet.

"Thal wed her naa," Jane laughing said;

"Shoo beots fine fouk ith taon;

Shoo's like a walking cortan'd bed;

I wish I'd sich a gaon."

This Dolly heeard, but on shoo mov'd;

Sad, mourning, all furlorn:

"I wor in different trim, God knows,

When I coom on at morn."

I must be dreaming, Dolly thought;

But to be sure shoo put

Hur hands both up to touch her een,

To feel if they wor shut.

"This gaon, I'll burn it if I live,

I'll burn it every bit;

For, warst of all, where'er e go,

Thel say I'm short o' wit."

Then Dolly went at sich a speed,

Shoo never went before;

When shoo gat home shoo doft her gaon,

Declar'd shoo'd dont no more.

THE MORAL.

O what a change we undergo

By fate's unfriendly touch;

When we're asham'd and laugh'd at too,

For what we've priz'd so much.

THE WIDOW'S LAMENT.

This ballad is founded on an event which took place in the latter part of the year 1848. A gamekeeper of the earl of Ripon went out one night about his usual business, and was found next morning, near one of the plantations on Hutton Moor, shot dead. A notorious poacher, who was seen in the neighbourhood on the day of the murder, was apprehended and tried at York assizes, but acquitted for want of evidence; he subsequently emigrated to America, where he died, and is said to have confessed that he was the murderer.

The cheerless day is closing fast,

The angry night-wind howls around,

And hurried by the sweeping blast,

Cold sleet and snow drive o'er the ground.

Nought pleasing can the scene impart,

Far as the weary eye can scan;

But colder far the widow's heart,—

The widow of the murdered man.

The scene is o'er—the grave has closed

Above the form she loved the best;

The heart where all her trust reposed

Was driven to untimely rest.

Amid her children weeping round,

She stands an image of despair,

Clasping her arms her infant round,—

Yet from her eye there falls no tear;

Hers is a keener, deeper woe,

A more intense and heavy grief,

Than those whence tears in torrents flow,

And give the burdened heart relief.

"Well may ye weep," at length she cried,

"Poor orphans to a father's care,

By villain's shot your father died,

And left us hopeless, friendless here.

"Why on my heart such sudden fear

Came icy cold I cannot tell;

When loud the shot pealed on mine ear,

I thought by it my husband fell.

"He was I fear too rashly brave!

His heart was bold tho' warm and kind,

But now it moulders in the grave,

And we are helpless left behind.

"In health and hope he left his home,

And promised early to return,

For him I spread my choicest store,

And brighter made the fire to burn.

"For him, alas! I looked in vain,

The night closed in dark, drear, and wild,

I sigh'd and wept, then looked again,

Then looked upon my sleeping child.

"And oh! that night of dreadful grief,

Of fear, uncertainty, and sorrow,

What could I think? where seek relief?

I hoped—yet feared the coming morrow.

"I thought that night would ne'er be done,

Each minute seemed a dreary day;

My heart before was ne'er cast down,

As then it drooped at his delay.

"Each sound I heard I thought him come,

And eager looked—but looked in vain;

That dreary night he was from home,

And there he never came again.

"The morning told the fatal truth,

My hapless heart presaged my lot,

The loved companion of my youth,

Was murdered by a villain's shot.

"Oh! murderous man, what hast thou done?

Reflect upon thy awful crime!

What peace of mind to thee can come,

Oh wretch repent while thou hast time!

"Oh! I could curse thee in my grief!

Thou murderer of my peace and joy;

But I will not—'twere small relief,

Tho' justice should thy life destroy.

"'Twould not recall to life again

The man I loved in early youth:

Ah me! ah me! now all in vain

His kindness, my confiding truth.

"In thy dark cell alone to pine

From every consolation free;

I'd rather bear my lot than thine,

I'd rather be myself than thee!

"Will not before thy startled eye

Thy murdered victim ever seem?

Canst thou in slumber think to lie,

And not behold him in thy dream?

"For me, alas! what shall I do?

My children soon must cry for bread,

And he, the husband, father true,

Who was our all, is murdered.

"Deep in his grave, oh! I could rest,

There would my cares and sorrows cease;

With him I should—I should be blest!

O with him I should be at peace!

"Come death relieve me of my woe!

Come bid my sleepless eyelids close!

O gladly to his grave I'd go,

And share with him his cold repose!

"Why dost thou smile? my darling child!

Thy heavy loss thou dost not know!

Thy mother's grief is frantic, wild,

For oh thy father moulders low!

"No more will he with kindly care,

Caress thee fondly in his arms;

His loving kiss thou canst not share,

Nor lisp to him thy vain alarms.

"Forgive me, God! I wished to die,

When thou my babe so sweetly smiled;—

For thee to live in hope I'll try,

My comfort left, my darling child!"

As conscious of its parent's woe,

The artless innocent upsprung,

Its arms around her neck to throw,

While to her lips its kisses clung.

Then love dissolved the mother's grief,

What mother can desert her child?

A flood of tears now brought relief,

And hope again (though faintly) smiled.

ALICE HAWTHORN.[248]

COME all ye gay sportsmen who join in the sport,

And oft to the race-course with pleasure resort,

Come listen to me while of Alice I sing,

Who bids fair to rival the famous Bees Wing.

Chorus.

To swift Alice Hawthorn, then fill up the glass,

And give her a bumper,—the first in the race.

Her sire was famous, Muley Moloch his name,

Her dame was Rebecca, a mare of great fame,

The pride of the turf, and the crack of the day,

They carried the cups and the prizes away.

She beat them at Richmond in the year forty-two,

Also at Northallerton swiftly she flew,

As if she was going on the wings of the wind,

And leaving the jockies to whip up behind.

At Richmond in forty-three, all of them tried,

To beat Alice Hawthorn, but vainly they vied,

'Twas glorious to see how the favourite did run,

And the Victoria Plate like a gallant she won.

At Liverpool races she beat every horse,

And at York too she triumphed, the pride of the course,

And when Alice Hawthorn to Doncaster came,

The cup was her prize, and they all gave her fame.

The Ascot Heath sporters prepared her a prize,

And she won it most nobly, and pleased all their eyes,

She won at Newcastle, and to crown all up,

She gallantly carried away Goodwood cup.

The year forty-four is the height of her fame,

Her trainer, Bob Hesseltine, joys in her name,

Her master has reaped a good harvest this year,

And swift Alice Hawthorn to Salvin[249] is dear.

At York the Queen's Hundred she then bore away,

And proved herself fairly the crack of the day,

The Yorkers stood gaping and praising the mare,

And Alice! brave Alice! rung loud in the air.

At Lewes she won the Queen's Plate in grand style,

And her rider gazed on the old mare with a smile,

Then Doncaster crown'd her the queen of the course,

By winning three prizes and never a loss.

And now to conclude, you'll allow me to say,

At Richmond she carried the gold cup away,

So here's to Sim. Templeman, drink to the man,

And beat him on Alice ye jocks if ye can.

TOMMY THUMB.

I'ZE a poor country lad, as you see by my dress,

That I'ze Yorkshire, mayhap, you may pratty well guess;

My name's Zekiel Homespun, you all know me now,

It is not the first time I have here made my bow.

Tol lol de roll, &c.

To London I com'd, upon bus'ness, d'ye see,

But contriv'd to make pleasure and bus'ness agree;

For when I gets back wi' our chaps on the green,

They'll be sure to be asking me what I ha' seen.

Now having in town but a short time to stay,

Thinks I, while the sunshines, I'd better make hay;

So I ask'd what the play were? they told me, by gum,

'Twas a very fine tragedy, call'd Tommy Thumb.

In Yorkshire I'd oft heard our knowing ones say,

That a very good moral was learn'd from a play,

And that tragedy boasted of language so fine,

So I thought that, as how, it might help me wi' mine.

Well, the curtain drew up, and the first to appear,

Were two gentlemen drest, to be sure, mortal queer;

Says one, "To the king, this petition I'll show,"

Then the other to him answered, "Do, Doodle, do."

In the next scene were the king and the queen on their throne,

To whom the petition was presently shown;

But king Arthur from Doodle indignantly shrunk,

"For," says he, "'tis our pleasure this day to get drunk."

So thinks I to myself, an' that's what you're about,

There's no business for me, sure, to see the play out;

To my own native parts I will quickly go down,

I can learn to get drunk there as well as in town.

So I'ze ta'en me a place at George and Blue Boar,

Where the coach will set off in the morning at four,

And as I must be up long afore it is light,

I hope you'll not keep me here too late to night.

THE FUNNY WEDDING.

Which took place in Bradford on the First of December, 1851.

JUST give attention, old and young,

And listen for awhile,

I'll sing to you a funny song,

Will sure to make you smile,

It is about a circumstance

Well known to all around,

I mean the funny wedding

That took place in Bradford town.

Chorus.

Such a funny sight in Bradford town,

Was never seen before.

It was from Whipsey that the people

On that morning came,

The aged couple there did live,

You perhaps may know their name;

This couple long had wanted to

Enjoy each other's bed,

So on that happy day they went

To Bradford to get wed.

Such a funny wedding.

They often told their tales of love,

At length, good lack-a-day,

Old Johnny said to Betty,

"Love, this is our wedding day."

Such mirth and fun in Bradford town,

The people did never see,

For John is sixty-five years old,

And Betty seventy-three.

Such a funny wedding.

Invitations were sent round to their

Neighbours and their friends,

And earnestly requested them

Their wedding to attend;

So on the first day of December,

They collected in their forces,

Some mounted upon donkeys' backs,

And others upon horses.

Such a funny wedding.

To see this funny wedding

Thousands gathered round,

For in a grand procession

They march'd into the town;

Some with soot mustachios,

Others with their faces black,

And another with a monkey

Stuft with straw upon his back.

Such a funny wedding.

There was some had got red jackets on,

And others had got blue,

With rummy caps and three-cock'd hats,

They seem'd a jovial crew,

And as they came along the street,

The people they did start,

And laugh to see old John and

Betty riding in a cart.

Such a funny wedding.

At last they came up to the church,

And the cart did stand,

While John and Betty both got out,

As you shall understand;

He led her to the altar

And plac'd her by his side,

They took the oath, and Johnny then

Claim'd Betty for his bride.

Such a funny wedding.

When the marriage it was over,

Devoid of care or pain,

The procession got in readiness

For to return again.

With John and Betty in the cart

They made a grand display,

And as they homeward did return

The fifes and drums did play.

Such a funny wedding.

Now John and Betty have got wed,

Let's hope they will agree,

In unity and harmony

Always happy be,

And in nine months' time,

May they have a daughter or a son

Mark'd with this grand procession,

And December on its bum.

And such a funny wedding may

They live to see again.

THE FLYING DUTCHMAN.[250]

YOU sportsmen all both great and small, one moment now attend,

And listen with attention to these verses I have penn'd,

'Tis of the Flying Dutchman I mean to sing my lay,

And tell you all the prizes too that he has borne away.

To the Flying Dutchman drink success who has so nobly run,

He's beat the famous Voltigeur and show'd them how 'twas done.

The first place was Newmarket the Flying Dutchman run,

Where the July stake and a sweepstake of 400l. he won;

And then he went to Liverpool, believe me what I say,

A sweepstake of 1200l. the Dutchman bore away.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

At Doncaster in 1848, the truth I do unfold,

He carried off the champion stakes, likewise the two year old;

And then in 1849 he went to Epsom town,

And won the Derby stake 6,320l.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

Then in July, at Liverpool, no horse would with him run,

He walked over twice and there 850l. he won;

From there he went to Doncaster, and through the pelting rain,

With Charley Marlow on his back the Ledger did obtain.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

The foal stakes then at Doncaster, which was 400l. more,

No horse would run against him so the Dutchman he walked o'er;

Then at Newmarket he was match'd, but the Dutchman, I believe,

A forfeit of 500l. from Honeycomb received.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

Then for the Belivor stake the famous Flying Dutchman ran,

He took the prize; then at Ascot Heath the Emperor's cup he won;

And at Goodwood too he won the prize, then to Doncaster came up,

He there was beat by Voltigeur running for the cup.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

Upon the thirteenth day of May in 1851,

The Flying Dutchman and Voltigeur upon York[251] race course did run,

'Twas for a thousand sovereigns, believe me what I say,

Which the Flying Dutchman has won and borne the prize away.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

No other horse was ever known to do what he has done,

For more than twenty thousand pounds in prizes he has won;

With Marlow mounted on his back, believe me what I say,

He never run a race but one, but he took the prize away.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

So to conclude and make an end, and finish up my song,

Unto the brave lord Eglinton, Flying Dutchman does belong,

So fill your glass and let it pass, and give a loud huzza,

For the Flying Dutchman stands unrivalled at the present day.

To the Flying Dutchman, &c.

THE YORKSHIREMAN IN LONDON.[252]

WHEN first in London I arriv'd

On a visit, on a visit;

When first in London I arriv'd

'Midst heavy rain and thunder,

I 'spied a bonny lass in green,

The bonniest lass I'd ever seen,

I'd oft heard tell of a beauteous queen,

Dash me, thinks I, I've found her.

I look'd at her, she look'd at me,

So bewitching, so bewitching;

I look'd at her, she look'd at me,

I look'd so very simple.

Her cheeks were like the blooming rose,

Which on the hedge neglected blows,

Her eyes were black as any sloes,

And near her mouth a dimple.

I stood stock still, she did the same,

Gazing on her, gazing on her;

I stood stock still, she did the same,

Thinks I, I've made a blunder;

Just then her cheeks turn'd deadly pale,

Says I, "My love, what d'ye ail?"

Then she told me a dismal tale

That she was scar'd with thunder.

"Madam," says I, and made my bow,

Scraping to her, scraping to her;

"Madam," says I, and made my bow,

"I'd quite forgotten t' weather;

But if you will permission give

I'll see you home, where-e'er you live;"

So she pop'd her arm right thro' my sleeve,

And off we set tegether.

A bonny wild goose chase we had,

In an out sir, in an out sir;

A bonny wild goose chase we had,

The bollar stones so gall'd me;

At last she brought me to a door

Where twenty lasses, hey, or more,

Came out to have a better glore

At bumkin as they call'd me.

"Walk in," said she, "kind sir," to me,

Quite politely, quite politely;

"Walk in," said she, "kind sir," to me.

"Poor chap," say they, "he's undone."

"Walk in," says she. "No, no," says I,

"For I've got other fish to fry,

I've seen you home, so now good bye,

I'm Yorkshire, tho' in London."

My pockets soon I rummish'd over,

Cautious ever, cautious ever;

My pockets soon I rummish'd over,

Found there a diamond ring, sir;

For I had this precaution took,

In each to stick a small fish hook;

So in grapling for my pocket book,

The barb had strip'd her finger.

Three weeks I've been in London town,

Living idle, living idle;

Three weeks I've been in London town,

It's time to go to work, sir;

For I've sold the ring, and here's the brass,

I have not play'd the silly ass;

It will do to toast a London lass,

When I get back to Yorkshire.

THE GREAT EXHIBITION; OR, PRINCE ALBERT'S CURIOSITY SHOP.

An entirely new comic song, written and sung by Mr. Burford, at the Theatre, Whitby, on the occasion of the Foresters' bespeak, and since received every evening with great applause.

I am a native of fair Dublin city,

To Whitby I've come for a spree;

I've been up to London to visit

The Great Crystal Palace, d'ye see:

For there's wonders one top of the other,

In that wonderful place to be seen,

Faith the brains of a saint it would bother,

To know what the government mean.

You may talk of your fancy bazaars,

If you're passing Hyde Park only stop;

Faith it's there that you'll stare with surprise,

At Prince Albert's Curiosity Shop.

For the first day the charge is a guinea,

For those that have guineas to pay,

But I dont think I'll be such a ninny

As throw my good money away;

On the next day the charge is five shillings,

But the queen wont be there I'll be bound,

For altho' she's got plenty of money

She'll not like to part with her crown.

You may talk, &c.

I'll sing you of some of the wonders,

I hear has been sent from this town:

Of life boats I'm sure there is plenty,

And not one of which will go down.

There's Smales, Swallow, Baker, and Slater,

Have studied upon their own scale,

But the one that should weather all storms,

Is that which was made by a Gale.

You may talk, &c.

There's a genius to make weather merry—

Merryweather's the genius I mean;

Foul and fair be his studies together,

Ere long his success will be seen.

At Staithes' they say there's a man too,

Has made a rat trap goes on springs;

And another a new reefing jacket,

Provided with cast metal wings.

You may talk, &c.

No doubt but you've heard of St Hilda,

That wonderful Saint long ago,

She cut all the heads off the serpents,

With her wonderful sword at a blow.

The petrified sword has been found too,

To the Great Exhibition it's gone,

For no doubt there'll be plenty of serpents

From all parts to visit the town.

You may talk, &c.

I've got some fresh news for your seamen

To keep up your hearts my good lads,

For there's vessels to sail out of Whitby,

In which you'll be sure of your brads.

I've been watching the vessels that's passing,

That justice to seamen allows,

And so you'll be sure of your wages

For they've got £4 10s. on their bows.

You may talk, &c.

May every success attend Whitby,

May the star of prosperity shine

On your labours to prove your industry,

May it gain for your town a good name;

May misfortune's clouds never lower

On either your commerce or trade;

May your seamen gain all they desire,

And stick to the terms they have made.

You may talk, &c.

THE LORD OF SALTAIRE.

By Abraham Holroyd.[253]

This song was composed to commemorate an event which created much sensation in Yorkshire, and indeed throughout all England, in September, 1853; this was the inauguration and opening of a palace dedicated to industry near Shipley in Airedale. These works were built for the manufacture of alpaca and mohair fabrics, and named Saltaire from Salt—the name of the owner, Titus Salt, esq., M.P. for Bradford—and Aire, the name of the river on which they were erected. The buildings cover an area of eleven and half acres, will contain 1,200 looms capable of producing 30,000 yards of cloth, or mixed goods, per day, or nearly 18 miles of cloth, and employing about 5,000 people.

The town of Saltaire is built upon the best principles, including every convenience necessary for promoting the health and comfort of the population. Not only will it be a model town as regards its spacious squares and streets, grounds for recreation, schools, and church, (which has lately been opened, and cost 11,000l., and is perhaps the most beautiful in its interior of any church in Yorkshire,) its baths and washhouses, and all that philanthropy can suggest, or art supply, to further improvement.

Roll on, gentle Aire, in thy beauty,

Renowned in story and song,

The subject of many a ditty,

From Nicholson's[254] musical tongue:

But a greater than he hath arisen,

Who has link'd thy name with his own,

He will render thee famous for ages,

And thou wilt to millions be known.

Then let us all join in the chorus,

And sing of the qualities rare,

Of one who by nature is noble,—

And hail him the lord of Saltaire!

He's rear'd up a palace to Labour,

Will equal the Cæsars of old,

The church and the school and the cottage,

And lavish'd his thousands of gold:

Where the workman may live and be happy,

Enjoying the fruit of his hand;

In contentment, in comfort, and plenty,

Secure as a peer of the land.

Then let us all join, &c.

From Peru he's brought the alpaca—

From Asia's plains the mohair—

With skill has wrought both into beauty,

Priz'd much by the wealthy and fair:

He has velvets, and camlets, and lustres,

With them there is none can compare;

Then off, off with your hats and your bonnets,

Hurrah for the lord of Saltaire.

Hip, hip, and all join, &c.

A REMARKABLE CIRCUMSTANCE CONNECTED WITH BRETTON HALL.[255]

AT Bretton Hall, near Wakefield, known so well,

Sir William Wentworth Blackett once did dwell;

That mansion was his own; there, with his bride,

In pomp and splendour, he did once reside.

Yet, in the midst of all that he possest,

A rambling mind disturb'd sir William's breast;

His lady and his home he left behind;

Says he, "The end of this wide world I'll find;

The earth's extensive, but, you may depend on't,

Before e'er I return, I'll find the end on't."

So he embark'd on board a ship, we find,

And, sailing, left her ladyship behind,

Who oft in sorrow did his absence mourn,

And sighing said, "Oh, that he would return!

For, be his voyage rough or smooth at sea,

It is a cruel bitter blast to me."

Sir William, he rolls on through winds and waves;

Undaunted, he all kinds of weather braves;

Nor his strange project e'er relinquish'd he,

Till one-and-twenty years he'd been at sea;

Then, p'rhaps, he thought, "Good lack! the world is round;

The end is nowhere—so it can't be found;

And, as I'm weary of this wild-goose chase,

At home again, e'er long I'll show my face."

Then off he set, but little was aware,

What would transpire on his arrival there:

For while sir William rov'd as here express'd,

Another "Sir," his lady thus address'd:—

"Sir William's gone, (ne'er to return again)

Past this world's end, which long he sought in vain,

There's not a doubt he's found the end of life;

But don't be troubled; you shall be my wife."

She listen'd, till at length she gave consent,

And straightway to church then this couple went.

Sir William does about this wedding hear,

As he unto his journey's end draws near;

And thus he does within his mind reflect:—

"This sly usurper I shall now detect:

Soon shall he know, though much against his will,

At Bretton hall I have dominion still;

Those woods and fertile fields my own I call,

With this magnificent, this splendid hall:

And now I come to claim them as my own,

Though, by my dress, not from a beggar known;

My clothes are turn'd to rags, and, by the weather,

My skin is tann'd till it resembles leather;

So now I'll act the beggar bold and rude,

And at this wedding boldly I'll intrude,

And, though admittance I may be denied,

I'll rob the merry bridegroom of his bride."

Then at his own hall door one rap he gave,

Resolv'd the inmates' charity to crave.

So he presented his request, 'tis said,

And they presented him—a crust of bread!

The bread he took, and then, to their surprise,

He ask'd the servants for some beer likewise.

"No, no," said they, "beer we shall give you none;

You saucy drunken vagabond, begone!"

At length (with much ado) some beer he got,

And quickly he return'd the empty pot;

And straightway then into the hall went he,

And said, he wish'd her ladyship to see.

"You can by no means see her," answer'd they,

"She's newly married! 'tis her wedding-day!"

"Married!" the feigned beggarman replied,

"Then I'll not go till I have seen the bride."

Then tow'rds the dining-room his course he bent,

The servants quick pursued with one consent,

And seized him, with intent to turn him out.

"Come back, you villain; what are you about?"

"About my bus'ness, to be sure," quoth he,

"The room I'll enter, and the bride I'll see."

"We'll see you out of doors," the servants said;

And now of course, a clam'rous din they made,

Just then, the bride, on hearing such a clatter,

Open'd the door, to see what was the matter.

This noble beggar thus obtain'd a sight

Of her who erstwhile was his heart's delight,

He viewed her in her nuptial garments dress'd,

And did of her a glass of wine request,

Which she denied—who little did suppose

The ragged stranger was her wealthy spouse;

Then straight into the dining-room he went,

And down he sat among the guests content.

Says he, "You'll grant me my request I know;

A glass of wine I'll have before I go."

The bride at length, complied with his request,

Thus thinking to despatch the ragged guest,

But when he did this glass of wine obtain,

He drank and fill'd, and drank and fill'd again.

The guests astonish'd and disgusted, view'd,

Whilst he proceeded to be far more rude;

Around the bride's fair neck he threw his arm,

And gave a kiss, which did her much alarm,

On him she frown'd, and threaten'd him with law,

Says he, "Your threats I value not a straw:

My conduct to reprove is all in vain,

For what I've done I mean to do again.

Madam, your bridegroom's in an awkward case;

This night I do intend to take his place."

And while upon her countenance he pores,

The guests agree to kick him out of doors.

"The deuce is in the beggarman," they cried;

"He means to either beg or steal the bride."

"No, no," says he, "I claim her as my own."

He smil'd and then he did himself make known,

Saying, "William Wentworth Blackett is my name;

For my long absence I'm much to blame;

But safe and sound I have return'd at last,

So let's forgive each other all that's past."

The bride did her first bridegroom recognise;

With joy transported, to his arms she flies;

And, whilst they tenderly each other kiss,

The disappointed bridegroom they dismiss;

Who inwardly did his hard case lament,

Hung down his head, and out of door he went.

"I'm robb'd of this fair jewel, now," thinks he;

"How cruel is this tender spouse to me!"

Awhile he scratched his head, then heaved a sigh,

Then eyed the hall again, and wip'd his eye.

Sir William freely did forgive his wife;

They liv'd together till the end of life.

My honest story I must now conclude,

Which may by some be as a fiction view'd;

But, sirs, the boots in which sir William went,

Are kept in memory of that event;

The very hat he wore preserv'd has been,

At Bretton hall—where they may yet be seen.

THE BUTCHER TURNED DEVIL.[256]

COME neighbours draw near and listen awhile,

I will sing you a song it will cause you to smile,

It's concerning Old Nick, he's the father of evil,

He has long been well known by the name of the devil.

In the village of Empsall, near to Wakefield town,

To an old woman through the chimney he came down,

If you'd been there to see him, you would have thought it funny,

But he frightened the old woman, for he wanted all her money.

Says he, "Woman take warning, for now I tell you plain,

To-morrow night at twelve o'clock I'll visit you again,

One hundred bright sovereigns for me you must prepare,

Or else with me then you must go, to a place you may guess where."

Then up thro' the chimney he vanished from her sight,

And she went to the Wakefield bank as soon as it was light,

"You must pay me one hundred pounds," to the bankers she did say.

"You ought to give us notice, you can't have it to-day."

O then she wept most bitterly and told them her tale,

How the devil he would fetch her, or her money without fail,

Says the banker, "I will help you, though I beg you will be still,

And I'll apprehend the devil and send him to the tread-mill."

At Empsall a great thundering noise was heard again that night;

The devil down the chimney came with his long horns and a light,

Two men that were in readiness seized him in a trice,

And they held the devil just as fast, as if he'd been in a vice.

Next day great crowds of people went to see the devil there,

But they say he changed his shape, and so it did appear,

For when he found the old woman safe, so that he could not touch her,

He lost his horns and tail, and turned out to be a butcher!

The devil often has been blamed when innocent, 'tis true,

But now he is caught in the fact, they will give him his due,

And since he bears such a bad name, there's no doubt but they will

Keep him prisoner, as long as he lives, at Wakefield tread-mill.

SONG.

WHEN I was a wee little totterin bairn,

An' had nobbut just gitten short frocks;

When to gang I at first was beginnin to lairn,

On my brow I gat monie hard knocks:

For se waik, an' se silly, an' helpless was I,

I was always a tumblin down then,

While me mother wald twattle me gently, an' cry,

"Honey, Jenny, tak' care o' thysen."

But when I grew bigger, an' gat to be strang,

'At I cannily ran all about

By mysen, whor I lik'd, then I always mud gang,

Without bein' tell'd about ought.

When however I com to be sixteen year auld,

An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men.

My mother wud call o' me in, an' wald scauld,

An' cry—"Huzzy! tak' care o' thysen."

I've a sweetheart comes now upo' Setterday neeghts,

An' he swears 'at he'll mak' me his wife,

My mam grows se stingy, she scaulds and she flytes,

An' twitters me out o' my life.

But she may leuk sour, an' cansait hersen wise,

An' preach again likin young men;

Sen I'se grown a woman, her clack I'll despise,

An' I'se—marry!—tak' care o' mysen.

COLONEL THOMPSON'S VOLUNTEERS.[257]

AS we march'd down to Scarbro' on the fourteenth of June,

The weather it was warm, and the soldiers in full bloom;

There it was my good fortune to meet my dearest dear,

For my heart was stole away by colonel Thompson's volunteer.

My father and my mother confined me in my room,

When I jump'd out of the window, and ran into the town,

Where it was my good fortune, to meet my dearest dear,

The man that stole my heart was colonel Thompson's volunteer.

Then in came George Etherington all with his bugle horn,

He said he'd seen the prettiest girl that ever sun shone on,

Her cheeks they were like roses, she is beautiful and fair,

And she says she'll march with none but colonel Thompson's volunteer.

Then in came captain Carter, and unto them did say,

That he had seen the prettiest girl, of any there to-day,

Her eyes were black as jet, and her hair it hung so tight,

And she says she'll march with none but colonel Thompson's men this night.

Our officers are loyal, they are men of courage bold,

Their clothing is of scarlet and turned up with gold,

It's I could wash the linen to please my dearest dear,

When I was in the field with colonel Thompson's volunteer.

Our ladies they love music, our captain gives command,

They play the prettiest marches of all the royal bands,

They play the sweetest music that ever my ears did hear,

For my heart was stole away by colonel Thompson's volunteer.

I'll bid adieu to father, likewise to mother too,

I'll never forsake my soldier but unto him prove true,

And I'll range the country over with the lad that I love dear,

Since I'm bound in wedlock's bonds to colonel Thompson's volunteer.

THE SLEDMERE POACHERS.[258]

COME, all you gallant poaching lads, and gan alang with me,

And let's away to Sledmere woods, some game for to see;

It's far and near, and what they say it's more to feel than see,

So come, my gallant poaching lads, and gan alang with me.

Chorus.

We are all brave poaching lads, our names we dare not tell,

And if we meet the keeper, boys, we'll make his head to swell.

On the fifth of November last, it being a star-light night,

The time it was appointed, boys, that we were all to meet,

When at twelve o'clock at midnight, boys, we all did fire a gun,

And soon, my lads, it's we did hear, old hares begin to run.

We have a dog, they call him Sharp, he Sledmere woods did stray,

The keeper he fell in with him and fain would him betray;

He fired two barrels at the dog, intending him to kill,

But by his strength and speed of foot he tript across the hill.

All on one side and both his thighs he wounded him full sore,

Before we reached home that night with blood was covered o'er;

On recovering of his strength again, revenged for evermore,

There's never a hare shall him escape that runs on Sledmere shore.

We have a lad, they call him Jim, he's lame on all one leg,

Soon as the gun is shoulder'd up, his leg begins to wag;

When the gun presented fire, and the bird came tumbling down,

This lad he kick'd him with his club before he reached the ground.

So as we as march'd up Burlington road, we loaded every gun,

Saying if we meet a keeper bold we'll make him for to run,

For we are all bright Sledmere lads, our names we will not tell,

But if we meet a keeper bold we'll make his head to swell.

We landed into Cherry woods; we went straight up the walk;

We peak'd the pheasants in the trees, so softly we did talk;

We mark'd all out, what we did see, till we return'd again,

For we were going to Colleywoodbro' to fetch away the game.

Come, all you gallant poaching lads, if I must have my will,

Before we try to shoot this night let's try some hares to kill;

For shooting, you very well know, it makes terrible sound,

So if we shoot before we hunt we shall disturb the ground.

We landed into Suddaby fields, to set we did begin,

Our dog he was so restless there, we scarce could keep him in;

But when our dog we did let loose, 'tis true they call him Watch,

And before we left that ground that night he fifteen hares did catch.

So it's eight cock-pheasants and five hens, all these we marked right well,

We never fired gun that night but down a pheasant fell.

You gentlemen wanting pheasants, unto me you must apply,

Both hares and pheasants you shall have, and them right speedily.

So now, my lads, it's we'll gan yam, we'll take the nearest way,

And if we meet a keeper bold his body we will bray;

For we are all bright Sledmere lads, our names we will not tell,

But if we meet a keeper bold his head we'll make to swell.

So come, you poaching lads, who love to hunt the game,

And let us fix a time when we will meet again;

For at Colleywoodbro' there's plenty of game, but we'll gan no more,

The next port shall be Kirby Hill where hares do run by scores.

THE YORKSHIRE CONCERT.[259]

I'ZE a Yorkshireman just come to town,

And my coming to town was a gay day,

For fortune has here set me down

Waiting gentleman to a fine lady.

My lady gives galas and routs,

And her treats of the town are the talks here;

But nothing i'ze seen thereabouts,

Equal one that was given in Yorkshire.

Rum ti iddity iddity, rum ti iddity ido,

Rum ti iddity iddity, fal de ral, lal de ral lido.

Johnny Fig was a white and green grocer,

In business as brisk as an eel, sir,

None than John in the shop could stick closer,

But his wife thought it quite ungenteel, sir.

Her neighbours resolv'd to cut out, sir,

And astonish the rustic parishioners;

She invited them all to a rout sir,

And ax'd all the village musicioners.

Rum ti, &c.

The company met gay as larks, sir,

Drawn forth all as fine as blown roses;

The concert commenc'd with the clark, sir,

Who chanted the Vicar and Moses;

The barber sung Gallery of Wigs, sir,

The gentlemen all said 'twas the dandy;

And the ladies encor'd Johnny Fig, sir,

Who volunteer'd Drops of Brandy.

Rum ti, &c.

The baker he sung a good batch,

While the lawyer for harmony willing,

While the bailiff he join'd in the catch,

And the notes of the butcher were killing;

The wheelwright he put in his spoke,

The schoolmaster flogg'd on with fury;

The coachman he play'd the Black Joke,

And the fish-woman sung a Bravura.

Rum ti, &c.

To strike the assembly with wonder,

Madam Fig scream'd a song loud as Boreas,

Soon wak'd farmer Thrasher's dog Thunder,

Who starting up, joined in the chorus;

While a donkey the melody marking,

Chim'd in too, which made a wag say, sir,

"Attend to the rector of Barking's

Duet with the vicar of Bray, sir."

Rum ti, &c.

A brine tub half full of beef, salted,

Madam Fig had trick'd out for a seat, sir,

Where the taylor to sing was exalted,

But the cov'ring crack'd under his feet, sir;

Snip was sous'd in the brine, but, soon rising,

Bawl'd out, while they laugh'd at his grief, sir,

"Is it a matter so monstrous surprising,

To see pickled cabbage with beef, sir?"

Rum ti, &c.

Then a ball after the concert gave way,

And for dancing no souls could be riper,

So struck up the Devil to Pay,

While Johnny Fig paid the piper;

But the best thing came after the ball,

For finish the whole with perfection,

Madam Fig ax'd the gentlefolks all

To sup on a cold collation.

Rum ti, &c.

THE SOLDIER IN YORKSHIRE.

THERE was a jolly soldier down into Yorkshire went,

And for to court a pretty girl was his whole intent;

He courted her, and told her he lov'd her as his life,

Poor girl, she little thought he had another wife.

He courted her six months, with behaviour mild and kind;

Her friends and relations did like him, so we find;

He said, "My dearest Peggy, I love you as my life,

And if your friends are willing, you shall be my wife."

Her father and her mother they both did agree,

That joined in wedlock this couple should be;

I, like a silly girl, consented to the same,

I thought to have a husband none could me blame.

The time being come, they both of them were wed,

So lovingly together, as many people said,

But early the next morning my heart was like to break,

To hear the dismal story to me he did relate.

"Farewell, my dearest Peggy, it cuts me to the heart,

For I do love you dearly, to think that we must part;

I rue what I have done, my love, for me pray don't moan,

I have got a loving wife and children at home."

With that the poor girl she screamed outright,

"So hard is my fortune, I am ruined quite;

I am married to a false man that's got another wife;

I shall have no other comfort or joy of my life."

Then raving distracted, she ran and tore her hair,

Since she must part with him, she fell into despair.

Her mother, she laments, and her father full of woe,

"I'm sorry I gave consent to ruin my daughter so."

The soldier he went home unto his loving wife;

Thinking she might hear of this, bethought to end the strife,

Saying, "I'm married to another, to tell you I'm loath."

"You villain," said she, "you have ruin'd us both."

The wife took it to heart, she bade the world adieu,

To think he lov'd another, and prov'd to her untrue;

Now he is forsaken, and thus doth sigh and mourn,

"Not long ago I had two wives, but now, alas! I've none."

Come all you brave young soldiers, a warning take by me,

And ne'er delude young women and bring to misery;

Think on your wife and children, and ne'er defile the bed,

And never wed the second wife, until the first is dead.

AW NIVIR CAN CALL HUR MY WIFE.[260]

By the Author of "Natterin Nan," etc.

Tune, "Come Whoam to thi Childer an Me."

AW'M a weyver ya knaw, an awf deead,

So aw du all at iver aw can

Ta put away aat o' my heead

The thowts an the aims of a man!

Eight shillin a wick's whot aw arn,

When aw've varry gooid wark an full time,

An aw think it a sorry consarn

Fur a hearty young chap in his prime!

But ar maister says things is as well

As they hae been, ur ivir can be;

An aw happen sud think soa mysel,

If he'd nobud swop places wi me;

But he's welcome ta all he can get,

Aw begrudge him o' noan o' his brass,

An aw'm nowt bud a madlin ta fret,

Ur ta dream o' yond bewtiful lass!

Aw nivir can call hur my wife,

My love aw sal nivir mak knawn,

Yit the sorra that darkens hur life

Thraws a shadda across o' my awn;

An aw'm suar when hur heart is at eeas,

Thear is sunshine an singin i' mine,

An misfortunes may come as they pleeas,

Bud they nivir can mak ma repine.

That Chartist wur nowt bud a sloap,

Aw wur fooild be his speeches an rhymes,

His promises wattered my hoap,

An aw leng'd fur his sunshiny times;

But aw feel 'at my dearist desire

Is withrin within ma away,

Like an ivy-stem trailin' it mire,

An deein' fur t' want of a stay!

When aw laid i' my bed day an neet,

An wur geen up by t'doctur fur deead—

God bless hur—shoo'd come wi' a leet

An a basin o' grewil an breead;

An aw once thowt aw'd aht wi' it all,

Bud sa kindly shoo chattud an smiled,

Aw wur fain tu turn ovvur ta t'wall,

An ta bluther an sob like a child!

An aw said as aw thowt of her een,

Each breeter fur't tear at wur in't;

It's a sin ta be nivir furgeen

Ta yoke hur ta famine an stint;

So aw'l e'en travel forrud thru life,

Like a man thru a desert unknawn,

Aw mun ne'er hev a hoam an a wife,

Bud my sorras will all be my awn!

Soa aw' trudge on aloan as aw owt,

An whativir my troubles may be,

They'll be sweetened, my lass, wi' the thowt

That aw've nivir browt trouble ta thee;

Yit a burd hes its young uns ta guard,

A wild beast, a mate in his den;

An aw cannot but think that its hard—

Nay, deng it, aw'm roarin agen!

A GLOSSARY.

Recently published, 8vo. with Illustrations, cloth, price 15s. Large paper, half bound, £1 5s.

THE HISTORY AND ANTIQUITIES OF
NORTH ALLERTON
IN THE COUNTY OF YORK.

BY C. J. DAVISON INGLEDEW,

OF THE MIDDLE TEMPLE.

Opinions of the Press.

"Here a stranger may take up his abode in a single town, and study under a skilful master the story of its career and the details of its progress in good or bad fortune."—Athenæum.

"The public and private history of North Allerton, its antiquities, public buildings, registers, folk-lore, are duly recorded in a way to gratify its inhabitants, and the curiosity of all who are interested in the history of this ancient town."—Notes and Queries.

"The author evinces great research, and presents to the reader much valuable historical and antiquarian information."—Yorkshire Gazette.

"Though professedly a local history, this work is rich in the records of national events."—Leeds Intelligencer.

"A book which will not only be interesting to all the inhabitants of the North Riding, but must also prove very helpful to any future historian of England."—Leeds Mercury.

"Possesses the high merit of being a book for interesting and delightful perusal by any reader."—Newcastle Journal.

"Full of anecdote, story, and song—manners and customs—folklore and family history."—Gateshead Observer.

"To archæological study generally it is no inconsiderable contribution."—Clerical Journal.

"A great addition to the explorist, as well as to the advanced historical scholar, and is as completely interesting as it is useful." Military Spectator.

LONDON:—BELL AND DALDY, 186, FLEET STREET.