Then to the place, each smiling face,
Moved on in grand succession.
The lookers-on did say, “Well done!
It is a grand procession.”
The “grand procession” passed into the park, and up to Malsis Hall. A hymn was lustily sung, and then the people were free to ramble about the grounds to their hearts’ content. Gaily-coloured flags and bunting were displayed in profusion, and with the additional charm of the “pleasing sounds of music creeping into their ears” the quondam mill-workers could well imagine themselves permitted to spend a brief interval in a very paradise. But when the time for the “real” part of the feast was come, lo and behold! there was a great disaster—
All but one sort o’ bread ran short,
but it wor no fault o’ t’ maister.
O! Caterer; thy bread an’ bun
An’ judgement they were scanty;
O! what a shame, an’ what a name
For not providing plenty.
O! Billy Brown thou might have known
To eyt each one wor able,
The country air did mak’ some swear—
They could ommost eyt a table!
Despite this slight “hitch,” we all “made the best of it,” and succeeded in enjoying ourselves until the evening, when the closure was unceremoniously applied to the proceedings by a heavy thunderstorm:—
The atmosphere’s no longer clear,
The clouds are black an’ stormy;
Then all the comp’ny away did run
Like one deserting army.
Like some fast steed, wi’ all its speed,
All seemed as they wor flying;
To escape the rain, an’ catch the train
Both old an’ young wor trying.
The people got into the train all right, and travelled safely to Keighley:—
All satisfied wi’ their short ride’
But sorry for the rain.