Adventures and Recollections

by Bill o'th' Hoylus End

But nearly three score year, Jim Wreet,
Hev passed away sin then;
When Keighley in Apollo’s art
Could boast her music men.
But music, nah, means money, Jim,
An’ that tha’s sense ta knaw;
But just for owd acquaintance sake,
Come gie us a wag o’ thi paw, Jim Wreet;
Jim Wreet,
Come gie us a wag o’ thi paw.

A DISAPPOINTED MAN

I think an apology will be scarcely needed for introducing a few remarks regarding Mr James Wallbank, a well-known and eccentric character in the town. I have heard that James is dead. Whether this is so or not I cannot say; certainly I have not seen the old gentleman about for some time. James was for many years billiard-marker at the Devonshire Hotel. He cherished the idea that he was related to royalty. He often told me that he was a relative of one of the old kings of France, and insisted that his name instead of being Wallbank should be Wal de Brooke, or something like that. When Burridge, the celebrated American painter, was in Keighley, he stayed at the Devonshire Hotel and painted Mr Walbank’s portrait, and the picture is now in the possession of Mr Martin Reynolds.

“GOOISE AN’ GIBLET PIE.”

Another well-known character was Harry Smith, manufacturer. Harry was a man intensely fond of fun, and one Christmas Eve, I remember, when I was coming from the station after returning from Scotland, he tapped me on the shoulder, and, after ascertaining where I had been of late, quoted a motto of the Freemasons’—“In my Father’s house are many mansions, but such as I have I give unto thee. Follow me.” I went with Smith to his house, and spent Christmas Eve there. The subject of my poem, “Gooise and Giblet Pie,” arose out of that night’s proceedings:—

A Kersmas song I’ll sing mi lads,
If you’ll but hearken me,
An incident i’ Kersmas time
I’ eighteen sixty three:
Withaht a cypher i’ the world
I’d scorn to tell a lie—
I dined wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I’ve been i’ lots o’ feeds, mi’ lads,
An’ hed some rare tuck-ahts;
Blood-pudding days wi’ killing pigs,
Minch pies an’ thumping tarts.
But I wired in, an’ reight an’ all,
An’ supped when I wor dry;
For I wor dining wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I hardly knew what ailed me, lads,
I felt so fearful prahd;
Mi ears prick’d up, mi collar rose,
Towards a hawf-a-yard;
Mi chest stood aht, mi charley in,
Like horns stuck aht mi tie;
For I dined wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I offen think o’ t’ feed, mi lads,
When t’ gentleman I meet;
But nauther of us speyke a word
Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can mysel—
I feel so fearful shy;
For I ate a deal o’ t’ roasted gooise,
An’ warmed his giblet pie.

THE CONCLUDING CHAPTER

It must be a long lane that has no turning. I am afraid the Herald readers who have followed my Recollections will have thought Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End’s memory an inexhaustible one. The truth is, when I commenced to “resurrect” my past career I had no idea that the stories and reminiscences would extend to anything like the length they have gone to; and even now I find that the source of supply is far from being exhausted. But, in the circumstances, I have decided to conclude with this week’s chapter—“the last scene that ends this strange and eventful history.” In the first place, I must crave an apology from my readers for not having been able to give events in my career in their chronological order. As I stated at the outset, I had no diary or data whatever to go by, and have simply reeled the stories and anecdotes off my memory. It will thus be readily seen that I cannot have given every little transaction or happening in my life. In my Recollections I have now and again introduced descriptions and narratives of various characters with whom I was brought closely in contact. I may say that in doing this I have made it my aim to omit, or, failing that, to treat with proper respect, all incidents concerning individuals who were living themselves or had relatives living; and I think that nothing I have said in regard to friends or foes gone over to the Great Majority will have given the slightest offence to their living representatives. I commenced by recapitulating some of the tricks of my boyhood—when I was said, by the old house-wives, to be the “village harum-skarum”—and have traced my career down to within a few years of the present time. Some of my stories have been favourable, others unfavourable to my character. My critics will have said that Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End has many faults; but I must ask them to forgive my many shortcomings, and look upon my few virtues. Above all things, I think I can say that with all reasonableness I have held to the truth. Most of the people of Keighley and the surrounding towns and villages are familiar with the name, at least, of Bill o’ th’ Hoylus End. Without appearing vain or egotistical, I think I may say that I have been recognised by high and low, rich and poor, and by people not altogether unknown to fame. Of all my friends, I entertain the greatest respect for the late Sir Titus Salt, whose assurance I had that if, while he was alive, I wanted a helping hand I need not go far or wait long for it. The baronet honoured me with an interview, at which he told me how highly he thought of the poem which I had written just previously on the occasion of the unveiling of the monument of Sir Titus in Bradford. Perhaps a couple of verses of my “Ode to Sir Titus Salt” will not be misplaced here:—