Then the merry little boys they will ramble,
So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale,
Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble
Will be blown by the mild summer gale:
Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning
To the poor humble peasant will be given.
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.
Haworth Sharpness.
Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day,
“Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ t’railway,
For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,
But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.”
The porter replied, “I very mitch daht it,
But I’ll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it;
For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’ snicket,
Baht tipping to t’porter thee pass or thee ticket.”
“Tha’l rite up to Derby an’ then tha’l deceive me;”
“I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me:”
“Then aht we thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,
For I’ve walked it a foot back all rahnd be t’Bocking.”
The Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.
[Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen, indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy pass that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale—with its running wimpling stream—I beheld the “Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.” She was engaged in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. Instantaneously I was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as did Robert Tannyhill upon his imaginary beauty, “The Flower of Dumblane.” I struck my lyre, and, although the theme of my song turned out afterwards to be a respectable old woman of 70 winters, yet there is still a charm in my “Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.”]
Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind,
Thy love is all to me;
Aw cuddant in a palace find
A lass more true ner thee.
An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,
An’ thee, me Lovely Queen,
The grandest diamond e me Crown,
Wor’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.
The lady gay may heed thee not,
An’ passing by may sneer;
The upstart squire’s dawters laugh,
When thou, my love, art near.
But if all ther shining sovrens
Wor wared o’ sattens green,
They mightant be as hansum then
As’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.
When yollow autumn’s lustre shines,
An’ hangs her golden ear,
An’ nature’s voice fra every bush,
Is singing sweet and clear.
’Neath some white thorn to song unknown,
To mortal never seen,
’Tis there with thee I fain would be,
Me lass o’ Newsholme Dean.