Sho call’d the Furies to her aid,
An Diræ’s names sho us’d,
An sware if I hed spocken t’truth,
Sho hed been sore abus’d.
Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her—
Indeed it is too true;
Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet,
Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”
Charming Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green,
Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen,
That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king,
Of whom the oud bards delited to sing.
Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then,
Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;
’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall,
I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display,
Resemblin truly the goddess of day;
Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone,
That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn.
Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind,
But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind:
It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call,
To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow,
When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow;
The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,
Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve.
Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows,
Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose;
There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall,
To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ grace,
Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace:
An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue,
O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue.
Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun,
An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done:
It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl,
To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will;
Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill;
The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!”
Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee.
At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms
An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?”
Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call,
On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan!
My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,
To thy long rest?
An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone
Close ower thy breast?
An’ are ta goan no more to see,
Excepting e fond memory;
Yes empty echo answers me—
“Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”