Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet,
Come geas a wag o’ thee paw;
I knew thee when thi heead wor black,
Bud nah its az white as snow;
Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim,
An’ all thi kith an’ kin;
An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar,
For t’ sake o’ ould long sin,
Jim Wreet,
For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.
It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,
Sin oud Joe Constantine—
An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me,
An’ other friends o’ thine,
Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase,
Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here;
An’ t’ Squire made us welcome
To his brown October beer,
Jim Wreet;
To his brown October beer.
An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,
That kept the Old King’s Arms;
Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet,
When they hed sung ther Psalms;
An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim,
Sometimes hev chang’d the string,
An’ with a merry chorus join’d,
We’ve made yond tav’ren ring,
Jim Wreet,
We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.
But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,
As past away sin then;
When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art,
Cud boast her musick men;
Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim,
An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;
Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake,
Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,
Jim Wreet,
Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.
Song of the Months, from
January to December.
High o’er the hill-tops moans the wild breezes,
As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:
See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,
While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.
Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,
To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed:
As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion,
He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.
No more with the tempest the river is swelling,
No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;
The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling
That spring is established with sunshine and showers.
In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,
And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;
The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,
And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the breeze.
O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander?
What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;
With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,
At whose sight the last demon of winter does fly.