So I star’d wal both een wur varry near bleared,
And waited and waited—at last it appear’d,
It wur filled full o’ folk as eggs full o’ meat,
And it tuk four ingens to bring it up reight,
Two hed long chimlas and th’ tuther hed noan,
But they stuck weel together like a dog to a bone.
They wur gruntin and growling wur the folks at gat aht,
So I made some inquiries what it wur abaht;
And i’ all my born days I ne’er heard nout so call’d,
For three or four times they sed it hed stall’d,
Wal some o’th’ crookt-legg’d ens bethout of a scheam,
And they went back to Keighley for a hamper o’steam.
And my word and honour it did mak a gert din,
For I stud by and heard it, and saw it come in;
I expected it coming as quiet as a lamb,
But no daht at the noises wur nobbut a sham;
But what’s the use o’ telling yo ha it did come,
I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum.
There wur fifty i’ number invited to dine,
All us at hed acted reight loyal to the line;
So I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff
At the puddings this time wud be made at reight stuff,
And noan o’ that stuffment they gav the Keighley band,
Toan awf on it rubbish and the other awf sand.
For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a man)
Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kah lickin pan,
Wi gert lumps o’ suet at the cook hed put in’t,
At shane like a ginney just new aht at mint;
Wi’ knives made a purpose to cut it i’ rowls,
And the sauce wur i’ buckets and mighty big bowls.
They wur chattin and taukin and souckin ther spice,
And crackin at dainties they thout at wur nice,
Wal the oud parson gat up and pull’d a long face,
And mutter’d some words at they call saying th’ grace,
But I nivver goam’d that, cos I knew for a fact
It wur nobbut a signal for the puddin attack.
And aw’l tell yo wot, folk tho’ yo maint beleeve,
But yo tauks abaht Wibsey fooak heytin horse beef,
Yo sud a seen Locker-taaners brandishing ther nives,
An choppin an cutting ther wollopin shives;
An all on em shaatin thay lik’d th puddin th best,
Fer nout wur like th puddin for standin th’ test.
An while thay wor cutting an choppin away,
The gallant Spring-Heeaders wor order’d ta play,
But thay didn’t mich loike it fer ivvery wun,
Wur flaid at thayd play wol th puddin wor dun;
But as luck wor thay tice’d em, wi a gert deeal to do,
Ta play Roger the Plowman an Rozzen the bow.
Ike Ouden wor th chairman at com to preside,
An Will Thompson o Guiseley wor set by his soide,
Na Will’s a director o’th Midland line,
An as deeacent a chap as sat dahn ta dine;
Along wi Jin Sugden at held th Vice-chair,
Wor won Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor.
Their wor Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and me,
And a lot o more lads at wur for a spree;
There wur Nedwin o George’s and Pete Featherstone,
They sat side by side like Darby and Joan;
And I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade,
But I knaw they wur Ingham and little Jack Wade.