So he says, be silent, all the folk i’ this hall,
So as any won on yo can hear a pin fall;
And Jone o’ Bill Olders just shut up thi’ prate,
For I’ve summat to say and I mun let it aht;
For I mun hev silence whativer betide,
Or I’ll cum aht oth loom and some o’ yo hide.
Three years hes elapsed and we’re going on the fourth,
Sin we first started th railway fra Keighley to Haworth
What wi’ dreamin by neet, and workin by day,
Its been to poor Haworth a dearish railway.
And monny a time I’ve been aht o’ patience
Wi’ the host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations.
The first do at we hed wur th kah swallowing th plan,
And then wur bad luck and misfortunes began;
For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us another,
All went on wrong and we’d a gert deal o’ bother;
He must a been dreamin, a silly oud clahn,
For three fields o’ Oud Doodles he nivver put dahn.
As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I knaw,
For thart one o’ the best drivers at ivver I saw;
And nobody can grumble at what tha hes dun,
If thi buss driven wearisome race it is run;
For who nah cud grumble, ha fine wur thur cloth,
To ride up to Haworth wi oud Johnny Broth.
So Johnny, my lad, don’t thee mak onny fuss,
I shuttin thi horses, or sellin thi buss;
For if the railway hes done thee, there’s wun thing I knaw;
Tha mud mak ’o th’ oud bus a stunnin peep show,
And if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles,
I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles.
So strike up yor music and give it some mahth,
And welcum all nashuns fra north to the sahth;
The black fra the east, and the red fra the west,
For they sud be welcum as weel as the rest:
And all beyond the Tiber, the Baltic or Rhine,
Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d the Worth Valley Line.
T’ Village Aram-Skaram.
In a little cot so dreary,
With eyes and forehead hot and bleary,
Sat a mother sad and weary,
With her darling on her knee;
Their humble fare at best was sparing,
For the father he was shearing,
With his three brave sons o’ Erin,
Down in the Fen country.
All her Saxon neighbours leave her,
With her boy and demon fever,
The midnight watch—none to relieve her,
Save a Little Bisey Bee:
He was called the Aram-Skaram,
Noisy as a drum clock laram,
Yet his treasures he would share ’em,
With his friend right merrily.
Every night and every morning,
With the day sometimes at dawning,
While the mother, sick and swooning,
To his dying mate went he:
Robbing his good Saxon mother,
Giving to his Celtic brother,
Who asked—for him and no other,
Until his spirit it was free.