On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ her meadows so green,
There’s an ancient owd hall to-day may be seen,
That wor built in the days of some owd feudal king,
Of whom the owd bards delighted to sing.
Tho’ its splendour’s now faded, its greatness was then
Known to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;
’Neath its armorial shield, an’ hoary owd wall,
I now see Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Her majestic black eyes true beauty display,
Resemblin’ truly the goddess of day;
Her dark-flowin’ ringlets, you’d think as they shone,
’At Venus hed fashion’d ’em after her awn.
For her tresses no ribbons nor trappins do bind,
But wantonly luxurious flow in the wind:
’Twod o’ pleased the great Reubens or Turner to call,
To see sweet Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Like the tall mountain fir, she’s as steady, I trow,
When zephyr-like winds do sighingly blow;
The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,
Are gentle Rebecca’s sweet gales of love.
Her breath, where true wit so gracefully flows,
Has the beautiful scent of the pink an’ the rose;
There’s no nymph from the East to Niagara’s Fall,
To equal Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Her toe points the grahnd wi’ sich beauty an’ grace,
Nor varies a hair’s-breadth, sud yu measure her pace:
An’ when dress’d i’ her gingham wi’ white spots an’ blue,
O then is Rebecca so pleasin’ to view.
Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockings by hersel knit an’ spun,
An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic’ly done:
It needs no rich velvets or Cashmere shawl,
To deck out Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Love, grace, an’ beauty attend at her will;
She wounds wi’ a look, wi’ a frown she can kill;
The youths as they pass her, exclaim—“Woe is me!”
Who sees her must love her, who loves her must dee.
At Church on a Sabbath, owd men raise ther arms,
An’ cry, “O, great heavens! wor ivver sich charms?”
While matrons an’ maidens God’s blessin’ they call,
On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
The City of “So be I’s.”
(a dream).
[It is said that when Giles Clumps, the South-downer, first came to Keighley, the first question he asked his fellow labourer was this, “What religion be th’ master here?” “A Liberal,” was the answer; “So be I,” says Giles. “And what politics be th’ master?” asked Giles again, “He’s a Methody,” was the reply; “So be I,” says Giles again, “I be a Methody too.” Now do not imagine for a moment that Giles Clumps is the
only “So be I” in Keighley, for the whole town is full of “So be I’s,” and it is a well-known fact that if six long yellow chimneys were to turn blue to-morrow, there wouldn’t be a Liberal in six hours in the city of “So be I’s,” with the exception of the old veteran Squire Leach.]
Oh list to my dream, nor yet think it wrong,
If I tell it in rhyme, or sing it in song;
For when I look back on the sights that were there,
I could almost, like Blondin, dance high in the air.