The old Comber would tell of his travels through life,
And where he had met with his darling old wife;
And how he had stole her from her native vale,
To help him to pull the “old tup” by the “tail.”
He would go through the tales of his youthful career,
An undaunted youth without dread or fear;
He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor,
He knew every acre of mountain and moor.
He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State,
And tell where old England would be soon or late;
How nations would rise, and monarch’s would fall,
And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall.
He was very well read, though papers were dear,
But he got Reynold’s newspaper year after year;
It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen,
While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen.
He was fairly dramatic, the stage he loved well,
The names of great actors and plays he would tell;
And if that his notion it took the other way,
He could quote the Bible a night and a day.
Full of wit, full of mirth, he could give you a sting,
He could preach, he could pray, he could dance, he could sing;
He could play pitch and toss, he could jump, he could run,
He could shuffle the cards, he could handle a gun.
The old Constable knew him but let him alone,
Because he knew better than bother with “Joan”;
For the lads of the Barracks and the Pinfold as well
Would all have been there at the sound of the bell.
Old Keighley was then but a very small town,
Yet she’d twelve hundred Combers that were very well known;
Hundreds have gone over the dark flowing burn,
Whence no traveller was ever yet known to return.
It reminds me again of the Donkey and pack
Which came from the hills bringing Wool on its back;
And if the poor beast perchance had to bray
’Twere a true sign a Comber would die on that day.
The third day of the week, sometimes further on,
The old woman would seek the King’s Arms for her son;
And if she were told he had not been at all,
Would bounce over the green to the Hole-in-the-Wall.