Saw the shroud and saw the coffin;
Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in;
This little noble-hearted ruffian,
To the wake each night went he:
Sabbath morning he was ready,
Warn’d the bearers to be steady,
Taking Peter to his beddy,
And a tear stood in his e’e.
Onward as the corpse was passing,
Ere the priest gave his last blessing,
Through the dingy crowd came pressing,
The father and the brothers three;
’Tis our mother—we will greet her;
How is this that here we meet her?
And without our little Peter,
Who will solve this mystery?
The Harem-Skarem interfered,
“Soon this corpse will be interred,
Come with us and see it buried,
Out in yonder cemet’ry:”
Soon they knew the worst and pondered
Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;—
And returning home, they wondered
Who their little friend could be!
Turning round to him they bowed,
Much they thanked him, much they owed;
While the tears each cheek bedewed,
Wish’d him all prosperity:
“Never mind,” he said, “my brothers,
What I’ve done, do ye to others;
We’re all poor barns o’ some poor mothers,”
Said the little Busy Bee.
Come, Gi’ us a Wag o’ Thy Paw.
[T’West Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches i’ t’fine art line, bud t’music aw think licks t’lump, especially abaght Haworth an’ Keighley. Nah Haworth wunce hed a famous singer; he wor considered one o’ t’best i’ Yorkshire in his time. It is said ’at he once walked fra Haworth to York i’ one day, an’ sung at an Oratorio at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all t’other Haworth celebrities; he wod talk owd fashioned, an’ that willant dew up i’ London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him i’ t’neighbourhood. Nah what is thur grander ner a lot o’ local singers at Kersmas time chanting i’ t’streets; it’s ommost like bein’ i’ heaven, especially when you’re warm i’ bed. But there’s another thing at’s varry amusing abaght our local singers, when they meet together ther is some demi-semi-quavering, when ther’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals;—an’ t’best ale an’ crotchets mix’d, that’s the time fer music.]
Come, gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,
Come, gi’ us a wag o’ thy paw;
I knew thee when thy heead wor black,
Bud nah it’s white as snow;
A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim,
An’ all thy kith an’ kin;
An’ hoping tha’ll ha’ monny more,
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 owd Joe Constantine—
An’ Daniel Acroyd, thee, an’ me,
An other friends o’ thine,
Went up ta sing at Squire’s house,
Not a hauf-a-mile fra here;
An’ t’Squire made us welcome
To his brown October beer—
Jim Wreet,
To his brown October beer.
An’ owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,
’At kept the Old King’s Arms;
Whear all t’church singers used ta meet,
When they hed sung ther Psalms;
An’ thee an’ me amang ’em, Jim,
Sometimes hev chang’d the string,
An’ with a merry chorus join’d,
We’ve made yon tavern ring,
Jim Wreet,
We’ve made yon tavern ring.