DIALOGUE ON A STEEPLE CHASE
AT P******NG, IN YORKSHIRE.
Joe.—Weel Jim, hoo deea lad? What’s t’ news?
Which side is thoo on? Pinks or Blues?
Heer’s sike a mighty stir i’ t’ nation,
’Tis woth a lahtle conversation.
Ah want te knaw, is’t reeght or wrang;—
Unless thah nerves is varry strang,
Ah hev a paper i’ mah pocket,
’Ll lift thah heart oot ov its socket!
Jim.—A paper Joe! What is ’t aboot,
Sum munney matter, ther’s neea doot!
Sum Methodey or Ranter bother,
Or sum Tee-total thing or other.
Yan scarce can pass alang a street,
Bud sum sike like yan’s seer te meet,
Whea’d ommost sweear ’at black is white,
Te gain anoother proselyte,
Joe.—A munney matter ’tis o’ coorse,
Fra’ quite an opposition soorce,
For by the Liverpool Recorder,
’Tis mare o’ the Succession order:
For it is sed by snug repoort,
Religious fooaks hev geen ’t support.
That which we noo te nooatice bring,
Ist’ Steeple Chase at P******ng.
Jim.—Whah Joe, thoo’s neean o’ t’ warst o’ fellows,
Cum sit thee doon a piece an’ tell us,
If thoo sud think it neea disgrace,
Aboot this mighty Steeple Chase;
Ov hoo, an’ when, an’ whoor they run,
For honour, munney, or for fun.
Thoo’s just geen me an itchin eear,
Aboot the thing Ah wish’d te heear.
Joe.—Thoo sees upon a sarten day,
Ah hennut seen, but heeard ’em say;
Greeat gentlemen hev hosses treean’d,
Fra’ lofty pedigree obteean’d,
Seea full o’ bleead, an’ queerly towght,
Te gallop thruff or ower owght:
All muster at a sarten pleeace,
An’ this they call the Steeple Chase.
A purse o’ Gold they then present,
An’ word is thruff the coontry sent,
For fower mahle, Ah think they run,
An’ he ’at beeats,—the steeaks his awn.
Sum breeaks ther necks, wi’ missin bridges,
An’ sum gits stuck, wi’ jumpin hedges.
Ey, te confarm t’ truth Ah sing,
They kill’d a hoss at P******ng.
Jim.—Wha Joe, thoo quite supprises me,
Te think ’at men ov heeigh degree,
Sud reeally hev neea mare respect
For owther men’s or hosses necks.
Joe.—A boss is nowght i’ sike a keease!
Bairn! sowls is nowght at t’ Steeple Chase!
They for a trifle swap an’ sell ’em,
An’ t’ parsons hezzen’t sense te tell ’em.
T’ Steeple Chase is suted quite,
Te glut t’ carnal appetite.
Thooase whea ther Baable love, an’ preear,
’Ll finnd bud bareish picking theer.
Jim.—Maund Joe, thoo izzen’t ower severe,
An’ ’at thah coonsel be sincere.
The Law hez monny curious links,
Man mooan’t speeak awlus as he thinks.
Thof Ah me-sel feel shock’d te think,
Men sud seea rush on ruin’s brink:
Mitch mare te be encouraged in,
What mun be a presumptuous sin.