Yah Kesenmas neeght, or then aboot,
When meeasons all wur frozen oot,
Ah went te see a coontry frind,
An hospitable hoor te spend.
For gains Ah cut across at moor,
Whoor t’snaw seea furiously did stour:—
The hoose Ah geean’d, an’ enter’d in,
An’ wor as welcome as a king.
The stoorm ageean t’winder patter’d,
An’ hailsteeans doon t’chimler clatter’d,
All hands wur in, an’ seeam’d content,
An’ neean did frost or snaw lament.
T’lasses all wur at ther sowing,
Ther cheeks wi’ health an’ beauty glowing.
Aroond the heearth in cheerful chat
Twea’r three frindly neeaburs sat;
Ther travels telling,—whoor they’d been,
An’ what they hed beeath heeard an’ seen;
Till yan us all did mitch amuse,
An’ thus a stoory introduce.
“Ah recollect lang sin,” sez he,
“A stoory that wur tell’d te me,
’At seeams seea straange i’ this oor day,
That true or false Ah cannut say.
A man liv’d in this neybourheead,
Neea doot ov reputation gud,
An’ lang taame strave w’ stiddy care,
Te keep his hooshod i’ repair.
At length he hed a curious dreeam,
For three neeghts runnin ’twur the seeam;
’At if on Lunnon Brigg he stood,
He’d heear sum news wad deea him gud.
He labour’d hard, beeath neeght an’ day,
Tryin te draave thooase thowghts away,
Yet daily grew mare discontent,
Till he at last te Lunnon went!
Being quite a stranger te that toon,
Lang taame he wander’d up an’ doon,
Till led by sum mysterious hand,
On Lunnon Brigg he teeak his stand;
An’ theer he waited day by day,
An’ just wur boon te cum away,
Seea mitch he thowght he wur te bleeam,
Te gang seea far aboot a dreeam,
When thus a man, as he drew neear,
Did say, “Good friend, what seek you here,
Where I have seen you soon and late?”
His dreeam te him he did relate.
“Dreams,” sez the man, “are empty things,
Mere thoughts that flit on silver’d wings;
Unheeded we should let them pass:—
I’ve had a dream, and thus it was,
That somewhere round this peopled ball,
There’s such a place as Lealholm Hall;
Yet whether such a place there be,
Or not, is all unknown to me.
There in a cellar, dark and deep,
Where slimy creatures nightly creep,
And human footsteps never tread,
There is a store of treasure hid.
If it be so, I have no doubt,
Some lucky wight will find it out:
Yet so or not, is nought to me,
For I shall ne’er go there to see!”
The man did slyly twice or thrice,
The cockney thenk for his advice,
Then heeame ageean wi’oot delay,
He cheerfully did tak his way,
An’ set aboot the wark, an’ sped,
Fund ivv’ry thing, as t’ man hed sed,
Wur ivver efter seen te floorish,
T’finest gentleman i’ all the parish.
Fooaks wonder’d sare, an’ weel they meeght,
Whoor he gat all his ginnes breeght!
If it wur true, in spite ov feeame,
Te him it wor a lucky dreeam.
A STRANGE EFFUSION,
OR
WESLEYANISM AT EASBY,
IN THE STOKESLEY CIRCUIT:
Written when the Methodists were deprived of the place of worship in which they had been accustomed to meet.
They’re wakken’d at Easby, the Lord is amang ’em,
Thof turn’d oot o’ t’ temple ’at used te belang ’em,
Anoother we whooap afoore lang ’ll be beelt,
Whoor sinners thruff Christ may hev pardon for guilt.
T’ Lord seems te oppen a way out afoore ’em,
Thof neybourin lions hev aim’d te devoor ’em.
When t’awd maister mariner fail’d at the helm,
They thowght it wad all the consarn owerwhelm;
An’ when they appear’d ov all succour bereft,
They endeeavour’d te freeghten t’ few ’at wur left.
Bud the Lord wur detarmin’d te be ther protection,
Te send ’em suppoort, an’ gie ’em direction;
If nobbut, like monny, they wadden’t betray him,
Bud stick te that text, beeath te luv an’ obey him.
They can’t be content wi’ ther steeple opinions,
Bud they mun mack inrooads on others’ dominions;
Thof theers be in gen’ral the fat an’ the wealthy,
For t’want of gud physic, they seldom are healthy.
Hoo strange ’at they sud sike fair temples erect,
Te murder the sowls in—they’re swoorn te protect!
Bud stranger they’ll finnd it o’ yon side the fleead,
Wi’ ther hands an’ ther garments all stain’d i’ ther bleead!
We needn’t te wonder they mack sike a fuss,
Ther craft is i’ danger fra’ rebels like us:—
For God can mack preeachers—hoo feearful the thowght—
Fra’ cobblers, or meeasons, or blacksmiths, or owght!
O yes! Dr. Pusey may whet his awd grinders,
An’ put on his captives ther fetters an’ blinders;
Ther’s poor men iv Easby ’at ken his awd sang,
An’ see the defect ov beeath him an’ his gang.
He may scare ’em wi’ taxes, wi’ rates, an’ oppression,
All thooase whea are oot o’ the line o’ succession,
Thof te prove ’at he’s in’t, he’s a varry poor chance,
Unless he unite wi’ the Romans at yance.
Then t’ Romans wad help him, an’ think it all reeght,
Te murder Dissenters, an’ put oot ther leeght;
Te cut ’em i’ pieces, te butcher an’ bon ’em,
Bud till that’s the keease they cannut owerton ’em!
Nur Stowsley, nur Yatton, ther frinds will invite,
Nur Skelton, nur Brotton, ther efforts unite;
They’ll finnd te ther mortification an’ pain,
They hev fowght wi’ t’ wind, an’ hev labour’d i’ vain!
LEALHOLM BRIDGE.
A SOLILOQUY DURING A VISIT, AFTER SOME YEARS’ ABSENCE.