Distracted to my vary heart,
   At sitch a bitter cup,
An lippening ivvery day at com,
   At summat wod turn up.

At t’last I started off wun neet,
   To see what I could mak;
Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit,
   Or else I’d noan go back.

Through t’Skantraps an be t’ Bracken Benk,
   I tuke wi all mi meet;
Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin,
   Reight into t’oppan street.

Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,
   An I wor rare an fain,
Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage—
   I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went to t’Wicket Gate,
   Though sad I am to say it,
Resolv’d to ax em for some breead,
   Or else some brocken meit.

He gav me then to understand,
   If I hedant cum to pray,
At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life,
   Wor all they gav away.

It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk
   Abaat ther breead o’ life,
An specially when they’ve plenty,
   Fer t’childer an ther wife.

Bud I set off agean at t’run,
   Fer I weel understood,
If I gat owt fra that there clan,
   It woddant do ma good.

E travelling on I thowt I heeard,
   As I went nearer t’tahn,
A thaasand voices e mi ears
   Saying “John, where are ta bahn?”

An ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d,
   A play-card I cud see,
E t’biggest type at e’er wod print—
   “There’s nowt here, lad, for thee.”

Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d,
   Astead o’ meit wor seen,
A mighty carving-knife hung up,
   Hi, fair afore me een.

At t’last I gav a frantic howl,
   A shaat o’ dreead despair,
I seized mesen be t’toppin then,
   An shack’d an lugg’d me hair.

Then quick as leetening ivver wor,
   A thowt com e me heead—
I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry,
   An meditate wi t’deead.

T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking t’time
   At folk sud be asleep,
Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,
   An t’Pindar after t’sheep.

Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off
   At summat like a trot;
To get to t’place I started for,
   Me blooid wor boiling hot.

An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,
   Rear’d up agean a post,
I cuddant tell—but yet I thowt
   It wor another goast!

Abaat two hundard yards e t’front,
   As near as I cud think,
I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise,
   An nah an then a clinck!

What ivver can these noises be?
   Some robbers, then I thowt!—
I’d better step aside an see,
   They’re happen up to nowt!

So I gat ower a fence there wor,
   An peeping through a gate,
Determined I’d be satisfied,
   If I’d awhile to wait.

At t’last two figures com to t’spot
   Where I hed hid mesel,
Then walkers-heath and brimstone,
   Most horridly did smell.

Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,
   His face as black as soit,
His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben,
   He hed a clovven fooit.

An t’other wor all skin an bone
   His name wor Mr. Deeath;
Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor,
   An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.

“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?”
   Sed Nickey, wi a grin,
“Tha knaws I am full up below,
   An cannot tack more in.”

“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks,
   “Tha ruffin ov a dog,
I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean,
   To see wun John o’ t’Bog.

I cannot see it fer me life,
   What it’s to do wi thee;
Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick,
   An nivver thee heed me.”

“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks,
   Whativver tha may say,
For I been roasting t’human race
   For mony a weary day.”

Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee,
   This last two years or so;
Wi Germany an Italy,
   An even Mexico.

So drop that scythe, oud farren Death,
   Let’s rest a toathree wick;
Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan,
   Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”

“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath,
   Who spack it wi a grin,
“Ise just do as I like fer thee,
   So tha can hod thi din.”

This made oud Nick fair raging mad,
   An lifting up his whip,
He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash
   Across o t’upper lip.

Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks,
   To give oud Nick leg bail,
He started off towards the tahn,
   An Nick stuck aht his tail.

Then helter-skelter off they went,
   As ower t’fence I lape;
I thowt—well, if it matters owt,
   I’ve made a nice escape.

But nah the mooin began to shine
   As breet as it cud be;
An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d,
   Where I cud plainly see.

Oud Rivvock End an all araand
   Luk’d like some fiendish heead,
Fer more I stared, an more I thowt
   It did resemble t’deead.

The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah,
   To what I’d seen afore;
An luk’d as though they’d never be
   T’oud friendly Oaks no more.

Fer wun wor like a giant grim,
   His nose com to a point,
An wi a voice like thunner sed—
   “The times are aaght o’ t’joint!”

An t’other like a whipping-post,
   Bud happen not as thin,
Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil,
   So pray, nah, hod thi din?”

I tuke no farther gawm o’ them,
   Bud paddled on me way;
Fer when I ivver mack a vow,
   I stick to what I say.

I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro,
   An cautiously I bowed,
Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice,
   I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.

Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place,
   A sudden change o’ scene;
Fer miles where all wor white afore,
   Wor nah a bottle-green.

Then com a woman donned e white,
   A mantle gert she wore;
A nicer lukin, smarter form,
   I nivver saw afore.

Her features did resemble wun
   O that kind-hearted lot,
At’s ivver ready to relieve
   The poor man in his cot.

Benevolence wor strongly marked
   Upon her noble heead;
An on her breast yo might hev read,
   “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”

In fact, a kinder-hearted soul
   Oud Yorksher cuddant boast;
An who wod feel the least alarmed,
   To talk to sitch a goast?

Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm,
   Bud pointed up at t’mooin,
An beckon’d me to follow her
   Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.

So on we went, an dahn we turned,
   An nawther on us spack;
Bud nah an then sho twined her heead,
   To see if I’d runned back.

At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd
   An luked ma fair e t’een;
’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce,
   Sho wor no human been.

Sho rave a paper fra her breast,
   Like some long theatre bill;
An then sho sed “Weak mortal,
   Will ta read to me this will?

But first, afoar tha starts to read,
   I’ll tell thee who I iz;
Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff,
   I judge it by thi phiz.

If I am not mistaken, friend,
   I offan hear thi name;
I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;”
   Says I—“Oud lass, it’s t’same.”

“It’s just so mony years this day,
   I knaw it by me birth,
Sin I departed mortal life,
   An left this wicked earth.

But ere I closed these een to go
   Into eternity,
I thowt I’d do a noble act,
   A deed o’ charity.

I hed a bit o’ brass, tha knaws,
   Some land an’ property;
I thowt it might be useful, John,
   To folks e poverty.

So then I made a will o t’lot,
   Fer that did suit my mind;
I planned it as I thowt wor t’best,
   To benefit mankind.

I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil,
   By reading t’will tha’ll see;
That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws,
   May hev ther skooling free.

Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass at’s left,
   As tha’ll hev heeard afore,
Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly
   Among arr Keighley poor.

I certainly did mack a flaw,
   Fer which I’ve rued, alas!
’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John,
   Sud hev no Feoffee Brass.

An nah, if tha will be so kind,
   Go let mi t’trustees knaw
At I sall be obleged to them
   To null that little flaw.

An will ta mention this anall,
   Wal tha’s an intervue?—
Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor,
   Whativver else they due.

Then I sall rest an be at peace,
   Boath here an when e Heav’n;
Wal them at need it will rejoice
   Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve giv’n.

So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt,
   An tell’d me what to doo,
I ax’d her if sho’d harken me,
   Wal I just said a word or two.

I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie,
   As sure as my name’s ‘John;’
I think at yo are quite e t’mist
   Abaht things going on.

Folks gether in fra far an near,
   When it is Feoffee-Day;
An think they hev another lowse
   Wi t’little bit o’ pay.

Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ poor,
   It’s shocking fer to tell,
They’ll hardly let em into t’door—
   I knaw it be mesel.

Asteead a being a peck o’ malt
   Fer t’wimmen lying in,
It’s geen to rascals ower-grown,
   To drink e rum an gin.

Then them at is—I understand—
   What yo may call trustees,
They hev ther favorites, yo knaw,
   An gives to who they please.

There’s mony a woman I knaw weel,
   Boath middle-aged an oud,
At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass,
   An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.

Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass,
   Hes cum e all his pride,
An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass,
   Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.

Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax,
   If they’ve a claim, they come;
But what wi t’Railway fares an drink,
   It’s done be they get home.

Wal mony a poorer family
   At’s nut been nam’d e t’list,
At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil,
   Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d.

We see a man at hes a haase,
   Or happen two or three,
They Mr. him, an hand him aaght
   Five times as mitch as me.

No longer like Capias’ form,
   Wi a tear e boath her een,
But like the gallant Camilla,
   The Volscian warrior Queen.

She, kneeling, pointed up aboon,
   An vow’d be all so breet,
Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads,
   Or watch em day an neet.

Sho call’d the Furies to her aid,
   An Diræ’s names sho us’d,
An sware if I hed spocken t’truth,
   Sho hed been sore abus’d.

Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her—
   Indeed it is too true;
Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet,
   Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”

On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green,
Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen,
That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king,
Of whom the oud bards delited to sing.
Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then,
Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;
’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall,
I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display,
Resemblin truly the goddess of day;
Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone,
That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn.
Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind,
But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind:
It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call,
To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow,
When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow;
The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,
Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve.
Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows,
Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose;
There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall,
To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will;
Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill;
The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!”
Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee.
At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms
An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?”
Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call,
On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.

My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,
      To thy long rest?
An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone
      Close ower thy breast?
An’ are ta goan no more to see,
Excepting e fond memory;
Yes empty echo answers me—
      “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”

E vain the wafters o’ the breeze
      Fan my hot brah,
E vain the birds upon the trees,
      Sing sweetly nah;
E vain the early rose-bud blaws,
E vain wide Nature shows her Cause,
Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws—
      “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”

There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft,
      I pity wun,
An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left—
      My little John;
He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day,
An’ rarely hez a word to say,
Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),
      Shoo’s deead an’ goan!

The Heroic Watchman of Calversike Hill.

[This extraordinary “hero” either bore false witness against his neighbour, a poor artisan, or (taking his own word for it) saved the nation from great disaster and ruin by putting out a fire that no one saw but himself.]

We’ve heard of great fires in city and town,
And many disasters by fire are known;
But surely this fire which I’m going to tell,
Was worse than Mount Ætna, Vesuvius or hell;
For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill,
But for heroic watchman at Calversike Hill.

He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high,
That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;
And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,
He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!
And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,
That they fin’d the poor artist of Calversike Hill.

Now, there’s some foolish people are led to suppose,
It was by some shavings this fire first arose;
But yet, says our “hero,” I greatly suspect,
This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.
But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it will,
Says the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.

He needed no witness to swear what he had done,
Yet if he had wanted he could have had one;
For one Tommy Twister, that never was there,
Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air,
The greatest sized coal pot no doubt they would fill,
Like the head of the hero of Calversike Hill.

So mind and be careful and put out your lights,
All ye with red noses in case they ignite,
Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap,
In case this great watchman chances to sleep.
For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill,
Is the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.

Betty Blake: A Tale of Butterworth Panic.

It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in a fix,
   An’ trade it wor bad an’ are poor hearts wor sad,
An’ we’d nout else to due bud to starve or to flee,
   An’ leave are poor hoams, or stop there an’ dee.
Aw wor freating an’ thinking what wod be the end,
   Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend—
When my wife stagger’d in at are poor cottage door,
   Gav a stare raand the house an’ fell on the floor,
We a cry at made me both tremble an’ shake;—
   Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty Blake.

Aw sat by her side fer two neets an’ two days,
An’ aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed;
Sho catched hod o’ my hand, an’ her senses returned,
Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned,—
“Awn going,” sho said—“where no hunger or pain
Al be we us, Johny, when we meet again.
The angels have whispered my spirit to free,
We voices as soft as the hum of the bee;
It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake,
In heaven you’ll meet we your poor Betty Blake.”

The Vision.

Blest vision of departed worth,
   I see thee still, I see thee still;
Thou art the shade of her that’s goan,
   My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.

My chaamer in this silent hour,
   Were dark an’ drear, were dark an’ drear;
But brighter far than Cynthia’s beam,
   Now thou art here, now thou art here.

Wild nature in her grandeur had
   No charm for me, no charm for me;
Did not the songsters chant thy name
   Fra ivvery tree, fra ivvery tree.

Say when the messenger o’ death,
   Sal bid ma come, sal bid ma come;
Wilt thou be foremost in the van,
   To tack ma hoam, to tack ma hoam.

A New Devorse.

Says Pug o’ Joans o’ Haworth Brah,
   Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag—
Are Nelly’s tung’s a yard too long,
   And, by’t mess it can wag.

It’s hell at top o’ t’earth we me,
   An’ stand it I am forst;
I’d give all t’brass at I possess,
   If I could get devors’d.

Then answer’d Rodge, I hev a dodge,
   Az gooid a plan az onny;
A real devorse tha’ll get of course—
   It willant cost a penny.

   Then tell me what it iz, says Pug,
      I’m hommost brocken-hearted;
We’ll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad,
   Where man an woife are parted.

A Kersmass song I’ll sing, me lads,
   If yoh’ll bud hearken me;
An incident e Kersmass time,
   E eighteen sixty-three:
Withaht a stypher e the world—
   I’d scorn to tell a lie—
I dined wi a gentleman
   O’ Gooise an’ giblet pie.

I’ve been e lots o’ feeds, me lads,
   An hed some rare tuck-aahts;
Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs,
   Minch pies an’ thumping taahts;
But I wir’d in an reight anall,
   An’ supp’d when I wor dry,
Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman
   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ail’d me, lads,
   I felt so fearful praad;
Me ears prick’d up, me collar raise,
   Taards a hauf-a-yard;
Me chest stood aaht, me charley in,
   Like horns stuck aaht me tie;
Fer I dined wi a gentleman
   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

Ode to Wedlock!

Oh! Hymen, god of Wedlock! thou
Companion of the lover’s vow,
   Thy subjects they are fearful;
If thou could nobbut see the strife,
There is sometimes ’tween man and wife,
   I think thou’d be more careful.

Oft has thou bound in durance vile,
De fearful frown, and cheerful smile,
   And doubtless thought it famous;
When thou the mind ov fancy sweet,
Has knit the knot so nice and neat
   For some blessed ignoramous.

But luve is blind, and oft deceived,
If adage old can be believed,
   And suffers much abuses;
Or never could such matches be,
O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee,
   So thou has thy excuses.

Com Geas a Wag o’ thee Paw.

Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet,
   Come geas a wag o’ thee paw;
I knew thee when thi heead wor black,
   Bud nah its az white as snow;
Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim,
   An’ all thi kith an’ kin;
An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar,
   For t’ sake o’ ould long sin,
         Jim Wreet,
   For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.

An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,
   That kept the Old King’s Arms;
Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet,
   When they hed sung ther Psalms;
An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim,
   Sometimes hev chang’d the string,
An’ with a merry chorus join’d,
   We’ve made yond tav’ren ring,
         Jim Wreet,
   We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,
   As past away sin then;
When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art,
   Cud boast her musick men;
Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim,
   An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;
Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake,
   Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,
         Jim Wreet,
   Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.

High o’er the hill-tops moans the wild breezes,
   As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:
See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,
   While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.

Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,
   To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed:
As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion,
   He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling,
   No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;
The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling
   That spring is established with sunshine and showers.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,
   And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;
The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,
   And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the breeze.

From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping,
   While diamond dew-drops around her is spread;
She smiles thro’ her tears like an infant that’s sleeping,
   And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.

The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers,
   The mountains are blue in their distant array;
The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers,
   Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flees away.

How joyous the reapers, their harvest songs singing
   As they see the maid bringing the flagon and horn;
And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging
   Over meadows and pastures, and her barley and corn.

’Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining,
   To watch the rich vale as it brightens below;
’Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining,
   To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.

The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling,
   The beasts of the forest from hunger doth call;
There is desolate evenings and comfortless mornings,
   And gloomy noontides for one and for all.

Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December,
   O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor;
Christmas is thine, and we shall remember,
   Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

My Visit ta’t Glory Band.

Last Sunday, reight early, I sett off fra home,
Ower mountains an’ valleys, intending to roam;
As it wor a fine morning an’ no sign o’ rain,
I bethowt ma I’d go up Oakworth be t’train;
But I’m sitch a whimsical sort of a man,
I nivver get threw wi owt at I plan.

When I saw it wor Jennet I lengthen’d my pace,
An’ as soon as shoa saw me shoo look’d i’ my face;
An’ says “Hallo, Bill! tha’s com’d aght fearful soin
Ther’ll be a blue snaw;—pray, where are ta gooin?
If tha’s nobbut come aht for a bit of a stroll,
Tha’d better go wi ma for t’gooid o’ thy soul.”

So I agreed to go wi her; for what could I do,
When t’decent oud woman wor teasing ma so?
So we link’d on together an’ paddled along,
Both on us singing a Glory Band song;
Hasomivver we landed, an’ hedn’t ta wait,
For one t’panjandrums hed getten agait.

So they prayed an’ they sang i’ ther oud fashun’d way;
Until a gert chap says “I’ve summat ta say;”
An’ bethart I’st a fallen dahn sick i’ my pew,
But I thowt at toan hauf t’ he said worant true,
For he charged Parson Ball wi’ being drunk i’ the street,
At he’d been put ta bed three times i’ one neet.

So all wor nah silent, they mud hear a pin fall,
For nobody wor hissing or clapping at all;
For scarce had long Gomersall spun out his yarn,
Wi his two blazing een he hed scarcely sat dahn,
Than John stood up on his pins in a minit,—
An’ rare an’ weel please wor me and Oud Jennet.

“My brethren,” he sed wi a tear in his ee,
“Yah sall hear for yerselns my accusers an’ me,
An’ if I be guilty—man’s liable to fall
As well as yer pastor an’ servant John Ball;
But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan,
Be’t t’first, and no other to thraw the first stone.

“I’ve drunk wine and porter, I do not deny,
But then my accusers hev not telled you why:
So their false accusation I feel it more keen,
’Cos I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my een;
Beside mi back warked as if it wor broke,
An’ mi throit’s been so parched wal I thowt I sud choke.

“So nah, my accusers, what hev you to say,
You can reckon that up in your awn simple way;
But if there’s a falsehood in what I’ve sed nah
I wish mi new hat wod turn into a kah,
So this is mi answer, an’ this mi defence.”
“Well done!” says oud Jennet, “he’s spokken some sense.”

So his speech nah he ended, but it touch’d em it wick,
For we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick;
And Jennet declared—tho’ she might be too rude,—
If he’d come up to’t dinner he’s hev some home brew’d,
Fer it spite o’ ther scandal sho wor proud on him yet,
An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d out to du wi’t.

ORDER OF PROCESSHUN.

The Spring-head Band wi their hat-bruads turn’d up so as they mud see their way clear.

Lord et Manor i full uniform a fut back bearing Coat of Arms for Haworth, a gert wild cratur wi two tails on, one et awthur end.

Two citizens wi white cravats raand their hats.

The Members et Corporashun one-abreast singin “a nuttin we will go, brave boys.”

Big Drums and Triangles.

A Mahogany Wheelbarrow and a silver trowel on a cart trail’d wi six donkeys, and garded wi ten lazy policemen all sober.

A pair of crakt bag-pipes.

The Contractor in a sedan carried wi two waggoners i white smocks.

All the young maidens fra fourteen to thirty-nine, six-abreast, drest i sky blue, and singin throo combs.

Twenty oud wimin knittin stockings.

Twenty navvies i their shirt sleeves weeling barrows, wi workn tooils.

Taan skavengers wi shoulder’d besums decorated wi ribbons.

All scholars at female line laking at duck-under-watter kit, and the males laking at frog-loup, and jumping o’ one another’s backs.

Taan chimla sweeps maanted o’ donkies wi their face white.

All the furiners fra the continent o’ Haworth, and crookt-legged uns fra Keighley followed up.

Bulk o’ the inhabitants wauking wun-abreast, wi their hats off, and singing and shouting

“The Railway! the Railway!”

In fact, the Railway wur e ivverbody’s maath, what we singing and shouting, them at cud do nawther whisper’d in wun another’s ears—Railway!  But getting to where the ceremuny wur to tak place the processhun halted and formed itseln into a raand ring, and cheers wur geen wi shakin hats and handkerchiefs, which lasted wal their showders and arms warkt wal they’d hardly strength to shut their maaths and don their hats on.  But hasumivver they manijed to get reight agean, and then a parson called Ned Oufield gat up and made the following narashun—

This been dun and ivverybody gotten their maaths shut agean, Ike Ouden gat up and made a speech, and a grand un it wor yo mind, for if the arkangel hed dropt streyt dahn fra heven and let o’ t’top o’ t’platform, it cuddant a suited t’ folk better, for he began as follows:—

Put yor shoulders to work, lads, and ne’er be danted,
   Think yer behint and there’s no time to dally,
For nah is the time yor assistance is wanted
   I makin yor railway along the Worth Valley.

The Spring-heead Band then played sum of their favorite tunes, “Oud Rosen the Bow,” “Jessey’s Pig,” and ended wi “God save the Queen,” and all departed to their homes wi smiling faces.

Gather fra Stanbury, lads we yor carrot heeads,
Cum dahn fra Locker tahn, lads, be the railway;
Cum we yor wives, yor dowters, and relatives,
Shout lads, shout for the Worth Valley Railway.

Heard you Ned Oufield mak his noration,
Yoh’l say in yohr conshunce he spak it reyt fairly,
He said poor Haworth nivver yet hed fairashun,
And spak of the thing that will flurish it rarely.
               Railway, &c.

Saw yoh Icholden wi his mahogany wheelbarrow,
Cum dig the first sod wi his trowel o’ silver,
He wheeled it dahn t’ plenk as streyt as an arrow,
And tipt it as weel as a navvy or delver.
               Railway, &c.

Saw yoh the church so anshent in history,
Read yoh the Latin words high in the steeple,
Hear to the sounds that arise from the belfry,
It seems to be shaating along wi the people,
               Railway, &c.

Wen Penny Wabbac tuke the chair,
He lukt to be i grate despair,
He sez, good folk, are yoh aware,
Wat’s happened to the Railway.

We persperashun on his brah,
He sez, good folk, al tell yoh nah;
Oud Blue Beard’s nasty wizened kah
Hes swallowed plan o’ t’ Railway.

Wi these remarks poor Wabbac sat,
Wen Jonny Broth doft off his hat,
His een they blazed like sum wild cat
Wi vengence for the Railway.

He sed my blud begins to boil,
To think et we sud work an’ toil,
And ev’n the cattle cannot thoyle
To let us hev a Railway.

On hearing this the Haworth foak
Began to swear it wur no joak,
An wisht at greedy cah ma choak,
At swallowed t’ plan o’ t’ Railway.

But sighs and tears and doubts and fears,
   Prevails with greatest folly,
For ’t sinagog has cockt its clog,
   And ’t parson’s melancholy.

Tunnils sink and navvies drink,
   And chapels are upsetting;
For Railway Shares nobody cares,
   And iverybody’s fretting.

The iron horse they curse of course,
   And fane wud it abandon;
And loyers fees their pockets ease,
   A thousand pound e Lundun.

The volunteers prick up their ears,
   An mak a famos rattle;
Thay want ta run ta Wimbleton,
   Or onny field o’ battle.

Their black cravats an toppen’d hats
   Are causing grate attraction;
Against Boneypart thay want ta start,
   E reglar fightin action.

The raw recuits hev got ther suits,
   Thay brag ta wun another:
Ta’t first campaign thay’l tak the train,
   Withaat the sliteist bother.

But t’ oud foak thinks thair’l be some stinks,
   At menshun of invazhun;
An hopes et taan will ride em daan,
   E cabs ta Howorth Stashun.

They’re standing i’ groups and they’re living i’ hopes,
   And more disappointments they dread,
Wi’ they’re ears touching th’ grand, they’ve harken’d for th’ saand,
   Wal they’ve omust gone wrong i’ ther head.

Sez Dick o’ Grate Beckers, just keep up yor peckers,
   Yo hevn’t much longer to wait
For blue milk and porridge, yol get better forridge,
   Wen the railway gets fairly agait.

For its labour i’ vain to harken for th’ train
   When all’s goin on varry steady;
So pray yo be calm its takin no harm,
   They’ll bring it as soin as its ready.

For th’ rails are all laid, and there’s nowt to be made,
   Nobbut th’ navvies to clear off all th’ muck;
Then all al be goin, for th’ Cowinhead mooin
   Is bahn to be browt on a truck.

So Sam o’ Blue Bills, wi’ thi’ pints an’ thi’ gills,
   Its bahn to be better for thee,
To Keighley an’ back tha ma go in a crack,
   When tha’s bahn on a bit of a spree.

There’s oud Jim o’ Kyas is bahn to be wise,
   An’ th’ folk sez at he’s takkin a hig;
He’ll see it first tried afore he will ride,
   He’s dahn abaht the Paper Mill Brig.

He sez he’ll be sure, it dropt in before,
   And it might do again for a pinch;
For he sez they’ll be kapt if sum on em trapt,
   So he’s blest if he’ll trust it an inch.

There’s oud Mally Brook hez been dahn to look,
   And shoo’s sore disappointed they say;
Shoo’s omust goan crackt for shoo sez it weant act,
   For they nobbut can run it wun way.

Sho sez at high class ats laid dahn all th’ brass,
   Just nah they’re beginnin ta craw;
To mak up for th’ trouble they’re bahn to charge double,
   For bad speckulashun it law.

So to sattle em dahn, Sir Chrestofer Brahn,
   Hez tould em it wur his intent,
If they’d nobbut be quiet till things wur all reight,
   He’d give em a trip to Chow Bent.

Stars wur shoiting in and aht,
And gravel ratches wur abaht,
And th’ folk, he sed, they little knew
What mischief it wur bahn ta brew.
And news he spred abaht the tahn,
What lots o’ rain wud tumble dahn;
And like his anshent sires he spoke,
The shockin news withaht a joke.

But prayers like these hed no avail,
For th’ waters deluged all the dale;
And th’ latest news et I hev heerd
Th’ railway’s nearly disappeared;
But if its fun withaht a flaw,
Wha, folks, I’m like to let yo know.

CHAPTER III.

“Work boys, work, and be contented.”

If my advice yoh want, poor things,
   An cannut do withaht it,
Go arm yor seln to th’ teeth, he sed,
   An’ doant be long abaht it;
Both rakes an’ powls an’ props an’ ropes
   Yo cannot get ta sooin,
An’ take the Cowinheeader’s plan
   When they discuver’d the mooin,
Doant gape abaht, but when yor arm’d
   Take each a diffrent rowt;
And let yor cry be ivvery man,
   Th’ poor railway’s up the spout.

And this wur a fact this wur th’ railway they saw,
And at th’ first sight o’ th’ spectre they all stood in awe,
For it wur smashed all i’ pieces ashamed to be seen
As tho’ it hed passed thro’ a sausidge masheen;
Wi horror some fainted, while others took fits,
Aud these at cud stand it wur piking up t’bits.

Six months nah elapsed and th’ gert job wur done,
And th’ next thing to argue wur wen it sud run,
So they sent Joe a-Stirks arahnd wi’ his bell,
And gave him strict orders at he wur to tell,
At th’ inspector hed been and examined it thro’,
And cum to th’ conclushun et th’ railway wud do.

So to wark wi a vengance, the bellman set to,
To warn up a meeting to meet a’th’ Black Bull,
It wud dun yo all good to hear Joey shaht,
For they heard him distinctly for miles all abaht,
And i’ less ner ten minits, they flockt in so fast,
While Jonny Broth horses they couldn’t get past.

So they fram’d on wi’ th’ meeting an’ th’ chairman spak first,
And tell’d ’em at th’ railway wur finish’d at last;
And declared at th’ inspector hed passed when he com,
Both viaducts and bridges as sahnd as a plum;
As for sinkin agean they wud do nowt et sort,
For they sailed thro’ the arches i’ Marriner’s boat.