RANDOM RHYMES AND RAMBLES.

—o—

By Bill o’th Hoylus End.

—o—

Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But shall I scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof. I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, And hae to learning nae pretence. Yet, what the matter? Whene’er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her. Burns.

—o—

KEIGHLEY: A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN. 1876.

p. 3Most Respectfully

Dedicated to

James Wright,

Local Musician and Composer,

North Beck Mills,

Keighley,

By the Author.

Dec. 25th, 1876.

p. 4INTRODUCTION.

The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES, in verse and prose, are but the leisure musings of the uneducated, and cannot be expected to come up to anything like the standard of even poetry; yet, when the fact is known that the Author, like his Works, are rough and ready, without the slightest notion of either Parnassus or the Nines, at least give him credit for what they are worth.

WILLIAM WRIGHT.

Come Nivver De e Thee Shell.

Come nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Are words but rudely said; Tho thay may chear some stricken heart, Or raise some wretched head; For thay are words I love mysel, They’re music to my ear; Thay muster up fresh energy Ta chase each dout an’ fear.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Tho tha be poor indeed; Ner lippen ta long it turning up Sa mich ov a friend in need; Fer few ther are, an’ far between, That helps a poor man thru; An God helps them at helps thersel, An’ thay hev friends enew.

p. 6Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, What ivver thy crediters say; Tell um at least tha’rt forst ta owe, If tha artant able ta pay; An if thay nail thy bits o’ traps, An sell thee dish an’ spooin; Remember fickle fortun lad, Sho changes like the mooin.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Tho some ma laugh an scorn; There wor nivver a neet ’fore ta neet, Bud what there come a morn; An if blind fortun used thee bad, Sho’s happen noan so meean; Ta morn al come, an then for some The sun will shine ageean.

Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Bud let thy motto be,— “Onward! an’ excelsior;” And try for t’ top o’t tree: And if thy enemies still pursue, Which ten-to-one they will, Show um oud lad tha’rt doing weel, An climbing up the hill.

p. 7Oud Betty’s Advice.

So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed It morning we young blacksmith Ned, And tho it makes thy mother sad, Its like to be; I’ve nout ageean yond decent lad No more ner thee.

Bud let me tell thee what ta due, For my advice might help thee thru; Be kind, and to thy husband true, An I’ll be bun Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue, For out tha’s done.

Nah, try to keep thi former knack, An due thi weshing in a crack, Bud don’t be flaid to bend thi back, Tha’ll nobbut sweeat; So try an hev a bit o’ tack, An do it neat.

Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt, An pride thysel e being alert,— An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt, An keep it clean; It wod thy poor oud mother hurt, If tha wor mean.

p. 8Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun, Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run; Bud, alus hev thy dinner done, Withaht a mooild; If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on, An hev it boiled.

So Mary, I’ve no more to say— Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way; An if tha leets to rue, I pray, Don’t blame thy mother: I wish you monny a happy day We wun another.

The Fugitive: a Tale Kersmas Time.

We wor snugly set araand the hob, ’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve, Me an arr Kate an t’ family, All happy aw believe: Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee, An’ awd aar little Ann, When their come rapping at the door A poor oud beggar man.

Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks, That once no daht were fair; His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale, His neck and breast were bare; p. 9His clooase, unworthy o’ ther name, Were raggd an steepin wet; His poor oud legs were stockingless, And badly shooed his feet.

Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to him, An get thee up to’t fire; Sho then brought aht were humble fare, T’wor what he did desire; And when he’d getten what he thowt, An his oud regs were dry, We akst what distance he hed come, An thus he did reply:

“Awm a native of Cheviot hills, Some weary miles fra here; Where I like you this neet hev seen Mony a Kersmas cheer; Bud I left my father’s haase, when young, Determined aw wad roaam; An’ like the prodigal of yore, Am mackin toards mi hoame.

“Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines, On India’s burning sand; An nearly thirty years ago Aw left me native land; Discipline being ta hard for me, My mind wor always bent; So in an evil hoar aw did Desart me regiment.

p. 10An nivver sin durst aw go see My native hill an glen, Whar aw mud now as well hev been The happiest ov all men; Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all A merry Kersmas day; Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones, On Cheviot hills to lay.”

“Aw cannot say,” aw said to’t wife, “Bud aw feel rather hurt; What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aht, An finds t’oud chap a shirt.” Sho did an all, and stockins too; An tears stud in her e’e; An in her face the stranger saw Real Yorkshire sympathee.

Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh, When he hed heard his tale, An spak o’ some oud trouses, At hung at chamer rail; Then aht at door ahr Harry runs, An back agean he shogs, He’s been it coit ta fetch a pair O’ my oud iron clogs.

It must be feearful coud ta neet, Fer fouk ats aht at door; Give him yahr oud grey coit an’ all, At’s thrown at chamer floor: p. 11And then thars thy oud hat, said Kate, At’s paused so up an dahn; It will be better ner his own, Tho’ its withaht a craan.”

So when we’d geen him what we cud, (In fact afford to give,) We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks, O’t poor oud fugitive; He thank’d us ower an ower agean And often he did pray, At barns mud nivver be like him; Then travelled on his way.

Sall at Bog.

Me love is like the pashan dock, That grows it summer fog; And tho’ sho’s but a country lass, I like my Sall at Bog.

I walk’d her aht up Rivock End, And dahn a bonny dale, Whear golden balls an kahslips grow, An butter cups do smell.

We sat us dahn at top o’t grass, Cloyce to a runnin brook, An harkend watter wegtails sing Wi’t sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.

p. 12Aw lockt her in my arms, an thout Az t’sun shane in her een, Sho wor the nicest kolleflaar At ivver aw hed seen.

’Twor here we tell’d wer tales o’ love, Beneath t’oud hazel tree; How fondly aw liked Sall at Bog, How dearly sho liked me.

An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall, Aw vow be all aw see, Aw wish that aw mud be a kah, An it belong ta thee.

Bud aw hev plump fergotten nah What awther on us said; At onny rate we parted friends, An boath went home ta bed.

p. 13Th’ Furst Pair o’ Briches.

Aw remember the days o’ me bell-button jacket, Wi its little lappels hanging down ower mi waist, And my grand bellosed cap,—noan nicer I’ll back it,— Fer her at hed bowt it wor noan without taste; Fer sho wor mi mother an’ I wor her darling, An offen sho vowed it, and stroked dahn mi hair, An sho tuke me to see her relations e Harden, It furst Pair o’ Briches it ivver aw ware.

Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas, An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais, Wi’ me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose. Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy, Thay both gav me pennys an off aw did steer: But aw heeard um say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy, It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver he ware.”

Aw remember the time are Robin an’ Johnny Wor keeping ther hens an’ ducks e the yard, There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor hard. But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin’ An sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair, Aw then became maister at least o’ wun chicken, It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

p. 14Aw remember wun Sabbath, an t’ sun it wor shining, Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth, to sing An t’ stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining; And childer e white made t’ village ta ring. We went ta auld Mecheck’s that day to wor drinking, Tho’ poor, ther wor plenty, an’ summat ta spare; Says Mecheck, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m thinking, It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha ware.”

Now them wor the days o’ grim boggards and witches, When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp, But nah is the days o’ cheating fer riches, And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp. Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary; O them wor the days aw knew no despair; O give me the time o’ the boggard and fairy, Wi’t furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

And them wor the days aw sal allus remember, Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last; Them wor mi March days, but nah its September: Ne’er to return again—them days are past. But a time aw remember aboon onny other, Aw kneeled o’ mi knees an sed the Lord’s Prayer; Aw sed God bless me father, an God bless mi mother, It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

p. 15Fra Haworth ta Bradford.

Fra Hawarth tahn the other day, Bi’t rout o’ Thornton height, Joe Hobble an’ his better hauf, Went inta Bradford streight.

Nah Joe i’ Bradford wor afoor, But sho hed nivver been; Bud assomivver thay arrived Safe intat Bowling Green.

Thay gav a lad a parkin pig, As on the street thay went; Ta point um aht St. George’s Hall, An Oastler’s Monument.

Bud t’ little jackanapes being deep, An thought thay’d nivver knaw, Show’d Joseph Hobble an’ iz wife T’ furst monument he saw.

Az sooin as Joe gat up t’ rails, Hiz e’en blazed in hiz heead; Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel A goan an robb’d the deead.

Bud ’o ivvers tane them childer dahn, Away fra poor oud Dick, Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin, We a dahn gooid hazel stick.

p. 16T’ lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath, He sooin tuke to hiz heels, Fer at steead o’ Oastlers’ Monument, He’d shown um Bobby Peel’s.

O, Welcome, Lovely Summer.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With thi golden days so long, When the throstle and the blackbird Charm us with their song; When the lark in early morning Taks his aireal flight; An’ the humming bat, an’ buzzard, Frolic in the night.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her rainbow’s lovely form; Her thunder an’ her leetnin, An’ her grandeur in the storm: With her sunshine and her shower, And her wurlin of the dust; An the maiden with her flagon, To slack the mower’s thirst.

O! welcome, lovely summer, When the woods wi music ring, And the bees so hevvy laden, To their hives their treasures bring: p. 17When we seek some shady bower, Or some lovely little dell, Or bivock in the sunshine, Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her roses in full bloom; When the cowslaps an’ the lalack Deck the cottage home; When the cherry an’ the berry, Gives a grandeur to the charm; And the clover and the haycock Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With the partridge on the wing; When tewit an the moorgame, Up fra the heather spring, From the crowber an the billber, An the bracken an the ween; As from the noisey tadpole, We hear the crackin din. O! welcome, lovely summer.

p. 18Burns’s 113th Birthday.

Go bring that tuther whisky in, An put no watter to it; Fer I mun drink a bumper off, To Scotland’s darling poet.

Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah, This Jenewary morn, Sin in a lowly cot i’ Kyle, A rustic bard wor born.

He kettled up his moorland harp, To ivv’ry rustic scene; An sung the ways o’ honest men, His Davey and his Jean.

Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew, Bud what he could admire; Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale, That suited not his lyre.

At last ould Coilia sade enuff, My bardy tha did sing, Then gently tuke his moorland harp, And brack it ivvery string.

An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath, We all its berries red, Sho placed it on his noble brow, An pensively sho said:—

p. 19“So long as Willies bru ther malt, An Robs an Allans spree; Mi Burns’s songs an Burns’s name, Remember’d thay shall be.