Revised Edition of Poems

In Memory of THOMAS IRELAND, Police Superintendent, Keighley.
BORN 1831, DIED 1887

 
“He was a man, take him for all-in-all, we shall not look upon his like again?” – Shakspeare.
 
 
Who knew his virtues must his death deplore
And long lament that Ireland is no more;
Set is the sun that shone with all its rays,
And claimed from every one their warmest praise.
 
 
Mute are those lips, whose mildest accents spoke
Their sterling worth, down to the harmless joke;
Clear-seeing his soul, for lo! that mind was one
That envied nothing underneath the sun.
 
 
To speak the truth, he never was afraid;
His country’s weal, his country’s laws obeyed;
A pensive calm reigned on his noble brow,
While in his eye you read the solemn vow: —
 
 
“I harm no one; no one will I betray;
My duty is to watch and see fair play;
My friendship is to no one set confined;
My heart and hand are given to all mankind.”
 
 
Oh ancient town of legendary strain
When will his place in thee be filled again!
For men like he, possessed of sterling worth,
Are few and far between upon the earth.
 
 
Such was the man the weeping mourners mourn,
Lost to his friends, ah! never to return;
Fled to the spheres where he in peace must dwell,
While all who knew him bid a long farewell.
 

A Yorkshireman’s Christmas

 
Aw hev ten or twelve pund o’ gooid meit,
   A small cheese an’ a barrel o’ beer;
Aw’ll welcome King Kersmas to neet,
   For he nobbut comes once in a year.
 
 
Send ahr Will dahn ta Tommy Spoyle Wood’s,
   An’ tell him ta send up a log;
An’ tell him an’ Betty to come,
   For Tommy’s a jolly owd dog.
 
 
Aw mean ta forget all my debts,
   An’ aw mean ta harbour no grief;
Nobbut emptying glasses an’ plates
   O’ their contents o’ beer an’ gooid beef.
 
 
Them barns they care nowt abaht drink,
   Like us ’at’s advanced into years;
So Sally, lass, what does ta think,
   If ta buys ’em some apples an’ pears?
 
 
Ahr David’s a fine little lad,
   An’ ahr Nancy’s a fine little lass;
When aw see ’em aw do feel so glad,
   So bring me a quart an’ a glass!
 
 
Come, Sally, an’ sit bi mi side,
   We’ve hed both wur ups an’ wur dahns;
Awm fane at aw made thee mi bride,
   An’ awm prahd o’ both thee an’ wur barns.
 
 
We’re as happy as them ’at’s more brass,
   In a festival holly-decked hall;
We envy no mortal, owd lass;
   Here’s peace an’ good-will unto all!
 
 
An’ may ev’ry poor crater to neet,
   If nivver before in his life,
Hev plenty to drink an’ to eyt,
   Fer both him, an’ his barns, an’ his wife.
 

Lines on the Late
MR. THOMAS CRAVEN

 
Darkness his curtain, and his bed the dust —
   The friend we had but yesterday;
His spirit to the unknown land
         Hath fled away.
 
 
Ah! death’s strong key hath turned the lock,
   And closed again its ponderous door,
That ne’er for him shall ope again —
         Ah, nevermore!
 
 
Now pity swells the tide of love,
   And rolls through all our bosoms deep,
For we have lost a friend indeed;
         And thus we weep.
 

…

 
’Twas his to learn in Nature’s school
   To love his fellow-creatures dear;
His bounty fed the starving poor
         From year to year.
 
 
But thou, pale moon, unclouded beam,
   And O! ye stars, shine doubly bright,
And light him safe across the lake
         To endless light!
 

Gooise an’ Giblet Pie

 
A Kersmas song I’ll sing, mi lads,
   If ye’ll bud hearken me;
An incident i’ Kersmas time,
   I’ eighteen sixty-three;
Whithaht a stypher i’ the world —
   I’d scorn to tell a lie —
I dinéd wi a gentleman
   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
 
 
I’ve been i’ lots o’ feeds, mi lads,
   An’ hed some rare tucks-aght;
Blood-puddin days with killin’ pigs,
   Minch pies an’ thumpin’ tarts;
But I wired in, an’ reight an’ all,
   An’ supp’d when I wor dry,
Fer I wor dinin’ wi’ a gentleman
   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
 
 
I hardly knew what ail’d ma, lads,
   I felt so fearful prahd;
Mi ears pricked up, mi collar rahse,
   T’ards a hawf-a-yard;
Mi chest stood aght, mi charley in,
   Like horns stuck aght mi tie;
Fer I dinéd wi’ a gentleman
   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
 
 
I often think o’ t’feed, mi lads,
   When t’ gentleman I meet;
Bud nauther on us speiks a word
   Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can misel,
   I feel so fearful shy;
Fer I ate a deal o’ t’rosted gooise,
   An’ warm’d his giblet pie.
 

The Grand Old Man

 
I sing of a statesman, a statesman of worth,
The grandest old statesman there is upon earth;
When his axe is well sharpened we all must agree,
He can level a nation as well as a tree.
 
 
He can trundle such words from his serpent-like tongue
As fairly bewilder both old men and young;
He can make some believe that’s black which is white,
And others believe it is morn when it’s night.
 
 
He has tampered with kings, and connived with the Czar;
His Bulgarian twaddle once caused a great war,
Where thousands were slain, but what did he heed,
He still went to Church the lessons to read.
 
 
A bumbailey army to Egypt he sent,
In search of some money which long had been spent;
He blew up the forts, then commended his men,
And ordered them back to old England again.
 
 
In the far distant Soudan the Mahdi arose,
No doubt he intended to crush all his foes;
But Gladstone sent Gordon, who ne’er was afraid,
Then left him to perish without any aid.
 
 
“If I,” said poor Gordon, “get out of this place,
That traitor called Gladstone shall ne’er see my face —
To the Congo I’ll go, if I am not slain,
And never put foot in old England again.”
 
 
When the sad news arrived of the fall of Khartoum,
And of how our brave Gordon had met his sad doom,
Gladstone went to the theatre and grinned in a box,
Tho’ he knew that old England was then on the rocks.
 
 
He allowed the Dutch Boers on Majuba Hill,
Our brave little army to torture and kill;
And while our poor fellows did welter in gore,
He gave up the sword to the treacherous Boer.
 
 
Brave, though black Cetewayo, the great Zulu King,
To civilised England they captive did bring;
He sent back the Zulu, where first he drew breath,
Unguarded and helpless, to meet his own death.
 
 
“Had I done,” says Bismark, “so much in my life,
As Gladstone has done in fomenting sad strife,
I could not at this day have looked in the face
Of king, prince or peasant of my noble race.”
 
 
He has tampered and tarnished his national fame;
He has injured Great Britain in interest and aim —
Caused strife, war and bloodshed too reckless I ween,
Not caring for honour of England or Queen.
 
 
He invokes the great gods their rich blessing to shower,
As he stumps our great nation to get into power;
E’en now from old Ireland he cravenly begs,
That she will assist him to get on his legs.
 

Ode to Bacchus

 
Pueple god of joyous wit,
         Here’s to thee!
Deign to let the bardie sit
         Near thy knee;
Thy open brow, and laughing eye,
Vanquishing the hidden sigh,
Making care before thee fly,
      Smiling Bacchus, god of wine!
 
 
Thy stream intoxicates my song,
         For I am warm;
I love thee late, I love thee long;
         Thou dost me charm;
I ever loved thee much before,
And now I love thee more and more,
For thou art loved the wide world o’er,
      Charming Bacchus, god of wine!
 
 
“Angels hear that angels sing,”
         Sang the bard,
While the muse is on the wing,
         Pay regard;
See how Bacchus’ nectar flows,
Healing up the heartstrings’ woes,
Making friends, and minus foes,
      Gracious Bacchus, god of wine!
 
 
Ever on thee I depend,
         As my guest;
Thou wilt bring to me the friend
         I love best;
Friendship is the wine of love;
Angels dwell with it above,
Cooing like the turtle-dove
      Lovely Bacchus, god of wine!
 
 
Laughing Genius, a “Good night!”
         Yet, stay awhile!
Ere thou tak’st thy upward flight,
         Upon me smile;
Drop one feather from thy breast
On the bard, that he may rest,
Then he will be doubly bless’d,
      Glorious Bacchus, god of wine!
 
 
Kings are great, but thou art just,
         Night and day;
What are kings but royal dust —
         Birds of prey?
Though in splendour they may be —
Menials bow, and bend the knee —
Oh, let me dwell along with thee,
      Famous Bacchus, god of wine!
 

Sall o’t’ Bog

 
Mi love is like the passion dock,
   That grows i’ t’summer fog;
An’ tho’ shoo’s but a country lass,
   I like mi Sall o’ t’Bog.
 
 
I walk’d her aght up Rivock End,
   An’ dahn a bonny dell,
Whear golden balls an’ kahslips grow,
   An’ buttercups do smell.
 
 
We sat us dahn on top o’ t’grass,
   Clois to a runnin’ brook,
An’ harken’d t’watter wagtails sing
   Wi’ t’sparrow, thrush, an’ rook.
 
 
Aw lockt her in mi arms, an’ thowt
   As t’sun shane in her een,
Sho wor the nicest cauliflaar
   At ivver aw hed seen.
 
 
’Twor here we tell’d wur tales o’ love,
   Beneath t’owd hezzel tree;
How fondly aw liked Sall o’ t’Bog,
   How dearly shoo loved me!
 
 
An’ if ivver aw deceive thee, Sall,
   Aw vah bi all aw see,
Aw wish ’at aw mud be a kah,
   An’ it beleng ta thee.
 
 
But aw hev plump fergetten nah
   What awther on us said;
At onny rate we parted friends,
   An’ boath went hooam to bed.
 

Song of the Months

 
High o’er the hill-tops moan 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 o’er the grim surge 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 shower.
 
 
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 sweets on the wings of the breeze.
 
 
O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander?
   What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;
With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,
   At whose sight the last demon of winter doth fly?
 
 
From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping,
   While diamond dew-drops around her are 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 flies away.
 
 
How joyous the reapers their harvest songs singing
   As they see the maid bring the flagon and horn;
And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging
   Over meadows and pastures and 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.
 
 
Now is the time when biting old Boreas,
   True to his calling, the tempests impend;
His hailstones in fury are pelting before us,
   Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.
 
 
The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling,
   The beasts of the forest from hunger do call;
There are desolate evenings, 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 well we remember,
   Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.
 

Bonnie Cliffe Castle

 
Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! what sight can be grander?
   Thou picture of beauty and joy to the eye,
So noble and grand in thy beauty and splendour
   That envy must tremble as she passeth by.
 
 
And long may’st thou flourish and bloom like the heather,
   An honour to him who’s thy founder so great,
And stand like an oak in both fair and foul weather,
   Till old Father Time hath forgotten thy date.
 
 
’Tis a pleasure to view thee from hill-top or level,
   From moorland, from meadow, or mountain afar,
Where Roman pack-horsemen more safely could travel,
   In days when the Briton and Boman waged war.
 
 
In those days of yore, from Hawkcliffe to Rivoc,
   The wolf and the wild boar sought after their prey,
But Briton’s brave sons amongst them made havoc,
   And thus for Cliffe Castle they opened the way.
 
 
Where erst were wild woods, crags, moorlands, and marshes,
   In days long gone by and whose dates are unknown,
Is now the highway where stand thy proud arches,
   Oh, bonnie Cliffe Castle! thou pride of the town.
 
 
’Tis true that thy walls were not built for defence,
   Nor that thy equipments befit thee for war;
A castle of love is thy only pretence,
   A name that is higher and nobler by far.
 
 
Thou ’mind’st me of five as kind-hearted brothers,
   As ever set sail on the deep ocean’s breast,
Whose lives have been spent in love toward others,
   And while blessing others themselves have been blest.
 
 
Like heroes of old, on horse or on vessel,
   On land or on water they fought and they won,
And now thy grand towers, O bonnie Cliffe Castle!
   Tower up to the heavens, which answer, “Well done!”
 

Opening of Devonshire Park,
SEPTEMBER 4TH, 1888

 
Oh, well do we remember —
   For the news it was so pleasant —
When His Grace the Duke of Devonshire
   Made our famous town a present
Of a pretty little garden —
   An Arcadia in its way —
And how the bells rang merrily
   On that eventful day.
 
 
Oh, this lovely little garden
   ’Twill be to us a pleasure,
It will delight the great elite —
   To them ’twill be a treasure.
And who are they who dare to say
   The town it did not need one —
A pretty little lovely spot
   And a happy little Eden.
 
 
In this pretty little Paradise
   Of beauty and of splendour —
Search our land from end to end,
   You could not find a grander;
The turtledove can make its love,
   Not caring for the pigeon,
If he belongs his politics
   And follows his religion.
 
 
In this pretty little garden,
   When the bloom is on the heather,
Two minds with but one single thought
   Can tell their tales together;
The maiden from the mansion,
   And the lady from the villa,
Can wander there and shed a tear
   Beneath the weeping willow.
 
 
This bonny little garden
   Is fine for perambulators,
Where our handsome servant-lasses
   Can wheel our lovely creatures,
And oh! how happy they will be!
   As time they are beguiling,
When the mammy and the daddy
   Are upon the babies smiling.
 
 
Oh! this pretty little garden,
   Which every one admires,
Which pleased His Grace the Noble Duke
   To give our little squires.
The news was something wonderful,
   Like the shooting of a rocket,
When they heard that they had got a Park,
   And were “nothing out o’pocket.”
 
 
In this pretty little garden,
   With all its blossom blooming
We can sit and sing the whole day long,
   From the morning till the gloaming;
And tell Dame Keighley’s blunders,
   When her sons were naught but asses;
And could not even raise a Park,
   To please the upper classes.
 
 
Then let us give the Noble Duke,
   The praises of the Borough —
For if we did not thank His Grace,
   We should commit an error —
And not forgetting Mr. Leach,
   For he deserves rewarding,
For it is known he got the town
   This pretty little garden.
 

Farewell to the REV. H. J. LONGSDON, Formerly Rector of Keighley

 
Farewell dear friend, nor take it hard,
   To leave the town where thou hast been,
Where many a joy we hope thou’st had,
   Though witness’d many a sorry scene.
 
 
Thy works were good, we know it well,
   We watched thee in thy weary toil;
Where oft obstruction, shame to tell,
   Waits on the good their plans to spoil.
 
 
Yet thou dids’t toil without a fear
   From day to day, from year to year;
Beloved by all, thy foes are few,
   And they are loth to bid adieu.
 
 
We saw thee in the early dawn
   Up with the lark at break of morn,
Thy duties promptly to attend,
   Our shepherd, pastor, and our friend.
 
 
With good advice to one and all,
   The old, the young, the great, the small;
In lane or house, in church or street,
   Thy presence we were glad to meet.
 
 
“Thou art a man! a man! a man!”
   The Poet quotes from some old play;
“An upright, honest gentleman,
   Whose likes we meet not every day.”
 
 
And when thou leavest us behind,
   Our recollections will not die —
Of thee whose meekness, zeal, and love,
   Are known alike to low and high.
 
 
Out from thy fold, all other flocks
   Were proud of thee – a shepherd true,
All other shepherds greeted thee,
   Although thy flocks to theirs were few.
 
 
Thou tended with a shepherd’s care,
   And saw that none did go astray;
Thou led them with an honest will,
   From early morn to evening’s ray.
 
 
Adieu, dear sir, long may’st thou live
   To be a credit to our isle;
And when thou toil’st ’midst other friends,
   May fortune on thy labours smile.
 

He’s Thy Brother

 
Turn from the rich thy steps awhile,
And visit this poor domicile;
Abode of flavours rank and vile?
This is the home, and this the style,
      Where lives thy brother!
 
 
The cobwebs are his chandeliers;
Bricks and dank straw his bed and chairs;
He has no carpet on the stairs,
But, like the wild beasts to their lairs,
      Crawls in thy brother.
 
 
He once did stride his father’s knee —
A little horseman bold and free;
And, should thou trace this pedigree,
Thy mother’s darling pet was he —
      Thy little brother.
 
 
His mind was not of thine, ’tis plain;
He dreamt of wonders, thou of gain;
But thou thy object didst attain
For which another sought in vain —
      E’en thy own brother.
 
 
Thou cunningly didst keep thy pace,
While he joined in the wild-goose chase;
Thou’rt now the great one of this place,
While he hath lost his phantom race —
      Thy wretched brother!
 
 
I see a form amongst the crowd,
With stricken heart, and head that’s bowed;
I hear a voice, both deep and loud —
A voice of one that wanted food —
      It is thy brother.
 
 
The meanest wretch that ever trod,
The smallest insect ’neath the sod,
Are creatures of an All-seeing God,
Who may have smitten with his rod
      Thy foolish brother.
 
 
He careth not for wealth or show,
But dares thee to neglect, e’en now,
That unmanned wretch, so poor and low,
Else he may deal a heavy blow,
      E’en for thy brother.
 

Lund’s Excursion to Windermere

 
Come hither mi muse, an’ lilt me a spring,
Tho’daghtless awhile tha’s been on the wing;
But yet tha mun try to cum up ta t’mark,
An’ give us sum rhyme for a bit of a lark:
An’ tho’ at thy notes in this sensation age,
Wiseacres may giggle an’ critics may rage,
Thou art my sole hobby there is no mistake,
So sing us t’Excursion ta Windermere Lake.
 
 
’Twor a fine summer’s mornin’ as ivver wor seen,
All nature wor wearin’ her mantle o’ green;
The birds wor all singin’ i’ owd Cockle Wood,
As if by their notes they all understood,
As weel as the people who com wi’ a smile,
To see the procession march off i’ grand style.
 
 
“Owd Rowland,” the bell wi’ his gert iron tongue,
Proclaim’d to the people both owd an’ young,
’Twor high time to rise for each moment wor dear
As t’train wod be startin’ fer Lake Windermere;
An’ Rowland, the bell, didn’t toll, sir, i’ vain,
For hunderds wur ready ta start for the train.
 
 
But harken what music – grand music is here,
Ower maantains, dahn valleys, it’s saanding so clear;
It’s t’Turkey Mill Band wi ther sharps and ther flats,
I’ ther blue an’ green coits an’ ther red-toppin’d hats,
’Tis plain whear they’re bahn wi’ t’long paces they take,
An’ they’ll play wi’ some vengeance at Windermere Lake.
 
 
But, harken ageean! what’s comin’ this way?
More music, grand music; hey, hear how they play!
It’s t’Fife an’ Drum Band fra Throttlepoke Raw,
Wi’ as strong a big drummer as ivver yah saw,
An’ both his drum ends must be solid as stone,
Fer bi t’way ’at he thumps he macks it fair groan.
 
 
The procession moves off in a double quick pace,
An’ all seem delightful – a smile on ther face,
As the music strikes up wi’ owd “Robin a Dair,”
Toan hauf o’ t’wimmen scarce knaw what they ail;
To see the bands marching it wod yah delight,
So ably conducted by owd Jimmy Wright.
 
 
The weivers led on by Miss Hob an’ Miss Hall,
Each dress’d i’ ther jackets, new turban, an’ fall,
An’ if you’d o’ seen ’em you’d o’ thowt they wor fine,
Wi’ ther nice parasols an’ ther gert crinoline;
But as they wor marchin’ foaks sed at Miss Hob,
Wor t’nicest and smartest young woman i’ t’job.
 
 
T’next section ’at followed wor a section o’ rakes,
Led on by owd blossom, an’ Driver o’ Jacques,
Wi’ Ruddock an’ Rufus, an’ Snowball so breet;
Along wi’ owd Nathan, Bill Rollin an’ Wreet;
An’ Harry O’Bridget, Tom Twist, an’ his pals,
An’ Benger, an’ Capper, an’ Jonas o Salls.
 
 
The lads an’ the lasses come marchin’ behind,
An’ rare an’ weel suited wor t’youngsters yo mind;
For all wor nah waitin’ fer t’Fife an’ Drum Band,
To strike up like thunner ther music so grand;
How prahd an’ delighted yo might a seen some,
When t’drummer wi’ vengeance wor thumpin’ his drum.
 
 
An’ who cud hev thowt it? – but let ma go on; —
There wor Jacky o’ Squires an’ Cowin’ Heead John,
Wi’ Corney o’ Rushers, but not bi hissen,
For there wor Joseph o’ Raygills, owd Jess an’ owd Ben.
Ye sall seek fer a month, but between nah an’ then,
I defy ye ta find sitch a pick’d lot o’ men.
 
 
Tom Nicholl then marched at t’heead of his clan,
An’ it’s said ’at he muster’d his men to a man;
There wor Joaney o’ Bobs, an’ his mates full o’ glee,
An’ that little dark fella ’at comes fra t’Gooise Ee.
All a set o’ fine fellas in heighest respect,
Weel up i’ moustaches an’ nicely shirt neckt.
 
 
But among the procession at walk’d in his pride,
Wor Joey o’ Willie’s ’at lives at t’Beck Side;
An’ along wi’ Bill Earby wor marchin’ his friend,
Wun Jemmy o’ Roses fra t’Branshaw Moor End.
As we pass’d dahn t’tahn the foaks did declare
’At t’best lukin’ men wor Sam Butt an’ Black Hare.
 
 
But t’next at com on an’ made t’biggest crack,
Wor t’gallant Big-benners led on wi’ Bill Shack;
An’ t’spectators praised ’em an’ seem’d i’ ther joy,
When they saw Johnny Throstle, an’ Nolan an’ Boy.
Altho’ not weel up i’ ther armour an mail,
Yet these are the lads ’at can tell yu a tale.
 
 
Hahsumivver, we push’d an’ thrusted thro’ t’craad,
Wal we landed at t’station an’ waited i’ t’yard;
So we all sattled dahn, for we thowt it t’best plan
To wait o’ wer orders to get into t’train.
 

Hahsumivver, after a deal o’ yellin’ an’ screamin’ o’ t’injuns, Mr. Mann sed all wor reight nah, an’ they mud start as sooin as they liked, for ivverybody wor i’ t’train at wor bahn, but owd Pally Pickles an’ Matty o’ Maude’s; an’ their Sally cudn’t go becos they had a mustard plaister to put on to their Roger’s chest; he’d strain’d his lungs wi’ eitin’ cahcumbers. Beside, owd Pally cudn’t go either, becos shoo’d nobody to wait on t’owd fella at wor laid up i’ t’merly grubs; an’ ivverybody wor so taen on abaght Will Scott not going, for, as owd Betty sed, what wod they do if ther legs gat asleep an’ no galvanic battery to shack em reight ageean?

But, hahsumivver, t’guard blew his whistle an’ off t’train started helter-skelter up bi Utley as hard as ivver it cud go. An nah for a change o’ scene! – fer t’Exley-Heeaders aght wi ther rhubub pasties an’ treacle parkins. Harry o’ Bridget’s hed a treacle parkin t’size of a pancake in his hat crahn, an’ Joe o’ owd Grace’s fra Fell Loin hed a gert bacon collop in his pocket t’size of a oven tin. Somebody remarks, “Tha’ll grease thi owd chops wi’ that, Joe.” He sed “I like a bit o’ bacon when it isn’t reezed, tha knaws, especially home-fed like this”; but just when he wor exhibitin’ it rhaand t’hoile, t’train stopp’d at Kilwick Station, fer t’maister an’ t’missis wor waitin’ to get in; so t’Turkey Mill Band struck up “We’re goin’ home to glory,” wi’ credit to both t’conductors an’ thersens. Hahsumivver, they wor forced to put double time in at t’latter end, for Puffin’ Billy started o’ screaming ageean fearfully, so all wor in t’carriages an’ off in a crack – my word, they did leg it ower hedges an’ dykes, thru valleys an’ mahutains —

 
“Where the wind nivver blew,
   Nor a cock ivver crew,
Nor the deil sahnded
   His Bugle Horn.”
 

I’ll assure yu, foak, it seemed varry little afoar we wor at Clapham. Why, yu can judge for yersens; when Tom o’ Twist’s gat up an’ popped his heead aght o’ t’window an’ shaated aaght “We’re at Derby already!” but it turned aght to be nowt but a coil truck wi’ “Derby” marked on it. Well, be it as it may, we landed at Lancaster sooin, an’ some o’ t’owd maids gat aght here, but it wor nivver knawn to this day what for; hahsumivver, it hes been suspected at they wor after some watter, for ther shooin wor steepin’ wet when they com back. But yu mun knaw at after a deal o’ twistin’ an’ twinin’ they started for Windermere, but, my word, it worrant generally thowt so, for owd Nathan o’ Johnny’s an’ their Samuel, an’ owd Matty o’ Sykes’s, an’ Bob o’ t’Bog, stood it boldly ’at it wor goin’ back to Keighley, an’ wodant believe it wal they reitched Kendal; besides, ivverybody thowt at t’train wor lost, but after another start we landed at Windermere, an’ nearly all t’passengers wor fair capp’d, for they thowt for sewer at t’injun hed been flaid wi’ summat.

 
But, hod yer din, says Railway Tim,
   As it is varry clear,
At t’injun’s reight an’ landed streight,
   For this is Windermere.
 

So, i’ landing, ivverbody seemed quite startled wi’ t’appearance o’ t’place. “Well, if ivver, I’m fair capp’d!’, sed owd Maude o’ Peter’s, “it’s t’nicest spot I ivver saw wi’ mi een, an’ I sall say so to mi deein’ day. It looks like a paradise! I’ve seen mony a nice place i’ mi life-time, both dreamin’ an’ wakin’, but this licks all! What wi’ t’grand black marble houses an’ t’roses growin’ up at t’front, it’s ommost like bein’ i’ Heaven.” But nobody cud hear aboon t’toan hauf o’ what wor said cos t’bands wor playin’ as hard as ivver they cud an’ t’foak wor all in a bussle, for —

 
Miss Hob an’ Miss Jonas tuke a cab dahn to Bowness,
   An’ mind yu, they luk’d fearful grand;
An’ when they gat theer they tuke fer Grassmere,
   Like two o’ t’first ladies i’ t’land.
 
 
Miss Walsh an’ Miss Roddy an’ another young body,
   Bethowt ’em ’at it wod be t’best,
To tak a fine boat an’ just hev a float
   Dahn the lake as far as Dove’s Nest.
 
 
Says Miss Nelly Holmes, “as I’ve left off mi looms
   I’ll show at I’m summat better;
An’ I’ll go ta Low Wood, it might do ma good,
   An’ sport both on t’land an’ on t’watter.”
 

Hahsumivver, Miss Martha Smith fra Utley, an owd maid, an’ Jenny Hodgson, an’ Ann Shack, an’ abaght nineteen other owd maids, bethowt ’em they’d hev some teah, for there wor a paper stuck i’ ivvery window wi’ “Hot water sold here,” as an inscription. So they went in an’ bargain’d for it, an’ ax’d what it wor a piece fer hot waiter. “Tuppence a piece,” says t’Missis. “Tuppence a piece!” exclaim’d t’dollop of ’em, “we can get it at owd Matty Wreet’s fer a penny a week. It’s a burning shame, but let’s hev a bucket a piece.”

 
So thirteen cups a piece they tuke,
   An’ they were noan ta blame,
Fer weel shoo knew did Hannah Shack,
   They’d hev to pay the same.
 

An’ my word, t’gert foak wor capp’d when they saw us; these wor some squintin’ throo glasses, yu mind, an’ especially when t’band started a playin’. In fact, they wor fair charm’d wi’ t’Turkey Mill Banders, an’ a deal o’ t’young ladies an’ gentlemen admired t’conductor, fer his arm went just like a hand-loom weiver swingin’ his pickin’ stick.

 
Fer monny a noble lord did say,
   An’ so did monny a heiress,
“Can this be Julien’s Band, I pray,
   That late we’ve seen in Paris.
 
 
“Upon my word, I think it is
   That famous French instructor,
Mon Dieu! when I behold his phiz,
   It is the great conductor.”
 

But they wor t’moast capped wi’ t’Fife an’ Drum Band ov owt. They tuke ’em to be a band of Esquimaux at hed just landed i’ England. Hahsumivver, we followed after, marchin’ ta t’tune ’at t’owd kah deed on, i’ droves like a squad o’ pie-bald geese, wal we com ta t’watter edge, an’ then —

 
To Miller’s Brah, an’ Calf-garth Woods,
   Some on ’em tuke ther route,
Some sailed across to Castle Wray,
   An’ some went whear they thowt.
 
 
Some tuke a yacht to Newby Brig,
   To brave both wind an’ tide,
Wal others sailed around Belle Isle,
   An’ some to Ambleside.
 

I’ landin’ at Ambleside, Joe o’ Raygill’s bethowt him he’d hev a glass o’ ale, an’ bethegs he’d t’misfortun to leave three gert curnberry pasties i’ t’hotel, an’ didn’t bethink him wal he’d getten on ta t’top of a big hill, but when he bethowt him, my word, he did bounce dahn that hill ta some tune. When he gat back, t’missis hed geen ’em to Jonas o’ Sall’s, an’ behold they wor luking fer one another up hills an’ dahn valleys, Joe axin’ ivverybody he met if they’d seen owt of his three pasties, an’ Jonas axin’ fer t’owner on ’em. Hahsumivver, they nivver gat ta see nowt wal they wor theer, for they didn’t meet wal t’train wor just startin’ back agean, an’ then Joe didn’t get his pasties, cos Jonas hed geen ’em to a injun-driver, an’ theer – betmess he’d hetten ’em, ta Joe’s mortification an’ rage!

But, that worn’t all t’mistak at wor made; fer Bill Rollins bethowt him at he’d lost summat, but cudn’t tell fer his life what it wor. He groped his pockets, luk’d into his carpet beg, an’ studied fer aboon an haar; at last he pick’d it aght ’at it wor their Peg ’at he’d lost somewheer up on t’mahntens.