Revised Edition of Poems Part 13

The Field-Marshall declared, and his good lady too, They ne'er were attacked with so pleasant a foe; With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers, In return they saluted the bold Buchaneers.

The Benks o' the Aire.

It isn't the star of the evening that breetens, Wi' fairy-like leetness the owd Rivock ends, Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton, Or the benks of the river while strolling wi' friends, That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely, And leave the gay feast for others to share; But O there's a charm, and a charm for me only, In a sweet little cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger, In that cot, wi' my Mary, I could pa.s.s the long years: In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger, And chase off the anguish o' pale sorrow's tears.

We'd walk aght in t'morning when t'young sun wor shining, When t'birds hed awakened, an' t'lark soar'd i' t'air, An' I'd watch its last beam, on my Mary reclining, From ahr dear little cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

Then we'd talk o' the past, when our loves wor forbidden, When fortune wor adverse, an' friends wod deny, How ahr hearts wor still true, tho' the favours wor hidden Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.

An' when age sall hev temper'd ahr warm glow o' feelin'

Ahr loves should endure, an' still wod we share; For weal or in woe, or whativver c.u.ms stealin', We'd share in ahr cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

Then hasten, my Mary, the moments are flying, Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart; For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin'

Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart.

The miser that wanders besides buried treasure, Wi' his eyes ever led to the spot in despair; How different to him is my rapture and pleasure Near the dear little cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver; The breetest an' best to me ivver knawn, When fate may ordain us no longer to sever, Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.

For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee, If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi' me; But sweeter an' fairer, whate'er betide thee, In ahr sweet little cot on the Benks o' the Aire.

In Memory of J. W. PECKOVER, _Died July 10th_, _1888_.

He was a man, an upright man As ever trod this mortal earth, And now upon him back we scan, Whose greatest fault was honest mirth.

But never more his friends will see The smiling face and laughing eye, Nor hear his jokes with heartfelt glee, Which made dull care before them fly.

Nor ever more the friend shall find, When labour lacks, the shake of hand That oft was wont to leave behind What proved a Brother and a Friend.

In winter's bitter, biting frost, Or hail, or snow, or rain, or sleet, The wretch upon life's tempest toss'd In him found shelter from the street.

The unemployed, the aged poor, The orphan child, the lame and blind, The stranger never crossed his floor But what a friend in him did find.

But now the hand and heart are gone, Which were so n.o.ble, kind and true, And now his friends, e'en every one, Are loth to bid a last adieu.

The Fugitive: A Tale of Kersmas Time.

We wor snugly set arahnd the hob, 'Twor one wet Kersmas Eve, Me an ahr Kate an' t'family, All happy I believe: Ahr Kate hed Harry on her knee, An' I'd ahr little Ann, When there com rappin' at the door A poor owd beggar man.

Sleet trickl'd dahn his h.o.a.ry locks, That once no daht wor fair; His hollow cheeks wor deadly pale, His neck an' breast wor bare; His clooas, unworthy o' ther name, Wor ragg'd an' steepin' wet; His poor owd legs wor stockingless, An' badly shooed his feet.

"Come into t'haase," said t'wife to him, An' get thee up ta t'fire; Shoo then browt aght wur humble fare, T'wor what he did desire; And when he'd getten what he thowt, An' his owd regs wor dry, We ax'd 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 Full monny a Kersmas cheer; I left my father's hahse when young, Determined I wod rooam; An' like the prodigal of yore, I'm mackin' tahrds my hooam.

"I soldier'd in the Punjaub lines, On India's burning sand; An' nearly thirty years ago I left my native land; Discipline bein' ta hard fer me, My mind wor allus bent; So in an evil haar aw did Desert my regiment.

"An' nivver sin' durst aw go see My native hill an' glen, Whear aw mud nah as weel hev been The happiest of all men; But my blessin'-an' aw wish ye all A merry Kersmas day; Fer me, I'll tak my poor owd bones, On Cheviot Hills to lay."

"Aw cannot say," aw said to t'wife, "Bud aw feel raather hurt; What thinks ta la.s.s if tha lukes aght, An' finds t'owd chap a shirt."

Shoo did an' all, an' stockings too; An' a tear stood in her ee; An' in her face the stranger saw Real Yorkshire sympathy.

Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh When he hed heeard his tale, An' spak o' some owd trousers, 'At hung on t'chamber rail; Then aght at door ahr Harry runs, An' back ageean he shogs, He'd been in t'coit ta fetch a pair O' my owd ironed clogs.

"It must be fearful cowd ta neet Fer fowk 'at's aght o' t'door: Give him yahr owd grey coit an' all, 'At's thrawn on t'chaamer floor: An' then there's thy owd hat, said Kate, 'At's pors'd so up an' dahn; It will be better ner his awn, Tho' it's withaght a crahn."

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 owd fugitive; He thank'd us ower an' ower ageean An' often he did pray, 'At t'barns wod nivver be like him; Then travell'd on his way.

The Feather'd Captive.

My little dapple-winged fellow, What ruffian's hand has made thee wellow?

I heard while down in yonder hollow, Thy troubled breast; But I'll return my little fellow, Back to its nest.

Some ruffian's hand has set a snickle, An' left thee in a bonny pickle; Whoe'er he be, I hope owd Nick will Rise his arm, An' mak his heead an' ear-hoil tickle Wi' summat warm.

How glad am I that fate while roaming, Where milk-white hawthorn's blossom's blooming, Has sent my footsteps ere the gloaming Into this dell, To stop some murdering hand fra dooming Thy bonny sel'.

For thou wur doomed my bird, for ever, Fra all thy feather'd mates to sever; Were I not near thee to deliver Wi' my awn hand; Nor ever more thou'd skim the river, Or fallow'd land.

Thy feather'd friends, if thou has any; Tho' friends I fear there isn't many; But yet the dam for her, wi' Johnny, Will fret to-day, And think her watter-wagtail bonny Has flown away.

Be not afraid, for not a feather Fra off thy wing shall touch the heather, For I will give thee altogether Sweet liberty!

And glad am I that I came hither, To set thee free.

Now wing thy flight my little rover, Thy curs'd captivity is over, And if thou crosses t'Straits of Dover To warmer spheres, I hope that thou may live in clover, For years and years.

Perhaps, like thee-for fortune's fickle- I may, myself, be caught i' t'snickle; And some kind hand that sees my pickle- Through saving thee- May s.n.a.t.c.h me too fra death's grim shackle, And set me free.

[Picture: Decorative picture of bird]

Dame Europe's Lodging-House.

A BURLESQUE ON THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR.

Dame Europe kept a Lodging-House, And she was fond of bra.s.s; She took in public lodgers, Of every rank and cla.s.s.