Revised Edition of Poems Part 17

Full monny a time it's made me groan, To see thee stretched, despised, alone; While turned-up noses pa.s.sed have gone, O' purse-proud men!

No friends, alas! save some poor one Fra t'paddin can.

Whoe'er despise thee, let them know The time may come when they may go To some fish wife, and beg to know If they can buy The friendship o' their vanquished foe, Wi' weeping eye.

To me naught could be better fun, Than see a duke or n.o.ble don, Or lord, or peer, or gentleman, In search o' thee: And they were bidden to move on, Or go to t'sea.

Yet we'll sing thy praise, wee fish; To me thou art a dainty dish; For thee, 'tis true, I often wish.

My little bloater; Either salted, cured, or shining fresh Fra yon great water.

If through thy pedigree we peep, Philosophy from thee can keep, An' I need not study deep, There's nothing foreign; For I, like thee, am sold too cheap, My little herring.

[Picture: Decorative pattern]

The World's Wheels.

How steady an' easy t'owd world's wheels wod go, If t'folk wod be honest an' try to keep so; An' at steead o' bein' hasty at ivvery whim, Let us inquire before we condemn.

A man may do wrong an' scarce be to blame, Or a woman be bad i' nowt bud her name; Bud which on us owt ta say owt unto them, Unless we inquire before we condemn.

If a Rose she sud flourish her sisters among, It isn't to say her poor sister is wrong; That blighted one there may be nipp'd in the stem, So let us inquire before we condemn.

Yond vessel that tussels the ocean to plough, While waves they are dashing and winds they do blow, May be shatter'd asunder from stern unto stem, So let us inquire before we condemn.

We are certain o' one thing an' that isn't two, If we do nothing wrong we've nothing to rue; Yet many a bright eye may be full to the brim, So let us inquire before we condemn.

Then speak not so harshly-withdraw that rash word, 'Tis wrong to condemn till the story is heard; If it worrant for summat sho might be a gem, So let us inquire before we condemn.

English Church History.

Most respectfully dedicated to the Rev. F. D. CREMER, St. ANDREW'S, Keighley, Oct. 25th, 1889.

Dear reverend sir, excuse your humble servant, Whose heart you've made this very night to glow; I thank you kindly, and my prayers most fervent Will ever be, dear reverend sir, for you.

My ideas lacked for want of information, And glad am I to glean a little more, About the Churches of our mighty nation, Whose chimes are heard on many a far-off sh.o.r.e.

My heart was moved, for I was much astounded, To view the many Churches of our land; The life-like pictures of the saints who founded These ruins old, so wonderful and grand.

For oft I've wished, and often have I pondered, And longed to learn the history of our kirk; How it was handed down to us I've wondered, And who were they that did this mighty work.

The veil's removed, and now my sight is clearer, Upon the sacred history of our isle; For while I view these scenes it brings me nearer Unto the Church on which the angels smile.

Who would not shuffle off his worldly pleasures, For one short hour to bring before his sight, The pictures of the great and mighty treasures- Our English Church, which brought the world to light.

Great Men dive deep down into wisdom's river- The poet, philosopher, and sage- For wisdom's pearls, which showeth forth for ever, Nor waste their sweetness or grow dull with age.

Who would not walk through ruins old and h.o.a.ry, And make each relic and persue his search?

Who would not listen and applaud each story, Told of an ancient good and English Church?

Each view so grand, mixed up with sacred singing, Of that old Church-I humbly call it mine, For still my heart to it is ever clinging, And He who died for me in ancient Palestine.

[Picture: Decorative picture of ferns]

[Picture: Keighley Parish Church, 1891]

The Old Hand-Wool-Combers:

Lines written on the occasion of a Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor (Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891.

Come hither my muse and give me a start, And let me give praise to the one famous art; For it's not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast, But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post.

In the brave days of old when I was a boy, I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy; Where I listened to stories and legends of old, Which to me were more precious than silver or gold.

The old Comber would tell of his travels through life, And where he had met with his darling old wife; And how he had stole her from her native vale, To help him to pull the "old tup" by the "tail."

He would go through the tales of his youthful career, An undaunted youth without dread or fear; He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor, He knew every acre of mountain and moor.

He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State, And tell where old England would be soon or late; How nations would rise, and monarch's would fall, And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall.

He was very well read, though papers were dear, But he got _Reynold's_ newspaper year after year; It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen, While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen.

He was fairly dramatic, the stage he loved well, The names of great actors and plays he would tell; And if that his notion it took the other way, He could quote the Bible a night and a day.

Full of wit, full of mirth, he could give you a sting, He could preach, he could pray, he could dance, he could sing; He could play pitch and toss, he could jump, he could run, He could shuffle the cards, he could handle a gun.

The old Constable knew him but let him alone, Because he knew better than bother with "Joan"; For the lads of the Barracks and the Pinfold as well Would all have been there at the sound of the bell.

Old Keighley was then but a very small town, Yet she'd twelve hundred Combers that were very well known; Hundreds have gone over the dark flowing burn, Whence no traveller was ever yet known to return.

It reminds me again of the Donkey and pack Which came from the hills bringing Wool on its back; And if the poor beast perchance had to bray 'Twere a true sign a Comber would die on that day.

The third day of the week, sometimes further on, The old woman would seek the King's Arms for her son; And if she were told he had not been at all, Would bounce over the green to the Hole-in-the-Wall.

Hi! those were fine times, especially the fairs, When the Inns were kept open for dancing upstairs; The Commercial, Lord Rodney, as well as the Crown To the ancient Wool-comber were fairly well known.

But now we'll get back to the pot and the pad, The fair it is over, the women are glad; For now the Wool-comber his follies he sees, And makes resolutions as staunch as you please.

For now he commences to work hard and late, He is building a Castle on a phantom estate; And he toils for a time but long hoggs make him sick, Then he duffs, and his castle falls down, every brick.

When Winter comes in with its keen bitter blast, And the poor rustic hind has to cope with the frost; Yet the Comber was happy in village and town, Though he knew that his calling was fast going down.