Revised Edition of Poems Part 6

"An' tell 'em to remember thee Upon t'next Feffee Day!"

I says-"I sallant get a meg, I'm gettin' parish pay."

So when shoo'd spokken what shoo thowt, An' tell'd me what to do, I ax'd her if shoo'd harken me, Wal I just said a word or two.

"I'll nut tell you one word o' lie, As sure as my name's John; I think at you are quite i' t'mist Abaht things going on.

"Folks gether in fra far an' near, When it is Feffee Day, An' think they hev another lowse, Wi' t'little bit o' pay.

"Asteead o' givin' t'bra.s.s to t'poor, It's shocking fer to tell, They'll hardly let 'em into t'door- I knaw it bi misell.

"Asteead o' bein' a peck o' malt Fer t'wimmen liggin' in, It's geen to rascals ower-grown, To drink i' rum an' gin.

"Then them at is-I understand- What you may call trustees; They hev ther favourites, you knaw, An' gives to who they please.

"Some's nowt to do but shew ther face, An' skrew ther maath awry; An' t'bra.s.s is shuvv'd into ther hand, As they are pa.s.sin' by.

"There's monny a woman I knaw weel, Boath middle-aged and owd, 'At's waited fer ther bit o' bra.s.s, An' catch'd ther deeath o' cowd;

"Wol mony a knave wi' lots o' bra.s.s Hes c.u.m i' all his pride, An' t'flunkeys, fer to let him pa.s.s, 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 bi they get hooam.

"Wol mony a poorer family 'At's nut been named i' t'list, Reight weel desarves a share o' t'spoil, But, thenk ye, they are miss'd.

"We see a man at hes a haase, Or happen two or three, They 'Mister' him, an' hand him aght Five times as mitch as me.

"'Twor better if yo'd teed yer bra.s.s Tight up i' sum owd seck, An' getten t'Corporation brooms, To sweep it into t'beck."

No longer like Capia's form, Wi' a tear i' both her een, But like the gallant Camilla, The Volscian warrior Queen.

Shoo, kneelin', pointed up aboon, An' vah'd, be all so breet, Sho'd wreak her vengence on ther heeads, Or watch 'em day an' neet.

Shoo call'd the Furies to her aid, An' Dirae's names shoo used, An' sware if I hed spocken t'truth, Shoo hed been sore abus'd.

"Alas, poor Ghoast!"-I sed to her- "Indeed, it is too true"; Wi' that sho vanish'd aght o' t'seet, Sayin' "Johnny lad, adieu!"

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 n.o.ble 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 n.o.bbut 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; n.o.bbut emptying gla.s.ses 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, la.s.s, 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 la.s.s; When aw see 'em aw do feel so glad, So bring me a quart an' a gla.s.s!

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 bra.s.s, In a festival holly-decked hall; We envy no mortal, owd la.s.s; 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.