Random Rhymes and Rambles Part 2

There is hope in the time that is coming, When the lambs will frolic on the plain, Whilst the bees o'er the heather are humming, Then the songsters will cheer us again.

For the pretty little birds from the edges, The reeds for their nest will have riven; While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.

Then we'll go to the banks of the river, Through meadows that's blooming in green, Where the swallow 'neath the branches will quiv'r O'er the fish as they sport in the stream: Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting, For the fruits of that labour he has striven, While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the rays of the sunbeam we'll cherish, The rose that's unseen in the bud, And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish, Round the ferns in the depths of the wood: Then we'll pluck up the primrose and daisy, And the sweets that nature she has given, While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the merry little boys they will ramble, So gleesome, o'er mountain and dale, Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble Will be blown by the mild summer gale: Then a share of Nature's smiles each morning To the poor humble peasant will be given.

While the lark from his covert he is soaring, His musical notes to the heaven.

Haworth Sharpness.

Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day, "Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o' t'railway, For fra Keighley to Haworth I've been oft enough, But nivver a hawpenny I've paid yah, begoff."

The porter replied, "I very mitch daht it, But I'll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it; For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pa.s.s t' snicket, Baht tipping to t'porter thee pa.s.s or thee ticket."

"Tha'l rite up to Derby an' then tha'l deceive me;"

"I willn't, this time," sed t'porter, "believe me:"

"Then aht we thy bra.s.s, an' let us be knocking, For I've walked it a foot back all rahnd be t'Bocking."

The La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

[Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen, indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy pa.s.s that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale-with its running wimpling stream-I beheld the "La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean." She was engaged in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. Instantaneously I was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as did Robert Tannyhill upon his imaginary beauty, "The Flower of Dumblane." I struck my lyre, and, although the theme of my song turned out afterwards to be a respectable old woman of 70 winters, yet there is still a charm in my "La.s.s o' Newsholme Dean."]

Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind, Thy love is all to me; Aw cuddant in a palace find A la.s.s more true ner thee.

An' if aw wor the Persian Shah, An' thee, me Lovely Queen, The grandest diamond e me Crown, Wor't la.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

The lady gay may heed thee not, An' pa.s.sing by may sneer; The upstart squire's dawters laugh, When thou, my love, art near.

But if all ther s.h.i.+ning sovrens Wor wared o' sattens green, They mightant be as hansum then As't la.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

When yollow autumn's l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+nes, An' hangs her golden ear, An' nature's voice fra every bush, Is singing sweet and clear.

'Neath some white thorn to song unknown, To mortal never seen, 'Tis there with thee I fain would be, Me la.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

Od drat, who cares fer kings or queens, Mixt in a nation's broil, They never benefit the poor, The poor mun allus toil.

An thou gilded specter royalty, That dazzles folkses een, Is nowt to me when I'm we thee, Sweet la.s.s o' Newsholme Dean.

High from the summit of yon crag, I view yon smoky town, Where fortune she has deigned to smile On monny a simple clown: Tho' free from want, their free from brains; An' no happier I ween, Than this old farmer's wife an' hens, Aw saw e Newsholme Dean.

The Broken Pitcher.

[The happiest moments of a soldier in time of peace is when sat round the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part, othertimes he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will oblige them with his song of "Nelson" or "Napoleon," generally being the favourite with them;-then there is the fancy tale teller which amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn or story makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the la.s.s he left behind him; hence his adventure with the La.s.sie by the Well."]

Three was a bonny La.s.sie once Sitting by a well; But what this bonny la.s.sie thought I cannot, cannot tell.

When by there went a cavalier Well-known as Willie Wryght, He was in full marching order With his armour s.h.i.+ning bright.

"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why Sits thou by the spring?

Doest thou seek a lover with A golden wedding ring.

Or wherefore doest thou gaze on me, With eyes so bright and wide?

Or wherefore does that pitcher lay Broken by thy side?"

"My pitcher is broken, sir, And this the reason is, A villain came behind, and He tried to steal a kiss.

I could na take his nonsense, so Ne'er a word I spoke, But hit him with my pitcher, And thus you see 'tis broke."

"My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken Now waits for me to come; He canna mak his Crowdy, Till't watter it goes home.

I canna tak him watter, And that I ken full weel, An' so I'm sure to catch it,- For he'll play the varry de'il."

"Ah maiden, lovely maiden, I pray be ruled by me; Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips, And give me kisses three.

And we'll suppose my helmet is A pitcher made o' steel, And we'll carry home some watter To thy uncle Jock McNeil."

She silently consented, for She blink'd her bonny ee, I threw my arms around her neck, And gave her kisses three.

To wrong the bonny la.s.sie I sware 't would be a sin; So I knelt down by the watter To dip my helmet in.

Out spake this bonny la.s.sie, "My soldier lad, forbear, I wodna spoil thee bonny plume That decks thy raven hair; Come buckle up thy sword again, Put on thy cap o' steel, I carena for my pitcher, nor My uncle Jock McNeil."

I often think, my comrades, About this Northern queen, And fancy that I see her smile, Though oceans roll between.

But should you meet her Uncle Jock, I hope you'll never tell How I squared the broken Pitcher, With the la.s.sie at the well.

The Benks o' the Aire.

It issent the star of the evening that breetens, Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends, Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton, Or the benks of the river while strolling wi frends, That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely, And leave the gay festive for others ta share; But O there's a charm, and a charm fer 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 me Mary, I cud pa.s.s the long years: In friends.h.i.+p and peace lift the latch to a stranger, And chase off the anguish o' pale sorrow's tears.

We'd wauk aht it morning wen t'yung sun wor s.h.i.+ning, Wen t'birds hed awakened, and t'lark soar'd the air, An' I'd watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining, From ahr dear little cot on the benks o' the Aire.

Then we'd tauk o' the past, wen our loves wor forbidden, Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny, How ahr hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden, Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.

An' wen age shall hev temper'd ahr warm glow o' feeling Ahr loves shud endure, an' still wod we share For weal or in woe, or whativver c.u.ms stealing, We'd share in ahr cot on the benks o' the Aire.

Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are flying, Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart; For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying, Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart.

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

But sooin may the day c.u.m, if c.u.m it will ivver; The breetest an' best to me ivver knawn, Wen 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, we were; But sweet an' fairer, whate'er betide thee, In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o' the Aire.