Random Rhymes and Rambles Part 3

Dear Harden.

Dear Harden, the home o' mi boyhood so dear, Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere; Tho' years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left, An' o' frends an' relations I now am bereft.

Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho' rocky an' bare; Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare; When I wauk thro' thy dells, by the clear running streams, I think o' mi boyhood an' innocent dreams.

No care o' this life then trubled me breast, I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest; Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an' play, Wal life's sweetest moments wor flying away.

As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close, At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose; An' rose in the morning at nature's command, Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.

The faces that wunce were familiar to me, Those that did laugh at my innocent glee; I fancy I see them, tho' now far away, Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.

Fer sin I've embarked on life's stormy seas, Mi mind's like the billows that's nivver at ease; Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down."

Castlear's Address to Spain.

O weeping Spain, thy banners rear, Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining: Awake, nor shrink in craven fear,- See the Carlist blades are s.h.i.+ning.

They come with murdering dirk in hand, Death, ruin, rapine in their train: To arms! rouse up and clear the land, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Your sires were great in ancient days, No loftier power on earth allowing; Shall ye their mighty deeds araise, And to these fiends your heads be bowing?

They strove for fame and liberty On fields where blood was shed like rain: Hark! they're shouting from the sky, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Castille and Arragon, arise!

A treacherous Popish war is brewing: Tear of the bandage from your eyes, Are ye asleep while this is doing?

They come! Their prelates lead them on: They carry with them thraldom's chain.

Up! and crush their cursed Don; Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Go forth, through every well-known spot; O'er field and forest, rock and river:

Then draw your swords and sheathe them not, Until you've crushed your foe for ever.

Do you fear the priestly hosts Who march them on with proud disdain; _Back_! send home their shrieking ghosts, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Thou surely art not sunk so low That strangers can alone restore thee: No; Europe waits the final blow, When superst.i.tion flies before thee.

For Spanish might through Spanish hands Their freedom only can restrain, Then sweep these Carlists from the land, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Christmas Day.

Sweet lady, 'tis no troubadour, That sings so sweetly at your door, To tell you of the joys in store, So grand and gay; But one that sings remember th' poor, 'Tis Christmas Day.

Within some gloomy walls to-day Just cheer the looks of h.o.a.ry gray, And try to smooth their rugged way With cheerful glow; And cheer the widow's heart, I pray, Crushed down with woe.

O make the weary spent-up glad, And cheer the orphan la.s.s and lad; Make frailty's heart, so long, long sad, Your kindness feel; And make old crazy-bones stark mad To dance a reel.

Then peace and plenty be your lot, And may your deed ne'er be forgot, That helps the widow in her cot, From of your store; Nor creed nor seed should matter not, The poor are poor.

What Profits Me.

What profits me tho' I sud be The lord o' yonder castle gay; Hev rooms in state ta imitate The princely splendour of the day, Fer what are all mi carved doors, Mi shandeliers or carpet floors, No art cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Decked e' costly costumes grand, Like the Persian king o' kings, With diamond rings to deck mi hand: Fer what wor all mi grand attire, That fooils both envy and admire, No gems cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Thy worthy host, O millionaire, Hev cent. for cent. for money lent; My wealth increasing ivvery year.

For what wor all mi wealth to me, Compared ta loisin immortalite, Wealth cud not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Even thee gert Persian Shah, Mi subjects stand at mi command, Wi fearful aspect and wi awe; For what wor a despotic rule, Wi all th' world at my control, All cud not save me from the grave.

Ode to Sir t.i.tus Salt.

Go, string once more old Ebor's harp, And bring it here to me, For I must sing another song, The theme of which shall be,- A worthy old philantropist, Whose soul in goodness soars, And one whose name will stand as firm As the rocks that gird our sh.o.r.es; The fine old Bradford gentleman, The good Sir t.i.tus Salt.

Heedless of others; some there are, Who all their days employ To raise themselves, no matter how, And better men destroy: How different is the mind of him, Whose deeds themselves are told, Who values worth more n.o.bler far Than all the heaps of gold,

His feast and revels are not such, As those we hear and see, No princely splendour does he indulge, Nor feats of revelry; But in the orphan schools they are, Or in the cot with her, The widow and the orphan of The s.h.i.+pwrecked mariner.

When stricken down with age and care, His good old neighbours grieved, Or loss of family or mate, Or all on earth bereaved; Go see them in their houses, When in peace their days may end, And learn from them the name of him, Who is their aged friend.

With good and great his worth shall live, With high or lowly born; His name is on the scroll of fame, Sweet as the songs of morn; While tyranny and villany is Surely stamped with shame; A nation gives her patriot A never-dying fame.

No empty t.i.tles ever could His principles subdue, His queen and country too he loved,- Was loyal and was true: He craved no boon from royalty, Nor wished their pomp to share, For n.o.bler is the soul of him, The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philantropist, From courtly pomp removed, But not secluded from his friends, For friends.h.i.+p's bond he loves; A n.o.ble reputation too Crowns his later days; The young men they admire him, And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir t.i.tus, The darling of our town; Around thy head while living, We'll weave a laurel crown.

Thy monument in marble May suit the pa.s.ser by, But a monument in all our hearts Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over, And we miss thee on our isle, Around thy tomb for ever May unfading laurels smile: There may the sweetest flowers Usher in the spring; And roses in the gentle gales, Their balmy odours fling.

May summer's beams s.h.i.+ne sweetly, Upon thy hallowed clay, And yellow autumn o'er thy head, Yield a placid ray; May winter winds blow slightly,- The green-gra.s.s softly wave, And falling snow-drops lightly Upon thy honoured grave.