Random Rhymes and Rambles Part 6

"Some books are lies frae end to end, And some great lies were never penn'd; But this that I am gaun to tell, * * * Lately on a night befel."-BURNS.

'Twor twelve o'clock wun winter's neet, Net far fro Kersmas time, When I met wi this Feoffee Goast, The subject ov my rhyme.

I'd been hard up fer mony a week, My way I cuddant see, Fer trade an commerce wor as bad As ivver they cud be.

T'poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An t'combers wor quite sick, For weeks they niver pool'd a slip, Ner t'weivers wave a pick.

An I belong'd to t'latter lot, An them wor t'war o t'wo, Fer I'd nine pairs o jaws e t'haase, An nowt for em ta do.

T'owd wife at t'time wor sick e bed, An I'd a shocking coud, Wal t'youngest barn we hed at home, Wor n.o.bbut three days oud.

Distracted to my vary heart, At sitch a bitter cup, An lippening ivvery day at com, At summat wod turn up.

At t'last I started off wun neet, To see what I could mak; Determin'd I'd hev summat t' eit, Or else I'd noan go back.

Through t'Skantraps an be t' Bracken Benk, I tuke wi all mi meet; Be t'Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin, Reight into t'oppan street.

Saint John's Church spire then I saw, An I wor rare an fain, Fer near it stood t'oud parsonage- I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went to t'Wicket Gate, Though sad I am to say it, Resolv'd to ax em for some breead, Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shacking it, A form raise up afore, An sed "What dus ta want, tha knave, Shacking t' Wicket Door?"

He gav me then to understand, If I hedant c.u.m to pray, At t'grace o' G.o.d an t'breead o' life, Wor all they gav away.

It's feaful nice fer folk to talk Abaat ther breead o' life, An specially when they've plenty, Fer t'childer an ther wife.

Bud I set off agean at t'run, Fer I weel understood, If I gat owt fra that there clan, It woddant do ma good.

E travelling on I thowt I heeard, As I went nearer t'tahn, A thaasand voices e mi ears Saying "John, where are ta bahn?"

An ivvery grocer's shop I pa.s.s'd, A play-card I cud see, E t'biggest type at e'er wod print- "There's nowt here, lad, for thee."

Wal ivvery butcher's shop I pa.s.s'd, Astead o' meit wor seen, A mighty carving-knife hung up, Hi, fair afore me een.

Destruction wor inviting me, I saw it fearful clear, Fer ivvery druggist window sed- "Real poison is sold here."

At t'last I gav a frantic howl, A shaat o' dreead despair, I seized mesen be t'toppin then, An shack'd an lugg'd me hair.

Then quick as leetening ivver wor, A thowt com e me heead- I'd tak a walk to t'Symetry, An meditate wi t'deead.

T'oud Cherch clock then wor striking t'time At folk sud be asleep, Save t'Bobbies at wor on ther beat, An t'Pindar after t'sheep.

Wi lengthened pace I hasten'd off At summat like a trot; To get to t'place I started for, Me blooid wor boiling hot.

An' what I saw at Lack.o.c.k Gate, Rear'd up agean a post, I cuddant tell-but yet I thowt It wor another goast!

Bud whether it wor goast or not, I heddant time to luke, Fer I wor taken be surprise, When turning t'Sharman's Nuke.

Abaat two hundard yards e t'front, As near as I cud think, I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise, An nah an then a clinck!

What ivver can these noises be?

Some robbers, then I thowt!- I'd better step aside an see, They're happen up to nowt!

So I gat ower a fence there wor, An peeping through a gate, Determined I'd be satisfied, If I'd awhile to wait.

At t'last two figures com to t'spot Where I hed hid mesel, Then walkers-heath and brimstone, Most horridly did smell.

Wun on em hed a nine-tail'd cat, His face as black as soit, His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben, He hed a clovven fooit.

An t'other wor all skin an bone His name wor Mr. Deeath; Withaat a st.i.tch o' clothes he wor, An seem'd quite aght o' breeath.

He hed a scythe, I plainly saw, He held it up aloft, Just same as he wor bahn to maw Oud Jack Keilie's Croft.

"Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?"

Sed Nickey, wi a grin, "Tha knaws I am full up below, An cannot tack more in."

"What is't to thee?" sed Spinnle Shenks, "Tha ruffin ov a dog, I'm n.o.bbut bahn me rhaands agean, To see wun John o' t'Bog.

I cannot see it fer me life, What it's to do wi thee; Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick, An nivver thee heed me."

"It is my business, Spinnle Shenks, Whativver tha may say, For I been roasting t'human race For mony a weary day."

Just luke what wark I've hed wi thee, This last two years or so; Wi Germany an Italy, An even Mexico.

An' then tha knaws that Yankey broil Browt in some thaasands more; An sooin fra Abysinnia, Tha'll bring black Theodore.

So drop that scythe, oud farren Death, Let's rest a toathree wick; Fer what wi t'seet o' t'fryring-pan, Tha knaws I'm ommost sick."

"I sall do nowt o t'sort," says Deeath, Who s.p.a.ck it wi a grin, "Ise just do as I like fer thee, So tha can hod thi din."

This made oud Nick fair raging mad, An lifting up his whip, He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash Across o t'upper lip.

Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks, To give oud Nick leg bail, He started off towards the tahn, An Nick stuck aht his tail.

Then helter-skelter off they went, As ower t'fence I lape; I thowt-well, if it matters owt, I've made a nice escape.

But nah the mooin began to s.h.i.+ne As breet as it cud be; An dahn the vale ov t'Aire I luk'd, Where I cud plainly see.

The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw, An t'winding Aire wor still, An all wor quite save t'hullats, At wor screaming up o' t'hill.

Oud Rivvock End an all araand Luk'd like some fiendish heead, Fer more I stared, an more I thowt It did resemble t'deead.

The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah, To what I'd seen afore; An luk'd as though they'd never be T'oud friendly Oaks no more.

Fer wun wor like a giant grim, His nose com to a point, An wi a voice like thunner sed- "The times are aaght o' t'joint!"