Random Rhymes and Rambles Part 9

A New Devorse.

Says Pug o' Joans o' Haworth Brah, Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag- Are Nelly's tung's a yard too long, And, by't mess it can wag.

It's h.e.l.l at top o' t'earth we me, An' stand it I am forst; I'd give all t'bra.s.s at I possess, If I could get devors'd.

Then answer'd Rodge, I hev a dodge, Az gooid a plan az onny; A real devorse tha'll get of course- It willant cost a penny.

Then tell me what it iz, says Pug, I'm hommost brocken-hearted; We'll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad, Where man an woife are parted.

Gooise an' Giblet Pie.

A Kersma.s.s song I'll sing, me lads, If yoh'll bud hearken me; An incident e Kersma.s.s time, E eighteen sixty-three: Withaht a stypher e the world- I'd scorn to tell a lie- I dined wi a gentleman O' Gooise an' giblet pie.

I've been e lots o' feeds, me lads, An hed some rare tuck-aahts; Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs, Minch pies an' thumping taahts; But I wir'd in an reight a.n.a.ll, An' supp'd when I wor dry, Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I hardly knew what ail'd me, lads, I felt so fearful praad; Me ears p.r.i.c.k'd up, me collar raise, Taards a hauf-a-yard; Me chest stood aaht, me charley in, Like horns stuck aaht me tie; Fer I dined wi a gentleman O' gooise an' giblet pie.

I offan think o' t'feed, me lads, When t' gentleman I meet; Bud nauther on us speiks a word Abaht that glorious neet; In fact, I hardly can mesel, I feel so fearful shy; Fer I ate a deal o' t'roasted gooise, And warmed his giblet pie.

Ode to Wedlock!

Oh! Hymen, G.o.d of Wedlock! thou Companion of the lover's vow, Thy subjects they are fearful; If thou could n.o.bbut see the strife, There is sometimes 'tween man and wife, I think thou'd be more careful.

Oft has thou bound in durance vile, De fearful frown, and cheerful smile, And doubtless thought it famous; When thou the mind ov fancy sweet, Has knit the knot so nice and neat For some blessed ignoramous.

What nature, truth, and reason too, Has oft declared would never do, Thou'rt fool enough to do it; Thou's bound for better and for worse, Life's greatest blessing with a curse, And both were made to rue it.

But luve is blind, and oft deceived, If adage old can be believed, And suffers much abuses; Or never could such matches be, O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee, So thou has thy excuses.

Com Geas a Wag o' thee Paw.

[T'west Riding o' Yorks.h.i.+re is famed for different branches it fine art line, bud t'musick aw think licks t'lump, especially abaht Haworth an'

Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorks.h.i.+re in his toime. It is said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an' that wor just same as all tother Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an' that willant due up at London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood; there's oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an' oud Jim Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersma.s.s toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr warm e bed. Bud there's another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when there's sharps, flats, an' naturals;-'an t' best ale an' crotchets mixt, that's the time fer musick.]

Come, geas a wag o' thee paw, Jim Wreet, Come geas a wag o' thee paw; I knew thee when thi heead wor black, Bud nah its az white as snow; Yet a merry Kersma.s.s to thee, Jim, An' all thi kith an' kin; An' hoping tha'll a monny moar, For t' sake o' ould long sin, Jim Wreet, For t' sake o' ould long sin.

It's so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, Sin oud Joe Constantine- An' Daniel Ackroyd, thee an' me, An' other friends o' thine, Went up ta sing at Squire's haase, Net a hauf-a-mile fro' here; An' t' Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer, Jim Wreet; To his brown October beer.

An' oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, That kept the Old King's Arms; Whear all t' church singers used t' meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms; An' thee an' me amang um, Jim, Sometimes hev chang'd the string, An' with a merry chorus join'd, We've made yond tav'ren ring, Jim Wreet, We've made yond tav'ren ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, As past away sin then; When Keethlah in Appolo's Art, Cud boast her musick men; Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim, An' that tha's sense to knaw; Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake, Come geas a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, Jim Wreet, Com geas a wag o' thee paw.

Song of the Months, from January to December.

High o'er the hill-tops moans the wild breezes, As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain: See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes, While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.

Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean, To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed: As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion, He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.

No more with the tempest the river is swelling, No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower; The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling That spring is established with suns.h.i.+ne and showers.

In the pride of its beauty the young year is s.h.i.+ning, And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees; The white and the green in rich cl.u.s.ters entwining, And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the breeze.

O May, lovely G.o.ddess! what name can be grander?

What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye; With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour, At whose sight the last demon of winter does fly.

From her home in the gra.s.s see the primrose is peeping, While diamond dew-drops around her is spread; She smiles thro' her tears like an infant that's sleeping, And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.

The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers, The mountains are blue in their distant array; The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers, Like a moth in the suns.h.i.+ne the lark flees away.

How joyous the reapers, their harvest songs singing As they see the maid bringing the flagon and horn; And the G.o.ddess of plenty benedictions is flinging Over meadows and pastures, and her barley and corn.

'Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun s.h.i.+ning, To watch the rich vale as it brightens below; 'Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining, To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.

Now is the time when biting old Boreas True to his calling,-the tempests impend; His hailstones in fury is pelting before us, Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.

The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling, The beasts of the forest from hunger doth call; There is desolate evenings and comfortless mornings, And gloomy noontides for one and for all.

Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December, O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor; Christmas is thine, and we shall remember, Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

My Visit ta't Glory Band.

Last Sunday, reight early, I sett off fra home, Ower mountains an' valleys, intending to roam; As it wor a fine morning an' no sign o' rain, I bethowt ma I'd go up Oakworth be t'train; But I'm sitch a whimsical sort of a man, I nivver get threw wi owt at I plan.

For I'd hardly goan two hundred yards fra my door, When who did I see walking prattly before?

It wor oud Jennet t'Ranter fra Avercake row, As nice a oud body is ivver you saw; Shoo wor dress'd up ta t'mark wi her Cashmere shawl, An wor bahn dahn to t'meeting at Temperance Hall.

When I saw it wor Jennet I lengthen'd my pace, An' as soon as shoa saw me shoo look'd i' my face; An' says "Hallo, Bill! tha's com'd aght fearful soin Ther'll be a blue snaw;-pray, where are ta gooin?

If tha's n.o.bbut come aht for a bit of a stroll, Tha'd better go wi ma for t'gooid o' thy soul."