Revised Edition of Poems Part 10

But, that worn't all t'mistak at wor made; fer Bill Rollins bethowt him at he'd lost summat, but cudn't tell fer his life what it wor. He groped his pockets, luk'd into his carpet beg, an' studied fer aboon an haar; at last he pick'd it aght 'at it wor their Peg 'at he'd lost somewheer up on t'mahntens.

Well, as I wor tellin' yu, we'd promenaded t' gigantic hills an'

beautiful valleys, intermix'd wi' ower-hingin' peaks an' romantic watter-falls which form part o' t'grand Lake scenery of ahr English Switzerland to the delight of ivvery one o' t'excursionists. T'day beginnin' to advance, an' "back agean" bein' t'word i' ivverybody's maath, yu cud see t'fowk skippin' ower t'Lake ("Home-ward bound," as t'song says), some in a Indian canoe, some in a Venetian gondolier; owd Ben Rusher wor in a Chinese junk, somebody sed. But, haivver, hunderds mud be seen on board o' t'steam yachts comin' fra Newby Brig an'

Ambleside. Fra t'latter place t'steamer wor fair craaded wi' foak, for i' t'first cla.s.s end ther wor Mr. an' Mrs. Lund an' their ill.u.s.trious friends, Mr. Mann an' staff wi' a parson an' four of his handsome dowters; at t'other end wor a German Band, some n.i.g.g.e.rs, Jimmy Wright, jun., alias Jim o' Peggy's, wi' a matter o' one hunderd Ranters rhaand him. Jim wod hev his lip in; but he's a rare chorus singer, there's nowt abaght that; for, my word, t'strangers did praise him aboon a bit, an'

weel he desarved it, fer he gap'd like a young throstle, wal t'foak wor fair charm'd, an' 'specially t'Germans an' t'n.i.g.g.e.rs 'at wor on deck, fer they'd nivver heeard onny chorus-singin' afoar they heeard Jim strike up-

We're joyously sailin' ower the lake, Bound fer t'opposite sh.o.r.e; An' which o' yu's fooil enuff ta believe We sall nivver see land onny more.

Let the hurrican roar, Sall we ivver land onny more.

The skilful pilot's at the wheel, An' his mate is watchin' near; So the captain shouts "Cheer up, mi lads, There's n.o.body nowt to fear."

Then let the hurrican roar, We sall reitch the opposite sh.o.r.e.

An' summat abaght "the evergreen sh.o.r.e" he sang. But what wi'

t'beautiful landscapes on both sides o' t'Lake, an' t'recollections o'

Wordsworth, Wilson, Mrs. Hemans, Harriet Martineau, an' other famous poets, painters, an' authors, it threw one of our party into a kind o'

poetical mood-

For wal he stood upon the deck, He oft wor heeard to say, "I'd raither oomo to Windermere, Nor go to Morecambe Bay; An' though I've been to Malsis Hall, Where it is fearful grand, It's nowt at all compared wi' this- The nicest place i' t'land.

For, O how splendid is the Lake, Wi' scenery like this!

If I cud n.o.bbut stop a week, It wod be nowt amiss; A resolution nah I'll mack, T'next summer what to do;- Asteead o' comin' for a day, I'll stop a week or two."

But nah we land at Bowness Pier, Then sooin we jump ash.o.r.e, An' back to t'Station we did steer, For rare an' pleased we wor: So into t'train for back agean, Owd friends once more to meet; An' in a crack we're landed back- Bi ten o'clock at neet.

All join i' praise to Mr. Mann, For t'management he made; An' praise the gallant Turkey Band, For t'music 'at they play'd: An' praise is due fra ivvery one 'At shared i' this diversion; All praise an' thanks to Mr. Lund, Who gav this grand Excursion.

The Tartan Plaid.

In Auld Lang Syne I've heard 'em say My granny then she wore A bonnie Scottish Tartan Plaid In them good days o' yore; An' weel I ken when I was young Some happy days we had, When ladies they were dress'd so gay In Scottish Tartan Plaid.

Me thinks I see my father now Sat working at his loom- I see my mother at the wheel- In our dear village home; The swinging-stick I hear again, Its buzzin' makes me sad, To think those happy days are gone When weaving Tartan Plaid.

It is not in a clannish view, For clans are naught to me, But 'tis our ancient Tartan Plaid I dearly love to see.

'Tis something grand ye will agree To see a Highland lad, Donn'd in his Celtic native garb, The grand old Tartan Plaid.

Our Soldier lads in tartan kilts Outs.h.i.+ne our warriors bold (Who dress in scarlet, green, and blue, Decked off with s.h.i.+ning gold); Just see our kilted lads so brave, It makes my heart feel glad, And 'minds me of my boyish days When dress'd in Tartan Plaid.

"O wad some power" the hint we give Our Sovereign Lady Queen, To dress herself and lady maids In bonnie tartan sheen.

Then treadles, shuttles, warp, and weft- (For trade would not be bad)- Would rattle as in days of yore, When weaving Tartan Plaid.

The Pauper's Box.

Thou odious box, as I look on thee, I wonder wilt thou be unlocked for me?

No, no! forbear!-yet then, yet then, 'Neath thy grim lid do lie the men- Men whom fortune's blasted arrows. .h.i.t, And send them to the pauper's pit.

O dig a grave somewhere for me, Deep underneath some wither'd tree; Or bury me on the wildest heath, Where Boreas blows his wildest breath, Or 'mid some wild romantic rocks: But, oh! forbear the pauper's box.

Throw me into the ocean deep, Where many poor forgotten sleep; Or fling my corpse in the battle mound, With coffinless thousands 'neath the ground; I envy not the mightiest dome, But save me from a pauper's tomb.

I care not if t'were the wild wolf's glen, Or the prison yard, with wicked men: Or into some filthy dung-hole hurled- Anywhere, anywhere! out of the world!

In fire or smoke on land or sea, Than thy grim lid be closed on me.

But let me pause, ere I say more About thee, unoffending door; When I bethink me, now I pause, It is not thee who makes the laws, But villians who, if all were just, In thy grim cell would lay their dust.

But yet, t'were grand beneath yond wall, To lie with friends,-relations all; If sculptured tombstones were not there, But simple gra.s.s with daisies fair; And were it not, grim box, for thee 'Twere paradise, O cemetery.

The Vale of Aire.

[It was early in the morning that I took my ramble. I had noticed but little until I arrived at the foot of the quaint old hamlet of Marley.

My spirits began to be cheered, for lively grat.i.tude glowed in my heart at the wild romantic scenery before me. Pa.s.sing the old mansion, I wended my way towards the huge crag called the "Altar Rock." Wild and rugged as the scenery was, it furnished an agreeable entertainment to my mind, and with pleasure I pushed my way to the top of the gigantic rock, where I viewed the grandeur of the vale below. The blossom on the branches, the crooked Aire gliding along like sheets of polished crystal, made me poetic. I thought of Nicholson, the poet of this beautiful vale, and reclining on a green moss-covered bank, I framed these words.]

Poet Nicholson, old Ebor's darling bard, Accept from me at least one tributary line; Yet how much more should be thy just reward, Than any wild unpolished song of mine.

No monument in marble can I raise, Or sculptured bust in honour of thy name; But humbly try to celebrate thy praise, And give applause that thou shouldst duly claim.

All hail, the songsters that awake the morn, And soothe the soul with wild melodious strains; All hail, the rocks that Bingley hills adorn, Beneath whose shades wild Nature's grandeur reigns.

From off yon rock that rears its head so high, And overlooks the crooked river Aire; While musing Nature's works full meet the eye, The envied game, the lark and timid hare.

In Goitstock Falls, and rugged Marley's hill, In Bingley's grand and quiet sequestered dale, Each silvery stream, each dike or rippled rill, I see thy haunt and read thy "Poacher's Tale."

So, Homer-like, thy harp was wont to tune Thy native vale in glorious days of old, Whose maidens fair in virtuous beauty shone- Her sages and her heroes great and bold.

No flattering baseness could employ thy mind, The free-born muse detests that servile part: In simple lore thy self-taught lay I find More grandeur far than all the gloss of art.

Though small regard be paid to worth so rare, And humble worth unheeded pa.s.s along; Ages to come will sing the "Yale of Aire,"

Her Nicholson and his historic song.

[Picture: Picture of a tree]

Fra Haworth ta Bradford.

Fra Haworth tahn the other day, Bi t'route o' Thornton Height, Joe Hobble an' his better hauf, Went inta Bradford straight.