Revised Edition of Poems Part 16

Tho' its splendour's now faded, its greatness was then Known to its foemen as Red Lion's den; 'Neath its armorial s.h.i.+eld, an' h.o.a.ry owd wall, I now see Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Her majestic black eyes true beauty display, Resemblin' truly the G.o.ddess of day; Her dark-flowin' ringlets, you'd think as they shone, 'At Venus hed fas.h.i.+on'd 'em after her awn.

For her tresses no ribbons nor trappins do bind, But wantonly luxurious flow in the wind: 'Twod o' pleased the great Reubens or Turner to call, To see sweet Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Like the tall mountain fir, she's as steady, I trow, When zephyr-like winds do sighingly blow; The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move, Are gentle Rebecca's sweet gales of love.

Her breath, where true wit so gracefully flows, Has the beautiful scent of the pink an' the rose; There's no nymph from the East to Niagara's Fall, To equal Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Her toe points the grahnd wi' sich beauty an' grace, Nor varies a hair's-breadth, sud yu measure her pace: An' when dress'd i' her gingham wi' white spots an' blue, O then is Rebecca so pleasin' to view.

Wi' her gray Wolsey stockings by hersel knit an' spun, An' a nice little ap.r.o.n, hieroglyphic'ly done: It needs no rich velvets or Cashmere shawl, To deck out Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Love, grace, an' beauty attend at her will; She wounds wi' a look, wi' a frown she can kill; The youths as they pa.s.s her, exclaim-"Woe is me!"

Who sees her must love her, who loves her must dee.

At Church on a Sabbath, owd men raise ther arms, An' cry, "O, great heavens! wor ivver sich charms?"

While matrons an' maidens G.o.d's blessin' they call, On the head of Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

[Picture: Decorative picture of plant]

The City of "So be I's."

(A DREAM).

[It is said that when Giles Clumps, the South-downer, first came to Keighley, the first question he asked his fellow labourer was this, "What religion be th' master here?" "A Liberal," was the answer; "So be I,"

says Giles. "And what politics be th' master?" asked Giles again, "He's a Methody," was the reply; "So be I," says Giles again, "I be a Methody too." Now do not imagine for a moment that Giles Clumps is the only "So be I" in Keighley, for the whole town is full of "So be I's," and it is a well-known fact that if six long YELLOW chimneys were to turn BLUE to-morrow, there wouldn't be a Liberal in six hours in the city of "So be I's," with the exception of the old veteran SQUIRE LEACH.]

Oh list to my dream, nor yet think it wrong, If I tell it in rhyme, or sing it in song; For when I look back on the sights that were there, I could almost, like Blondin, dance high in the air.

For when I reflect, my heart leaps with joy- What I saw in my dream in old "So be I,"

For thousands were shouting on that pleasant day.

We are all "So be I's," hip, hip, hip hurrah!

And I took the first chance to ask what it meant, Of the people who shouted, what was their intent, When an elderly lady soon gave me the cue, Of what was the matter and what was to do.

Six great millocrats, call them Whigs if you will, The G.o.ds of our labour in workshop and mill: Have all turned their colours from Yellow to Blue, Which has caused this commotion the city all through.

Led on by the nose, like a bull in a band, See how all the "So be I's" follow so grand, The f.a.g and the artist, the plebian also, Have now chang'd their colour from yellow to blue.

There's twenty-eight thousand true "So be I's" here, And there's not a Liberal amongst them I'll swear, For the millocrats chieftains proclaimed it they say, That all must turn Tories on this very day.

So upon the procession, I did my eyes fix, Reviewing and skewing this wonderful six; They wore blue ribands so grand in their coats, Singing "So be I" joskins come give us your votes.

The "So be I's" exerted each nerve and limb, To follow their leaders and join in the swim; And I plainly could see, so I thought in my dream, That the way through the world is to follow the stream.

For the faces of parsons were lit up so bright, And the doctors they smiled with the greatest delight; And a lawyer he vowed that he'd have a Blue gown, For he'd been long enough a black Liberal clown.

Methought the Ranters, and Methodies too, Independents and Quakers, and Baptists, were blue; And as I looked round me, lo! what did I see, A batch of Teetotallers had got on the spree.

But what I considered the best of the sport, Took place in front of the old County Court; The Mayor and Ex-Mayor were dancing a jig, With the County Court Judge in his gown and his wig.

Methought that the Draper and Hatter filed in, Along with the Grocer, his nearest of kin; And I caught the Co-oper just in the neck, In his hand were his divi. and new silver check.

Methought as I walked I sprang up so high, That I really found out I was able to fly; So backwards and forwards methought that I flew, To the clubs of the town which I found were all Blue.

Till somehow or other, I got quite astray, And over Cliffe Castle I winged my way, Thinks I, there's some Foreign "So be I" geese Have crossed o'er the Channel from Paris or Nice.

From thence I took wing, as blithe as a lark, And crossed o'er the town to Jim Collingham's Park; But ere I arrived at the end of my route, A lightning conductor caught the tail of my coat.

I hung there suspended high up in the air, Looking down on the mob in the wildest despair, Imploring the "So be I's" to get me relief; But they shouted "Stop there, you Liberal thief!"

I called on the de'il and invoked the skies, To curse and set fire to all "So be I's;"

When all of a sudden I scratched at my head, Awoke from my dream-found myself snug in bed.

[Picture: Picture of cattle in field]

Shoo's Deead an' Goan.

My poor owd la.s.s, an art ta goan, To thy long rest?

An' mun the cruel cold grave-stone Close ower thy breast?

An' art ta goan no more to see, Exceptin' i' fond memory?

Yes, empty echo answers me- "Shoe's deead an' goan!"

I' vain the wafters o' the breeze Fan my hot brah, I' vain the birds upon the trees, Sing sweetly nah; I' vain the early rose-bud blaws, I' vain wide Nature shows her cause, Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws- "Shoe's deead an' goan!"

There's more ner me 'at's sad bereft, I pity wun, An' that's my lad-he's sadly left- My little John; He wander's up an' dahn all t'day, An' rarely hez a word to say, Save murmuring (an' weel he may), "Shoo's deead an goan!"

Bud, Johnny lad, let's dry wer tears; At t'least we'll try; Thy mother's safe wi' Him 'at hears T'poor orphan's sigh; Fer 'tis the lot o' t'human mack- An' who can tell which next he'll tack?

An' crying cannot bring her back; "Shoe's deead an' goan!"

[Picture: Decorative picture of flowers]

Ode to an Herring.

Wee silvery fish, who n.o.bly braves The dangers o' the ocean waves While monsters from the unknown caves Make thee their prey; Escaping which the human knaves On thee lig way.

No doubt thou was at first designed To suit the palates o' mankind; Yet as I ponder now I find, Thy fame is gone: Wee dainty dish thou art behind With every one.

I've seen the time thy silvery sheen Wor welcome both at morn an' e'en, Or any hour that's in between, Thy name wor good; But now by some considered mean For human food.

When peace and plenty's smiling brow, And trade and commerce speed the plough; Thy friends that were not long ago, Such game they make; Thy epitaph is "soldier" now, Or "two-eyed stake."

When times are hard we're scant o' cash, And famine hungry bellies lash, And tripe and trollabobble's trash Begin to fail, Asteead o' soups an' oxtail ash, Hail! herring, hail!