Revised Edition of Poems - Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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woman of 70 winters, yet there is still a charm in my “Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.”]

      Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind,

         Thy love is all to me;

      Aw couldn’t in a palace find

         A lass more true ner thee:

      An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,

         An’ thee mi Lovely Queen,

      The grandest diamond i’ mi Crown

         Wor t’ lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      The lady gay may heed tha not,

         An’ passing by may sneer;

      The upstart squire’s dowters laugh,

         When thou, my love, art near;

      But if all ther shinin’ soverins

         War wared o’ sattens green,

      They mightn’t be as handsome then

         As t’ Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      When yellow autumn’s lustre shines,

         An’ hangs her golden ear,

      An’ nature’s voice fra every bush

         Is singing sweet and clear,

      ’Neath some white thorn to song unknown,

         To mortal never seen,

      ’Tis there with thee I fain wad be,

         Mi Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      Od drat, who cares fur kings or queens,

         Mix’d in a nation’s broil,

      They nivver benefit the poor —

         The poor mun ollas toil.

      An’ thou gilded spectre, royalty,

         That dazzles folks’s een,

      Is nowt to me when I’m wi thee,

         Sweet Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      High fra the summit o’ yon’ crag,

         I view yon’ smooky town,

      Where forten she has deigned to smile

         On monny a simple clown:

      Though free fra want, they’re free fra brains;

         An’ yet no happier I ween,

      Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens,

         Aw saw i’ Newsholme Dean.

      The Broken Pitcher

      [The happiest moments of a soldier in times of peace are when sat round the hearth of his neat little barrack room, along with his comrades, spinning yarns and telling tales; sometimes giving the history of some famous battle or engagement in which he took a prominent part; other times he will relate his own love adventures; then the favourite of the room will oblige them with his song of “Nelson” or “Napoleon” (generally being the favourites with them); – then there is the fancy tale teller, who amuses all. But in all cases the teller of a tale, yarn, or story, makes himself the hero of it, and especially when he speaks of the lass he left behind him; hence this adventure with the “Lassie by the Well.”]

      There was a bonny Lassie once

         Sitting by a well —

      But what this bonny Lassie thought

         I cannot, cannot tell —

      When by there went a cavalier

         Well known as Willie Wright,

      Just in full marching order,

         His armour shining bright.

      “Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why

         Sits thou by the spring?

      Dost thou seek a lover, with

         A golden wedding ring?

      Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me,

         With eyes so bright and wide?

      Or wherefore does that pitcher lay

         Broken by thy side?”

      “My pitcher it is broken, sir,

         And this the reason is,

      A villian came behind me,

         An’ he tried to steal a kiss.

      I could na take his nonsense,

         So ne’er a word I spoke,

      But hit him with my pitcher,

         And thus you see ’tis broke.”

      “My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken

         Now waits for me to come;

      He canna mak his Crowdy,

         Till t’watter it goes home.

      I canna tak him watter,

         And that I ken full weel,

      And so I’m sure to catch it, —

         For he’ll play the varry de’il.”

      “Ah maiden, lovely maiden,

         I pray be ruled by me;

      Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips,

         And give me kisses three.

      And we’ll suppose my helmet is

         A pitcher made o’ steel,

      And we’ll carry home some watter

         To thy uncle Jock McNeil.”

      She silently consented, for

         She blink’d her bonny ee,

      I threw mi arms around her,

         And gave her kisses three.

      To wrong the bonny Lassie

         I sware ’twould be a sin;

      So knelt dahn by the watter

         To dip mi helmet in.

      Out spake this bonny Lassie,

         “My soldier lad, forbear,

      I wadna spoil thi bonny plume

         That decks thi raven hair;

      Come buckle up thy sword again,

         Put on thi cap o’ steel,

      I carena for my pitcher, nor

         My uncle Jock McNeil.”

      I often think, my comrades,

         About this Northern queen,

      And fancy that I see her smile,

         Though mountains lay between.

      But should you meet her Uncle Jock,

         I hope you’ll never tell

      How I squared the broken pitcher,

         With the Lassie at the well.

      Ode to Sir Titus 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 philanthropist,

         Whose soul in goodness soars,

      And one whose name will stand as firm

         As rocks that gird our shores;

      The

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