Random Rhymes and Rambles - Bill o'th' Hoylus End

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Then the songsters will cheer us again.

      For the pretty little birds from the edges,

         The reeds for their nest will have riven;

      While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

      His musical notes to the heaven.

      Then we’ll go to the banks of the river,

         Through meadows that’s blooming in green,

      Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r

         O’er the fish as they sport in the stream:

      Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting,

         For the fruits of that labour he has striven,

      While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

      His musical notes to the heaven.

      Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll cherish,

         The rose that’s unseen in the bud,

      And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish,

         Round the ferns in the depths of the wood:

      Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy,

         And the sweets that nature she has given,

      While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

      His musical notes to the heaven.

      Then the merry little boys they will ramble,

         So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale,

      Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble

         Will be blown by the mild summer gale:

      Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning

         To the poor humble peasant will be given.

      While the lark from his covert he is soaring,

         His musical notes to the heaven.

      Haworth Sharpness

      Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day,

      “Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ t’railway,

      For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,

      But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.”

      The porter replied, “I very mitch daht it,

      But I’ll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it;

      For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’ snicket,

      Baht tipping to t’porter thee pass or thee ticket.”

      “Tha’l rite up to Derby an’ then tha’l deceive me;”

      “I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me:”

      “Then aht we thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,

      For I’ve walked it a foot back all rahnd be t’Bocking.”

      The Lass o’ Newsholme Dean

      [Having spent the whole of the afternoon in this romantic little glen, indulging in pleasant meditations, I began to wend my way down the craggy pass that leads to the bonny little hamlet of Goose Eye, and turning round to take a last glance at this enchanting vale – with its running wimpling stream – I beheld the “Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.” She was engaged in driving home a Cochin China hen and her chickens. Instantaneously I was seized with a poetic fit, and gazing upon her as did Robert Tannyhill upon his imaginary beauty, “The Flower of Dumblane.” I struck my lyre, and, although the theme of my song turned out afterwards to be a respectable old 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 cuddant in a palace find

         A lass more true ner thee.

      An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,

         An’ thee, me Lovely Queen,

      The grandest diamond e me Crown,

         Wor’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      The lady gay may heed thee not,

         An’ passing by may sneer;

      The upstart squire’s dawters laugh,

         When thou, my love, art near.

      But if all ther shining sovrens

         Wor wared o’ sattens green,

      They mightant be as hansum then

         As’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      When yollow 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 would be,

         Me lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      Od drat, who cares fer kings or queens,

         Mixt in a nation’s broil,

      They never benefit the poor,

         The poor mun allus toil.

      An thou gilded specter royalty,

         That dazzles folkses een,

      Is nowt to me when I’m we thee,

         Sweet lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

      High from the summit of yon crag,

         I view yon smoky town,

      Where fortune she has deigned to smile

         On monny a simple clown:

      Tho’ free from want, their free from brains;

         An’ no happier I ween,

      Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens,

         Aw saw e Newsholme Dean.

      The Broken Pitcher

      [The happiest moments of a soldier in time of peace is 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, othertimes 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 favourite with them; – then there is the fancy tale teller which 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 his adventure with the Lassie by the Well.”]

      Three 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 Wryght,

      He was in full marching order

         With his armour shining bright.

      “Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why

         Sits thou by the spring?

      Doest thou seek a lover with

         A golden wedding ring.

      Or wherefore doest thou gaze on me,

        

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