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

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pitcher is broken, sir,

         And this the reason is,

      A villain came behind, and

         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,

      An’ 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 my arms around her neck,

         And gave her kisses three.

      To wrong the bonny lassie

         I sware ’t would be a sin;

      So I knelt down by the watter

         To dip my helmet in.

      Out spake this bonny lassie,

         “My soldier lad, forbear,

      I wodna spoil thee bonny plume

         That decks thy raven hair;

      Come buckle up thy sword again,

         Put on thy 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 oceans roll 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.

      The Benks o’ the Aire

      It issent the star of the evening that breetens,

         Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends,

      Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,

         Or the benks of the river while strolling wi frends,

      That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,

         And leave the gay festive for others ta share;

      But O there’s a charm, and a charm fer me only,

         In a sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

      How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger,

         In that cot, wi me Mary, I cud pass the long years:

      In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,

         And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.

      We’d wauk aht it morning wen t’yung sun wor shining,

         Wen t’birds hed awakened, and t’lark soar’d the air,

      An’ I’d watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining,

         From ahr dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

      Then we’d tauk o’ the past, wen our loves wor forbidden,

         Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny,

      How ahr hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden,

         Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.

      An’ wen age shall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feeling

         Ahr loves shud endure, an’ still wod we share

      For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealing,

         We’d share in ahr cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

      Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are flying,

         Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;

      For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying,

         Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart.

      The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,

         Wi his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;

      How different ta him is my rapture and pleasure

         Near the dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

      But sooin may the day cum, if cum it will ivver;

         The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,

      Wen fate may ordain us no longer to sever,

         Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.

      For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,

         If it wor in the desert, Mary, we were;

      But sweet an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,

         In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

      Dear Harden

      Dear Harden, the home o’ mi boyhood so dear,

      Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere;

      Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,

      An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am bereft.

      Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho’ rocky an’ bare;

      Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare;

      When I wauk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running streams,

      I think o’ mi boyhood an’ innocent dreams.

      No care o’ this life then trubled me breast,

      I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest;

      Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an’ play,

      Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away.

      As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close,

      At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose;

      An’ rose in the morning at nature’s command,

      Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.

      The faces that wunce were familiar to me,

      Those that did laugh at my innocent glee;

      I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away,

      Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.

      Fer sin I’ve embarked on life’s stormy seas,

      Mi mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease;

      Yet

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