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Alone upon the flowery Plain.

I.

ALONE, upon the flowery plain,
I rove, in solitary pain;
Looking around the silent lea
For something I shall never see.

II.

Yon hedge-row blossoms as before,
And roses shade yon cottage door;
But oh, I miss the tresses fair,
And eyes that glowed with welcome there.

III.

The streamlet, still, in rippling pranks,
Kisses the wild flower on its banks;
But I am lonely on the shore,
To which my love returns no more.

IV.

The lark, aloft in sunny air,
Carols, as if my love was there;
And the wind goes by, with mournful sound,
Murmuring, "No more, on mortal ground."

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To a Young Lady,
WHO LENT ME AN OLD BOOK.

I.

THIS learned volume doth not tell
    A story so divine,
Nor point a moral half so well
    As that young face of thine.

II.

Thou should'st have sent a rose to me,
    With morning dew bestarred;
It would have better likened thee,―
    Sweet rosebud of the bard!

III.

But mornings fly, and dewdrops dry,
    And many a lovely rose
Is plucked, and thrown neglected by,
    Before it fairly blows.

IV.

Elsie; thy budding time is fair;
    So may thy blooming be;
And never blighting blast of care
    Untimely wither thee.

V.

Flower on, in gladness, free from stain,
    Until the autumn's past;
And, like a fading rose, retain
    Thy sweetness to the last.

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Oh! Weave a Garland for my Brow.

I.

OH! weave a garland for my brow,
    Of roses and of rue;
For once I loved a bonny lass,—
    Alas, she was not true!
But when she slighted all my grief,
    I knew that grief was vain,
And I hid the wound that pained my heart,
    Until it healed again.

Then, gentle lover, pine no more,—
    Thy tenderness is blind;
Sighing to one whose heart is cold
    Will never make her kind.
Go, take some comfort to thy breast—
    The world is fair to see—
And on some genial bosom rest
    Whose pulses beat for thee.

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To the Spring Wind.

I.

SWEET minstrel of the scented spring,
    Ten thousand silver bells,
To welcome thee, are all a-swing,
    Upon the dewy fells;
To sing with thee, I should be fain,
    Oh, harper blithe and free!
But love has bound me with a chain,
    That wrings the heart of me.

II.

Oh, hasten to my love, and tell
    Her how she makes me pine;
And ask her if she thinks it well
    To slight a heart like mine;
For, if my suit her scorn doth move,
    It shall no longer be;
Although I know she's made for love,
    And I wish that she loved me.

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Oh! had She Been a Lowly Maid.

I.

OH! had she been a lowly maid
    That stole this heart of mine,
She would have filled the humblest shade
    With radiance divine:―
The moon of beauty's starry skies,
    She glides serenely fair,
Absorbing in her gleaming eyes
    The brightest planet there.

II.

Oh! were she but a flower of spring
    Upon the dewy lea,
To watch its lovely blossoming
    My heart's delight would be;
And when its leaves began to fade,
    Their fading I would moan;
And treasure up the sacred dust,
    To mingle with my own.

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All On a Rosy Morn of June.

I.

ALL on a rosy morn of June,
    When farmers make their hay,
Down by yon bonny woodland green
    A milking maid did stray;
And oh, but she was sweet and fair,—
    The flower of all the vale;
In her hand a wild white rose she bare,
    And on her head a pail.

II.

Across the fields, as she did rove.
    The pretty maiden sang
A plaintive lay of tender love
    That through the valley rang:
Blithe as a linnet on the spray,
    Among the wildwood green,
She lilted on her flowery way,—
    And vanished from the scene.

III.

When next I saw that pleasant vale—
    Twelve moons had wandered by—
A matron told her hapless tale
    With tear-drops in her eye;
For there had been, with winsome wile,
    A careless-hearted lad,
And plucked the flower whose lovely smile
    Made all the valley glad.

IV.

The woods were gay and green again;
    The sun was smiling on;
But the charmer of the rural glen
    For evermore was gone:
Now, mouldering near the churchyard way,
    All stricken in her pride,
The white rose of the valley lay,
    With an infant by her side.

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Glad Welcome to Morn's Dewy hours.

I.

GLAD welcome to morn's dewy hours
    The birds warble blithe to the gale,
While the sun shimmers through the green
        bowers,
    And plays with the stream in the vale;
But, as clouds o'er the heavens come streaming,
    Then silence, with shade, creeps along:
They pass,—and again the woods gleaming,
    At once wake to sunlight and song.

II.

So I sport till the storm gathers o'er me;
    Then pensively hushed in the gloom,
My heart looks around and before me,
    For something the shade to illume;
Yet, though folding the wings of my gladness,
    I'm mute in the hurricane's howl,
Thou com'st, through the gloomiest sadness,
    A sunbeam of joy to my soul.

III.

Fair star of remembrance endearing,
    Still lend me thy brilliant ray,
My wanderings chastening and cheering,
    Till life with its life fade away;
And, oft as my pathway thou greetest,
    I'll waken my harp-strings to thee,
And sing how the brightest and sweetest
    Are always the soonest to flee.

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When Drowsy Daylight.

I.

WHEN drowsy daylight's drooping e'e
Closes o'er the fading lea,—
When evening hums his vesper-song,
And winking dews the meadow throng,
                  I'll come to meet thee, Mary!

II.

The lazy hours refuse to fly;
As gaudy day goes creeping by,
I count each moment with a sigh,
Until the hour of shade steals nigh,
                  That brings me to my Mary!

III.

The flower is dear unto the lea,
The blossom to the parent tree:—
Thought more than flower and leaf to me—
This heart of mine, by love of thee,
                  Must bloom or wither, Mary.

IV.

The summer woods are waving fair;
The bluebell scents the evening air;
The small bird woos its mate to share
Its little nest and loving care:—
                  Oh, be my own, my Mary!

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Ye Gallant Men of England.

I.

YE gallant men of England,
    Of noble races bred,
Remember how your fathers
    For liberty have bled;
Stand to your ancient banners,
    In a thousand battles torn,—
The banners of Great Britain,
    To a thousand victories borne.

II.

When flags of tyrants, flying,
    Insult the air again,
And freedom's sons are dying
    Upon the bloody plain,
Rush to the gory havoc
    With all your native might,
And carve your way to justice,
    Or perish for the right.

III.

Ye sons of ancient heroes,
    And heirs of England's fame,
Wherever danger threatens
    Be worthy of your name;
And hurl each bold aggressor
    Into his native lair,
To rule the slaves and traitors
    That crawl around him there.

IV.

Though knaves and cowards tremble
    Beneath despotic sway,
And fools to wily tyrants
    Resign, a willing prey,
The race of island lions,
    Bred by the Western main,
The freedom won by battle
    By battle can maintain.

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Prologue.

(WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MANCHESTER
LETTERPRESS PRINTERS' DRAMATIC ENTERTAINMENT,
APRIL 4TH, 1868.)

WHEN first, from old Westminster's hoary pile,
The Art of Printing dawned on Briton's isle,
In some dim chapel of that sacred fane
The venerable Caxton ruled his train,—
Whose artful toil, foredoomed by mystic tie,
Flashed the young stream of England's liberty.
England! where noble hearts had wrestled long,
In dumb contention between right and wrong,
'Twas there in cloistered shade, he wove the spell
At whose behest the chain of silence fell;
And, nursing skill, with strange mutations fraught,
Gave freedom to the prisoned realms of thought!
            .            .            .            .            .            .
Strange were the implements, the labour strange;
The little rill of art was big with change;
With loving care, the initiated few
There brought the infant mystery to view;
And, as in dim secluded gloom they toiled,
Fate's folded skein of printed thought uncoiled;
Whilst the hushed murmurs of the working throng
Mingled with solemn strains of sacred song:
There learned churchmen pondered in amaze,
And kingly patrons dealt bewildered praise:
Ah, little dreamt they what that germ contained,—
What vast, upheaving powers, heaven-ordained!
            .            .            .            .            .            .
Rude were the artist's tools, the product slight;
Costly and few the works it brought to light;
Mysterious came the first imprinted page,
To th' wondering gaze of an unletter'd age;
And small the inducement such an art to ply,
When only clerks could read, and only kings could buy.

    But time,—the soil of life's eventful field,—
Was doomed, by fate, the mighty plant to yield;
Doomed to sustain, and nurture, through the night
Of undergrowth, until it burst to sight,
And cheered the nations with its presence bright!
Slow grew the art,—though often checked,—it grew;
Now, nipt with frost, now fed with rain and dew;
Slow grew the struggling art, but yet it grew.
In patient majesty the nursling rose;
Rooted by struggle, and made strong by blows;
Till e'en its nurses watched it with surprise,
And tyrants trembled as they saw it rise!
For, as it grew, to realms of light it led,
And fed the freedom upon which it fed.
Oh, freedom!   Spark of heaven-descended fire,
That never fades from noble heart's desire!
The bird that in the wild wood carols free,—
No bird, imprisoned, sings so well as he!
Thanks to those lofty stars of England's night,
Who cheered her struggling sons with steadfast light!
Thanks to the men who fought and suffered long,
To make the right triumphant over wrong.
Thanks to those gallant hearts of later breed,
By whom the Press was from its trammels freed.—
Now, thousands print what millions rush to read.

    But stay, my roving muse,—restrain thy flight,
What is it brings the Press-gang here to-night?
Come they, as erst, some wandering slave to seize?
Ah, no,—our mission is to free, and please:
In mutual self-reliance to combine,
To soothe the last sad hours of life's decline;
To help the feeble and to cheer the sad;
The worn-out workman's sinking heart to glad;
From bitter penury the sick to save,
And soothe the totterer's way unto the grave.
And feeble though our histrionic skill,
It humbly seeks to lessen human ill.
Then, oh, with generous hearts, give kind acclaim,
And cheer the labour for its noble aim.

    Oh, Printing, Art with mystic power fraught!
Thou swift dispenser of undying thought!
Strew lofty lessons still, at heaven's behest:
And teach us Charity above the rest!
And, till we're summoned hence, by fatal call,—
Father of Nature's Chapel,* bless us all!

* In the old printing-offices of England, and even in many of the best printing-offices of the kingdom now, the workmen form a little court of law, summoned occasionally for the settlement of disputes among themselves.  This court they call "The Chapel," and the President of the court is called "The Father of the Chapel."  Doubtless these names arise from the tradition that the first English printing-office was in one of the chapels of Westminster Abbey.

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LANCASHIRE SONGS
_____________


Come Whoam to Thi Childer an' Me.

I.

AW'VE just mended th' fire wi' a cob;
    Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon;
There's some nice bacon-collops o'th hob,
    An' a quart o' ale posset i'th oon;
Aw've brought thi top-cwot, doesto know,
    For th' rain's comin' deawn very dree;
An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow;—
    Come whoam to thi chiller an' me.

II.

When aw put little Sally to bed,
    Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer,
So aw kiss'd th' little thing, an' aw said
    Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro' th' fair;
An' aw gav her her doll, an' some rags,
    An' a nice little white cotton-bo';
An' aw kiss'd her again; but hoo said
    'At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o'.

III.

An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark wi' him,
    Afore aw could get him up stairs;
Thae towd him thae'd bring him a drum,
    He said, when he're sayin' his prayers;
Then he looked i' my face, an' he said,
    "Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad?"
An' he cried till his een were quite red;—
    He likes thee some weel, does yon lad!

IV.

At th' lung-length, aw geet 'em laid still;
    An' aw hearken't folks' feet that went by;
So aw iron't o' my clooas reet well,
    An aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry;
When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts,
    Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer,
An' aw rayley did feel rayther hurt,―
    Mon, aw'm one-ly when theaw artn't theer.

V.

"Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick;
    Aw've a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal;
Aw've a book full o' babs; an' a stick
    An' some bacco an' pipes for mysel';
Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay,―
    Iv there'll feel i' my pocket, thae'll see:
An' aw've bought tho a new cap to-day,―
    But aw al'ays bring summate for thee!

VI.

God bless tho', my lass; aw'll go whoam,
    An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' childer o' round;
Thae knows, that wherever aw roam,
    Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd ground;
Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass
    Aw can do wi' a bit of a spree;
But aw've no gradely comfort, my lass,
    Except wi' yon childer and thee."

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What Ails Thee, My Son Robin?

I.

WHAT ails thee, my son Robin ?
    My heart is sore for thee
Thi cheeks are grooin' thinner,
    An' th' leet has laft thi e'e;
Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome,
    An' looks so pale at morn;
God bless tho, lad, aw'm soory
    To see tho so forlorn.

II.

Thi fuustep's sadly awter't,—
    Aw used to know it weel,—
Neaw, arto fairy-stricken, lad;
    Or, arto gradely ill?
Or, hasto bin wi' th' witches
    I'th cloof, at deep o'th neet?
Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo,―
    For summat is not reet!

III.

"Eh, mother, dunnut fret yo;
    Aw am not like mysel';
But, 'tisn't lung o'th feeorin'
    That han to do wi' th' deil;
There's nought 'at thus could daunt mo,
    I'th cloof, by neet nor day;—
It's yon blue een o' Mary's;—
    They taen my life away."

IV.

"Aw deawt aw've done wi comfort
    To th' day that aw mun dee,
For th' place hoo sets her fuut on,
    It's fairy greawnd to me;
But, oh, it's no use speykin',
    Aw connut ston her pride;
An' when a true heart's breykin'
    It's very hard to bide!"

V.

Neaw, God be wi' tho, Robin;
    Just let her have her way;
Hoo'll never meet thy marrow,
    For mony a summer day;
Aw're just same wi' thi feyther,
    When first he spoke to me:
So, go thi ways, an' whistle;
    An' th' lass'll come to thee!

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The Grindlestone.

I.

IT wur Dody o' Joseph's, a joiner by trade,
A comical cowt, and a keen-bitten blade,
He're as fause as a boggart, as th' neighbours
        weel knew,
Though, when he'd a mind, he could look like a foo'.

Derry down.

II.

But th' bravest and breetest o'th childer o' men,
May haply be hamper't a bit now an' then;
Dody's axe wanted grindin', one wark-a-day morn,
When there nob'dy about to gi' th' grindle a turn.

Derry down.

III.

Then he grunted, an' mumble't, an' glendur't around,
An' he tooted about o'er the neighbourin' ground;
Still, never a soul to turn th' stone could he find,
An' it made him a little bit thrutched in his mind.

Derry down.

IV.

Till a soft-lookin' urchin coom wanderin' by,
Wi' his thumb in his mouth, an' a tear in his eye;
Wi' his slate an' his satchel, he're creepin' to schoo',
An',—bi th' look of his een,—Dody know'd he're a foo'.

Derry down.

V.

"Bi th' maskins," says Dody, "I'm losen't at last!
An' he beckon't o'th lad that wur wanderin' past!
"Come hither, my tight little maister o' men!"
Then he poo'd out a sixpence,—an' fobbed it again.

Derry down.

VI.

"There's a grindlestone here—dosto think thou can turn;
If thou does'nt know how, I can help tho to larn.
I connot howd th' axe an' turn th' hondle mysel';
Thou'rt a nice lad o' somebry's—come, give us a twell!"

Derry down.

VI.

Th' lad laid howd o'th hondle, an' shap't like a mon;
For he lippen't o' sixpence, when th' turning wur done;
So, he twirl't at this grindle o' Dody o' Joe's,
Till saut-water trickl't off th' end of his nose.

Derry down.

VIII.

Dody felt at his axe,—an' he said, "Thou young foo';
Thou'lt get a rare twiltin' for stoppin' fro' schoo';
Hie tho' off, like a red-shank, or th' dur may be teen'd:"
An' he gav' him a bit of a lifter beheend.

Derry down.

IX.

Th' lad dried fro his for-yed the breet briny drip;
An' he pike'd up his books, wi' a wimperin' lip;
An' he crope off to schoo', turnin' o'er in his mind
Th' first lesson he'd larn't i' the pranks o' monkind.

Derry down.

X.

As yo wander'n through life, ten 'at one that yo'n find
A good lot o' folk that han axes to grind;
Give a turn when yo con; but remember to th' end,
It's turnin' th' wrang road to turn on a friend.

Derry down.

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God Bless these Poor folk.

I.

GOD bless these poor folk that are strivin'
    By means that are honest an' true,
For some'at to keep 'em alive in
    This world that we're scramblin' through:
As th' life ov a mon's full o' feightin',
    A poor soul that wants to feight fair,
Should never be grudged ov his heytin',
    For th' hardest o'th battle's his share.

CHORUS—As th' life ov a mon.

II.

This world's kin to trouble; i'th best on't,
    There's mony sad changes come reawnd;
We wandern abeawt to find rest on't,
    An' th' worm yammers for us i'th greawnd.
May he that'll wortch while he's able,
    Be never long hungry nor dry;
An' th' childer 'at sit at his table,―
    God bless 'em wi' plenty, say I.

CHORUS—As th' life ov a mon.

III.

An' he that can feel it a pleasur'
    To leeten misfortin an' pain,―
May his pantry be olez full measur',
    To cut at, and come to again;
May God bless his cup and his cupbort,
    A theawsan' for one that he gives;
An' his heart be a bumper o' comfort,
    To th' very last minute he lives!

CHORUS—As th' life ov a mon.

IV.

An' he that scorns ale to his victual,
    Is welcome to let it alone;
There's some can be wise with a little,
    An' some that are foolish wi' noan;
An' some are so quare i' their natur,
    That nought wi' their stomachs agree;
But, he that would leifer drink wayter,
    Shall never be stinted by me.

CHORUS—As th' life ov a mon.

V.

One likes to see hearty folk wortchin',
    An' weary folk havin' a rest;
One likes to yer poor women singin'
    To th' little things laid o' their breast:
Good cooks are my favourite doctors;
    Good livers my parsons shall be;
An' ony poor craytur at's clemmin,
    May come have a meawthful wi' me.

CHORUS.―As th' life ov a mon.

VI.

Owd Time,—he's a troublesome codger,—
    Keeps nudgin' us on to decay,
An' whispers, "Yo're nobbut a lodger;
    Get ready for goin' away;"
Then let's ha' no skulkin' nor sniv'lin',
    Whatever misfortins befo';
God bless him that fends for his livin',
    An' houds up his yed through it o'!

CHORUS.—As th' life ov a mon.

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Come Mary, Link thi Arm i' Mine.

I.

COME, Mary, link thi arm i' mine,
    An' lilt away wi me;
An' dry that little drop o brine,
    Fro' th' corner o' thi e'e;
Th' mornin' dew i'th heather-bell's
    A bonny bit o' weet;
That tear a different story tells,―
    It pains my heart to see't.
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

II.

No lordly ho' o'th country side's
    So pleasant to my view,
As th' little corner where abides
    My bonny lass an' true;
But there's a nook beside yon spring,―
    An' if theaw'll share't wi' me;
Aw'll buy tho th' bonny'st gowden ring
    That ever theaw did see!
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

III.

My feyther's gan mo forty peawnd,
    I' silver an' i' gowd;
An' a pratty bit o' garden greawnd,
    O' th' mornin' side o'th fowd;
An' a honsome bible, clen an' new,
    To read for days to come;—
There's leaves for writin' names in, too,
    Like th' owd un at's awhoam.
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

IV.

Eawr Jenny's bin a-buyin' in,
    An' every day hoo brings
Knives an' forks, an' pots; an' irons
    For smoothin' caps an' things;
My gronny's sent a kist o' drawers,
    Sunday clooas to keep;
An' little Fanny's bought a glass
    Where thee an' me can peep.
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

V.

Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch;
    Eawr Jem a load o' coals;
Eawr Charlie's bought some pickters, an'
    He's hanged 'em upo' th' woles;
Owd Posy's white-weshed th' cottage
        through;
    Eawr Matty's made it sweet;
An Jack's gan me his Jarman flute,
    To play bi th' fire at neet!
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

VI.

There's cups an' saucers; porritch-pons,
    An' tables, greyt an' smo';
There's brushes, mugs, an' ladin'-cans;
    An eight-day's clock an' o';
There's a cheer for thee, an' one for me,
    An' one i' every nook;
Thi mother's has a cushion on't,—
    It 's th' nicest cheer i'th rook.
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

VII.

My gronny's gan me th' four-post bed,
    Wi' curtains to 't an' o';
An' pillows, sheets, an' bowsters, too,
    As white as driven snow;
It isn't stuffed wi' fither-deawn;
    But th' flocks are clen an' new;
Hoo says there 's honest folk i'th teawn
    That 's made a warse un do.
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

VIII.

Aw peeped into my cot last neet;
    It made me hutchin' fain;
A bonny fire were winkin' breet
    I' every window-pane;
Aw marlocked upo' th' white hearth-stone,
    An' drummed o'th kettle lid;
An' sung, "My neest is snug an' sweet;
    Aw'll go and fotch my brid!"
            So, Mary, link thi arm i' mine.

______________________

 
Chirrup.

I.

YOUNG Chirrup wur a mettled cowt:[]
    His heart an' limbs wur true;
At foot race, or at wrostlin'-beawt,
    Or aught he buckled to;
At wark or play, reet gallantly
    He laid into his game:
An' he're very fond o' singin'-brids,―
    That's heaw he geet his name.

II.

He're straight as ony pickin'-rod,
    An' limber as a snig:
An' th' heartiest cock o'th village clod,
    At ony country rig:
His shinin' een wur clear an' blue;
    His face wur frank an' bowd;
An' th' yure abeawt his monly broo
    Wur crisp i' curls o' gowd.

III.

Young Chirrup donned his clinker's shoon,
    An' startin' off to th' fair,
He swore by th' lees o'th harvest moon,
    He'd have a marlock there;
He poo'd a sprig fro th' hawthorn-tree,
    That blossomed by the way;―
"Iv ony mon says wrang to me,
    Aw 'll tan his hide to-day!"

IV.

Full sadly mony a lass would sigh,
    As wand'rin' slyly near,
They tooted at his een to spy
    Iv love wur lurkin' theer;
So fair an' free he stept the green,
    An' trollin' eawt a song,
Wi' leetsome heart, an' twinklin' een,
    Went chirrupin' along.

V.

Young Chirrup woo'd a village maid,—
    An' hoo wur th' flower ov o',—
Wi' kisses kind, i'th woodlan' shade,
    An' whispers soft an' low;
I' Mally's ear twur th' sweetest chime
    That ever mortal sung;
An' Mally's heart beat merry time
    To th' music ov his tung.

VI.

The kindest mates, this world within,
    Mun sometimes meet wi' pain;
But, iv this pain could life begin,
    They'd buckle to again;
For, though he're hearty, blunt, an' tough,
    An' Mally sweet an' mild,
For three-score year, through smooth an' rough,
    Hoo lad him like a child.

______________________

 
The Dule's i' this Bonnet o' Mine.

I.

THE dule's i' this bonnet o' mine;
    My ribbins 'll never be reet
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be fine,
    For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet;
He met me i'th lone tother day,—
    Aware gooin' for wayter to th' well,—
An' he begged that aw'd wed him i' May;—
    Bi' th mass, iv he'll let me, aw will.

II.

When he took my two honds into his,
    Good Lord, heaw they trembled between;
An' aw durstn't look up in his face,
    Becose on him seein' my e'en;
My cheek went as red as a rose;—
    There's never a mortal can tell
Heaw happy aw felt; for, thea knows,
    Aw couldn't ha' axed him mysel'.

III.

But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung,—
    To let it eawt wouldn't be reet,—
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrong,
    So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet;
But, Mally, thae knows very weel,—
    Though it isn't a thing one should own,—
If aw'd th' pikein' o'th world to mysel',
    Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan.

IV.

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind;
    What wouldto do iv 'twur thee?
"Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined,
    An' a farrantly bargain he'd be
For Jamie's as gradely a lad
    As ever stept eawt into th' sun;—
So, jump at thy chance, an' get wed,
    An' do th' best tho con, when it's done!"

V.

Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon,—
    Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait,—
Aw connut for shame be too soon,
    An' aw wouldn't for th' world be too late;
Aw'd o' ov a tremble too th' heel,—
    Dost think at my bonnet 'll do?
"Be off, lass,—thae looks very weel;—
    He wants noan o'th bonnet, thae foo!"

______________________

 
Willy-Ground.

AIR—"The Night before Larry was Stretched."

I.

COME, Caleb, an' sattle thi shanks,
    An' let's ha' no moore o' thi bother;
Wi' thi camplin' din, an' thin pranks,
    Thou'rt wortchin' thisel' to a lother.
Come, Nathan, poo up into th' nook,—
    I know thou'rt a comical crayter
Let's join at a conk, an' a smoke,
    An' a bumper o' whot rum an' wayter.
                        Fal-lal-der-dal.

II.

We're neighbours, an' very weel met;
    We're o' merry lads, o' good mettle
Here's Nathan,—wur never licked yet,—
    An' Caleb's i' farrantly fettle.
Wi' a pipe, an' a tot, an' a crack,
    An' a crony, I'm just i' my glory;
So now, I'll tip th' world fro' my back,
    An' brast off wi' a bit of a story.
                        Fal-lal-der-dal.

III.

Tother day, as I're rovin' areawt,
    I let of owd Robin o' Bumper's;
He's a terrible gullet for grout,—
    An', at poachin', they say'n he's a crumper;
But, he's good at a tot an' a tale;
    So, we poet into Peter o' Nancy's,
An' I said to him, "Co' for some ale,
    Or aught i' this hole 'at thou fancies."
                        Fal-lal-der-dal.

IV.

As we crope wi' er gills up to th' hob,
    Th' owd layrock began for to twitter;
An' he towd of a ticklesome job,
    At' sent us o' into a titter;
One day, when he're prickin' a hare
    A bit of a wacker coom o'er him,
For, just as he're settin' a snare,
    Th' owd owner o'th lond stoode afore him.
                        Fal-lal-der-dal.

V.

"Hollo; what are you doing here?"
    Says Robin, "Why, nought nobbut walkin';"
"Walk off, then!" cried he, with a sneer;
    "This land belongs me, where you're stalking!"
Says Robin, "Yo're reet, I'll be bound;
    But, what's to be done, I can't tell, sir
For, I'm like to walk somebody's ground,
    As I've noan 'at belongs to mysel', sir."
                        Fal-lal-der-dal.

VI.

This lond,—it's a ticklesome lot;
    To wrangle about it's a blunder;
For, whether one owns it or not,
    He'll very soon ha' to knock under;
Both lonlords an' tenants mun flit;
    Let's hope, without fratchin', or frownin',
They'n let us walk on it a bit,
    An' then lend us a bit to lie down in.
                        Fal-lal-der-dal, layrol-i-day.

______________________

 
A Bit of a Sing.

I.

BILL o' Sheepsheawter's;
    Robin o'th Dree
Rondle o' Scouter's
    Twilter, an' me;
We made Mally Grime's
    Owd kitchen roof ring,
One merry yule-time,
    When met for to sing!
            Tooral-loo; falder-day!

II.

Rondle sang counter;
    Robin sang bass;
Twitter sang o' maks
    O' comical ways;
Th' tenor wur fine,—
    Bill took it up well;
An' th' treble wur mine,—
    I sang it mysel'!
            Tooral-loo; falder-day!

III.

Th' first wur a psalm;
    An' th' next wur a sung;
An' then we sang glees,
    Till th' rack-an'-hook rung;
An' merry owd Mall
    Chime't in, like a brid,
As hoo tinkle't to th' tune,
    Upon' th' owd kettle lid.
            Tooral-loo; falder-day!

IV.

"Stop, an' rosin!" cried Bill,
    "It's gettin' hee time!"
"Weet yor whistles!" said Mall,
    "It sweetens the chime!"
"A tot a-piece bring!"
    Cried Rondle, "an' then,
Like layrocks o'th wing,
    We'n tootle again!"
            Tooral-loo; falder-day!

V.

We twitter't an' sang
    Till midneet wur gone;
We caper't off whoam,
    Bi th' leet o' the moon;
As we wandered o'er th' moss,
    Bil lap shoolder-hee;
An', "I'm fain that I'm wick!"
    Cried Robin o'th Dree.
            Tooral-loo; falder-day!

______________________

 
Tommy Pobs.

AIR―"Derry Down."

I.

TOMMY POBS wur a good-natur't sort of a lad;
He're a weighver by trade, an' he wove for his dad;
He're fond o' down-craiters an' th' neighbours o'
        said
That he're reet in his heart, but he'd nought in his yed.

Derry down.

II.

Nan o' Flup's wur a lass that wur swipper an strung;
Hoo'd a temper o' fire, an' a rattlin' tung;
Hoo're as hondsome a filly as mortal e'er see'd,
But hoo coom of a racklesome, natterin' breed.

Derry down.

III.

Nan had fritter't away o' th' for-end of her life,
For hoo'd flirted o' round, though hood ne'er bin a wife;
But, one day, when hoo fund hoo're turn't thirty year owd,
Hoo began a-bein flayed hoo'd be left out i'th cowd.

Derry down.

IV.

Then hoo tooted around among th' lads about whoam,
An' hoo thought hoo'd a bit of a chance wi' poor Tom;
An' hoo cutter't, an' foodle't, an simper't, an skenn'd,
Till hoo gees him as fast as a thief, i' th' far end.

Derry down.

VIII.

Poor Tom wur so maddle't i' heart and i' yed,
That I doubt he'd ha' dee'd if they hadn't bin wed;
But, at last, they stroke honds, an' agreed to be one;
Nanny tice't him to church—an' poor Tommy wur done.

Derry down.

VI.

An' when th' news o' this weddin' geet down into th' fowd,
Folk chuckle't an' thought that poor Tommy wur sowd;
An' th' women o' said, "Nan's too mich for yon lad;
He'd better ha' stopped till he dee'd wi' his dad."

Derry down.

VII.

But they buckle't together, for better an' wur;
An', at first, o' yur reet between Tommy an' hur;
For, they'rn meeterly thick, both bi dayleet an' dark,
Till th' wayter o' life cool't 'em down to their wark.

Derry down.

VIII.

Then, Nanny soon change't, an' coom back to hersel';
An' hoo cample't, an' snapt, as no mortal can tell;
An' poor Tommy Pobs soon fund out that his wife,
Though an angel at first, wur a divole for life.

Derry down.

IX.

Though Nan prove't a blister, an kept him i' pain,
Tom wur like an owd sheep, for he didn't complain:
An' he crope to his looms, an' kept weighvin' away;
But, it made little odds, hoo went warse ev'ry day.

Derry down.

X.

An' hoo hector't, an' plague't him, to sich a degree
That, mony a time, Tom'd ha' bin fain for to dee;
Th' lad did o' that he could to keep thick wi' his wife,
But, it wurn't in her natur' to live a quiet life.

Derry down.

XI.

An', it nettle't her so, that, at last, hoo began
To fling aught at his yed that coom first to her han';
It wur sometimes a pitcher, an' sometimes a pon;
Nanny didn't care what,—if it let o'th owd mon.

Derry down.

XII.

An' if that didn't vex him,—her temper wur sich,—
That hoo'd nip up a tough-lookin' lump of a switch;
An' sometimes it laps round his hide wi' a bend,
An' sometimes it coom across Tommy's nose-end.

Derry down.

XIII.

An' thus, year by year, this poor couple toar't on,
Till Tommy had groon a grey-yedded owd mon;
Then, Nanny took ill, an' wur laid up i' bed,
An' hoo flang no moore pots at owd Tommy's white yed.

Derry down.

XIV.

At last, Nanny dee'd; an' th' owd lad felt it sore;
For, if hoo'd bin an angel, he'd not ha' grieve't more;
So, he lingered by th' grave till they'd happed her up well;
An' then he coom cryin' away by his-sel.

Derry down.

______________________

 
Toddlin' Whoam.

I.

TODDLIN' whoam fro th' market rant;
Toddlin' whoam, content an' cant;
Wi' mi yed i' my hat, an' my feet i' my shoon;

I'm fain to be toddlin' whoam.

II.

Toddlin' whoam, for th' fireside bliss,
Toddlin' whoam, for th' childer's kiss;
God bless yon bit o' curlin' smooke;
God bless yon cosy chimbley nook!

I'm fain to be toddlin' whoam.

III.

Toddlin' whoam for twitterin' sungs;
Toddlin' whoam for prattlin' tungs;
Toddlin' whoam, to sink to rest
Wi' th' wife, an' little brids i'th nest.

I'm fain to be toddlin' whoam.

______________________

 
Th' Sweetheart Gate.

I.

THERE'RE mony a gate eawt of eawr
        teawnend,—
    But nobbut one for me
It winds by a rindlin' wayter side,
    An' o'er a posied lea;
It wanders into a shady dell;
    An' when I've done for th' day,
I never can sattle this heart o' mine,
    Beawt walkin' deawn that way.

II.

It's noather garden, nor posied lea,
    Nor wayter rindlin' clear;
But deawn i'th vale there's a rosy nook,
    An' my true love lives theer:
It's olez summer where th' heart's content,
    Tho' wintry winds may blow;
An' there's never a gate so kind to th' fuut,
    As th' gate one likes to go.

III.

When I set off o' sweetheartin', I've
    A theawsan' things to say;
But th' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top,
    It drives 'em o' away;
An' when I meet wi' my bonny lass,
    It sets my heart a-jee;—
There's sammut i'th leet o' yon two blue e'en
    That plays the dule wi' me!

IV.

When th' layrock's finished his wark aboon,
    An' laid his music by,
He flutters deawn to his mate, an stops
    Till dayleet stirs i'th sky.
Though Matty sends me away at dark,
    I know that hoo's reet full well;—
An' it's how I love a true-hearted lass,
    No mortal tung can tell.

V.

I wish that Michaelmas Day were past,
    When wakin' time comes on;
An' I wish that Candlemas Day were here,
    An' Matty an' me were one:
I wish this wanderin' wark were o'er,—
    This maunderin' to an' fro;
That I could go whoam to my own true love,
    An' stop at neet an' o'.