Kitabı oku: «Random Rhymes and Rambles», sayfa 2

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 I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown
E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.”
 

Castlear’s Address to Spain

 
O weeping Spain, thy banners rear,
   Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining:
Awake, nor shrink in craven fear, —
   See the Carlist blades are shining.
They come with murdering dirk in hand,
   Death, ruin, rapine in their train:
To arms! rouse up and clear the land,
   Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
 
 
Your sires were great in ancient days,
   No loftier power on earth allowing;
Shall ye their mighty deeds araise,
   And to these fiends your heads be bowing?
They strove for fame and liberty
   On fields where blood was shed like rain:
Hark! they’re shouting from the sky,
   Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
 
 
Castille and Arragon, arise!
   A treacherous Popish war is brewing:
Tear of the bandage from your eyes,
   Are ye asleep while this is doing?
They come!  Their prelates lead them on:
   They carry with them thraldom’s chain.
Up! and crush their cursed Don;
   Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
 
 
Go forth, through every well-known spot;
   O’er field and forest, rock and river:
Then draw your swords and sheathe them not,
   Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever.
Do you fear the priestly hosts
   Who march them on with proud disdain;
Back! send home their shrieking ghosts,
   Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
 
 
Thou surely art not sunk so low
   That strangers can alone restore thee:
No; Europe waits the final blow,
   When superstition flies before thee.
For Spanish might through Spanish hands
   Their freedom only can restrain,
Then sweep these Carlists from the land,
   Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.
 

Christmas Day

 
Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,
   That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store,
         So grand and gay;
But one that sings remember th’ poor,
         ’Tis Christmas Day.
 
 
Within some gloomy walls to-day
   Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
         With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,
         Crushed down with woe.
 
 
O make the weary spent-up glad,
   And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,
         Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy-bones stark mad
         To dance a reel.
 
 
Then peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne’er be forgot,
That helps the widow in her cot,
         From of your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
         The poor are poor.
 

What Profits Me

 
What profits me tho’ I sud be
   The lord o’ yonder castle gay;
Hev rooms in state ta imitate
   The princely splendour of the day,
Fer what are all mi carved doors,
Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,
   No art cud save me from the grave.
 
 
What profits me tho’ I sud be
   Decked e’ costly costumes grand,
Like the Persian king o’ kings,
   With diamond rings to deck mi hand:
Fer what wor all mi grand attire,
That fooils both envy and admire,
   No gems cud save me from the grave.
 
 
What profits me tho’ I sud be
   Thy worthy host, O millionaire,
Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;
   My wealth increasing ivvery year.
For what wor all mi wealth to me,
Compared ta loisin immortalite,
   Wealth cud not save me from the grave.
 
 
What profits me tho’ I sud be
   Even thee gert Persian Shah,
Mi subjects stand at mi command,
   Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;
For what wor a despotic rule,
Wi all th’ world at my control,
   All cud not save me from the grave.
 

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 philantropist,
   Whose soul in goodness soars,
And one whose name will stand as firm
   As the rocks that gird our shores;
The fine old Bradford gentleman,
The good Sir Titus Salt.
 
 
Heedless of others; some there are,
   Who all their days employ
To raise themselves, no matter how,
   And better men destroy:
How different is the mind of him,
   Whose deeds themselves are told,
Who values worth more nobler far
   Than all the heaps of gold,
 
 
His feast and revels are not such,
   As those we hear and see,
No princely splendour does he indulge,
   Nor feats of revelry;
But in the orphan schools they are,
   Or in the cot with her,
The widow and the orphan of
   The shipwrecked mariner.
 
 
When stricken down with age and care,
   His good old neighbours grieved,
Or loss of family or mate,
   Or all on earth bereaved;
Go see them in their houses,
   When in peace their days may end,
And learn from them the name of him,
   Who is their aged friend.
 
 
With good and great his worth shall live,
   With high or lowly born;
His name is on the scroll of fame,
   Sweet as the songs of morn;
While tyranny and villany is
   Surely stamped with shame;
A nation gives her patriot
   A never-dying fame.
 
 
No empty titles ever could
   His principles subdue,
His queen and country too he loved, —
   Was loyal and was true:
He craved no boon from royalty,
   Nor wished their pomp to share,
For nobler is the soul of him,
   The founder of Saltaire.
 
 
Thus lives this sage philantropist,
   From courtly pomp removed,
But not secluded from his friends,
   For friendship’s bond he loves;
A noble reputation too
   Crowns his later days;
The young men they admire him,
   And the aged they him praise.
 
 
Long life to thee, Sir Titus,
   The darling of our town;
Around thy head while living,
   We’ll weave a laurel crown.
Thy monument in marble
   May suit the passer by,
But a monument in all our hearts
   Will never, never die.
 
 
And when thy days are over,
   And we miss thee on our isle,
Around thy tomb for ever
   May unfading laurels smile:
There may the sweetest flowers
   Usher in the spring;
And roses in the gentle gales,
   Their balmy odours fling.
 
 
May summer’s beams shine sweetly,
   Upon thy hallowed clay,
And yellow autumn o’er thy head,
   Yield a placid ray;
May winter winds blow slightly, —
   The green-grass softly wave,
And falling snow-drops lightly
   Upon thy honoured grave.
 

Coud az Leead

 
An’ arta fra thee father torn,
So early e thi yuthful morn,
An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,
         E greef an’ pane;
Fer consalashun aw sall scorn
         If tha be taen.
 
 
O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail
Thy loss thro’ ivvery hill an’ dale,
Fer nah it is too true a tale,
         Tha’rt coud az lead.
An’ nah thee bonny face iz pale,
         Thart deead, thart deead.
 
 
Aw’s miss thee wen aw cum fra t’shop,
An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;
An’ aw’s be awmost fit ta drop
         Aw sall so freat,
And O my very heart may stop
         And cease to beat.
 
 
I’d allus aimed if tha’d been spar’d,
Of summat better to hev shared
Ner what thi poor oud father fared,
         E this coud sphere;
Yet after all aw’st noan o’ cared
         If tha’d stayen here.
 
 
But O! Tha Conkerer Divine,
’At vanquished deeath e Palestine,
Tak to thi arms this lad o’ mine
         Noan freely given,
But mak him same as wun o’ thine,
         We thee e heven.
 

The Factory Girl

 
Sho stud beside hur looms an’ watch’d
   The shuttle passin in,
But yet hur soul wor sumweer else,
   ’Twor face ta face wi’ John.
They saw hur lips move az in speech,
   Yet none cud heear a word,
An’ but fer t’grinding o’ the wheels,
   This langwidge mite be heard.
 
 
“It spite o’ all thi trecherus art,
   At length aw breeath again;
The pityin stars hez tane mi part,
   An’ eased a wretch’s pain.
An’ O, aw feel az fra a chain,
   Mi rescued soul is free,
Aw know it is no idle dream
   Of fancied liberty.
 
 
“Extingwish’d nah iz ivvery spark,
   No love for thee remains,
Fer heart-felt love e vane sall strive
   Ta lurk beneath disdain,
No longer wen thi name I hear,
   Mi conshus colour flies:
No longer wen thi face aw see,
   Mi heart’s emoshun rise.
 
 
“Catch’t e the burd-lime’s trecherus twigs,
   To weer he chanc’d to stray,
The burd iz fassend fathers leaves,
   Then gladly flies away.
Hiz shatter’d wings he soon renews,
   Of traps he iz awair;
Fer by experience he iz wise,
   An’ shuns each futshur snair.
 
 
Awm speikin nah, an’ all mi aim
   Iz but to pleas mi mind,
An’ yet aw care not if mi words
   Wi thee can credit find.
Ner du I care if my decease
   Sud be approved by thee;
Or wether tha wi ekwal ease
   Does tawk again wi me.
 
 
“But, yet tha false decevin man,
   Tha’s lost a heart sincere;
Aw naw net wich wants comfert most,
   Or wich hez t’mooast ta fear.
But awm suer a lass more fond and true
   No lad cud ivver find;
But a lad like thee iz easily found,
   False, faithless, and unkind.”
 

Bonny Lark

 
Sweetest warbler of the wood,
   Rise thy soft bewitching strain,
And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,
            Soar again.
 
 
With the sun’s returning beam,
   First appearance from the east,
Dimpling every limpid stream,
            Up from rest.
 
 
Thro’ the airy mountains stray,
   Chant thy welcome songs above,
Full of sport and full of play,
            Songs of love.
 
 
When the evening cloud prevails,
   And the sun gives way for night,
When the shadows mark the vales,
            Return thy flight.
 
 
Like the cottar or the swain,
   Gentle shepherd, or the herd;
Best thou till the morn again,
            Bonny bird.
 
 
Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,
   May the poet’s rapturous spark,
Hail the first approach of spring.
            Bonny lark.
 

T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned

 
So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,
Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band,
Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand,
            Yond lass an’ thee.
But if yor joinin heart an’ hand,
            It pleases me.
 
 
Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,
Wile pushin thru this world o’ care,
An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare,
            Its hard ta tell;
Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share,
            So pleas thisell.
 
 
Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;
But age an’ care creep on us fast;
Then akt az tha can luke at past
            An’ feel no shame;
Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast,
            Tha’s noan ta blame.
 
 
Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,
But mind an’ shun that foolish set
At cannut mak ther awn ta fet,
            Thaw shame ta say it.
An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett,
            An’ tha’ll be reight.
 
 
An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will;
Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill;
Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill
            The wurld sa wide.
No daht but His omnishent skill,
            Al be thi guide.
 
 
So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise,
Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise,
E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise,
            Tha tuke hur hand;
An’ listened to thi father’s voise,
            An’ hiz command.
 

Address ta mi Bed

 
Oud stocks on thee I first began
To be that curious crater man,
Ta travel thro this life’s short span,
            By fate’s dekree;
Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan,
            An’ cease ta be.
 
 
Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,
Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;
On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh,
            An’ ofttimes weep; —
Till by sum means, aw knaw not why,
            I fall asleep.
 
 
Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,
Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,
Ta seek thi downy brest again;
            Yet heaves mi breast
For wretches in the pelting rain,
            At hev no rest.
 
 
How oft within thy little space
Does mony a thout oft find a place?
Aw think at past, an’ things ta face,
            My mind hiz filled,
Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase,
            An’ cassels bild.
 
 
O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,
Disease or deeath, a kind releef,
Monarks of a time so breef,
            Alternate reign,
Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf,
            And clears the plain.
 
 
Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,
This grate important truth ta awn,
On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn,
            E mortal birth;
Till a few fleetin haars flown,
            Then back ta earth.
 

Home ov Mi Boyish Days

 
Home of my boyish days, how can I call
Scenes to my memory, that did befall?
How can my trembling pen find power to tell
The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?
Can I forget the days joyously spent,
That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?
Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,
Home of my boyish days, without one tear?
 
 
Can I look back on days that’s gone by,
Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?
Oh, no! though never more these eyes may dwell
On thee, old cottage home, I love so well:
Home of my childhood, wherever I be,
Thou art the nearest and dearest to me.
 
 
Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,
Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?
Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;
Psalms for the Sabbath on Sabbath were sung;
And the young minstrels enraptured would come
To the lone cottage I once called my home.
 
 
Can I forget the dear landscape around,
Where in my boyish days I could be found,
Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,
Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?
Then would my mother say – where is he gone?
I’m waiting of shuttles that he should have won:
She in that cottage there knitting her healds,
While I her young forester was roaming the fields.
 
 
But the shades of the evening gather slowly around,
The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,
Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.
And as I turn round to look on thee again,
To take one fond look, one last fond adieu;
By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view,
But O, there’s no darkness, to me no decay;
Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away.
 

Ode ta Spring Sixty-four

 
O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters,
   An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king sixty-four,
Wi thi brah dekked wi gems o’ the purest o’ waters,
   Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter is ower.
 
 
We hail thi approach wi palm-spangled banners;
   The plant an’ the sapling await thy command;
An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners,
   Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.
 
 
Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an’ grotto,
   Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn;
Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,
   Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.
 
 
O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going!
   Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the wind;
Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing,
   Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um behind.
 

My Drechen Dear

 
Night’s sombre mantle is spreading over,
   Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days;
Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover?
   Why did thou cross the raging seas?
 
 
Its melancholy here I’m lying,
   Half broken-hearted, drechen dear;
Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing,
   Each billow roaring a shed tear.
 
 
How can they say that all-perfect nature
   Has nothing done or made in vain?
When that beneath the roaring water,
   Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain.
 
 
No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover,
   That lurks beneath the raging deep;
To mark the spot where lies the lover,
   That leaves the maiden to sigh and weep.
 
 
The miser robb’d of his golden pleasure,
   Views tempests great in his wild despair;
But what is all his loss of treasure,
   To losing thee, my drechen dear?
 
 
O cease, O cease, thou cruel ocean!
   And give my lover a peaceful rest;
For what thy storming and all thy motion,
   Compared with that within my breast.
 
 
O could I now over the wild waves stooping,
   The floating corpse of thee could spy;
Just like a lily in autumn drooping,
   I’d bow my head, kiss thee, and die.
 

Address t’t First Wesherwuman

 
E sooth sho wor a reeal god-send,
To’t human race the greatest frend,
An’ lived no daht at t’other end
      O’ history.
Hur name is nah, yah may depend,
      A mistery.
 
 
But sprang sho up fra royal blood,
Or sum poor slave beyond the flud?
Me blessing on the sooap an’ sud
      Sho did invent;
Hur name sall renk among the good,
      If aw get sent.
 
 
If nobbut in a rainy dub,
Sho did at furst begin ta skrub,
Or hed a proper weshin tub,
      Its all the same;
Aw’d give a craan, if aw’d to sub,
      To get hur name.
 
 
In this wide wurld aw’m let afloat,
Th’ poor possessor of wun koat;
Yet linnen clean aw on thee dote,
      An’ thus assert,
Tha’rt wurthy o’ grate Shakespere’s note;
      A clean lin’ shirt.
 
 
Low iz mi lot an’ hard mi ways,
While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;
Yet aw will sing t’owd lasse’s prase,
      Wi’ famous glee.
Tho’ rude an’ ruff sud be mi lays,
      Sho’st lass for me.
 
 
Bards hev sung the fairest fair,
There rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair,
The dying lover’s deep despair,
      There harps hev rung;
But useful wimmin’s songs are rair,
      An’ seldom sung.