Kitabı oku: «Random Rhymes and Rambles», sayfa 3

In a Pleasant Little Valley

 
In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr,
Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair;
Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly thro’ the wood,
And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood,
’Twas there in all her splendour, on a January morn,
Appeared old Colia’s genius, – when Robert Burns was born.
 
 
Her mantle large of greenish hue and robe of tartan shone,
And round its mystic border seen was Luger, Ayr, and Doon;
A leaf-clad holly bough was twined so graceful round her brow,
She was the darling native muse of Scotia’s Colia:
So grand old Colia’s genius on this January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.
 
 
She vowed she ne’er would leave him till he sung old Scotia’s plains,
The daisy, and the milk-white thorn he tuned in lovely strains;
And sung of yellow autumn, or some lovely banks and braes:
And make each cottage home resound with his sweet tuneful lays,
And sing how Colia’s genius, on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.
 
 
She could not teach him painting like her Cunningham at home,
Nor could she teach him sculpturing like Angelo of Rome:
But she taught him how to wander her lovely hills among,
And sing her bonny burns and glens in simple rustic song;
This old Colia’s genius did that January morn,
Vow in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.
 
 
And in the nights of winter when stormy winds do roar,
And the fierce dashing waves is heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,
The young and old encircled are around the cheerful fire,
Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;
And sing how Colia’s genius on a January morn,
Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.
 

Johnny o’ t’ Bog an’ Keighley
Feff-fee Goast:
A Tale o’ Poverty

 
“Some books are lies frae end to end,
And some great lies were never penn’d;
But this that I am gaun to tell,
* * * Lately on a night befel.” – Burns.
 

 
’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet,
   Net far fro Kersmas time,
When I met wi this Feoffee Goast,
   The subject ov my rhyme.
 
 
I’d been hard up fer mony a week,
   My way I cuddant see,
Fer trade an commerce wor as bad
   As ivver they cud be.
 
 
T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,
   An t’combers wor quite sick,
For weeks they niver pool’d a slip,
   Ner t’weivers wave a pick.
 
 
An I belong’d to t’latter lot,
   An them wor t’war o t’wo,
Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase,
   An nowt for em ta do.
 
 
T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed,
   An I’d a shocking coud,
Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,
   Wor nobbut three days oud.
 
 
Distracted to my vary heart,
   At sitch a bitter cup,
An lippening ivvery day at com,
   At summat wod turn up.
 
 
At t’last I started off wun neet,
   To see what I could mak;
Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit,
   Or else I’d noan go back.
 
 
Through t’Skantraps an be t’ Bracken Benk,
   I tuke wi all mi meet;
Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin,
   Reight into t’oppan street.
 
 
Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,
   An I wor rare an fain,
Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage —
   I cuddant be mistain.
 
 
So up I went to t’Wicket Gate,
   Though sad I am to say it,
Resolv’d to ax em for some breead,
   Or else some brocken meit.
 
 
Bud just as I wor shacking it,
   A form raise up afore,
An sed “What dus ta want, tha knave,
   Shacking t’ Wicket Door?”
 
 
He gav me then to understand,
   If I hedant cum to pray,
At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life,
   Wor all they gav away.
 
 
It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk
   Abaat ther breead o’ life,
An specially when they’ve plenty,
   Fer t’childer an ther wife.
 
 
Bud I set off agean at t’run,
   Fer I weel understood,
If I gat owt fra that there clan,
   It woddant do ma good.
 
 
E travelling on I thowt I heeard,
   As I went nearer t’tahn,
A thaasand voices e mi ears
   Saying “John, where are ta bahn?”
 
 
An ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d,
   A play-card I cud see,
E t’biggest type at e’er wod print —
   “There’s nowt here, lad, for thee.”
 
 
Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d,
   Astead o’ meit wor seen,
A mighty carving-knife hung up,
   Hi, fair afore me een.
 
 
Destruction wor inviting me,
   I saw it fearful clear,
Fer ivvery druggist window sed —
   “Real poison is sold here.”
 
 
At t’last I gav a frantic howl,
   A shaat o’ dreead despair,
I seized mesen be t’toppin then,
   An shack’d an lugg’d me hair.
 
 
Then quick as leetening ivver wor,
   A thowt com e me heead —
I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry,
   An meditate wi t’deead.
 
 
T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking t’time
   At folk sud be asleep,
Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,
   An t’Pindar after t’sheep.
 
 
Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off
   At summat like a trot;
To get to t’place I started for,
   Me blooid wor boiling hot.
 
 
An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,
   Rear’d up agean a post,
I cuddant tell – but yet I thowt
   It wor another goast!
 
 
Bud whether it wor goast or not,
   I heddant time to luke,
Fer I wor taken be surprise,
   When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.
 
 
Abaat two hundard yards e t’front,
   As near as I cud think,
I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise,
   An nah an then a clinck!
 
 
What ivver can these noises be?
   Some robbers, then I thowt! —
I’d better step aside an see,
   They’re happen up to nowt!
 
 
So I gat ower a fence there wor,
   An peeping through a gate,
Determined I’d be satisfied,
   If I’d awhile to wait.
 
 
At t’last two figures com to t’spot
   Where I hed hid mesel,
Then walkers-heath and brimstone,
   Most horridly did smell.
 
 
Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,
   His face as black as soit,
His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben,
   He hed a clovven fooit.
 
 
An t’other wor all skin an bone
   His name wor Mr. Deeath;
Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor,
   An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.
 
 
He hed a scythe, I plainly saw,
   He held it up aloft,
Just same as he wor bahn to maw
   Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft.
 
 
“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?”
   Sed Nickey, wi a grin,
“Tha knaws I am full up below,
   An cannot tack more in.”
 
 
“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks,
   “Tha ruffin ov a dog,
I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean,
   To see wun John o’ t’Bog.
 
 
I cannot see it fer me life,
   What it’s to do wi thee;
Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick,
   An nivver thee heed me.”
 
 
“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks,
   Whativver tha may say,
For I been roasting t’human race
   For mony a weary day.”
 
 
Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee,
   This last two years or so;
Wi Germany an Italy,
   An even Mexico.
 
 
An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil
   Browt in some thaasands more;
An sooin fra Abysinnia,
   Tha’ll bring black Theodore.
 
 
So drop that scythe, oud farren Death,
   Let’s rest a toathree wick;
Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan,
   Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”
 
 
“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath,
   Who spack it wi a grin,
“Ise just do as I like fer thee,
   So tha can hod thi din.”
 
 
This made oud Nick fair raging mad,
   An lifting up his whip,
He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash
   Across o t’upper lip.
 
 
Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks,
   To give oud Nick leg bail,
He started off towards the tahn,
   An Nick stuck aht his tail.
 
 
Then helter-skelter off they went,
   As ower t’fence I lape;
I thowt – well, if it matters owt,
   I’ve made a nice escape.
 
 
But nah the mooin began to shine
   As breet as it cud be;
An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d,
   Where I cud plainly see.
 
 
The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw,
   An t’winding Aire wor still,
An all wor quite save t’hullats,
   At wor screaming up o’ t’hill.
 
 
Oud Rivvock End an all araand
   Luk’d like some fiendish heead,
Fer more I stared, an more I thowt
   It did resemble t’deead.
 
 
The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah,
   To what I’d seen afore;
An luk’d as though they’d never be
   T’oud friendly Oaks no more.
 
 
Fer wun wor like a giant grim,
   His nose com to a point,
An wi a voice like thunner sed —
   “The times are aaght o’ t’joint!”
 
 
An t’other like a whipping-post,
   Bud happen not as thin,
Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil,
   So pray, nah, hod thi din?”
 
 
I tuke no farther gawm o’ them,
   Bud paddled on me way;
Fer when I ivver mack a vow,
   I stick to what I say.
 
 
I heddant goan so far agean,
   Afoar I heeard a voice,
Exclaiming – wi a fearful groan —
   “Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!”
 
 
I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro,
   An cautiously I bowed,
Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice,
   I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.
 
 
Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place,
   A sudden change o’ scene;
Fer miles where all wor white afore,
   Wor nah a bottle-green.
 
 
Then com a woman donned e white,
   A mantle gert she wore;
A nicer lukin, smarter form,
   I nivver saw afore.
 
 
Her features did resemble wun
   O that kind-hearted lot,
At’s ivver ready to relieve
   The poor man in his cot.
 
 
Benevolence wor strongly marked
   Upon her noble heead;
An on her breast yo might hev read,
   “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”
 
 
In fact, a kinder-hearted soul
   Oud Yorksher cuddant boast;
An who wod feel the least alarmed,
   To talk to sitch a goast?
 
 
I didant feel at all afraid,
   As nearer me she drew;
I sed – Good evening, Mrs. Goast,
   Hah ivver do yo dew?
 
 
Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm,
   Bud pointed up at t’mooin,
An beckon’d me to follow her
   Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.
 
 
So on we went, an dahn we turned,
   An nawther on us spack;
Bud nah an then sho twined her heead,
   To see if I’d runned back.
 
 
At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd
   An luked ma fair e t’een;
’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce,
   Sho wor no human been.
 
 
Sho rave a paper fra her breast,
   Like some long theatre bill;
An then sho sed “Weak mortal,
   Will ta read to me this will?
 
 
But first, afoar tha starts to read,
   I’ll tell thee who I iz;
Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff,
   I judge it by thi phiz.
 
 
Well, I’ve a job fer thee to do,
   That is, if tha will do it;
I think tha’rt t’likeliest man I knaw,
   Becos tha art a poet.
 
 
If I am not mistaken, friend,
   I offan hear thi name;
I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;”
   Says I – “Oud lass, it’s t’same.”
 
 
“It’s just so mony years this day,
   I knaw it by me birth,
Sin I departed mortal life,
   An left this wicked earth.
 
 
But ere I closed these een to go
   Into eternity,
I thowt I’d do a noble act,
   A deed o’ charity.
 
 
I hed a bit o’ brass, tha knaws,
   Some land an’ property;
I thowt it might be useful, John,
   To folks e poverty.
 
 
So then I made a will o t’lot,
   Fer that did suit my mind;
I planned it as I thowt wor t’best,
   To benefit mankind.
 
 
I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil,
   By reading t’will tha’ll see;
That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws,
   May hev ther skooling free.
 
 
An if tha be teetotal, John,
   Tha may think it a fault,
Bud to ivvery woman ligging in
   I gav a peck o’ malt.
 
 
Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass at’s left,
   As tha’ll hev heeard afore,
Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly
   Among arr Keighley poor.
 
 
I certainly did mack a flaw,
   Fer which I’ve rued, alas!
’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John,
   Sud hev no Feoffee Brass.
 
 
An nah, if tha will be so kind,
   Go let mi t’trustees knaw
At I sall be obleged to them
   To null that little flaw.
 
 
An will ta mention this anall,
   Wal tha’s an intervue? —
Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor,
   Whativver else they due.
 
 
Then I sall rest an be at peace,
   Boath here an when e Heav’n;
Wal them at need it will rejoice
   Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve giv’n.
 
 
An tell em to remember thee
   Upon t’next Feoffee Day!”
I says – I sallant get a meg,
   I’m getting parish pay.
 
 
So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt,
   An tell’d me what to doo,
I ax’d her if sho’d harken me,
   Wal I just said a word or two.
 
 
I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie,
   As sure as my name’s ‘John;’
I think at yo are quite e t’mist
   Abaht things going on.
 
 
Folks gether in fra far an near,
   When it is Feoffee-Day;
An think they hev another lowse
   Wi t’little bit o’ pay.
 
 
Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ poor,
   It’s shocking fer to tell,
They’ll hardly let em into t’door —
   I knaw it be mesel.
 
 
Asteead a being a peck o’ malt
   Fer t’wimmen lying in,
It’s geen to rascals ower-grown,
   To drink e rum an gin.
 
 
Then them at is – I understand —
   What yo may call trustees,
They hev ther favorites, yo knaw,
   An gives to who they please.
 
 
Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face,
   An skrew ther maath awry;
An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand,
   As they are passing by.
 
 
There’s mony a woman I knaw weel,
   Boath middle-aged an oud,
At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass,
   An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.
 
 
Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass,
   Hes cum e all his pride,
An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass,
   Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.
 
 
Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax,
   If they’ve a claim, they come;
But what wi t’Railway fares an drink,
   It’s done be they get home.
 
 
Wal mony a poorer family
   At’s nut been nam’d e t’list,
At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil,
   Bud thenk yo – they are miss’d.
 
 
We see a man at hes a haase,
   Or happen two or three,
They Mr. him, an hand him aaght
   Five times as mitch as me.
 
 
’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass
   Tight up e sum oud seck,
An getten t’Corporation brooms
   To sweep it into t’Beck.”
 
 
No longer like Capias’ form,
   Wi a tear e boath her een,
But like the gallant Camilla,
   The Volscian warrior Queen.
 
 
She, kneeling, pointed up aboon,
   An vow’d be all so breet,
Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads,
   Or watch em day an neet.
 
 
Sho call’d the Furies to her aid,
   An Diræ’s names sho us’d,
An sware if I hed spocken t’truth,
   Sho hed been sore abus’d.
 
 
Alas, poor Goast! – I sed to her —
   Indeed it is too true;
Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet,
   Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”
 

Charming Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall

 
On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green,
Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen,
That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king,
Of whom the oud bards delited to sing.
Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then,
Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;
’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall,
I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
 
 
Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display,
Resemblin truly the goddess of day;
Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone,
That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn.
Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind,
But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind:
It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call,
To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
 
 
Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow,
When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow;
The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,
Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve.
Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows,
Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose;
There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall,
To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
 
 
Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ grace,
Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace:
An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue,
O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue.
Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun,
An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done:
It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl,
To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
 
 
Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will;
Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill;
The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!”
Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee.
At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms
An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?”
Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call,
On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
 

Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan!

 
My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,
      To thy long rest?
An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone
      Close ower thy breast?
An’ are ta goan no more to see,
Excepting e fond memory;
Yes empty echo answers me —
      “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”
 
 
E vain the wafters o’ the breeze
      Fan my hot brah,
E vain the birds upon the trees,
      Sing sweetly nah;
E vain the early rose-bud blaws,
E vain wide Nature shows her Cause,
Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws —
      “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”
 
 
There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft,
      I pity wun,
An’ that’s my lad – he’s sadly left —
      My little John;
He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day,
An’ rarely hez a word to say,
Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),
      Shoo’s deead an’ goan!
 
 
Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears;
      At t’least we’ll try;
Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears
      The orphan’s sigh;
Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack —
An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?
An’ crying cannot bring her back;
      Shoo’s deead an’ goan!
 

The Heroic Watchman of Calversike Hill

[This extraordinary “hero” either bore false witness against his neighbour, a poor artisan, or (taking his own word for it) saved the nation from great disaster and ruin by putting out a fire that no one saw but himself.]

 
We’ve heard of great fires in city and town,
And many disasters by fire are known;
But surely this fire which I’m going to tell,
Was worse than Mount Ætna, Vesuvius or hell;
For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill,
But for heroic watchman at Calversike Hill.
 
 
This fire it broke out in the night it was said,
While peacefully each villager slept in his bed;
And so greatly the flames did illumne all the skies,
That it took the big watchman all in surprise.
Yet great was the courage and undaunted skill
Of the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.
 
 
He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high,
That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;
And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,
He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!
And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,
That they fin’d the poor artist of Calversike Hill.
 
 
Now, there’s some foolish people are led to suppose,
It was by some shavings this fire first arose;
But yet, says our “hero,” I greatly suspect,
This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.
But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it will,
Says the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.
 
 
He needed no witness to swear what he had done,
Yet if he had wanted he could have had one;
For one Tommy Twister, that never was there,
Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air,
The greatest sized coal pot no doubt they would fill,
Like the head of the hero of Calversike Hill.
 
 
So many brave thanks to this heroic knave,
For thousands of lives no doubt he did save,
And but for this hero disaster had spread,
And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;
But to save all his people it was the Lord’s will,
Through the heroic watchman at Calversike Hill.
 
 
So mind and be careful and put out your lights,
All ye with red noses in case they ignite,
Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap,
In case this great watchman chances to sleep.
For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill,
Is the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.