Read Ebook: Random Rhymes and Rambles by Bill O Th Hoylus End

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Ebook has 739 lines and 43991 words, and 15 pages

Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an' Alice Send fer me up to lewk at mi cloas, An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais, Wi' me tassel at side, e mi jacket a rose. Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an' Willy, Thay both gav me pennys an off aw did steer: But aw heeard um say this, "He's a fine lad is Billy, It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver he ware."

Aw remember the time are Robin an' Johnny Wor keeping ther hens an' ducks e the yard, There wor gamecocks and bantams, wi' toppins so bonny An noan on um mine, aw thowt it wor hard. But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin' An sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair, Aw then became maister at least o' wun chicken, It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware.

Aw remember wun Sabbath, an t' sun it wor shining, Aw went wi mi father ta Hainworth, to sing An t' stage wor hung raand wi green cotton lining; And childer e white made t' village ta ring. We went ta auld Mecheck's that day to wor drinking, Tho' poor, ther wor plenty, an' summat ta spare; Says Mecheck, "That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw'm thinking, It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver tha ware."

Now them wor the days o' grim boggards and witches, When Will-o'-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp, But nah is the days o' cheating fer riches, And a poor honist man is classed wi a scamp. Yes, them wor the days at mi mind worrant weary; O them wor the days aw knew no despair; O give me the time o' the boggard and fairy, Wi't furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware.

And them wor the days aw sal allus remember, Sud aw just as oud as Methuslah last; Them wor mi March days, but nah its September: Ne'er to return again--them days are past. But a time aw remember aboon onny other, Aw kneeled o' mi knees an sed the Lord's Prayer; Aw sed God bless me father, an God bless mi mother, It furst Pair o' Briches at ivver aw ware.

Fra Haworth ta Bradford.

Fra Hawarth tahn the other day, Bi't rout o' Thornton height, Joe Hobble an' his better hauf, Went inta Bradford streight.

Nah Joe i' Bradford wor afoor, But sho hed nivver been; Bud assomivver thay arrived Safe intat Bowling Green.

Thay gav a lad a parkin pig, As on the street thay went; Ta point um aht St. George's Hall, An Oastler's Monument.

Bud t' little jackanapes being deep, An thought thay'd nivver knaw, Show'd Joseph Hobble an' iz wife T' furst monument he saw.

Az sooin as Joe gat up t' rails, Hiz e'en blazed in hiz heead; Exclaiming, thay mud just as weel A goan an robb'd the deead.

Bud 'o ivvers tane them childer dahn, Away fra poor oud Dick, Desarvs hiz heaad weel larapin, We a dahn gooid hazel stick.

T' lad seeing Joe froth ate at maath, He sooin tuke to hiz heels, Fer at steead o' Oastlers' Monument, He'd shown um Bobby Peel's.

O, Welcome, Lovely Summer.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With thi golden days so long, When the throstle and the blackbird Charm us with their song; When the lark in early morning Taks his aireal flight; An' the humming bat, an' buzzard, Frolic in the night.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her rainbow's lovely form; Her thunder an' her leetnin, An' her grandeur in the storm: With her sunshine and her shower, And her wurlin of the dust; An the maiden with her flagon, To slack the mower's thirst.

O! welcome, lovely summer, When the woods wi music ring, And the bees so hevvy laden, To their hives their treasures bring: When we seek some shady bower, Or some lovely little dell, Or bivock in the sunshine, Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With her roses in full bloom; When the cowslaps an' the lalack Deck the cottage home; When the cherry an' the berry, Gives a grandeur to the charm; And the clover and the haycock Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer, With the partridge on the wing; When tewit an the moorgame, Up fra the heather spring, From the crowber an the billber, An the bracken an the ween; As from the noisey tadpole, We hear the crackin din. O! welcome, lovely summer.

Burns's 113th Birthday.

Go bring that tuther whisky in, An put no watter to it; Fer I mun drink a bumper off, To Scotland's darling poet.

Its a hunderd year an thirteen nah, This Jenewary morn, Sin in a lowly cot i' Kyle, A rustic bard wor born.

He kettled up his moorland harp, To ivv'ry rustic scene; An sung the ways o' honest men, His Davey and his Jean.

Their wor nivver a bonny flaar that grew, Bud what he could admire; Their wor nivver lovely hill or dale, That suited not his lyre.

At last ould Coilia sade enuff, My bardy tha did sing, Then gently tuke his moorland harp, And brack it ivvery string.

An' bindin' up the holly wreath, We all its berries red, Sho placed it on his noble brow, An pensively sho said:--

"So long as Willies bru ther malt, An Robs an Allans spree; Mi Burns's songs an Burns's name, Remember'd thay shall be.

Waiting for t' Angels.

Ligging here deead, me poor Ann Lavina, Ligging alone me own darling child, Just thee white hands crossed on thee bosom, We features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

Ligging here deead, so white an' so bonny, Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine; Asking for sommat withaht ever speaking, Asking thee father to say tha wor fine.

Ligging here deead, the child that so loved me, At fane wod ha' hidden me faults if sho could, Wal thi wretch of a father dispairing stands ower thee, While remorse and frenzy is freezing his blood.

Ligging here deead, e thee shroud an thee coffin, Ligging alone in this poor wretched room, Just thee white hands crossed ower thee bosom, Waiting for t'angels to carry thee home.

Spring.

There is hope in the time that is coming, When the lambs will frolic on the plain, Whilst the bees o'er the heather are humming, 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.

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.

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, With eyes so bright and wide? Or wherefore does that pitcher lay Broken by thy side?"

"My 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."

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