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

Random Rhymes and Rambles

Dedicated toJames Wright,Local Musician and Composer,North Beck Mills,Keighley,By the Author.

      Dec. 25th, 1876.

      INTRODUCTION

      The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES, in verse and prose, are but the leisure musings of the uneducated, and cannot be expected to come up to anything like the standard of even poetry; yet, when the fact is known that the Author, like his Works, are rough and ready, without the slightest notion of either Parnassus or the Nines, at least give him credit for what they are worth.

WILLIAM WRIGHT.

      Come Nivver De e Thee Shell

      Come nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

         Are words but rudely said;

      Tho thay may chear some stricken heart,

         Or raise some wretched head;

      For thay are words I love mysel,

         They’re music to my ear;

      Thay muster up fresh energy

         Ta chase each dout an’ fear.

      Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

         Tho tha be poor indeed;

      Ner lippen ta long it turning up

         Sa mich ov a friend in need;

      Fer few ther are, an’ far between,

         That helps a poor man thru;

      An God helps them at helps thersel,

         An’ thay hev friends enew.

      Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

         What ivver thy crediters say;

      Tell um at least tha’rt forst ta owe,

         If tha artant able ta pay;

      An if thay nail thy bits o’ traps,

         An sell thee dish an’ spooin;

      Remember fickle fortun lad,

         Sho changes like the mooin.

      Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

         Tho some ma laugh an scorn;

      There wor nivver a neet ’fore ta neet,

         Bud what there come a morn;

      An if blind fortun used thee bad,

         Sho’s happen noan so meean;

      Ta morn al come, an then for some

         The sun will shine ageean.

      Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad,

         Bud let thy motto be, —

      “Onward! an’ excelsior;”

         And try for t’ top o’t tree:

      And if thy enemies still pursue,

         Which ten-to-one they will,

      Show um oud lad tha’rt doing weel,

         An climbing up the hill.

      Oud Betty’s Advice

      So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed

      It morning we young blacksmith Ned,

      And tho it makes thy mother sad,

            Its like to be;

      I’ve nout ageean yond decent lad

            No more ner thee.

      Bud let me tell thee what ta due,

      For my advice might help thee thru;

      Be kind, and to thy husband true,

            An I’ll be bun

      Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue,

            For out tha’s done.

      Nah, try to keep thi former knack,

      An due thi weshing in a crack,

      Bud don’t be flaid to bend thi back,

            Tha’ll nobbut sweeat;

      So try an hev a bit o’ tack,

            An do it neat.

      Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt,

      An pride thysel e being alert, —

      An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt,

            An keep it clean;

      It wod thy poor oud mother hurt,

            If tha wor mean.

      Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun,

      Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run;

      Bud, alus hev thy dinner done,

            Withaht a mooild;

      If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on,

            An hev it boiled.

      So Mary, I’ve no more to say —

      Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way;

      An if tha leets to rue, I pray,

            Don’t blame thy mother:

      I wish you monny a happy day

            We wun another.

      The Fugitive: a Tale Kersmas Time

      We wor snugly set araand the hob,

         ’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,

      Me an arr Kate an t’ family,

         All happy aw believe:

      Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee,

         An’ awd aar little Ann,

      When their come rapping at the door

         A poor oud beggar man.

      Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks,

         That once no daht were fair;

      His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale,

         His neck and breast were bare;

      His clooase, unworthy o’ ther name,

         Were raggd an steepin wet;

      His poor oud legs were stockingless,

         And badly shooed his feet.

      Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to him,

         An get thee up to’t fire;

      Sho then brought aht were humble fare,

         T’wor what he did desire;

      And when he’d getten what he thowt,

         An his oud regs were dry,

      We akst what distance he hed come,

         An thus he did reply:

      “Awm a native of Cheviot hills,

         Some weary miles fra here;

      Where I like you this neet hev seen

         Mony a Kersmas cheer;

      Bud I left my father’s haase, when young,

         Determined aw wad roaam;

      An’ like the prodigal of yore,

         Am mackin toards mi hoame.

      “Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines,

         On India’s burning sand;

      An nearly thirty years ago

         Aw left me native land;

      Discipline