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

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