Th' History o' Haworth Railway

CHAPTER IV

“The last Scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history.”

Fra th’ Corrispondant o’th’ Hoylus End Mercury.

Good folks, you’ve inkwired at home and abroad,Ha we’re gettin’ on wi wur famous railroad;And wen I’ve tell’d yo th’ disasters we’ve hed,Yo’ve greev’d monny a time wal yo’ve tain to yor bed,But ha yo will gape wen yo read farther daan,Wat famons big stirrins we’ve hed up i’th’ taan.I know yo’d be mad as soin as yo heard,Abaat that oud kaa at belonged to Blue Beard,For I like as I saw yo just hod of its tail,And braying it rump wi th’ end o’ yor flail;For I wisht monny a time at yo’d been here,For swallowing th’ plan yo’d a geen it wat cheer.Ha iver, good folk, I’ll try to be breef,For I know yo’re i’ pain and I’ll give yo releef —So to tell yo the truth in a plain honest way,Th’ railroad is finish’d an oppen’d to-day;An’ I’ve tain up mi pen, for ill yo’d a tain’tIf I hedn’t a geen yo a truthful ackaant.Hasumever, this morning as I tell’d yo before,I wur wakken’d wi hearin a awful uproar,Wat wi th’ prating o’ women an’ shaating o’th’ folk,An’ th’ bells ’at wur ringin, it wur past ony joke,For ivery two minits thay shaated huray,We are na baan to oppen th’ Haworth Railway.So I jump’d up i’ bed, an’ I gat on the floor,I slipt on mi cloas an’ ran aat door,An’ th’ first at I met, it wur one Jimmy Peg,He’d cum’d up fra Bockin an brout a gert fleg,An’ just at his heels wur th’ Spring-headed band,Playing a march – I thout it wur grand.So I fell into th’ step for I knaw how to march,For I’ve been stiffen’d up wi’ guvernment starch;An’ first smell o’ music it makes me fair danceAn’ I prick us mi ears like a trooper his lance,Hasumever, I thout as I’d gotten the scent,I’d follow this music wharever it went.Then I march’d up erect, wal I cum to th’ grand stand,An’ that wur at th’ stashun whare th’ train hed to landThare wur flags of all nations, fra th’ Union JackTo Bacchus an’ Atlas wi’ th’ globe on his back,For th’ Inspector and Conductor, and all sorls o’ fray,Wur expected directly to land at th’ railway.So I stared until both een wur varry near bleared,An’ waited an’ waited – at last it appeared,It wur filled full o’ folk as eggs full o’ meat,An’ it tuk four engines to bring it up reight,Two hed long chimlas an’ tuther hed noan,But thay stuck weel together like a dog to a boan.They wur gruntin’ an’ growlin’ wur th’ folk at gat aat,So I made sum inquiries wat it wur abaat;For i’ all mi born days I ne’er heard nowt so called,For three or four times thay sed it hed stall’dWal sum o’th’ crookt-legg’d ens bethout of a scheam,An’ thay went back to Keighla for a hamper o’ steam.An’ my word an’ honner, it did mak a gert din,For I stud by and heard it an’ saw it cum in;I expected it cummin as quiet as a lamb,But no daat a’th’ noises wur nobbut a sham;But wat’s th’ use o’ tellin yo ha it did cum,I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum.Thare wur fifty i’ number invited to dine,All us at hed acted reight loyal to th’ line;Sa I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff’At th’ puddings this time wud be made o’th’ reight stuffAnd noan o’ that stuffment that gav th’ Keighla band,Toan awf on it rubbish and tother awf sand.For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a man)Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kaa lickin pan,Wi gert lumps o’ sewet at th’ cook hed put in’t,At shane like a ginney just new aat o’th’ mint;Wi nives made a purpos to cut it i’ rowls,An’ th’ sauce wur i’ buckets, an mighty big bowls.They wur chattin an’ tawkin an’ sucking ther spice,An’ crackin at dainties thay thout ’at wur nice,Wal th’ oud parson gat up and pulled a long face,An’ mutter’d sum words ’at thay call sayin’ th’ grace,But I niver goam’d that, cos I knew for a factIt wur nobbut a signal for th’ puddin attack.And I’ll tell yo wat, folk, tho yo maint beleeve,But yo tawk abaat Wibsey folk heytin horse beef,Yo sud a seen Locker taaners brandishin’ thair nives,An’ choppin and cuttin thair wallopin shives,An’ all on em shaating thay liked th’ puddin th’ best,For nowt wur like th’ puddin for standin the test.And while thay wur cuttin an’ choppin away,The gallant Spring-headers wur order’d to play,But thay didn’t much like it for every oneWur flaid at thay’d play wal th’ puddin wur done;But as luck wur they ticed em, wi a gert deal to do,To play Roger the plowman and Rozzen the Bow.Hasumiver thay played an’ thay drummed up agean,An’ th’ drummer he struck wi his might and his mane,An’ I’m like to confess I wur niver war flaid,For thay put such a stress on to all ’at thay played,But I kept mysel quiet, cos I knew’t wur a sin,To stop such grand music, if th’ roof tumbled in.Ike Ouden wur chairman at com to preside,An’ Will Thompson o’ Guiseley wur set by his side;Na Will’s a director o’th’ Midland line,An’ as dacent a chap as sat daan ta dine,Along wi Jim Sugden at held the vice chair,Wur one Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor.Thare wur Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and me,And a lot more lads at wur on fur a spree;Thare wur Nedwin o’ George’s and Pete Featherstone,They sat side by side like Darby and Joan!An’ I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade,But I knaw thay wur Ingham and little Jack Wade.Na th’ dinner bein ower thay shifted all th’ tins,Then th’ chairman stud up like a man on his pins,And proposin’ a bumper to England’s gooid Queen,He telled what a kind-hearted monark shoo’d been,At shoo’d trained up her family in her own loyal way,’At th’ Crown Prince wur th’ best rider i’ Haworth to-day.Th’ toast it being honnered, then the chairman went on,And tell’d wat gert wonders oud England hed dun;As for invading armies shoo’d nothing to fearAs long as th’ bold 42nd wur thear,But he’d leave that aside, for he’d summat to sayAbaat his attachment to Haworth Railway,So, he says, be silent all th’ folk i’ this hall,So, as any one on yo can hear a pin fall,And John o’ Bill Olders, just shut up thi prate,For I’ve summat to say an I mun let it aat;For I mun hev silence whatever betide,Or I’ll cum aat o’th’ loom and sum on ya hide.Three years hes elapsed an’ we’re going on th’ fourth,Sin we first started th’ railway fra Keighley to Haworth;Wat wi dreamin’ by neet an’ workin’ by day,It’s been to poor Haworth a dearish railway,An’ monny a time I’ve been aat a patience,Wi th’ host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations.Th’ first do at we hed wur th’ kaa swallowing th’ plan,An’d then wur bad luck an’ misfortunes began;For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us anuther,All went on wrong an’ we’d a gert deal o’ bother;He must ha’ been dreamin, a silly oud claan,For three fields o’ Doodle’s he never put daan.But Jack Metcauf put up wi’ that for he sed he’d allah’At th’ misfortune wur caused wi th’ greedy oud kaa;So be set all his navvies agate in a hig,An’ thay upset a chapel at th’ Paper Mill Brig;Na th’ folk dropp’d thair lugs an wur daan o’th’ Railway,But we gat ower that bit wi’ hevin’ to pay.Nah Ike finished off in his dashin’ oud way,An’ th’ folk wur all shaatin’, hear, hear! and hurra,For heigher and heigher the band it wur playin’,An’ nobody cud hear a word thay wur sayin’,For th’ clappin’ an’ shaatin’ it lasted awhile,For I clapped wal mi hands wur as sore as a bile.Nah, I’ll tell yo wat, folk, yo tawk abaat storms,An’ thunner an’ leetning, an’ dreadful alarms,But th’ applause thare wur wen he’d dun,Thare wur niver nowt heard like it under th’ sun,For wat wi laad music, huraaing an’ cheers,Th’ folk wur so suited thay gaaped at both ears.As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I knawFor thart one o’th’ best drivers at iver I saw,An’ nobody can grumble at wat tha hes dun,If this bus driven wearisome race it is run;For who cud grumble ha fine wur thur cloth,To ride up to Haworth wi’ oud Jonny Broth.So Jonny, mi lad, don’t thee mak onny fuss,I’ shutting thi horses, or sellin’ thi Bus;For if th’ railway hes dun thee, thare’s one thing I knawTha mud mak o’th’ oud Bus a stunnin’ peep show,An’ if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles,I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles.An’ if any one else hes a complaint to mak,Doant let em say it behint yor back,But cum up to th’ front an’ dunnot be flaid,If he’s owt aat o’ pockets I’ll see at he’s paid;For all theas small trubbles I want to decide,An’ them at’s been wrong’d to be satisfied.For all native exiles are welcum once moreTo cum back agean to thair awn native shore;Even theas at hed hookt it an’ left it i’th’ lurk,An’ wur flaid at they’d awet if thay happened to work,Can cum back agean to thair awn native place,If thay think thay can fashion to show up thair face.So strike up yor music an’ give it sum maath,An’ welcum all nashuns fra north to th’ saath;Th’ black fra th’ east, an’ th’ red fra th’ west,For thay sud be welcum as weel as th’ rest,An’ all beyond th’ Tiber, th’ Baltic, or Rhine,Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d th’ Worth Valley Line.