Revised Edition of Poems

The Factory Girl

Shoo stud beside her looms an’ watch’d   The shuttle passin’ through,But yet her soul wur sumweer else,   ’Twor face ta face wi’ Joe.They saw her lips move as in speech,   Yet none cud hear a word,An’ but fer t’grindin’ o’ the wheels,   This language might be heard.“I’t’ spite o’ all thi treacherous art,   At length aw breeathe again;The pityin’ stars hes tane mi part,   An’ eas’d a wretch’s pain.An’ Oh! aw feel as fra a maze,   Mi rescued soul is free,Aw knaw aw do not dream an daze   I’ fancied liberty.“Extinguished nah is ivvery spark,   No love for thee remains,Fer heart-felt love i’ vain sall strive   Ta live, when tha disdains.No longer when thi name I hear,   Mi conscious colour flies!No longer when thi face aw see,   Mi heart’s emotions rise.“Catcht i’ the bird-lime’s treacherous twigs,   Ta wheer he chonc’d ta stray,The bird his fastened feathers leaves,   Then gladly flies away.His shatter’d wings he sooin renews,   Of traps he is aware;Fer by experience he is wise,   An’ shuns each future snare.“Awm speikin’ nah, an’ all mi aim   Is but ta pleeas mi mind;An’ yet aw care not if mi words   Wi’ thee can credit find.Ner dew I care if my decease   Sud be approved bi thee;Or whether tha wi’ equal ease   Does tawk ageean wi’ me.“But, yet, tha false deceivin’ man,   Tha’s lost a heart sincere;Aw naw net which wants comfort mooast,   Or which hes t’mooast ta fear.But awm suer a lass more fond an’ true   No lad could ivver find:But a lad like thee is easily fun —   False, faithless, and unkind.”

Bonny Lark

Sweetest warbler of the wood,   Rise thy soft bewitching strain,And in pleasure’s sprightly mood,         Soar again.With the sun’s returning beam,   First appearance from the east,Dimpling every limpid stream,         Up from rest.Thro’ the airy mountains stray,   Chant thy welcome songs above,Full of sport and full of play,         Songs of love.When the evening cloud prevails,   And the sun gives way for night,When the shadows mark the vales,         Return thy flight.Like the cottar or the swain,   Gentle shepherd, or the herd;Rest thou till the morn again,         Bonny bird!Like thee, on freedom’s airy wing,   May the poet’s rapturous spark,Hail the first approach of spring,         Bonny lark!

Some of My Boyish Days

Home of my boyish days, how can I callScenes to my memory, that did befall?How can my trembling pen find power to tellThe grief I experienced in bidding farewell?Can I forget the days joyously spent,That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?Can I then quit thee, whose memory’s so dear,Home of my boyish days, without one tear?Can I look back on happy days gone by,Without one pleasant thought, without one sighAh, no! though never more these eyes may dwellOn thee, old cottage home, I love so well:Home of my childhood! wherever I be,Thou art the nearest and dearest to me!Can I forget the songs sung by my sire,Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young;Psalms for the Sabbath, on Sabbath were sung;And the young minstrels enraptured would comeTo the little lone cottage I once called my home.Can I forget the dear landscape around,Where in my boyish days I could be found,Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood,Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?Then would my mother say – “Where is he gone?I’m waiting for shuttles that he should have ‘wun’?” —She in that cottage there, knitting her healds,And I, her young forester, roaming the fields.But the shades of the evening gather slowly around,The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground,Night’s sombre mantle is spreading the plain.And as I turn round to look on thee again,To take one fond look, one last fond adieu,By night’s envious hand thou art snatched from my view;But Oh! there’s no darkness – to me – no decay,Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away!

Ode ta Spring Sixty-four

O welcome, young princess, thou sweetest of dowters,   An’ furst bloomin’ issue o’ King Sixty-four,Wi’ thi brah deck’d wi’ gems o’ the purest o’ waters,   Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter, is ower.We hail thi approach wi’ palm-spangled banners;   The plant an’ the saplin’ await thi command;An’ Natur herseln, to show her good manners,   Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land.Tha appears in t’ orchard, in t’ garden, an’ t’ grotto,   Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn;Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,   For thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin’!   These words they are borne on the wings o’ the wind;That bids us be early i’ plewin’ an’ sowin’,   Fer him at neglects, tha’ll leave him behind.

Address ta t’ First Wesherwoman

I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send,Ta t’ human race the greatest friend,An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end      O’ history.Her name is nah, yah may depend,      A mystery.But sprang shoo up fra royal blood,Or some poor slave beyond the Flood,Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud      Shoo did invent;Her name sall renk ameng the good,      If aw get sent.If nobbut in a rainy dub,Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub,Or hed a proper weshin’ tub —      It’s all the same;Aw’d give a crahn, if aw’d to sub,      To get her name.I’ this wide world aw’m set afloat,Th’ poor regg’d possessor of one coat;Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote,      An’ thus assert,Tha’rt worthy o’ great Shakespeare’s note —      A clean lin’ shirt.Low is mi lot, an’ hard mi ways,While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days;Yet aw will sing t’owd lass’s praise,      Wi’ famous glee;Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays,      Shoo’s t’lass for me.Bards hev sung the fairest fair,Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair;The dying lover’s deep despair,      Their harps hev rung;But useful wimmin’s songs are rare,      An’ seldom sung.

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 through 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 Coila’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 then, as now:So grand old Coila’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 Coila’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 Coila’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 are heard on Ayr’s old craggy shore,The young and old encircled around the cheerful fire,Will talk of Rob the Ploughman and tune the Scottish lyre;And sing how Coila’s genius on a January morn,Appeared in all her splendour when Robert Burns was born.

John o’f’ Bog an’ Keighley Feffy Goast:

A TALE O’ POVERTY

“Some books are lies fra 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 fra Kersmas time,When I met wee this Feffy Goast,   The subject of mi rhyme.I’d been hard up fer monny a week,   Mi way I cuddant see,Fer trade an’ commerce wor as bad   As ivver they could be.T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,   An’ t’combers wor quite sick,Fer weeks they nivver pool’d a slip,   Ner t’weivers wave a pick.An’ I belong’d ta t’latter lot,   An’ them wor t’war o’t’ two,Fer I’d nine pair o’ jaws i’ t’haase,   An nowt for ’em ta do.T’owd wife at t’ time wor sick i’ bed,   An’ I’d a shockin’ cowd,Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home,   Wor nobbut three days owd.Distracted to mi varry heart,   At sitch a bitter cup,An’ lippenin’ ivvery day at com,   At summat wod turn up;At last I started off wun neet,   To see what I could mak;Determin’d I’d hev summat ta 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’ oppen street.Saint John’s Church spire then I saw,   An’ I wor rare an’ fain,Fer near it stood t’owd parsonage —   I cuddant be mistain.So up I went ta t’ Wicket Gate,   Though sad I am ta say it,Resolv’d to ax ’em for some breead,   Or else some brocken meit.Bud just as I wor shackin’ it,   A form raase up before,An’ sed “What does ta want, tha knave,   Shackin’ t’ Wicket Door?”He gav me then ta understand,   If I hedant come to pray,At t’grace o’ God an’ t’breead o’ life,   Wor all they gav away.It’s fearful nice fer folk ta talk   Abaat ther breead o’ life,An’ specially when they’ve plenty,   Fer t’childer an’ ther wife.Bud I set off ageean at t’run,   Fer I weel understood,If I gat owt fra that thear clahn,   It woddant do ma good.I’ travellin’ on I thowt I heeard,   As I went nearer t’tahn,A thaasand voices i’ mi ears,   Sayin’ “John, whear are ta bahn?”In ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d,   A play-card I could see,I’ t’biggest type at e’er wod print —   “There’s nowt here, lad, fer thee.”Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d,   Asteead o’ meit wor seen,A mighty carvin’-knife hung up,   Reight fair afore mi een.Destruction wor invitin’ me,   I saw it fearful clear,Fer ivvery druggist window sed —   “Real poison is sold here.”At last I gav a frantic howl,   A shaat o’ dreead despair,I seized missen by t’toppin then,   An’ shack’d an’ lugged mi hair.Then quick as leetnin’ ivver wor,   A thowt com i’ mi heead —I’d tak a walk to t’Simetry,   An’ meditate wi’ t’deead.T’owd Church clock wor striking’ t’ time   At folk sud be asleep,Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,   An’ t’Pindar after t’sheep.Wi’ lengthen’d pace I hasten’d off   At summat like a trot;Ta get ta t’place I started for,   Mi blood wor boiling hot.An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,   Rear’d up ageean a post,I cuddant tell – but yet I thowt   It wor another goast!But whether it wor a goast or net,   I heddant time ta luke,Fer I wor takken bi surprise   When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.Abaat two hunderd yards i’ t’front,   As near as I could think,I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise,   An’ nah an’ then a clink!Whativver can these noises be?   Some robbers, then I thowt! —I’d better step aside an’ see,   They’re happen up ta nowt!So I gat ower a fence ther wor,   An’ peeping threw a gate,Determin’d to be satisfied,   If I’d a while to wait.At last two figures com ta t’spot   Whear I hed hid misel,Then walkers’-earth and brimstone,   Most horridly did smell.Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,   His face as black as sooit,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’ clooas 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 ta maw   Owd Jack O’Doodle’s Croft.“Where are ta bahn ta neet, grim phiz?”   Sed Nickey, wi’ a grin,“Tha knaws I am full up below,   An’ cannot tak more in.”“What is’t ta thee?” said Spinnel Shanks,   “Tha ruffin of a dog,I’m nobbut bahn mi raands ageean,   Ta see wun John o’t’ Bog.“I cannot see it fer mi life,   What it’s ta dew wi’ thee;Go mind thi awn affairs, owd Nick,   An’ nivver thee heed me.”“It is my business, Spinnel Shanks,   Whativver tha may say,Fer I been rostin’ t’human race   Fer monny a weary day.”Just luke what wark, I’ve hed wi’ thee,   This last two yer or so;Wi’ Germany an Italy,   An’ even Mexico.An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil   Browt in some thaasands more;An’ sooin fra Abyssinia,   They’ll bring black Theodore.“So drop that scythe, owd farren deeath,   Let’s rest a toathree wick;Fer what wi’ t’seet o’t’ frying pan,   Tha knows I’m ommost sick.”“I sall do nowt o’t’ sort,” says Deeath,   Who spack it wi’ a grin,I’s just do as I like fer thee,   So tha can hod thi din.”This made owd Nick fair raging mad,

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