Random Rhymes and Rambles

Ode to Sir Titus Salt

Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,   And bring it here to me,For I must sing another song,   The theme of which shall be, —A worthy old philantropist,   Whose soul in goodness soars,And one whose name will stand as firm   As the rocks that gird our shores;The fine old Bradford gentleman,The good Sir Titus Salt.Heedless of others; some there are,   Who all their days employTo raise themselves, no matter how,   And better men destroy:How different is the mind of him,   Whose deeds themselves are told,Who values worth more nobler far   Than all the heaps of gold,His feast and revels are not such,   As those we hear and see,No princely splendour does he indulge,   Nor feats of revelry;But in the orphan schools they are,   Or in the cot with her,The widow and the orphan of   The shipwrecked mariner.When stricken down with age and care,   His good old neighbours 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 wailThy 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 sharedNer 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   Does tawk again wi me.“But, yet tha false decevin man,   Tha’s lost a heart sincere;Aw naw net wich wants comfert most,   Or wich hez t’mooast ta fear.But awm suer a lass more fond and true   No lad cud ivver find;But a lad like thee iz easily found,   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;Best 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.

T’oud Blacksmith’s Advise ta hiz Son Ned

So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,Tha’rt bahn ta join e wedlock band,Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand,            Yond lass an’ thee.But if yor joinin heart an’ hand,            It pleases me.Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,Wile pushin thru this world o’ care,An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare,            Its hard ta tell;Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get thi share,            So pleas thisell.Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;But age an’ care creep on us fast;Then akt az tha can luke at past            An’ feel no shame;Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast,            Tha’s noan ta blame.Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,But mind an’ shun that foolish setAt cannut mak ther awn ta fet,            Thaw shame ta say it.An’ mind tha keeps fra being e dett,            An’ tha’ll be reight.An’ stick fast hod o’ iron will;Push bouldly on an’ feear no ill;Keep Him e vue, whoas merces fill            The wurld sa wide.No daht but His omnishent skill,            Al be thi guide.So Ned, mi lad, tak this advise,Prove wurth o’ yond lasse’s choise,E yeears ta cum tha may rejoise,            Tha tuke hur hand;An’ listened to thi father’s voise,            An’ hiz command.

Address ta mi Bed

Oud stocks on thee I first beganTo be that curious crater man,Ta travel thro this life’s short span,            By fate’s dekree;Till aw fulfilled grate Nater’s plan,            An’ cease ta be.Wen sikkness cums ta thee aw fly,Ta sooth mi pain an’ cloise mi eye;On thee, alas! aw sumtimes sigh,            An’ ofttimes weep; —Till by sum means, aw knaw not why,            I fall asleep.Wen tore wi’ labor or wi pane,Ha often aw am glad an’ fane,Ta seek thi downy brest again;            Yet heaves mi breastFor wretches in the pelting rain,            At hev no rest.How oft within thy little spaceDoes mony a thout oft find a place?Aw think at past, an’ things ta face,            My mind hiz filled,Th’ wild gooise too aw offen chase,            An’ cassels bild.O centre place o’ rest an’ greefe,Disease or deeath, a kind releef,Monarks of a time so breef,            Alternate reign,Till death’s grim reaper cut the sheaf,            And clears the plain.Aw, awm convinced by thee alone,This grate important truth ta awn,On thee aw furst saw life, ’tis knawn,            E mortal birth;Till a few fleetin haars flown,            Then back ta earth.

Home ov Mi 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 days that’s gone by,Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh?Oh, 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 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 of shuttles that he should have won:She in that cottage there knitting her healds,While I her young forester was 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 O, there’s no darkness, to me no decay;Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away.

Ode ta Spring Sixty-four

O welcum, young princess, thou sweetest of dawters,   An’ furst bloomin issue o’ king sixty-four,Wi thi brah dekked 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 sapling await thy command;An’ natur herseln, to show hur good manners,   Now spreads hur green mantle all ower the plain.Tha appears in the orchard, the gardin, an’ grotto,   Whare sweet vegetation anon will adorn;Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar,   Fer thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be going!   Theze wurds they are borne on the wing o’ the wind;Tha bid us be early e pleuin an’ sowing,   Fer he o’ neglects thee tha’ll leave um behind.

My Drechen Dear

Night’s sombre mantle is spreading over,   Ah, woe is me, these long tedious days;Why dist thou leave me, my venturous lover?   Why did thou cross the raging seas?Its melancholy here I’m lying,   Half broken-hearted, drechen dear;Each blast I hear, love, for thee is sighing,   Each billow roaring a shed tear.How can they say that all-perfect nature   Has nothing done or made in vain?When that beneath the roaring water,   Does hideous rocks and cliffs remain.No eyes these rocks or cliffs discover,

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.