Random Rhymes and Rambles

Charming Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall

On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green,Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen,That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king,Of whom the oud bards delited to sing.Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then,Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den;’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall,I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display,Resemblin truly the goddess of day;Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone,That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn.Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind,But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind:It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call,To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow,When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow;The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move,Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve.Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows,Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose;There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall,To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ grace,Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace:An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue,O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue.Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun,An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done:It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl,To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will;Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill;The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!”Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee.At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare armsAn’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?”Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call,On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.

Shoo’s Deead an’ Goan!

My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan,      To thy long rest?An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone      Close ower thy breast?An’ are ta goan no more to see,Excepting e fond memory;Yes empty echo answers me —      “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”E vain the wafters o’ the breeze      Fan my hot brah,E vain the birds upon the trees,      Sing sweetly nah;E vain the early rose-bud blaws,E vain wide Nature shows her Cause,Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws —      “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft,      I pity wun,An’ that’s my lad – he’s sadly left —      My little John;He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day,An’ rarely hez a word to say,Save murmuring (an’ weel he may),      Shoo’s deead an’ goan!Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears;      At t’least we’ll try;Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears      The orphan’s sigh;Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack —An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack?An’ crying cannot bring her back;      Shoo’s deead an’ goan!

The Heroic Watchman of Calversike Hill

[This extraordinary “hero” either bore false witness against his neighbour, a poor artisan, or (taking his own word for it) saved the nation from great disaster and ruin by putting out a fire that no one saw but himself.]

We’ve heard of great fires in city and town,And many disasters by fire are known;But surely this fire which I’m going to tell,Was worse than Mount Ætna, Vesuvius or hell;For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill,But for heroic watchman at Calversike Hill.This fire it broke out in the night it was said,While peacefully each villager slept in his bed;And so greatly the flames did illumne all the skies,That it took the big watchman all in surprise.Yet great was the courage and undaunted skillOf the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high,That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky;And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales,He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!And so easily the commons did swallow his pill,That they fin’d the poor artist of Calversike Hill.Now, there’s some foolish people are led to suppose,It was by some shavings this fire first arose;But yet, says our “hero,” I greatly suspect,This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.But I’m glad it’s put out, let it be as it will,Says the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.He needed no witness to swear what he had done,Yet if he had wanted he could have had one;For one Tommy Twister, that never was there,Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air,The greatest sized coal pot no doubt they would fill,Like the head of the hero of Calversike Hill.So many brave thanks to this heroic knave,For thousands of lives no doubt he did save,And but for this hero disaster had spread,And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed;But to save all his people it was the Lord’s will,Through the heroic watchman at Calversike Hill.So mind and be careful and put out your lights,All ye with red noses in case they ignite,Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap,In case this great watchman chances to sleep.For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill,Is the heroic watchman of Calversike Hill.

Betty Blake: A Tale of Butterworth Panic

It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in a fix,   An’ trade it wor bad an’ are poor hearts wor sad,An’ we’d nout else to due bud to starve or to flee,   An’ leave are poor hoams, or stop there an’ dee.Aw wor freating an’ thinking what wod be the end,   Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend —When my wife stagger’d in at are poor cottage door,   Gav a stare raand the house an’ fell on the floor,We a cry at made me both tremble an’ shake; —   Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty Blake.It spite ov her troubles, aw lifted her upTo are poor wretched bed, an’ gav her a supO coud watter – an’ thinking, it happen mud ease her —An’ try’d my indevors to mend her an’ please her;For aw talked o’ that day that aw used to coart her,Bud little thowt then at aw couldn’t support her;Or that panic wod come like a dark thunner claad,An’ scatter the homes o’ the poor an’ the praad:Bud my heart burned we grief, fer aw wanted to save her,Fer aw knew at my Betty wor mad in the faver.Aw sat by her side fer two neets an’ two days,An’ aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed;Sho catched hod o’ my hand, an’ her senses returned,Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned, —“Awn going,” sho said – “where no hunger or painAl be we us, Johny, when we meet again.The angels have whispered my spirit to free,We voices as soft as the hum of the bee;It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake,In heaven you’ll meet we your poor Betty Blake.”We a groan an’ a rattle sho dropt her poor heead,Aw could hardly believe at my Betty wor deead;An’ aw felt at her side, fer aw wanted to save her,An’ like her at wor goan – aw wor mad we the faver.Bud they tuke her away the varry next day,   To a little church yard, an’ it seemed fearful hard,      At aw couldn’t follow my wife      At aw loved as my life.Bud aw’ve put up a tombstone o’ peeats fer her sake,   An aw mark’d on it letters at means Betty Blake.

The Vision

Blest vision of departed worth,   I see thee still, I see thee still;Thou art the shade of her that’s goan,   My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.My chaamer in this silent hour,   Were dark an’ drear, were dark an’ drear;But brighter far than Cynthia’s beam,   Now thou art here, now thou art here.Wild nature in her grandeur had   No charm for me, no charm for me;Did not the songsters chant thy name   Fra ivvery tree, fra ivvery tree.Chaos wod hev com agean,   E worlds afar, e worlds afar;Could aw not see my Mary’s face,   In ivvery star, in ivvery star;Say when the messenger o’ death,   Sal bid ma come, sal bid ma come;Wilt thou be foremost in the van,   To tack ma hoam, to tack ma hoam.

A New Devorse

Says Pug o’ Joans o’ Haworth Brah,   Ta Rodge at Wickin Crag —Are Nelly’s tung’s a yard too long,   And, by’t mess it can wag.It’s hell at top o’ t’earth we me,   An’ stand it I am forst;I’d give all t’brass at I possess,   If I could get devors’d.Then answer’d Rodge, I hev a dodge,   Az gooid a plan az onny;A real devorse tha’ll get of course —   It willant cost a penny.   Then tell me what it iz, says Pug,      I’m hommost brocken-hearted;We’ll go ta Keethlah Warkhaase, lad,   Where man an woife are parted.

Gooise an’ Giblet Pie

A Kersmass song I’ll sing, me lads,   If yoh’ll bud hearken me;An incident e Kersmass time,   E eighteen sixty-three:Withaht a stypher e the world —   I’d scorn to tell a lie —I dined wi a gentleman   O’ Gooise an’ giblet pie.I’ve been e lots o’ feeds, me lads,   An hed some rare tuck-aahts;Blooid-pudding days wi killing pigs,   Minch pies an’ thumping taahts;But I wir’d in an reight anall,   An’ supp’d when I wor dry,Fer I wor dining wi a gentleman   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.I hardly knew what ail’d me, lads,   I felt so fearful praad;Me ears prick’d up, me collar raise,   Taards a hauf-a-yard;Me chest stood aaht, me charley in,   Like horns stuck aaht me tie;Fer I dined wi a gentleman   O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.I offan think o’ t’feed, me lads,   When t’ gentleman I meet;Bud nauther on us speiks a word   Abaht that glorious neet;In fact, I hardly can mesel,   I feel so fearful shy;Fer I ate a deal o’ t’roasted gooise,   And warmed his giblet pie.

Ode to Wedlock!

Oh! Hymen, god of Wedlock! thouCompanion of the lover’s vow,   Thy subjects they are fearful;If thou could nobbut see the strife,There is sometimes ’tween man and wife,   I think thou’d be more careful.Oft has thou bound in durance vile,De fearful frown, and cheerful smile,   And doubtless thought it famous;When thou the mind ov fancy sweet,Has knit the knot so nice and neat   For some blessed ignoramous.What nature, truth, and reason too,Has oft declared would never do,   Thou’rt fool enough to do it;Thou’s bound for better and for worse,Life’s greatest blessing with a curse,   And both were made to rue it.But luve is blind, and oft deceived,If adage old can be believed,   And suffers much abuses;Or never could such matches be,O, mighty Hymen! tied by thee,   So thou has thy excuses.

Com Geas a Wag o’ thee Paw

[T’west Riding o’ Yorkshire is famed for different branches it fine art line, bud t’musick aw think licks t’lump, especially abaht Haworth an’ Keethlah. Nah Haworth wunce had a famous singer at they called Tom Parker, he wor considered wun at best e Yorkshire in his toime. It is said at he once walked fra Haworth to York e one day, and sung at an Oratoria at neet. He hed one fault, an’ that wor just same as all tother Haworth celebrates, he wod talk oud fashund, an’ that willant due up at London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him it neighbourhood; there’s oud John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, Joe Constantine, an’ oud Jim Wreet. Nah what is ther grander ner a lot a local singers at Kersmass toime chanting it streets; its like being e heaven, especially when yohr warm e bed. Bud there’s another thing ats varry amusing abaht our local singers, when they meet together there is some demi-semi-quavering, when there’s sharps, flats, an’ naturals; – ’an t’ best ale an’ crotchets mixt, that’s the time fer musick.]

Come, geas a wag o’ thee paw, Jim Wreet,   Come geas a wag o’ thee paw;I knew thee when thi heead wor black,   Bud nah its az white as snow;Yet a merry Kersmass to thee, Jim,   An’ all thi kith an’ kin;An’ hoping tha’ll a monny moar,   For t’ sake o’ ould long sin,         Jim Wreet,   For t’ sake o’ ould long sin.It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet,   Sin oud Joe Constantine —An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me,   An’ other friends o’ thine,Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase,   Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here;An’ t’ Squire made us welcome   To his brown October beer,         Jim Wreet;   To his brown October beer.An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,   That kept the Old King’s Arms;Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet,   When they hed sung ther Psalms;An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim,   Sometimes hev chang’d the string,An’ with a merry chorus join’d,   We’ve made yond tav’ren ring,         Jim Wreet,   We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet,   As past away sin then;When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art,   Cud boast her musick men;Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim,   An’ that tha’s sense to knaw;Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake,   Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet,         Jim Wreet,   Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.

Song of the Months, from January to December

High o’er the hill-tops moans the wild breezes,   As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain:See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes,   While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean,   To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed:As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion,   He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.No more with the tempest the river is swelling,   No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower;The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling   That spring is established with sunshine and showers.In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining,   And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees;The white and the green in rich clusters entwining,   And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the breeze.O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander?   What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye;With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour,   At whose sight the last demon of winter does fly.From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping,   While diamond dew-drops around her is spread;She smiles thro’ her tears like an infant that’s sleeping,   And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers,   The mountains are blue in their distant array;The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers,   Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flees away.How joyous the reapers, their harvest songs singing   As they see the maid bringing the flagon and horn;And the goddess of plenty benedictions is flinging   Over meadows and pastures, and her barley and corn.’Tis sweet on the hills with the morning sun shining,   To watch the rich vale as it brightens below;’Tis sweet in the valley when day is declining,   To mark the fair mountains, deep tinged with its glow.Now is the time when biting old Boreas   True to his calling, – the tempests impend;His hailstones in fury is pelting before us,   Our fingers are smarting, and heads they are bent.The cold winds do murmur, the bleak snow is falling,   The beasts of the forest from hunger doth call;There is desolate evenings and comfortless mornings,   And gloomy noontides for one and for all.Drear is thine aspect, tyrannical December,   O hast thou no mercy for the pitiless poor;Christmas is thine, and we shall remember,   Though dark is thy visage, we honour thee more.

My Visit ta’t Glory Band

Last Sunday, reight early, I sett off fra home,Ower mountains an’ valleys, intending to roam;As it wor a fine morning an’ no sign o’ rain,I bethowt ma I’d go up Oakworth be t’train;But I’m sitch a whimsical sort of a man,I nivver get threw wi owt at I plan.For I’d hardly goan two hundred yards fra my door,When who did I see walking prattly before?It wor oud Jennet t’Ranter fra Avercake row,As nice a oud body is ivver you saw;Shoo wor dress’d up ta t’mark wi her Cashmere shawl,An wor bahn dahn to t’meeting at Temperance Hall.When I saw it wor Jennet I lengthen’d my pace,An’ as soon as shoa saw me shoo look’d i’ my face;An’ says “Hallo, Bill! tha’s com’d aght fearful soinTher’ll be a blue snaw; – pray, where are ta gooin?If tha’s nobbut come aht for a bit of a stroll,Tha’d better go wi ma for t’gooid o’ thy soul.”So I agreed to go wi her; for what could I do,When t’decent oud woman wor teasing ma so?So we link’d on together an’ paddled along,Both on us singing a Glory Band song;Hasomivver we landed, an’ hedn’t ta wait,For one t’panjandrums hed getten agait.So they prayed an’ they sang i’ ther oud fashun’d way;Until a gert chap says “I’ve summat ta say;”An’ bethart I’st a fallen dahn sick i’ my pew,But I thowt at toan hauf t’ he said worant true,For he charged Parson Ball wi’ being drunk i’ the street,At he’d been put ta bed three times i’ one neet.“Does ta hear,” says Oud Jennet, “what t’hullet is saying,He’s using his scandal asteead o’ being praying,For John Ball is respected by ivvery one,So I sallant believe a word about John,Fer him an’ arr Robin are two decent men,So pray yah nah harken, they’ll speik fer thersen.”So all wor nah silent, they mud hear a pin fall,For nobody wor hissing or clapping at all;For scarce had long Gomersall spun out his yarn,Wi his two blazing een he hed scarcely sat dahn,Than John stood up on his pins in a minit, —An’ rare an’ weel please wor me and Oud Jennet.“My brethren,” he sed wi a tear in his ee,“Yah sall hear for yerselns my accusers an’ me,An’ if I be guilty – man’s liable to fallAs well as yer pastor an’ servant John Ball;But let my accuser, if faults he hes noan,Be’t t’first, and no other to thraw the first stone.“I’ve drunk wine and porter, I do not deny,But then my accusers hev not telled you why:So their false accusation I feel it more keen,’Cos I’ve hed the lumbago i’ both o’ my een;Beside mi back warked as if it wor broke,An’ mi throit’s been so parched wal I thowt I sud choke.“I’ve been so distracted and hanneled so bad,Wal I thowt monny a time I sud ommust go mad,An’ t’doctors hes tell’d me there wor no other wayNobbut going to Blackpool or else Morecambe Bay;An’ charged me to mind if I sat dahn to dine,To lig into t’porter, an’t brandy, an’t wine.“So nah, my accusers, what hev you to say,You can reckon that up in your awn simple way;But if there’s a falsehood in what I’ve sed nahI wish mi new hat wod turn into a kah,So this is mi answer, an’ this mi defence.”“Well done!” says oud Jennet, “he’s spokken some sense.”So his speech nah he ended, but it touch’d em it wick,For we all could see plainly it wor nowt but a trick;And Jennet declared – tho’ she might be too rude, —If he’d come up to’t dinner he’s hev some home brew’d,Fer it spite o’ ther scandal sho wor proud on him yet,An’ if he drank wine an’ porter who’d out to du wi’t.

T’ History o’t Haworth Railway

Before I commence mi short history o’t Haworth Railway, it might be as weel to say a word or two abaht Haworth itseln. It’s a city at’s little knawn, if onny, it history o’ England, though ther’s no daht but its as oud as Methuslam, if not ouder, yet with it being built so far aht at latitude ov civilized nashuns, nobody’s scarcely knawn owt abaht it wal latly. T’ finders ov it are sed to be people fra’t Eastern countries, for they tuke fearful of em e Haworth it line o’ soothsayers, magishuns, an’ asstrologers; but whether they com fra’t east or’t west, they luke oud fashun’d enuff. Nah t’ city is situated in a very romantic part o’ Yorkshur, and within two or three miles o’t boundary mark o’ Lancashire. Some foak sez it wer t’last place at wer made, but it’s a mistak, for it lukes oud fashun’d enuff to be t’first ’at wer made. Gert travellers sez it resembles t’ cities o’ Rome and Edinburgh, fer ther’s a deal o’ up-hills afore you can get to’t top on’t; but e landing you’d be struck wi’ wonder and amazement – what wi’t tall biggens, monniments, domes, hampitheaters, and so on; fer instance, t’Church, or rather the Cathedral, is a famous biggen, and stands majestically o’t top at hill. It hes been sed at Oliver Cromwell that wor so struck wi’t appearance at Church an t’ City, altogether, wal he a mack a consented to hev it the hed-quarters for the army and navy.

The faander o’ t’ Church is sed to be won Wang-be-Wang, won et Empror’s o’ China as com ower in a balloon an’ browt we him all his relations, but his granmuther; the natives at that toime wur a mack a wild, but i mixing up we t’ balloonites they soin become civilized and big’d t’ Church at’s studden fra that time to nah, wit exepshun o’ won end, destroyed at sum toime, sum sez it wur be war. Sum sez west and an t’ saath end wur destroyed, but it’s a mack a settled on wit wiseuns it wur wichcraft; but be it as it may Haworth, an’ t’ folk a’tagether is as toff as paps, an’ hez stud aht weel, an’ no daht but it wod a flerished before Lunden, Parriss, or Jerusulum, for sentries back, if they’d hed a Railway; but after nearly all Grate Britten and France hed been furnished we a Railway, the people i Haworth began to be uneazy and felt inclined no longer to wauk several miles to get to a stashun if they were bahn off liks. And besides, they thout it wur high time to begin and mack sum progress i’ t’ wurld, like their naburs ’t valley. So they adjetated for a line down the valley as far as Keighley, and after abaht a hundred meetings they gat an Act passed for it i Parlement. So at last a Cummittee wur formed, and they met wun neet a purpose to decide when it wod be t’ best convenient for em to dig t’ furst sod to commerate and start the gert event. And a bonny rumpus there wor yo mind, for yo may think ha it wor conducted when they wur threapin wi wun another like a lot o’ oud wimen at a parish pump when it sud be. Wun sed it mud tak place at rushberring, another sed next muck-spreading toime, a third sed it mud be dug et gert wind-day e memory o’ oud Jack K – . Well, noan et proposishuns wod do for t’ lot, and there wur such opposistion wal it omust hung on a threed, wether the railway went on or net, wal at last an oud farmer, wun o’ the committee-men, we a voice as hoarse as a farm yard dog, bawls aht, I propose Pancake Tuesday. So after a little more noise it wor proposed and seconded at the Grand Trunk Railway between the respective tahns of Keighley and Haworth sud be commemorated wi diggin t’ furst sod o’ Pancake Tuesday, it year o’ our Lord 1864; and be t’ show o’ hands it usual way it wor carried by wun, and that wor Ginger Jabus, and t’tother cud a liked t’bowt him ower, but Jabus worn’t to be bowt that time, for he hed his hart and sowl i the movement, and he went abaht singin —

Cum all ye lads o’ high renownAt wishes well your native town,Rowl up an’ put your money down      An’ let us hev a Railway.We Keighley folk we are behind,An’s sed to wauk agin wur mind;But sooin t’ crookt-legg’d uns they will find,      Weel kap em we a Railway.

Well, hasumivver public notice wur made nawn, be the bellman crying it all ower t’taan, wich he did to such a pitch, wal he’d summat to do to keep his hat fra flyin off, but he manijed to do it at last to a nicety, for the news spread like sparks aht of a bakehus chimla; and wen the day com they flocked in fra all parts, sum o’ the crookt-legged uns fra Keighley com, Lockertown and the Owertown folk com, and oud batchelors fra Stanbury and all parts et continent o’ Haworth; folk craaded in o’ all sides, even the oud men and wimen fra Wicken Crag and the Flappeters, and strappin folk they are yo mind, sum as fat as pigs, wi heads as red as carrots, and nimble as a india-rubber bouncer taw; and wat wur t’ best on’t it happened to be a fine day; for if it hed been made according to orders it cudn’t a been finer. Shops wur all closed and ivverybody, oud and young, hed a haliday aht o’ t’doors, for they wur all flade a missin the Grand Processhun, wich formed itsel at the top o’ Wuthren, when it wur messured, it turn’d aht to be two miles six inches long – it moved as follows: —

ORDER OF PROCESSHUNThe Spring-head Band wi their hat-bruads turn’d up so as they mud see their way clearLord et Manor i full uniform a fut back bearing Coat of Arms for Haworth, a gert wild cratur wi two tails on, one et awthur endTwo citizens wi white cravats raand their hatsThe Members et Corporashun one-abreast singin “a nuttin we will go, brave boys.”Big Drums and TrianglesA Mahogany Wheelbarrow and a silver trowel on a cart trail’d wi six donkeys, and garded wi ten lazy policemen all soberA pair of crakt bag-pipesThe Contractor in a sedan carried wi two waggoners i white smocksAll the young maidens fra fourteen to thirty-nine, six-abreast, drest i sky blue, and singin throo combsTwenty oud wimin knittin stockingsTwenty navvies i their shirt sleeves weeling barrows, wi workn tooilsTaan skavengers wi shoulder’d besums decorated wi ribbonsBellman and Pinder arm-i-arm drest I full uniform, and the latter now and then bawlin aht wats bahn to tak placeAll scholars at female line laking at duck-under-watter kit, and the males laking at frog-loup, and jumping o’ one another’s backsTaan chimla sweeps maanted o’ donkies wi their face whiteAll the furiners fra the continent o’ Haworth, and crookt-legged uns fra Keighley followed upBulk o’ the inhabitants wauking wun-abreast, wi their hats off, and singing and shouting“The Railway! the Railway!”

In fact, the Railway wur e ivverbody’s maath, what we singing and shouting, them at cud do nawther whisper’d in wun another’s ears – Railway! But getting to where the ceremuny wur to tak place the processhun halted and formed itseln into a raand ring, and cheers wur geen wi shakin hats and handkerchiefs, which lasted wal their showders and arms warkt wal they’d hardly strength to shut their maaths and don their hats on. But hasumivver they manijed to get reight agean, and then a parson called Ned Oufield gat up and made the following narashun —