Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Revised Edition of Poems

Oh, Great Beaconsfield! the wise and the clever,
When will thy place in our nation be filled?
Britannia’s shrill answer is never, oh never,
My Beaconsfield’s dead, and my Gordon is killed!
Oh, blame not my foemen
Or a Brutus-like Roman,
Or Soudanese Arabs for Gordon’s sad doom;
But blame that vain Briton
Whose name is true written,
The slayer of Gordon, who fell at Khartoum.

I sing no song of superstition,
No dark deeds of an Inquisition,
No mad-brain’d theme of wild ambition,
For lo, their doom is sealed!
But I will use my best endeavour,
To praise the good, the wise, the clever,
Who will remember’d be for ever,
The Earl of Beaconsfield.

When England was without alliance,
He bid the Russians bold defiance,
On Austria had no reliance
In either flood or field;
He proudly sent to Hornby message,
The Dardanelles! go force the passage
In spite of Turkey, Bear, or Sausage,
The dauntless Beaconsfield!

At Berlin, he with admiration
Was gazed upon by every nation,
And, master of the situation,
Vow’d Britons ne’er would yield.
For I am here, you may depend on’t,
This Eastern brawl to make an end on’t,
To show both plaintiff and defendant
I’m Earl of Beaconsfield!

Britannia now doth weep and ponder,
Bereaved of him, her child of wonder,
No earthly power could break asunder
His love for England’s weal.
And now those locks once dark as raven
(For laurel leaves ne’er deck’d a craven)
Wear a laurel crown in Heaven,
Glorious Beaconsfield!

“Come, nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,”
Are words but rudely said;
Though they may cheer some stricken heart,
Or raise some wretched head;
For they are words I love mysel,
They’re music to my ear;
They muster up fresh energy
An’ chase each doubt an’ fear.

Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,
Though tha be poor indeed;
Ner lippen ta long i’ th’ turnin’ up
Sa mich ov a friend in need;
Fur few ther are, an’ far between,
That help a poor man thru;
An’ God helps them at help therseln,
An’ they hev friends enew.

Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,
Whativver thi creditors say;
Tell um at least tha’rt foarst ta owe,
If tha artant able ta pay;
An’ if they nail thi bits o’ traps,
An’ sell tha dish an’ spooin;
Remember fickle forten lad,
Shoo changes like the mooin.

Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,
Though some may laugh an’ scorn;
There wor nivver a neet afore ta neet,
Bud what ther’ com a morn;
An’ if blind forten used tha bad,
Sho’s happen noan so meean;
Ta morn al come, an’ then fer some
The sun will shine ageean.

Nivver dee i’ thi shell, owd lad,
Bud let thi motto be, —
“Onward!” an’ “Excelsior;”
An’ try for t’ top o’t’ tree:
An’ if thi enemies still pursue,
Which ten-ta-one they will,
Show um owd lad, tha’rt doin’ weel,
An’ climin’ up the hill.

So Mary, lass, tha’rt bahn to wed
It mornin’, we young Blacksmith Ned,
An’ though it maks thi mother sad,
It’s like to be;
I’ve nowt ageean yond dacent lad,
No more ner thee.

Bud let me tell tha what ta due,
For my advise might help tha thru;
Be kind, and to thi husband true,
An’ I’ll be bun
Tha’ll nivver hev a day ta rue
For owt that’s done.

Nah, try to keep thi former knack,
An’ du thi weshin’ in a crack,
Bud don’t be flaid to bend thi back,
Tha’ll nobbut sweeat;
So try an’ hev a bit o’ tack,
An’ du it neeat.

Be sure tha keeps fra bein’ a flirt,
An’ pride thysel i’ bein’ alert, —
An’ mind ta mend thi husband’s shirt,
An’ keep it cleean;
It wod thi poor owd mother hurt,
If tha wur meean.

Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun,
Then hev to broil, an’ sweeat, an’ run;
Bud alus hev thi dinner done
Withaht a mooild;
If it’s nobbut meil, lass, set it on,
An’ hev it boiled.

Now Mary, I’ve no more ta say —
Tha gets thi choice an’ tak thi way;
An’ if tha leets to rue, I pray,
Don’t blame thi mother:
I wish yeh monny a happy day
Wi wun another.

So, Ned, awm geen ta understand,
Tha’rt bahn ta join i’ wedlock band,
Ta travil thru life’s weeary strand,
Yond lass an’ thee;
But if yer joinin’ heart an’ hand,
It pleases me.

Nah tha’ll hev trubbles, Ned, ta bear,
While pushin’ thru this world o’ care,
An’ wat tha’ll hev it face ta stare,
It’s hard ta tell;
Life’s ups and dahns tha’ll get ta share,
So pleas thisel’.

Tha’rt weel an’ strong, long may it last;
But age an’ care creep on us fast;
Then act az tha can luke at t’past
An’ feel no shaam;
Then if tha’rt poor az sum ahtcast,
Tha’rt noan ta blame.

Doant sport abaht an’ wagers bet,
But mind an’ shun that foolish set
At cannut mak ther awn ta fet,
Though shaam to say it.
An’ mind tha keeps fra bein’ i’ debt,
An’ tha’ll be reight.

Nah stick fast hod o’ iron will;
Push boldly on an’ feear no ill;
Keep Him i’ veiw, whoa’s mercies fill
The wurld sa wide.
No daht but His omnishent skill
Al be thi guide.

So Ned, mi lad, tak this advice,
Prove worthy o’ yond lass’s choice,
I’ years ta cum tha may rejoice
Tha tuke her hand;
An’ listened ta thi father’s voice,
An’ his command.

Aw remember the days o’ mi bell-button jacket,
Wi’ its little lappels hangin’ down ower mi waist,
An’ mi grand bellosed cap, – noan nicer I’ll back it, —
Fer her at hed bowt it wur noan withaht taste;
Fer shoo wur mi mother an’ I wur her darling,
An often shoo vowed it, an’ stroked dahn mi hair,
An’ shoo tuke ma to see her relashuns i’ Harden
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

Aw remember the time when Aunt Betty an’ Alice
Sent fer me up to lewk at mi cloas,
An aw wauked up as prahd as a Frenchman fra Calais,
Wi’ mi tassel at t’side – i’ mi jacket a rose.
Aw sooin saw mi uncles, both Johnny an’ Willy,
They both gav me pennies, an’ off aw did steer:
But aw heeard um say this, “He’s a fine lad is Billy,”
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

Aw remember t’ time at ahr Robin and Johnny
Wur keeping their hens an’ ducks i’ t’ yard,
Tha wur gamecocks an’ bantams, wi’ toppins so bonny,
An’ noan on um mine – aw thowt it wur hard.
But aw saved up mi pennies aw gat fer mail pickin’,
An’ sooin gat a shilling by saving it fair,
Aw then became maister at least o’ wun chicken,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

Aw remember wun Sabbath, an’ t’sun it wor shining,
Aw went wi’ mi father ta Hainworth ta sing;
An’ t’stage wur hung raand wi’ bottle-green lining;
And childer i’ white made t’ village ta ring.
We went ta owd Meshach’s that day ta wur drinkin’,
Though poor, tha wur plenty, an’ summat ta spare;
Says Meshach, “That lad, Jim, is just thee, aw’m thinking,
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver tha ware.”