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

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden, why
Sits thou by the spring?
Dost thou seek a lover, with
A golden wedding ring?
Or wherefore dost thou gaze on me,
With eyes so bright and wide?
Or wherefore does that pitcher lay
Broken by thy side?”

“My pitcher it is broken, sir,
And this the reason is,
A villian came behind me,
An’ he tried to steal a kiss.
I could na take his nonsense,
So ne’er a word I spoke,
But hit him with my pitcher,
And thus you see ’tis broke.”

“My uncle Jock McNeil, ye ken
Now waits for me to come;
He canna mak his Crowdy,
Till t’watter it goes home.
I canna tak him watter,
And that I ken full weel,
And so I’m sure to catch it, —
For he’ll play the varry de’il.”

“Ah maiden, lovely maiden,
I pray be ruled by me;
Smile with thine eyes and ruby lips,
And give me kisses three.
And we’ll suppose my helmet is
A pitcher made o’ steel,
And we’ll carry home some watter
To thy uncle Jock McNeil.”

She silently consented, for
She blink’d her bonny ee,
I threw mi arms around her,
And gave her kisses three.
To wrong the bonny Lassie
I sware ’twould be a sin;
So knelt dahn by the watter
To dip mi helmet in.

Out spake this bonny Lassie,
“My soldier lad, forbear,
I wadna spoil thi bonny plume
That decks thi raven hair;
Come buckle up thy sword again,
Put on thi cap o’ steel,
I carena for my pitcher, nor
My uncle Jock McNeil.”

I often think, my comrades,
About this Northern queen,
And fancy that I see her smile,
Though mountains lay between.
But should you meet her Uncle Jock,
I hope you’ll never tell
How I squared the broken pitcher,
With the Lassie at the well.

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 philanthropist,
Whose soul in goodness soars,
And one whose name will stand as firm
As 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 employ
To 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 nobly far
Than all the heaps of gold.

His feast and revels are not such,
As those we hear and see,
No princely show 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,
Where 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,
Far nobler is the soul of him,
The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philanthropist,
From courtly pomp removed,
But not secluded from his friends,
For frienship’s bond he loved;
A noble reputation too
Crowns all his latter 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:
Then 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 many a placid ray;
May winter winds blow slightly, —
The green-grass softly wave,
And falling snow drop lightly
Upon thy honoured grave.

An’ arta fra thi father torn,
So early i’ thi youthful morn,
An’ mun aw pine away forlorn,
I’ grief an’ pain?
Fer consolashun I sall scorn
If tha be ta’en.

O yes, tha art, an’ aw mun wail
Thi loss through ivvery hill an’ dale,
Fer nah it is too true a tale,
Tha’rt cowd az leead.
An’ nah thi bonny face iz pale,
Tha’rt deead! tha’rt deead’!

Aw’s miss tha when aw cum fra t’shop,
An’ see thi bat, an’ ball, an’ top;
An’ aw’s be ommust fit ta drop,
Aw sall so freeat,
An’ Oh! mi varry heart may stop
An’ cease to beeat!

Ah’d allus aimed, if tha’d been spar’d,
Of summat better to hev shared
Ner what thi poor owd father fared,
I’ this cowd sphere;
Yet, after all, aw’st noan o’ cared
If tha’d stayed here.

But O! Tha Conquerer Divine,
’At vanquished deeath i’ Palestine,
Tak to Thi arms this lad o’ mine
Noan freely given;
But mak him same as wun o’ Thine,
Wi’ Thee i’ Heaven.

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.”