Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Random Rhymes and Rambles

Then we’ll go to the banks of the river,
Through meadows that’s blooming in green,
Where the swallow ’neath the branches will quiv’r
O’er the fish as they sport in the stream:
Then the farmer will be patiently awaiting,
For the fruits of that labour he has striven,
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the rays of the sunbeam we’ll cherish,
The rose that’s unseen in the bud,
And the foxglove and hyacinth will flourish,
Round the ferns in the depths of the wood:
Then we’ll pluck up the primrose and daisy,
And the sweets that nature she has given,
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.

Then the merry little boys they will ramble,
So gleesome, o’er mountain and dale,
Where the sweets of the rose through the bramble
Will be blown by the mild summer gale:
Then a share of Nature’s smiles each morning
To the poor humble peasant will be given.
While the lark from his covert he is soaring,
His musical notes to the heaven.

Says a wag to a porter e Haworth one day,
“Yahr not ower sharp are ye drones o’ t’railway,
For fra Keighley to Haworth I’ve been oft enough,
But nivver a hawpenny I’ve paid yah, begoff.”

The porter replied, “I very mitch daht it,
But I’ll give thee a quart to tell all abaht it;
For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pass t’ snicket,
Baht tipping to t’porter thee pass or thee ticket.”

“Tha’l rite up to Derby an’ then tha’l deceive me;”
“I willn’t, this time,” sed t’porter, “believe me:”
“Then aht we thy brass, an’ let us be knocking,
For I’ve walked it a foot back all rahnd be t’Bocking.”

Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind,
Thy love is all to me;
Aw cuddant in a palace find
A lass more true ner thee.
An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,
An’ thee, me Lovely Queen,
The grandest diamond e me Crown,
Wor’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

The lady gay may heed thee not,
An’ passing by may sneer;
The upstart squire’s dawters laugh,
When thou, my love, art near.
But if all ther shining sovrens
Wor wared o’ sattens green,
They mightant be as hansum then
As’t lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

When yollow autumn’s lustre shines,
An’ hangs her golden ear,
An’ nature’s voice fra every bush,
Is singing sweet and clear.
’Neath some white thorn to song unknown,
To mortal never seen,
’Tis there with thee I fain would be,
Me lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

Od drat, who cares fer kings or queens,
Mixt in a nation’s broil,
They never benefit the poor,
The poor mun allus toil.
An thou gilded specter royalty,
That dazzles folkses een,
Is nowt to me when I’m we thee,
Sweet lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

High from the summit of yon crag,
I view yon smoky town,
Where fortune she has deigned to smile
On monny a simple clown:
Tho’ free from want, their free from brains;
An’ no happier I ween,
Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens,
Aw saw e Newsholme Dean.

Three was a bonny Lassie once
Sitting by a well;
But what this bonny lassie thought
I cannot, cannot tell.
When by there went a cavalier
Well-known as Willie Wryght,
He was in full marching order
With his armour shining bright.

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

“My pitcher is broken, sir,
And this the reason is,
A villain came behind, and
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,
An’ 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 my arms around her neck,
And gave her kisses three.
To wrong the bonny lassie
I sware ’t would be a sin;
So I knelt down by the watter
To dip my helmet in.

Out spake this bonny lassie,
“My soldier lad, forbear,
I wodna spoil thee bonny plume
That decks thy raven hair;
Come buckle up thy sword again,
Put on thy 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 oceans roll 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.

It issent the star of the evening that breetens,
Wi fairy-like leetness the old Rivock ends,
Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,
Or the benks of the river while strolling wi frends,
That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,
And leave the gay festive for others ta share;
But O there’s a charm, and a charm fer me only,
In a sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.