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

How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger,
In that cot, wi me Mary, I cud pass the long years:
In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,
And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.
We’d wauk aht it morning wen t’yung sun wor shining,
Wen t’birds hed awakened, and t’lark soar’d the air,
An’ I’d watch its last beam, on me Mary reclining,
From ahr dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

Then we’d tauk o’ the past, wen our loves wor forbidden,
Wen fortune wor adverse, and frends wod deny,
How ahr hearts wor still true, tho the favors wor hidden,
Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.
An’ wen age shall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feeling
Ahr loves shud endure, an’ still wod we share
For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealing,
We’d share in ahr cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

Then hasten, me Mary, the moments are flying,
Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;
For O, thou knaws not wat pleasures supplying,
Thy bonny soft image has nah geen me heart.
The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,
Wi his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;
How different ta him is my rapture and pleasure
Near the dear little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

But sooin may the day cum, if cum it will ivver;
The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,
Wen fate may ordain us no longer to sever,
Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.
For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,
If it wor in the desert, Mary, we were;
But sweet an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,
In ahr sweet little cot on the benks o’ the Aire.

Dear Harden, the home o’ mi boyhood so dear,
Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere;
Tho’ years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left,
An’ o’ frends an’ relations I now am bereft.

Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho’ rocky an’ bare;
Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare;
When I wauk thro’ thy dells, by the clear running streams,
I think o’ mi boyhood an’ innocent dreams.

No care o’ this life then trubled me breast,
I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest;
Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an’ play,
Wal life’s sweetest moments wor flying away.

As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close,
At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose;
An’ rose in the morning at nature’s command,
Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.

The faces that wunce were familiar to me,
Those that did laugh at my innocent glee;
I fancy I see them, tho’ now far away,
Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.

Fer sin I’ve embarked on life’s stormy seas,
Mi mind’s like the billows that’s nivver at ease;
Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown
E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.”

O weeping Spain, thy banners rear,
Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining:
Awake, nor shrink in craven fear, —
See the Carlist blades are shining.
They come with murdering dirk in hand,
Death, ruin, rapine in their train:
To arms! rouse up and clear the land,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Your sires were great in ancient days,
No loftier power on earth allowing;
Shall ye their mighty deeds araise,
And to these fiends your heads be bowing?
They strove for fame and liberty
On fields where blood was shed like rain:
Hark! they’re shouting from the sky,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Castille and Arragon, arise!
A treacherous Popish war is brewing:
Tear of the bandage from your eyes,
Are ye asleep while this is doing?
They come! Their prelates lead them on:
They carry with them thraldom’s chain.
Up! and crush their cursed Don;
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Go forth, through every well-known spot;
O’er field and forest, rock and river:
Then draw your swords and sheathe them not,
Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever.
Do you fear the priestly hosts
Who march them on with proud disdain;
Back ! send home their shrieking ghosts,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Thou surely art not sunk so low
That strangers can alone restore thee:
No; Europe waits the final blow,
When superstition flies before thee.
For Spanish might through Spanish hands
Their freedom only can restrain,
Then sweep these Carlists from the land,
Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,
That sings so sweetly at your door,
To tell you of the joys in store,
So grand and gay;
But one that sings remember th’ poor,
’Tis Christmas Day.

Within some gloomy walls to-day
Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,
And try to smooth their rugged way
With cheerful glow;
And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,
Crushed down with woe.

O make the weary spent-up glad,
And cheer the orphan lass and lad;
Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,
Your kindness feel;
And make old crazy-bones stark mad
To dance a reel.

Then peace and plenty be your lot,
And may your deed ne’er be forgot,
That helps the widow in her cot,
From of your store;
Nor creed nor seed should matter not,
The poor are poor.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
The lord o’ yonder castle gay;
Hev rooms in state ta imitate
The princely splendour of the day,
Fer what are all mi carved doors,
Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,
No art cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
Decked e’ costly costumes grand,
Like the Persian king o’ kings,
With diamond rings to deck mi hand:
Fer what wor all mi grand attire,
That fooils both envy and admire,
No gems cud save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
Thy worthy host, O millionaire,
Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;
My wealth increasing ivvery year.
For what wor all mi wealth to me,
Compared ta loisin immortalite,
Wealth cud not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho’ I sud be
Even thee gert Persian Shah,
Mi subjects stand at mi command,
Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;
For what wor a despotic rule,
Wi all th’ world at my control,
All cud not save me from the grave.

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 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 nobler far
Than all the heaps of gold,