Part 8 (1/2)
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' h.o.a.ry oud wall, I now see Rebekka o' Riddlesden Hall.
Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display, Resemblin truly the G.o.ddess 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 ap.r.o.n, 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 pa.s.s 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 arms An' cry, ”O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?”
Wile matrons an' maidens G.o.d's blessing they call, On the head of Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.
Shoo's Deead an' Goan!
My poor oud la.s.s, 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 m.u.t.h.e.r'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 aetna, Vesuvius or h.e.l.l; 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.