Part 8 (2/2)

Yet great was the courage and undaunted skill Of the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill.

He swore by his Maker, the flames rose so high, That within a few yards, sir, it reached to the sky; And so greatly it lighted up mountains and dales, He could see into Ireland, Scotland and Wales!

And so easily the commons did swallow his pill, That they fin'd the poor artist of Calversike Hill.

Now, there's some foolish people are led to suppose, It was by some shavings this fire first arose; But yet, says our ”hero,” I greatly suspect, This fire was caused by the grossest neglect.

But I'm glad it's put out, let it be as it will, Says the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill.

He needed no witness to swear what he had done, Yet if he had wanted he could have had one; For one Tommy Twister, that never was there, Saw the sparks from the chimney, as they flew in the air, The greatest sized coal pot no doubt they would fill, Like the head of the _hero_ of Calversike Hill.

So many brave thanks to this _heroic_ knave, For thousands of lives no doubt he did save, And but for this hero disaster had spread, And smothered the nation while sleeping in bed; But to save all his people it was the Lord's will, Through the _heroic_ watchman at Calversike Hill.

So mind and be careful and put out your lights, All ye with red noses in case they ignite, Or perhaps from your bed you may have to leap, In case this great watchman chances to sleep.

For as rumours are spread, he is fond of his gill, Is the _heroic_ watchman of Calversike Hill.

Betty Blake: A Tale of b.u.t.terworth Panic.

It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in a fix, An' trade it wor bad an' are poor hearts wor sad, An' we'd nout else to due bud to starve or to flee, An' leave are poor hoams, or stop there an' dee.

Aw wor freating an' thinking what wod be the end, Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend- When my wife stagger'd in at are poor cottage door, Gav a stare raand the house an' fell on the floor, We a cry at made me both tremble an' shake;- Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty Blake.

It spite ov her troubles, aw lifted her up To are poor wretched bed, an' gav her a sup O coud watter-an' thinking, it happen mud ease her- An' try'd my indevors to mend her an' please her; For aw talked o' that day that aw used to coart her, Bud little thowt then at aw couldn't support her; Or that panic wod come like a dark thunner claad, An' scatter the homes o' the poor an' the praad: Bud my heart burned we grief, fer aw wanted to save her, Fer aw knew at my Betty wor mad in the faver.

Aw sat by her side fer two neets an' two days, An' aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed; Sho catched hod o' my hand, an' her senses returned, Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned,- ”Awn going,” sho said-”where no hunger or pain Al be we us, Johny, when we meet again.

The angels have whispered my spirit to free, We voices as soft as the hum of the bee; It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake, In heaven you'll meet we your poor Betty Blake.”

We a groan an' a rattle sho dropt her poor heead, Aw could hardly believe at my Betty wor deead; An' aw felt at her side, fer aw wanted to save her, An' like her at wor goan-aw wor mad we the faver.

Bud they tuke her away the varry next day, To a little church yard, an' it seemed fearful hard, At aw couldn't follow my wife At aw loved as my life.

Bud aw've put up a tombstone o' peeats fer her sake, An aw mark'd on it letters at means Betty Blake.

The Vision.

Blest vision of departed worth, I see thee still, I see thee still; Thou art the shade of her that's goan, My Mary Hill, my Mary Hill.

My chaamer in this silent hour, Were dark an' drear, were dark an' drear; But brighter far than Cynthia's beam, Now thou art here, now thou art here.

Wild nature in her grandeur had No charm for me, no charm for me; Did not the songsters chant thy name Fra ivvery tree, fra ivvery tree.

Chaos wod hev com agean, E worlds afar, e worlds afar; Could aw not see my Mary's face, In ivvery star, in ivvery star;

Say when the messenger o' death, Sal bid ma come, sal bid ma come; Wilt thou be foremost in the van, To tack ma hoam, to tack ma hoam.

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