Oh yes, it was vanquished, the once n.o.ble art, For science had bid it for ever depart; Yet for thee old Comber fresh fields have arose, That have found thee in victuals, in fuel, and clothes.

So many brave thanks to the Mayor of the town Who has made the Wool-comber once more to be known; Let us drink to the health of our worthy host, The friend of the Comber, the Knight of the post.

T' Village Harem-Skarem.

In a little cot so dreary, With eyes and forehead hot and bleary, Sat a mother sad and weary, With her darling on her knee; Their humble fare at best was sparing For the father he was shearing, With his three brave sons of Erin, All down in the Fen countree.

All her Saxon neighbours leave her, With her boy and demon fever, The midnight watch-none to relieve her, Save a little Busy Bee: He was called the Harem-Skarem, Noisy as a drum-clock larum, Yet his treasures he would share 'em, With his friend right merrily.

Every night and every morning, With the day sometimes at dawning- While lay mother, sick and swooning- To his dying mate went he: Robbing his good Saxon mother, Giving to his Celtic brother, Who asked for him and no other, Until his spirit it was free.

Saw the shroud and saw the coffin; Brought the pipes and brought the snuff in; This little n.o.ble-hearted ruffian, To the wake each night went he: Sabbath morning he was ready, Warn'd the bearers to be steady, Taking Peter to his beddy, And a tear stood in his e'e.

Onward as the corpse was pa.s.sing, Ere the priest gave his last blessing, Through the dingy crowd came pressing, The father and the brothers three; 'Tis our mother-we will greet her; How is this that here we meet her?

And without our little Peter, Who will solve this mystery?

The Harem-Skarem interfered, "Soon this corpse will be interred, Come with us and see it buried, Out in yonder cemet'ry:"

Soon they knew the worst and pondered Half-amazed and half-dumbfounded;- And returning home, they wondered Who their little friend could be!

Turning round to him they bowed, Much they thanked him, much they owed; While the tears each cheek bedewed, Wish'd him all prosperity: "Never mind," he said, "my brothers, What I've done, do ye to others; We're all poor barns o' some poor mothers,"

Said the little Busy Bee.

Come, Gi' us a Wag o' Thy Paw.

[T'West Riding o' Yorkshire is famed for different branches i' t'fine art line, bud t'music aw think licks t'lump, especially abaght Haworth an'

Keighley. Nah Haworth wunce hed a famous singer; he wor considered one o' t'best i' Yorkshire in his time. It is said 'at he once walked fra Haworth to York i' one day, an' sung at an Oratorio at neet. He hed one fault, an' that wor just same as all t'other Haworth celebrities; he wod talk owd fashioned, an' that willant dew up i' London. Bud we hed monny a good singer beside him i' t'neighbourhood. Nah what is thur grander ner a lot o' local singers at Kersmas time chanting i' t'streets; it's ommost like bein' i' heaven, especially when you're warm i' bed. But there's another thing at's varry amusing abaght our local singers, when they meet together ther is some demi-semi-quavering, when ther's sharps, flats, an' naturals;-an' t'best ale an' crotchets mix'd, that's the time fer music.]

Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, Come, gi' us a wag o' thy paw; I knew thee when thy heead wor black, Bud nah it's white as snow; A Merry Kersmas to thee, Jim, An' all thy kith an' kin; An' hoping tha'll ha' monny more, For t'sake o' ould long sin'- Jim Wreet, For t'sake o' ould long sin'.

It's so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, Sin owd Joe Constantine- An' Daniel Acroyd, thee, an' me, An other friends o' thine, Went up ta sing at Squire's house, Not a hauf-a-mile fra here; An' t'Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer- Jim Wreet, To his brown October beer.

An' owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, 'At kept the Old King's Arms; Whear all t'church singers used ta meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms; An' thee an' me amang 'em, Jim, Sometimes hev chang'd the string, An' with a merry chorus join'd, We've made yon tavern ring, Jim Wreet, We've made yon tavern ring.

But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, Hev past away sin' then; Then Keighley in Appolo's Art, Could boast her trusty men; But music nah means money, Jim, An' that tha's sense to knaw; But just fer owd acquaintance sake.

Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw, Jim Wreet, Come gi' us a wag o' thy paw.

Full o' Doubts and Fears.

Sweet sing the birds in lowly strain, All mingled in their song; For lovely Spring is here again, And Winter's cold is gone.

All things around seem filled with glee, And joy swells every breast; The buds are peeping from each bush, Where soon the birds will rest.

The meadows now are fresh and green, The flowers are bursting forth, And nature seems to us serene, And shows her sterling worth.

The lark soars high up in the air, We listen to his lays; He knows no sorrow, no, nor care, Nor weariness o' days.

But man, though born of n.o.ble birth, a.s.signed for higher spheres, Walks his sad journey here on earth All full o' doubts and fears.

[Picture: Two men on bycycles]

Behold How the Rivers!

Behold how the rivers flow down to the sea, Sending their treasures so careless and free; And to give their a.s.sistance each Spring doth arise, Uplifting and singing my songs to the skies.

Find out the haunts o' the low human pest, Give to the weary, the poor, and distress'd; What if ungrateful and thankless they be, Think of the giver that gave unto thee.

Go travel the long lanes on misery's verge, Find out their dark dens, and list to their dirge; Where want and famine, and by ourselves made, Forgive our frail follies, and come to our aid.

Give to yon widow-thy gift is thrice blest, For tho' she be silent, the harder she's press'd; A small bit o' help to the little she earns, G.o.d blesses the giver to fatherless bairns.

'Neath the green gra.s.sy mounds i' yon little church-yard An over-wrought genius there finds his reward; And marvel thee not, when I say unto thee, Such are the givers that give unto me.

Then scatter thy mite like nature her rain,- What if no birdie should chant thee a strain; What if no daisy should smile on the lea; The sweet honeysuckle will compensate thee.

For the day will soon come, if thou gives all thou may, That thou mayest venture to give all away; Ere Nature again her balmy dews send, Thou may have vanished my good giving friend.

Our Poor Little Factory Girls.

They are up in the morning right early, They are up sometimes afore leet; I hear their clogs they are clamping, As t'little things go dahn the street.

They are off in the morning right early, With their baskets o' jock on their arm; The bell is ting-tonging, ting-tonging, As they enter the mill in a swarm.

They are kapering backward and forward, Their ends to keep up if they can; They are doing their utmost endeavours, For fear o' the frown o' man.

Wi' fingers so nimble and supple, They twist, an' they twine, an' they twirl, Such walking, an' running, an' kneeling, Does the wee little factory girl.

They are bouncing about like a shuttle, They are kneeling an' rubbing the floor; While their wee little mates they are doffing, Preparing the spindles for more.

Them two little things they are t'thickest, They help one another 'tis plain; They try to be t'best and t'quickest, The smiles o' their master to gain.

And now from her ten hours' labour, Back to her cottage shoo shogs; Aw hear by the tramping an' singing, 'Tis the factory girl in her clogs.

And at night when shoo's folded i' slumber, Shoo's dreaming o' noises and drawls: Of all human toil under-rated, 'Tis our poor little factory girl's.