Haworth Sharpness.

Says a wag to a porter i' Haworth one day, "Yahr not ower sharp ye drones o't'railway, For fra Keighley to Haworth I've been oft enough, But nivver a hawpenny I've paid ye begoff."

The porter replied, "I vary mitch daht it, But I'll give a quart to hear all about it; For it looks plain to me tha cuddant pa.s.s t'snicket, Baht tipping to t'porter thy pa.s.s or thy ticket."

"Tha'll write up to Derby an' then tha'll deceive me"; "I willn't, this time," sed t'porter, "believe me": "Then aght wi thy bra.s.s, an' let us be knocking, For I've walk'd it on foot, by t'Cross Roads an' t' Bocking."

Dear Harden.

Dear Harden, the home o' my 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 dowters are handsome, thy sons they are rare; When I walk thro' thy dells, by the clear running streams, I think o' my boyhood an' innocent dreams.

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

As the dew kissed the daisies their portals to close, At neet i' my bed I did sweetly repose; An' rose in the morning at Nature's command, Till fra boyhood to manhood my frame did expand.

The faces that once were familiar to me, Those that did laugh at my innocent glee; I fancy I see them, tho' now far away, Or p'r'aps i' Bingley church-yard they may lay.

For since I've embarked on life's stormy seas, My mind's like the billows that's nivver at ease; Yet I still hev a hope my last moments to crown- In thee, dearest village, to lay myself down.

The Heroic Watchman of Calversyke 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 Etna, Vesuvius, or h.e.l.l; For the great prophecy it no doubt would fulfil, But for _t'heroic_ watchman at Calversyke Hill.

This fire broke out in the night it was said, While peaceful each villager slept in his bed; And so greatly the flames did light up the skies, That it took the big watchman all in surprise, Yet great was the courage and undaunted the skill Of the _heroic_ watchman of Calversyke Hill.

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

And so easily the beaks did swallow his pill, They fined the poor artist of Calversyke 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 its put out, let it be as it will,"

Says the _heroic_ watchman of Calversyke Hill.

He needed no witness to swear what he'd 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 Calversyke 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 Calversyke 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 Calversyke Hill.

The English "Cricketeer."

Lines written on the Keighley Cricket Club Bazaar of 1889, and most respectfully dedicated to the late William Luke Brown, Esq.

I sing not of grim-visaged war, Nor diplomatic rage, But I shall string my harp in praise Of the worthies of our age.

They are a cla.s.s of n.o.ble men, Whom England holds most dear.

Whose feats so grand adorn our land, Like the famous cricketeer?

The Ancient Greek his chariot ran, It was his Royal sport; The Roman gladiator fought To please the Royal Court.

The Spaniard with his javelin knife The wild bull's flesh he tears; But alack a-day! what sports are they With our grand cricketeers.

And well old Keighley can be proud Of her famed sons to-day; Some of them are with us yet, While others are away.

Brave Brown! brave Foulds and Waring, With good men in the rear, And not forgetting Emmett, The brave old cricketeer.

Then while they have their Grand Bazaar, Pray let us rally round, And give a hand to renovate Their well-loved cricket ground.

For well I wot both young and old, Will find from year to year, More interest in the n.o.ble sport Of the grand old cricketeer.

The Mexican may throw his lance, The Scotchman put his stone, With all the scientific skill Of muscle and of bone.

Give Switzerland her honour'd place With rifles and with spears, But give to me our grand old sport, Our famous cricketeers.

[Picture: Rural scene]

Christmas Day.

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 locks of h.o.a.ry 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 la.s.s 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 out your store; Nor creed nor seed should matter not, The poor are poor.

Wi' Him I call my own.

The branches o' the woodbine hide My little cottage wall, An' though 'tis but a humble thatch, I envy not the hall.