With good and great his worth shall live, With high or lowly born; His name is on the scroll of fame, Sweet as the songs of morn; While tyranny and villany Is surely stamped with shame; A nation gives her patriot A never-dying fame.

No empty t.i.tles ever could His principles subdue, His queen and country too he loved,- Was loyal and was true: He craved no boon from royalty, Nor wished their pomp to share, Far n.o.bler is the soul of him, The founder of Saltaire.

Thus lives this sage philanthropist, From courtly pomp removed, But not secluded from his friends, For frienship's bond he loved; A n.o.ble reputation too Crowns all his latter days; The young men they admire him, And the aged they him praise.

Long life to thee, Sir t.i.tus, The darling of our town; Around thy head while living, We'll weave a laurel crown.

Thy monument in marble May suit the pa.s.ser by, But a monument in all our hearts Will never, never die.

And when thy days are over, And we miss thee on our isle, Around thy tomb for ever May unfading laurels smile: Then may the sweetest flowers Usher in the spring; And roses in the gentle gales, Their balmy odours fling.

May summer's beams shine sweetly, Upon thy hallowed clay, And yellow autumn o'er thy head, Yield many a placid ray; May winter winds blow slightly,- The green-gra.s.s softly wave, And falling snow drop lightly Upon thy honoured grave.

Cowd az Leead.

An' arta fra thi father torn, So early i' thi youthful morn, An' mun aw pine away forlorn, I' grief an' pain?

Fer consolashun I sall scorn If tha be ta'en.

O yes, tha art, an' aw mun wail Thi loss through ivvery hill an' dale, Fer nah it is too true a tale, Tha'rt cowd az leead.

An' nah thi bonny face iz pale, Tha'rt deead! tha'rt deead'!

Aw's miss tha when aw c.u.m fra t'shop, An' see thi bat, an' ball, an' top; An' aw's be ommust fit ta drop, Aw sall so freeat, An' Oh! mi varry heart may stop An' cease to beeat!

Ah'd allus aimed, if tha'd been spar'd, Of summat better to hev shared Ner what thi poor owd father fared, I' this cowd sphere; Yet, after all, aw'st noan o' cared If tha'd stayed here.

But O! Tha Conquerer Divine, 'At vanquished deeath i' Palestine, Tak to Thi arms this lad o' mine Noan freely given; But mak him same as wun o' Thine, Wi' Thee i' Heaven.

The Factory Girl.

Shoo stud beside her looms an' watch'd The shuttle pa.s.sin' through, But yet her soul wur sumweer else, 'Twor face ta face wi' Joe.

They saw her lips move as in speech, Yet none cud hear a word, An' but fer t'grindin' o' the wheels, This language might be heard.

"I't' spite o' all thi treacherous art, At length aw breeathe again; The pityin' stars hes tane mi part, An' eas'd a wretch's pain.

An' Oh! aw feel as fra a maze, Mi rescued soul is free, Aw knaw aw do not dream an daze I' fancied liberty.

"Extinguished nah is ivvery spark, No love for thee remains, Fer heart-felt love i' vain sall strive Ta live, when tha disdains.

No longer when thi name I hear, Mi conscious colour flies!

No longer when thi face aw see, Mi heart's emotions rise.

"Catcht i' the bird-lime's treacherous twigs, Ta wheer he chonc'd ta stray, The bird his fastened feathers leaves, Then gladly flies away.

His shatter'd wings he sooin renews, Of traps he is aware; Fer by experience he is wise, An' shuns each future snare.

"Awm speikin' nah, an' all mi aim Is but ta pleeas mi mind; An' yet aw care not if mi words Wi' thee can credit find.

Ner dew I care if my decease Sud be approved bi thee; Or whether tha wi' equal ease Does tawk ageean wi' me.

"But, yet, tha false deceivin' man, Tha's lost a heart sincere; Aw naw net which wants comfort mooast, Or which hes t'mooast ta fear.

But awm suer a la.s.s more fond an' true No lad could ivver find: But a lad like thee is easily fun- False, faithless, and unkind."

Bonny Lark.

Sweetest warbler of the wood, Rise thy soft bewitching strain, And in pleasure's sprightly mood, Soar again.

With the sun's returning beam, First appearance from the east, Dimpling every limpid stream, Up from rest.

Thro' the airy mountains stray, Chant thy welcome songs above, Full of sport and full of play, Songs of love.

When the evening cloud prevails, And the sun gives way for night, When the shadows mark the vales, Return thy flight.

Like the cottar or the swain, Gentle shepherd, or the herd; Rest thou till the morn again, Bonny bird!

Like thee, on freedom's airy wing, May the poet's rapturous spark, Hail the first approach of spring, Bonny lark!

Some of My Boyish Days.

Home of my boyish days, how can I call Scenes to my memory, that did befall?

How can my trembling pen find power to tell The grief I experienced in bidding farewell?

Can I forget the days joyously spent, That flew on so rapidly, sweet with content?

Can I then quit thee, whose memory's so dear, Home of my boyish days, without one tear?

Can I look back on happy days gone by, Without one pleasant thought, without one sigh Ah, no! though never more these eyes may dwell On thee, old cottage home, I love so well: Home of my childhood! wherever I be, Thou art the nearest and dearest to me!

Can I forget the songs sung by my sire, Like some prophetic bard tuning the lyre?

Sweet were the notes that he taught to the young; Psalms for the Sabbath, on Sabbath were sung; And the young minstrels enraptured would come To the little lone cottage I once called my home.

Can I forget the dear landscape around, Where in my boyish days I could be found, Stringing my hazel-bow, roaming the wood, Fancying myself to be bold Robin Hood?

Then would my mother say-"Where is he gone?

I'm waiting for shuttles that he should have 'wun'?"- She in that cottage there, knitting her healds, And I, her young forester, roaming the fields.

But the shades of the evening gather slowly around, The twilight it thickens and darkens the ground, Night's sombre mantle is spreading the plain.

And as I turn round to look on thee again, To take one fond look, one last fond adieu, By night's envious hand thou art s.n.a.t.c.hed from my view; But Oh! there's no darkness-to me-no decay, Home of my boyhood, can chase thee away!

Ode ta Spring Sixty-four.

O welcome, young princess, thou sweetest of dowters, An' furst bloomin' issue o' King Sixty-four, Wi' thi brah deck'd wi' gems o' the purest o' waters, Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter, is ower.