Revised Edition of Poems

The Bold Buchaneers

A Military description of the Second Excursion to Malsis Hall, the Residence of JAMES LUND, Esq.

 
I remember perusing when I was a boy,
The immortal bard Homer – his siege of old Troy,
So the Malsis encampment I’ll sing if you will,
How our brave army “bivoked” on the plains o’ Park Hill.
 
 
Near the grand Hall o’ Malsis our quarters we took,
When Lieuteuant-col. Don Frederick spoke,
Commanding his aid-de-camp Colonel de Mann,
To summons and muster the chiefs o’ the clan.
 
 
Majors Wood, Lamb, and Pollard came up to the lines,
Each marching their companies up to the nines;
The twirlers and twisters, the knights of the coal,
And spuzzers and sorters fell in at the roll.
 
 
The light-infantry captains were Robin and Shack,
And the gallant big “benners” the victuals did sack;
Captain Green he commanded the Indigo troop,
These beer barrel chargers none with them can cope.
 
 
The Amazon army led on by Queen Bess,
Each feminine soldier so grand was her dress,
Though they chatted and pratted, ’twor pleasant to see
Them laughing and quaffing their hot rum and tea.
 
 
There was music to dainties and music to wine,
And for fear of invaders no hearts did repine;
Although a dark cloud swept over the plain,
Yet our quarter was sheltered from famine and rain.
 
 
Drum-Major Ben Rushworth and Bandmaster Wright,
Drank to each other with pleasure that night;
We’d full-flowing bumpers, we’d music and fun,
From the larder and cellar of Field-Marshall Lund.
 
 
One Private Tom Berry got into the hall,
When a big rump o’ beef he made rather small;
And Flintergill Billy of the Spuzzer’s Brigade,
Got his beak in the barrel, and havoc he made.
 
 
The Field-Marshall declared, and his good lady too,
They ne’er were attacked with so pleasant a foe;
With this all the clansmen gave them three cheers,
In return they saluted the bold Buchaneers.
 

The Benks o’ the Aire

 
It isn’t the star of the evening that breetens,
   Wi’ fairy-like leetness the owd Rivock ends,
Nor is it the bonny green fields up ta Steeton,
   Or the benks of the river while strolling wi’ friends,
That tempts me to wander at twilight so lonely,
   And leave the gay feast for others to share;
But O there’s a charm, and a charm for me only,
   In a sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
 
 
How sweet and remote from all turmoil and danger,
   In that cot, wi’ my Mary, I could pass the long years:
In friendship and peace lift the latch to a stranger,
   And chase off the anguish o’ pale sorrow’s tears.
We’d walk aght in t’morning when t’young sun wor shining,
   When t’birds hed awakened, an’ t’lark soar’d i’ t’air,
An’ I’d watch its last beam, on my Mary reclining,
   From ahr dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
 
 
Then we’d talk o’ the past, when our loves wor forbidden,
   When fortune wor adverse, an’ friends wod deny,
How ahr hearts wor still true, tho’ the favours wor hidden
   Fra the charm of ahr life, the mild stare of ahr eye.
An’ when age sall hev temper’d ahr warm glow o’ feelin’
   Ahr loves should endure, an’ still wod we share;
For weal or in woe, or whativver cums stealin’,
   We’d share in ahr cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
 
 
Then hasten, my Mary, the moments are flying,
   Let us catch the bright fugitives ere they depart;
For O, thou knaws not what pleasures supplyin’
   Thy bonny soft image hes nah geen my heart.
The miser that wanders besides buried treasure,
   Wi’ his eyes ever led to the spot in despair;
How different to him is my rapture and pleasure
   Near the dear little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
 
 
But sooin may the day come, if come it will ivver;
   The breetest an’ best to me ivver knawn,
When fate may ordain us no longer to sever,
   Then, sweet girl of my heart, I can call thee my own.
For dear unto me wor one moment beside thee,
   If it wor in the desert, Mary, wi’ me;
But sweeter an’ fairer, whate’er betide thee,
   In ahr sweet little cot on the Benks o’ the Aire.
 

In Memory of J. W. PECKOVER,
Died July 10th, 1888

 
He was a man, an upright man
   As ever trod this mortal earth,
And now upon him back we scan,
   Whose greatest fault was honest mirth.
 
 
But never more his friends will see
   The smiling face and laughing eye,
Nor hear his jokes with heartfelt glee,
   Which made dull care before them fly.
 
 
Nor ever more the friend shall find,
   When labour lacks, the shake of hand
That oft was wont to leave behind
   What proved a Brother and a Friend.
 
 
In winter’s bitter, biting frost,
   Or hail, or snow, or rain, or sleet,
The wretch upon life’s tempest toss’d
   In him found shelter from the street.
 
 
The unemployed, the aged poor,
   The orphan child, the lame and blind,
The stranger never crossed his floor
   But what a friend in him did find.
 
 
But now the hand and heart are gone,
   Which were so noble, kind and true,
And now his friends, e’en every one,
   Are loth to bid a last adieu.
 

The Fugitive: A Tale of Kersmas Time

 
We wor snugly set arahnd the hob,
   ’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,
Me an ahr Kate an’ t’family,
   All happy I believe:
Ahr Kate hed Harry on her knee,
   An’ I’d ahr little Ann,
When there com rappin’ at the door
   A poor owd beggar man.
 
 
Sleet trickl’d dahn his hoary locks,
   That once no daht wor fair;
His hollow cheeks wor deadly pale,
   His neck an’ breast wor bare;
His clooas, unworthy o’ ther name,
   Wor ragg’d an’ steepin’ wet;
His poor owd legs wor stockingless,
   An’ badly shooed his feet.
 
 
“Come into t’haase,” said t’wife to him,
   An’ get thee up ta t’fire;
Shoo then browt aght wur humble fare,
   T’wor what he did desire;
And when he’d getten what he thowt,
   An’ his owd regs wor dry,
We ax’d what distance he hed come,
   An’ thus he did reply:
 
 
“Awm a native of Cheviot Hills,
   Some weary miles fra here;
Where I like you this neet hev seen
   Full monny a Kersmas cheer;
I left my father’s hahse when young,
   Determined I wod rooam;
An’ like the prodigal of yore,
   I’m mackin’ tahrds my hooam.
 
 
“I soldier’d in the Punjaub lines,
   On India’s burning sand;
An’ nearly thirty years ago
   I left my native land;
Discipline bein’ ta hard fer me,
   My mind wor allus bent;
So in an evil haar aw did
   Desert my regiment.
 
 
“An’ nivver sin’ durst aw go see
   My native hill an’ glen,
Whear aw mud nah as weel hev been
   The happiest of all men;
But my blessin’ – an’ aw wish ye all
   A merry Kersmas day;
Fer me, I’ll tak my poor owd bones,
   On Cheviot Hills to lay.”
 
 
“Aw cannot say,” aw said to t’wife,
   “Bud aw feel raather hurt;
What thinks ta lass if tha lukes aght,
   An’ finds t’owd chap a shirt.”
Shoo did an’ all, an’ stockings too;
   An’ a tear stood in her ee;
An’ in her face the stranger saw
   Real Yorkshire sympathy.
 
 
Ahr little Jim gav monny a sigh
   When he hed heeard his tale,
An’ spak o’ some owd trousers,
   ’At hung on t’chamber rail;
Then aght at door ahr Harry runs,
   An’ back ageean he shogs,
He’d been in t’coit ta fetch a pair
   O’ my owd ironed clogs.
 
 
“It must be fearful cowd ta neet
   Fer fowk ’at’s aght o’ t’door:
Give him yahr owd grey coit an’ all,
   ’At’s thrawn on t’chaamer floor:
An’ then there’s thy owd hat, said Kate,
   ’At’s pors’d so up an’ dahn;
It will be better ner his awn,
   Tho’ it’s withaght a crahn.”
 
 
So when we’d geen him what we cud
   (In fact afford to give),
We saw the tears come dahn the cheeks,
   O’ t’poor owd fugitive;
He thank’d us ower an’ ower ageean
   An’ often he did pray,
’At t’barns wod nivver be like him;
   Then travell’d on his way.
 

The Feather’d Captive

 
My little dapple-wingèd fellow,
What ruffian’s hand has made thee wellow?
I heard while down in yonder hollow,
      Thy troubled breast;
But I’ll return my little fellow,
      Back to its nest.
 
 
Some ruffian’s hand has set a snickle,
An’ left thee in a bonny pickle;
Whoe’er he be, I hope owd Nick will
      Rise his arm,
An’ mak his heead an’ ear-hoil tickle
      Wi’ summat warm.
 
 
How glad am I that fate while roaming,
Where milk-white hawthorn’s blossom’s blooming,
Has sent my footsteps ere the gloaming
      Into this dell,
To stop some murdering hand fra dooming
      Thy bonny sel’.
 
 
For thou wur doomed my bird, for ever,
Fra all thy feather’d mates to sever;
Were I not near thee to deliver
      Wi’ my awn hand;
Nor ever more thou’d skim the river,
      Or fallow’d land.
 
 
Thy feather’d friends, if thou has any;
Tho’ friends I fear there isn’t many;
But yet the dam for her, wi’ Johnny,
      Will fret to-day,
And think her watter-wagtail bonny
      Has flown away.
 
 
Be not afraid, for not a feather
Fra off thy wing shall touch the heather,
For I will give thee altogether
      Sweet liberty!
And glad am I that I came hither,
      To set thee free.
 
 
Now wing thy flight my little rover,
Thy curs’d captivity is over,
And if thou crosses t’Straits of Dover
      To warmer spheres,
I hope that thou may live in clover,
      For years and years.
 
 
Perhaps, like thee – for fortune’s fickle —
I may, myself, be caught i’ t’snickle;
And some kind hand that sees my pickle —
      Through saving thee —
May snatch me too fra death’s grim shackle,
      And set me free.
 

Dame Europe’s Lodging-House

A Burlesque on the Franco-Prussian war.

 
Dame Europe kept a Lodging-House,
   And she was fond of brass;
She took in public lodgers,
   Of every rank and class.
 
 
She’d French and German, Dutch and Swiss,
   And other nations too;
So poor old Mrs. Europe
   Had lots of work to do.
 
 
I cannot just now name her beds,
   Her number being so large;
But five she kept for deputies,
   Which she had in her charge.
 
 
So in this famous Lodging-House,
   John Bull he stood A1;
On him she always kept an eye,
   To see things rightly done.
 
 
And Master Louis was her next,
   And second, there’s no doubt,
For when a little row took place,
   He always backed John out.
 
 
And in her house was Alex. Russ;
   Oft him they eyed with fear;
For Alex. was a lazy hound,
   And kept a Russian Bear.
 
 
Her fourth was a man of grace,
   Who was for heaven bent;
His name was Pious William,
   He read his Testament.
 
 
Her fifth, too, was a pious Knave,
   And ’tis our firm belief,
He once did rob the Hungary Lads
   Of hard-earned bread and beef.
 
 
These were Dame Europe’s deputies,
   In whom she put her trust,
To keep her Lodging-House at peace,
   In case eruption burst.
 
 
For many a time a row took place,
   While sharing out the scran;
But John and Louis soon stepp’d in,
   And cleared the padding can.
 
 
Once, Alex. Russ’s father, Nick,
   A bit before he died,
Did roughly seize a little Turk,
   And thought to warm his hide.
 
 
But John and Louis interfered,
   Declaring it foul play;
And made old Nick remember it
   Until his dying day.
 
 
Now all Dame Europe’s deputies,
   They made themselves at home;
And every lodger knew his bed,
   Likewise his sitting room.
 
 
They took great interest in their beds,
   And kept them very clean;
Unlike some other padding cans,
   So dirty and so mean.
 
 
The best and choicest bed of all,
   Was occupied by Johnny;
Because the Dame did favour him,
   He did collect her money.
 
 
And in a little bunk he lived,
   Seal’d up with oak, and tarr’d;
He would not let a single one
   Come near within a yard.
 
 
A Jack-of-all-trades, too, was John,
   And aught he’d do for brass;
And what he ever took in hand,
   No one could him surpass.
 
 
When tired of being shut in the bunk,
   Sometimes he went across,
To spend an hour with Master Loo,
   And they the wine would toss.
 
 
So many a happy day they spent,
   These lads, with one another;
While every lodger in the house,
   Thought John was Louis’ brother.
 
 
The Dame allowed John something nice,
   To get well in her rent,
Which every now and then i’ t’bank,
   He put it on per cent.
 
 
And working very hard himself
   Amongst his tar and pitch;
He soon accumulated wealth,
   That made him very rich.
 
 
Now Louis had a pleasant crib
   Which was admired by lots,
And being close by a window,
   He had some flower pots.
 
 
The next to Louis’ bed was Will,
   The biggest Monitor
And though he did pretend a saint,
   He was as big a cur.
 
 
He loved to make them all believe
   He was opposed to strife,
And said he never caused a row,
   No, never in his life.
 
 
He was so fond of singing psalms,
   And he read his testament;
That everybody was deceived
   When he was mischief bent.
 
 
He seldom passed a lodger’s bed
   But what he took a glance,
Which made them every one suspect
   He’d rob if he’d a chance.
 
 
Now Louis had two flower pots
   He nourished with much care,
But little knew that Willie’s eyes
   Were set upon the pair.
 
 
In one there grew an Alsace Rose,
   The other a Lorraine,
And Willie vowed they once were his
   And must be his again.
 
 
He said his father once lodged there,
   And that the Dame did know
That Louis’ predecessors once
   Had sneaked them in a row.
 
 
In Willie’s council was a lad
   Well up to every quirk;
To keep him out of mischief long,
   Dame Europe had her work.
 
 
To this smart youth Saint Willie
   Did whisper his desire,
One night as they sat smoking,
   Besides the kitchen fire —
 
 
“To get them flowers back again,”
   Said Bissy, very low,
“Meet Louis somewhere on the quiet,
   And try to cause a row.
 
 
“But mind the other deputies
   Don’t catch you on the hop,
For John and Joseph you must know
   Your little game would stop.
 
 
“For Joseph he has not forgot
   The day you warmed his rig;
And christian Denmark still thinks on
   About his nice Slesvig.”
 
 
“By your advice, my own Dear Mark,
   I have been guided on,
But what about that man i’t’bunk?”
   (Pointing o’er to John.)
 
 
“He’s very plucky too is John,
   But yet he’s very slow,
And perhaps he never may perceive
   Our scheme about the row.
 
 
“But not another word of this
   To anybody’s ears,
The Dame she plays the list’ner,
   I have my doubts and fears.
 
 
“So let us go upstairs at once,
   I think it will be best,
And let us pray to Him above,
   Before we go to rest.”
 
 
So with a pious countenance,
   His prayers as usual said,
But squinting round the room the while,
   He spied an empty bed.
 
 
“What a pity that these empty stocks
   Should be unoccupied;
Do you think my little cousin, Mark,
   To them could be denied?”
 
 
“’Tis just the very thing,” said Mark,
   “Your cousin, sir, and you,
Would carry out my scheme first-rate,
   One at each side of Loo.”
 
 
The Dame being asked, did not object,
   If he could pay the rent,
And had a decent character,
   And Louis would consent.
 
 
“But I do object to this,” says Loo,
   “And on this very ground,
Willie and his cousins, ma’am,
   They soon would me surround.
 
 
“They’re nothing in my line at all
   They are so near a-kin,
And so if I consent to this,
   At once they’ll hem me in.”
 
 
“Oh! you couldn’t think it, Master Loo,
   That I should do you harm,
For don’t I read my testament
   And don’t I sing my psalm.”
 
 
“’Tis all my eye,” said Louis, “both
   Your testament and psalms;
You use the dumbbells regular
   To strengthen up your arms.
 
 
“So take your poor relation off,
   You pious-looking prig,
And open out Kit Denmark’s box,
   And give him back Slesvig.”
 
 
“Come, come,” says Mrs. Europe,
   “Let’s have no bother here,
You’re trying now to breed a row,
   At least it does appear.”
 
 
Now Johnny hearing from the bunk
   What both of them did say,
He shouted out, “Now stop it, Will,
   Or else you’ll rue the day.”
 
 
“All right, friend John, I’m much obliged,
   You are my friend, I know,
And so my little cousin, sir,
   I’m willing to withdraw.”
 
 
But Louis frothed at mouth with rage,
   Like one that was insane,
And said he’d make Bill promise him
   He’d not offend again.
 
 
“I’d promise no such thing,” says Mark,
   “For that would hurt your pride,
Sing on and read your testament,
   Dame Europe’s on your side.”
 
 
“If I’d to promise aught like that,
   ’Twould be against my mind;
So take it right or take it wrong,
   I’ll promise naught o’ t’kind.”
 
 
“Then I shall take and wallop thee
   Unless thou cuts thy stick;
And drive thee to thy fatherland
   Before another week.”
 
 
“Come on,” cried Sanctimonius,
   And sending out his arm
He caught poor Louis on the nose,
   Then sung another psalm.
 
 
But Louis soon was on his pins,
   And used his fists a bit,
But he was fairly out of breath,
   And seldom ever hit.
 
 
And at the end of round the first,
   He got it fearful hot,
This was his baptism of fire
   If we mistake it not.
 
 
So Willie sent a letter home
   To mother old Augusta,
Telling her he’d thrashed poor Loo,
   And given him such a duster.
 
 
“What wonderful events,” says he,
   “Has heaven brought about,
I’ll fight the greatest pugilist
   That ever was brought out.
 
 
And if by divine Providence
   I get safe through this row,
Then I will sing ‘My God, the spring
   From whom all blessings flow.’”
 
 
Meanwhile the other Monitors,
   Were standing looking on,
But none of them dare speak a word,
   But all stared straight at John.
 
 
“Ought not I to interfere?”
   Says Johnny to the rest;
But he was told by every one
   Neutrality was best.
 
 
“Neutral,” growl’d John, “I hate the word,
   ’Tis poison to my ear;
It’s another word for cowardice,
   And makes me fit to swear.
 
 
“At any rate I can do this,
   My mind I will not mask,
I’ll give poor Loo a little drop
   Out of my brandy flask.
 
 
“And give it up, poor Loo, my lad,
   You might as well give in,
You know that I have got no power;
   Besides, you did begin.”
 
 
Then Louis rose, and looked at John,
   And spoke of days gone by
When he would not have seen his friend
   Have blackened Johnny’s eye.
 
 
“And as for giving in, friend John,
   I’ll do nothing of the sort;
Do you think I’ll be a laughing-stock
   For everybody’s sport.”
 
 
This conversation that took place
   Made pious Willie grin,
And tell John Bull to hold his noise,
   ’Twas nought to do with him.
 
 
These words to John did make him stare,
   And finding to his shame,
That those were worse who did look on,
   Than those who played the game.
 
 
Now Mrs. Europe knew the facts
   Which had been going on,
And with her usual dignity,
   These words addressed to John:
 
 
“Now, Mr. Bull, pray answer me, —
   Why are you gaping here?
You are my famous deputy,
   Then why not interfere?”
 
 
“Why,” answered John, and made a bow,
   But yet was very shy,
“I was told to be a neutral, ma’am,
   And that’s the reason why.”
 
 
“That’s just what you should not have done,
   Being in authority;
Did I not place you in that bunk
   To think and act for me?
 
 
“Why any baby in the house
   Could not have done much worse,
But I fancy you’ve been holding back
   To save your private purse.
 
 
“Neutrality is as fine a word
   As ever a coward used,
The honour that I gave to you
   You shouldn’t have abused.”
 
 
The minor lodgers in the house,
   On hearing this, to John,
Began to whisper and to laugh,
   And call’d it famous fun.
 
 
At last a little urchin said,
   “Please ma’am I’d take my oath,
’At master John was neutral,
   And stuck up for them both.”
 
 
“Stuck up for both, offended both, —
   Yes that is what you mean?”
Continued Madame Europe,
   Then spoke to John again:
 
 
“Now I’ll tell you what it is, John,
   We’ve long watch’d your career,
You take your fags’ advice to save
   Your paltry sums a year.
 
 
“There’s Bob and Bill, besides some more,
   That I call naught but scums,
They’ve got you fairly in between
   Their fingers and their thumbs.
 
 
“If such like men as Ben and Hugh
   This day your fags had been,
They would have saved both you and me
   This curs’d disgraceful scene.
 
 
“Instead of bein’ half-clad and shod,
   As everybody knows,
You would have dared these rivals now
   To come to such like blows.
 
 
“There was a time in this house, John,
   If you put up your thumb,
The greatest blackguard tongue would stop
   As if they had been dumb.
 
 
“But not a one in this here house
   This moment cares a fig
For all you say or all you do,
   Although your purse be big.”
 
 
“I couldn’t hurt poor Louis, ma’am,
   Although he did begin;
And then you see that Will and I
   Are very near akin.
 
 
“Beside, you see,” said John again,
   “I let poor Louis sup;
On both I use my ointment, and
   Their wounds I did bind up.
 
 
“Ah! weel a day,” then said the Dame,
   But was affected sore,
“I see you have some small excuse
   That you have done it for.
 
 
“I have some little hopes left yet
   That you may yet have sense,
To know your high position, John,
   Instead of saving pence.
 
 
“You yet will learn that duty, sir,
   Cannot be ignored,
However disagreeable when
   Placed before the board.
 
 
“And let me tell you he who shirks
   The responsibility
Of seeing right, is doing wrong,
   And earns humility.
 
 
“And ’tis an empty-headed dream,
   To boast of skill and power,
But dare not even interfere
   At this important hour.
 
 
“Better far confess at once
   You’re not fit for your place,
Than have a name ‘Heroic,’ sir,
   Branded with disgrace.
 
 
“But I’ll not say another word;
   My deputies, to you;
But hope you will a warning take,
   This moment from poor Loo.
 
 
“And hoping, John, your enemies
   May never have the chance
To see you paid for watching Will
   Thrash poor weak Louis France.”