Luve, grace and beuty attends on her will; Sho wounds wi’ a luke, wi’ a frown sho can kill; The yuths az they pass her, exclaim, “woe is me!” Who sees her must luve her, who luves her must dee. At church on a Sabbath, oud men raise thare arms An’ cry, “O! grate hevens! were ever sich charms?” Wile matrons an’ maidens God’s blessing they call, On the head of Rebecca o’ Riddlesden Hall.
My poor oud lass, an’ are ta goan, To thy long rest? An’ mun the cruel cold grave-stone Close ower thy breast? An’ are ta goan no more to see, Excepting e fond memory; Yes empty echo answers me— “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”
E vain the wafters o’ the breeze Fan my hot brah, E vain the birds upon the trees, Sing sweetly nah; E vain the early rose-bud blaws, E vain wide Nature shows her Cause, Deeath thunders fro his greedy jaws— “Shoo’s deead an’ goan!”
There’s more ner me that’s sore bereft, I pity wun, An’ that’s my lad—he’s sadly left— My little John; He wanders up an’ dahn all t’day, An’ rarely hez a word to say, Save murmuring (an’ weel he may), Shoo’s deead an’ goan!
Bud, Jonny lad, let’s dry wer tears; At t’least we’ll try; Thi muther’s safe wi Him ’at hears The orphan’s sigh; Fer ’tis the lot o’ t’human mack— An’ who can tell which next he’ll tack? An’ crying cannot bring her back; Shoo’s deead an’ goan!
[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 Ætna, Vesuvius or hell; For the great prophesy it no doubt would fulfill, But for _heroic_ watchman at Calversike Hill.
This fire it broke out in the night it was said, While peacefully each villager slept in his bed; And so greatly the flames did illumne all the skies, That it took the big watchman all in surprise. 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.