Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass, Hes cum e all his pride, An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass, Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.
Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax, If they’ve a claim, they come; But what wi t’Railway fares an drink, It’s done be they get home.
Wal mony a poorer family At’s nut been nam’d e t’list, At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil, Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d.
We see a man at hes a haase, Or happen two or three, They Mr. him, an hand him aaght Five times as mitch as me.
’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass Tight up e sum oud seck, An getten t’Corporation brooms To sweep it into t’Beck.”
No longer like Capias’ form, Wi a tear e boath her een, But like the gallant Camilla, The Volscian warrior Queen.
She, kneeling, pointed up aboon, An vow’d be all so breet, Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads, Or watch em day an neet.
Sho call’d the Furies to her aid, An Diræ’s names sho us’d, An sware if I hed spocken t’truth, Sho hed been sore abus’d.
Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her— Indeed it is too true; Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet, Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”
On Aire’s bonny benks wi’ hur meadows so green, Thare’s an anshent oud hall to-day may be seen, That wor built in the days of some oud fudal king, Of whom the oud bards delited to sing. Tho’ faded in splender, its grateness wos then, Knawn to its foemen as Red Lion’s den; ’Neath its armorial sheeld, an’ hoary oud wall, I now see Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Hur majestik black eye does tru buty display, Resemblin truly the goddess of day; Her dark-flowing ringlets, yah’d think as they shone, That Venus ’ud fashun’d ’em after hur awn. Fer hur tresses no ribbins ner trappins do bind, But wantonly luxurious flows in the wind: It ’ud a pleased the grate Reubens or Raffell to call, To see sweet Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Like the tall mountain fir, she as stedy, I trow, When zephyr-like winds does sighingly blow; The grove or the grotto when mild breezes move, Are gentle Rebekka’s sweet gales ov luve. Her breeath, wheer tru wit so grasefully flows, Has the beutiful scent of the pink and the rose; There’s no nymph from the East to Niagra Fall, To ekwall Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.
Her toe points the graand wi sich beuty an’ grace, Nor varies a hair’s-bredth, shud yah mezzur her pace: An’ wen drest e hur gingham we white spots and blue, O then is Rebekka so pleazin to vue. Wi’ her gray Wolsey stockins by hersell nit and spun, An’ a nice little apron, hieroglyphic done: It needs noa rich velvets or Cashmeer shawl, To deck out Rebekka o’ Riddlesden Hall.