Transcribed from the 1876 edition by David Price, email [email protected]. Many thanks to Bradford Local Studies for providing the copy from which this transcription was made. Also to Keighley Local Studies for supplying the title page (the Bradford copy lacks the title page).
Sae I’ve begun to scrawl, but whether In rhyme or prose, or baith thegither, Or some hotch-potch that’s rightly neither, Let time mak proof; But shall I scribble down some blether Just clean aff-loof.
I am nae poet, in a sense, But just a rhymer, like, by chance, And hae to learning nae pretence. Yet, what the matter? Whene’er my muse does on me glance, I jingle at her.
KEIGHLEY: A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCH GREEN. 1876.
_The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES_, _in verse and prose_, _are but the leisure musings of the uneducated_, _and cannot be expected to come up to anything like the standard of even poetry_; _yet_, _when the fact is known that the Author_, _like his Works_, _are rough and ready_, _without the slightest notion of either Parnassus or the Nines_, _at least give him credit for what they are worth_.
Come nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Are words but rudely said; Tho thay may chear some stricken heart, Or raise some wretched head; For thay are words I love mysel, They’re music to my ear; Thay muster up fresh energy Ta chase each dout an’ fear.
Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Tho tha be poor indeed; Ner lippen ta long it turning up Sa mich ov a friend in need; Fer few ther are, an’ far between, That helps a poor man thru; An God helps them at helps thersel, An’ thay hev friends enew.
Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, What ivver thy crediters say; Tell um at least tha’rt forst ta owe, If tha artant able ta pay; An if thay nail thy bits o’ traps, An sell thee dish an’ spooin; Remember fickle fortun lad, Sho changes like the mooin.
Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Tho some ma laugh an scorn; There wor nivver a neet ’fore ta neet, Bud what there come a morn; An if blind fortun used thee bad, Sho’s happen noan so meean; Ta morn al come, an then for some The sun will shine ageean.
Nivver dee e thy shell, oud lad, Bud let thy motto be,— “Onward! an’ excelsior;” And try for t’ top o’t tree: And if thy enemies still pursue, Which ten-to-one they will, Show um oud lad tha’rt doing weel, An climbing up the hill.