Transcribed from the 1876 edition , email. Many thanks to Bradford Local Studies forproviding the copy from which this transcription was made. Also to Keighley Local Studies for supplying the title page (theBradford copy lacks the title page).
—o—
By Bill o’th Hoylus End.
—o—
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 makproof;
But shall I scribble down some blether
Just cleanaff-loof.I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer, like, by chance,
And hae to learning nae pretence.
Yet, what thematter?
Whene’er my muse does on me glance,
I jingle ather.Burns.
—o—
KEIGHLEY:
A. APPLEYARD, PRINTER, CHURCHGREEN.
1876.
Dedicated to
James Wright,
Local Musician and Composer,
North Beck Mills,
Keighley,
By the Author.
Dec. 25th, 1876.
The RANDOM RHYMES and RAMBLES, in verse andprose, are but the leisure musings of the uneducated,and cannot be expected to come up to anything like thestandard of even poetry; yet, when the fact isknown that the Author, like his Works, are roughand ready, without the slightest notion of eitherParnassus or the Nines, at least give him credit for whatthey are worth.
WILLIAM WRIGHT.
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.
p.6Nivver 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