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Title: John O'f' Bog An' Keighley Feffy Goast: A Tale O' Poverty
Author: Bill o'th' Hoylus End [
More Titles by Bill o'th' Hoylus End]
"Some books are lies fra end to end,
And some great lies were never penn'd;
But this that I am gaun to tell,
* * * Lately on a night befel."--BURNS.
'Twor twelve o'clock wun winter's neet,
Net far fra Kersmas time,
When I met wee this Feffy Goast,
The subject of mi rhyme.
I'd been hard up fer monny a week,
Mi way I cuddant see,
Fer trade an' commerce wor as bad
As ivver they could be.
T'poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild,
An' t'combers wor quite sick,
Fer weeks they nivver pool'd a slip,
Ner t'weivers wave a pick.
An' I belong'd ta t'latter lot,
An' them wor t'war o't' two,
Fer I'd nine pair o' jaws i' t'haase,
An nowt for 'em ta do.
T'owd wife at t' time wor sick i' bed,
An' I'd a shockin' cowd,
Wal t'youngest barn we hed at home,
Wor nobbut three days owd.
Distracted to mi varry heart,
At sitch a bitter cup,
An' lippenin' ivvery day at com,
At summat wod turn up;
At last I started off wun neet,
To see what I could mak;
Determin'd I'd hev summat ta eit,
Or else I'd noan go back.
Through t'Skantraps an' be t' Bracken Benk,
I tuke wi' all mi meet;
Be t' Wire Mill an' Ingrow Loin,
Reight into t' oppen street.
Saint John's Church spire then I saw,
An' I wor rare an' fain,
Fer near it stood t'owd parsonage--
I cuddant be mistain.
So up I went ta t' Wicket Gate,
Though sad I am ta say it,
Resolv'd to ax 'em for some breead,
Or else some brocken meit.
Bud just as I wor shackin' it,
A form raase up before,
An' sed "What does ta want, tha knave,
Shackin' t' Wicket Door?"
He gav me then ta understand,
If I hedant come to pray,
At t'grace o' God an' t'breead o' life,
Wor all they gav away.
It's fearful nice fer folk ta talk
Abaat ther breead o' life,
An' specially when they've plenty,
Fer t'childer an' ther wife.
Bud I set off ageean at t'run,
Fer I weel understood,
If I gat owt fra that thear clahn,
It woddant do ma good.
I' travellin' on I thowt I heeard,
As I went nearer t'tahn,
A thaasand voices i' mi ears,
Sayin' "John, whear are ta bahn?"
In ivvery grocer's shop I pass'd,
A play-card I could see,
I' t'biggest type at e'er wod print--
"There's nowt here, lad, fer thee."
Wal ivvery butcher's shop I pass'd,
Asteead o' meit wor seen,
A mighty carvin'-knife hung up,
Reight fair afore mi een.
Destruction wor invitin' me,
I saw it fearful clear,
Fer ivvery druggist window sed--
"Real poison is sold here."
At last I gav a frantic howl,
A shaat o' dreead despair,
I seized missen by t'toppin then,
An' shack'd an' lugged mi hair.
Then quick as leetnin' ivver wor,
A thowt com i' mi heead--
I'd tak a walk to t'Simetry,
An' meditate wi' t'deead.
T'owd Church clock wor striking' t' time
At folk sud be asleep,
Save t'Bobbies at wor on ther beat,
An' t'Pindar after t'sheep.
Wi' lengthen'd pace I hasten'd off
At summat like a trot;
Ta get ta t'place I started for,
Mi blood wor boiling hot.
An' what I saw at Lackock Gate,
Rear'd up ageean a post,
I cuddant tell--but yet I thowt
It wor another goast!
But whether it wor a goast or net,
I heddant time ta luke,
Fer I wor takken bi surprise
When turning t'Sharman's Nuke.
Abaat two hunderd yards i' t'front,
As near as I could think,
I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise,
An' nah an' then a clink!
Whativver can these noises be?
Some robbers, then I thowt!--
I'd better step aside an' see,
They're happen up ta nowt!
So I gat ower a fence ther wor,
An' peeping threw a gate,
Determin'd to be satisfied,
If I'd a while to wait.
At last two figures com ta t'spot
Whear I hed hid misel,
Then walkers'-earth and brimstone,
Most horridly did smell.
Wun on em hed a nine-tail'd cat,
His face as black as sooit,
His name, I think wor Nickey Ben,
He hed a clovven fooit.
An' t'other wor all skin an' bone
His name wor Mr. Deeath;
Withaat a stitch o' clooas he wor,
An' seem'd quite aght o' breeath.
He hed a scythe, I plainly saw,
He held it up aloft,
Just same as he wor bahn ta maw
Owd Jack O'Doodle's Croft.
"Where are ta bahn ta neet, grim phiz?"
Sed Nickey, wi' a grin,
"Tha knaws I am full up below,
An' cannot tak more in."
"What is't ta thee?" said Spinnel Shanks,
"Tha ruffin of a dog,
I'm nobbut bahn mi raands ageean,
Ta see wun John o't' Bog.
"I cannot see it fer mi life,
What it's ta dew wi' thee;
Go mind thi awn affairs, owd Nick,
An' nivver thee heed me."
"It is my business, Spinnel Shanks,
Whativver tha may say,
Fer I been rostin' t'human race
Fer monny a weary day."
Just luke what wark, I've hed wi' thee,
This last two yer or so;
Wi' Germany an Italy,
An' even Mexico.
An' then tha knaws that Yankey broil
Browt in some thaasands more;
An' sooin fra Abyssinia,
They'll bring black Theodore.
"So drop that scythe, owd farren deeath,
Let's rest a toathree wick;
Fer what wi' t'seet o't' frying pan,
Tha knows I'm ommost sick."
"I sall do nowt o't' sort," says Deeath,
Who spack it wi' a grin,
I's just do as I like fer thee,
So tha can hod thi din."
This made owd Nick fair raging mad,
An' liftin' up his whip,
He gav owd Spinnel Shanks a lash
Across his upper lip.
Then like a neighin' steed, lean Shanks,
To give owd Nick leg bail,
He started off towards the tahn,
Wi' Nick hard on his trail.
Then helter-skelter off they went,
As ower t'fence I lape;
I thowt--well, if it matters owt,
I've made a nice escape.
But nah the mooin began ta shine
As breet as it could be;
An dahn the vale of t'Aire I luked,
Whear I could plainly see.
The trees wor deeadly pale wi' snaw,
An' t'windin' Aire wor still,
An' all wor quite save t'hullats,
At wor screamin' up o't' hill.
Owd Rivock End an' all arahnd
Luk'd like some fiendish heead,
Fer t'more I star'd an' t'more I thowt
It did resemble t'deead.
The Friendly Oaks wor alter'd nah,
Ta what I'd seen afore;
An' luk'd as though they'd nivver be
T'owd Friendly Oaks no more.
Fer wun wor like a giant grim,
His nooas com to a point,
An' wi' a voice like thunner sed--
"The times are aaght o't'joint!"
An' t'other, like a whippin'-post,
Bud happen net as thin,
Sed "T' times el alter yet, owd fooil,
So pray nah, hod thi din!"
I tuke no farther gawm o' them,
But paddl'd on mi way;
Fer when I ivver mak a vah,
I stick ta what I say.
I heddant goan so far agean,
Afoar I heeard a voice,
Exclaiming--wi' a fearful groan--
"Go mak a hoil i' t'ice!"
I turned ma rahnd wheer t'sahnd com fro,
An' cautiously I bowed,
Sayin' "Thenk ye, Mr. Magic Voice,
I'm flaid o' gettin' cowd."
But nah a sudden shack tuke place,
A sudden change o' scene;
Fer miles wheer all wor white afoar,
Wor nah a bottle-green.
Then com a woman donn'd i' white,
A mantle gert shoo wore;
A nicer lukin', smarter form
I nivver saw afoar.
Her featers did resemble wun
O' that kind-hearted lot,
'At's ivver ready to relieve
The poor man in his cot.
Benevolence wor strongly mark'd
Upon her noble heead;
An' on her bruhst ye might ha' read,
"Who dees fer want o' breead?"
In fact, a kinder-hearted soul
Owd Yorkshire cuddant boast;
An' who wod feel the least alarmed
Ta talk ta sitch a ghoast?
I didn't feel at all afraid,
As nearer me shoo drew:
I sed--"Good evening, Mrs. Ghoast,
Hahivver do ye dew?"
Sho nivver seem'd to tak no gawm,
Bud pointed up at t'mooin,
An' beckon'd me ta follow her
Reight dahn bi t'Wattery Loin.
So on we went, an' dahn we turn'd,
An' nawther on us spak;
Bud nah an' then shoo twined her heead,
Ta see if I'd runn'd back.
At t'last sho stopped and turned arahnd,
An' luk'd ma fair i' t'een;
'Twor nah I picked it aght at wunce,
Sho wor no human bein'.
Sho rave a paper fra her bruhst,
Like some long theatre bill;
An' then shoo sed "Wake mortal,
Will ta read to me this will?
"Bud first, afoar tha starts to read,
I'll tell thee who I is;
Tha lukes a dacent chap eniff--
I judge it by thi phiz.
"Well, I've a job fer thee to do--
That is, if tha will do it;
I think tha'rt t'likliest man I knaw,
Becos tha art a poet.
If I am not mistaen, mi friend,
I often hear thi name;
I think they call tha John o' t'Bog";--
Says I--"Owd lass, it's t'same."
"It's just so mony years this day,
I knaw it by mi birth,
Sin' I departed mortal life,
An' left this wicked earth.
"But ere I closed these een to go
Into eternity,
I thowt I'd dew a noble act,
A deed o' charity.
"I hed a bit o' brass, tha knaws,
Some land an' property;
I thowt it might be useful, John,
To folks i' poverty.
"So then I made a will o't' lot,
Fer that did suit mi mind;
I planned it as I thowt wor t'best,
To benefit mankind.
"I left a lot ta t' Grammar Skooil;
By reading t'will tha'll see,
That ivvery body's barn, tha knaws,
May hev ther skooilin' free.
"An' if tha be teetotal, John--
Tha may think it a fault--
To ivvery woman liggin' in
I gav a peck o' malt.
"Bud t'biggest bulk o' brass 'at's left,
As tha'll hev heeard afooar,
Wor to be dealt half-yearly
Among ahr Keighley poor.
"I certainly did mak a flaw,
Fer which I've rued, alas!
'Twor them 'at troubled t'parish, John,
Sud hev no Feffee Brass.
"An' nah, if tha will be so kind,
Go let mi trustees knaw
'At I sall be oblidg'd to them
To null that little flaw.
"An' will ta meushun this an' all,
Wal tha's an interview?--
Tell 'em to share t'moast brass to t'poor,
Whativver else they do.
"Then I sall rest an' be at peace,
Both here an' when i' Heaven;
When them 'at need it will rejoice
Fer t'bit o' brass I've given;
"An' tell 'em to remember thee
Upon t'next Feffee Day!"
I says--"I sallant get a meg,
I'm gettin' parish pay."
So when shoo'd spokken what shoo thowt,
An' tell'd me what to do,
I ax'd her if shoo'd harken me,
Wal I just said a word or two.
"I'll nut tell you one word o' lie,
As sure as my name's John;
I think at you are quite i' t'mist
Abaht things going on.
"Folks gether in fra far an' near,
When it is Feffee Day,
An' think they hev another lowse,
Wi' t'little bit o' pay.
"Asteead o' givin' t'brass to t'poor,
It's shocking fer to tell,
They'll hardly let 'em into t'door--
I knaw it bi misell.
"Asteead o' bein' a peck o' malt
Fer t'wimmen liggin' in,
It's geen to rascals ower-grown,
To drink i' rum an' gin.
"Then them at is--I understand--
What you may call trustees;
They hev ther favourites, you knaw,
An' gives to who they please.
"Some's nowt to do but shew ther face,
An' skrew ther maath awry;
An' t'brass is shuvv'd into ther hand,
As they are passin' by.
"There's monny a woman I knaw weel,
Boath middle-aged and owd,
'At's waited fer ther bit o' brass,
An' catch'd ther deeath o' cowd;
"Wol mony a knave wi' lots o' brass
Hes cum i' 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 bi they get hooam.
"Wol mony a poorer family
'At's nut been named i' t'list,
Reight weel desarves a share o' t'spoil,
But, thenk ye, they are miss'd.
"We see a man at hes a haase,
Or happen two or three,
They 'Mister' him, an' hand him aght
Five times as mitch as me.
"'Twor better if yo'd teed yer brass
Tight up i' sum owd seck,
An' getten t'Corporation brooms,
To sweep it into t'beck."
No longer like Capia's form,
Wi' a tear i' both her een,
But like the gallant Camilla,
The Volscian warrior Queen.
Shoo, kneelin', pointed up aboon,
An' vah'd, be all so breet,
Sho'd wreak her vengence on ther heeads,
Or watch 'em day an' neet.
Shoo call'd the Furies to her aid,
An' Dirae's names shoo used,
An' sware if I hed spocken t'truth,
Shoo hed been sore abus'd.
"Alas, poor Ghoast!"--I sed to her--
"Indeed, it is too true";
Wi' that sho vanish'd aght o' t'seet,
Sayin' "Johnny lad, adieu!"
[The end]
Bill o'th' Hoylus End's poem: John O'f' Bog An' Keighley Feffy Goast: A Tale O' Poverty
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