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Title: The Old Hand-Wool-Combers
Author: Bill o'th' Hoylus End [
More Titles by Bill o'th' Hoylus End]
Lines written on the occasion of a
Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor
(Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891.
Come hither my muse and give me a start,
And let me give praise to the one famous art;
For it's not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast,
But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post.
In the brave days of old when I was a boy,
I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy;
Where I listened to stories and legends of old,
Which to me were more precious than silver or gold.
The old Comber would tell of his travels through life,
And where he had met with his darling old wife;
And how he had stole her from her native vale,
To help him to pull the "old tup" by the "tail."
He would go through the tales of his youthful career,
An undaunted youth without dread or fear;
He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor,
He knew every acre of mountain and moor.
He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State,
And tell where old England would be soon or late;
How nations would rise, and monarch's would fall,
And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall.
He was very well read, though papers were dear,
But he got Reynold's newspaper year after year;
It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen,
While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen.
He was fairly dramatic, the stage he loved well,
The names of great actors and plays he would tell;
And if that his notion it took the other way,
He could quote the Bible a night and a day.
Full of wit, full of mirth, he could give you a sting,
He could preach, he could pray, he could dance, he could sing;
He could play pitch and toss, he could jump, he could run,
He could shuffle the cards, he could handle a gun.
The old Constable knew him but let him alone,
Because he knew better than bother with "Joan";
For the lads of the Barracks and the Pinfold as well
Would all have been there at the sound of the bell.
Old Keighley was then but a very small town,
Yet she'd twelve hundred Combers that were very well known;
Hundreds have gone over the dark flowing burn,
Whence no traveller was ever yet known to return.
It reminds me again of the Donkey and pack
Which came from the hills bringing Wool on its back;
And if the poor beast perchance had to bray
'Twere a true sign a Comber would die on that day.
The third day of the week, sometimes further on,
The old woman would seek the King's Arms for her son;
And if she were told he had not been at all,
Would bounce over the green to the Hole-in-the-Wall.
Hi! those were fine times, especially the fairs,
When the Inns were kept open for dancing upstairs;
The Commercial, Lord Rodney, as well as the Crown
To the ancient Wool-comber were fairly well known.
But now we'll get back to the pot and the pad,
The fair it is over, the women are glad;
For now the Wool-comber his follies he sees,
And makes resolutions as staunch as you please.
For now he commences to work hard and late,
He is building a Castle on a phantom estate;
And he toils for a time but long hoggs make him sick,
Then he duffs, and his castle falls down, every brick.
When Winter comes in with its keen bitter blast,
And the poor rustic hind has to cope with the frost;
Yet the Comber was happy in village and town,
Though he knew that his calling was fast going down.
Oh yes, it was vanquished, the once noble art,
For science had bid it for ever depart;
Yet for thee old Comber fresh fields have arose,
That have found thee in victuals, in fuel, and clothes.
So many brave thanks to the Mayor of the town
Who has made the Wool-comber once more to be known;
Let us drink to the health of our worthy host,
The friend of the Comber, the Knight of the post.
[The end]
Bill o'th' Hoylus End's poem: Old Hand-Wool-Combers
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