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Title: Dialogue On A Steeple Chase
Author: John Castillo [
More Titles by Castillo]
AT P******NG, IN YORKSHIRE.
Joe.—Weel Jim, hoo deea lad? What’s t’ news?
Which side is thoo on? Pinks or Blues?
Heer’s sike a mighty stir i’ t’ nation,
’Tis woth a lahtle conversation.
Ah want te knaw, is’t reeght or wrang;—
Unless thah nerves is varry strang,
Ah hev a paper i’ mah pocket,
’Ll lift thah heart oot ov its socket!
Jim.—A paper Joe! What is ’t aboot,
Sum munney matter, ther’s neea doot!
Sum Methodey or Ranter bother,
Or sum Tee-total thing or other.
Yan scarce can pass alang a street,
Bud sum sike like yan’s seer te meet,
Whea’d ommost sweear ’at black is white,
Te gain anoother proselyte,
Joe.—A munney matter ’tis o’ coorse,
Fra’ quite an opposition soorce,
For by the Liverpool Recorder,
’Tis mare o’ the Succession order:
For it is sed by snug repoort,
Religious fooaks hev geen ’t support.
That which we noo te nooatice bring,
Ist’ Steeple Chase at P******ng.
Jim.—Whah Joe, thoo’s neean o’ t’ warst o’ fellows,
Cum sit thee doon a piece an’ tell us,
If thoo sud think it neea disgrace,
Aboot this mighty Steeple Chase;
Ov hoo, an’ when, an’ whoor they run,
For honour, munney, or for fun.
Thoo’s just geen me an itchin eear,
Aboot the thing Ah wish’d te heear.
Joe.—Thoo sees upon a sarten day,
Ah hennut seen, but heeard ’em say;
Greeat gentlemen hev hosses treean’d,
Fra’ lofty pedigree obteean’d,
Seea full o’ bleead, an’ queerly towght,
Te gallop thruff or ower owght:
All muster at a sarten pleeace,
An’ this they call the Steeple Chase.
A purse o’ Gold they then present,
An’ word is thruff the coontry sent,
For fower mahle, Ah think they run,
An’ he ’at beeats,—the steeaks his awn.
Sum breeaks ther necks, wi’ missin bridges,
An’ sum gits stuck, wi’ jumpin hedges.
Ey, te confarm t’ truth Ah sing,
They kill’d a hoss at P******ng.
Jim.—Wha Joe, thoo quite supprises me,
Te think ’at men ov heeigh degree,
Sud reeally hev neea mare respect
For owther men’s or hosses necks.
Joe.—A boss is nowght i’ sike a keease!
Bairn! sowls is nowght at t’ Steeple Chase!
They for a trifle swap an’ sell ’em,
An’ t’ parsons hezzen’t sense te tell ’em.
T’ Steeple Chase is suted quite,
Te glut t’ carnal appetite.
Thooase whea ther Baable love, an’ preear,
’Ll finnd bud bareish picking theer.
Jim.—Maund Joe, thoo izzen’t ower severe,
An’ ’at thah coonsel be sincere.
The Law hez monny curious links,
Man mooan’t speeak awlus as he thinks.
Thof Ah me-sel feel shock’d te think,
Men sud seea rush on ruin’s brink:
Mitch mare te be encouraged in,
What mun be a presumptuous sin.
Joe.—The mare Ah see this standard reeas’d,
The mare an’ mare Ah stand ameeaz’d
Te think ’at parsons cannut see’t,
An’ tell ’em pleean it izzen’t reeght!
’At men sike tidings sud procleeam,
An’ thooase ’at beear t’Christian neeame
I’ spite ov all divine advice,
Te sanction sike a sweepin vice.
Jim.—Whativver be t’satisfaction,
It hez a woonderful attraction;
An’ macks ’em freely use ther shanks,
’Specially them o’ t’ heeigher ranks,
Fra’ Scarbro’, Malton, York, an’ Leeds,
They cum on lofty mounted steeds,
Ower dazzlin ommost te behold,
Wi’ silver’d whips, an’ cheeans o’ gold.
Theer’s bands o’ music, colours flying,
Hams, an’ legs o’ mutton frying,
Nimble waiters on the wing,
Te see ’em drink, an’ hear ’em sing,
Ther’s gamlin teeables, orange stalls,
Ther’s spices, nuts, an’ dancin dolls.
All things te sute the carnal taste,
May just be foond at t’ Steeple Chase.
Joe.—Thooase men hes gitten ’t i’ ther power
Regardless o’ the sufferin poor,
Te gallop ower hedge an’ dyke,
An’ deea an’ say, just what they like.
An’ all the while they run these rigs,
An’ sing, an’ drink, an’ dance ther jigs,
They’ll booast o’ noble ancestry,
An’ mighty steeple pedigree!
If onny wish the cause te knaw,
Whah they are able te deea seea,—
“’Tis munney macks the meer te gang,
Macks wrang seeam reeght, an’ reeght seeam wrang.”
Jim.—The thing sud be te them meead knawn,
Ther gold an’ silver’s nut ther awn.
Ther cattle they abuse an’ kill,
Belangs to t’Lord o’ Zion’s hill.
They sud be warn’d i’ ivvery pleeace,
Te gie up sike like wicked ways.
Or seer as theer’s a God aboon,
They’ll pull ther awn destruction doon.
Joe.—They hev been warn’d an’ hev refus’d,
Whahl thooase gud things they hev abus’d;
By which abuse they breeak God’s Law,
An’ that he’ll sum day let ’em knaw.
This maks ’em breeathe pernicious breeath,
An’ swagger on the verge o’ deeath,
Whahl oothers—rayther than control,
’Ll breeak ther necks, an’ loss ther sowl.
Jim.—A man tell’d me by way o’ jooak,
Bud kind o’ trimmel’d as he spooak,
They’d Doctors pleeaced wi’in a shoot,
Te slip necks in, ’at gat slipt oot.[A]
Joe.—It’s awful booastin this indeed,—
Bad sample o’ beeath fruit an’ seed.
Sike may upbraad the warld wi’ sizm,
It is next deer te Socialism.
Sike booastin they will sum day rue,
If we admit the Baable true.
All thooase mun pass a mighty change,
Afoore the happy hills they range!—
Bud tiv oor teeal let us ton back,
Lest we get farther fra’ oor track.
The day arrives, the smiling sun,
Procleeams the Steeple Chase begun.
On eeager eears the tumult steeals,
Ov prancin steeds, an’ rumblin wheels.
It wur a day ov winks an’ nods,
Ov lofty deeds, an’ lofty wods.
As thof they hed for ther defence!
The thunner ov Omnipotence!
T’ fooaks com rowlin in by skoors,
Fra’ neeab’rin toons, an’ off o’ t’ moors.
Like cloods ov locusts in they hale,
Fra’ Goadland, Sleights, an’ Harwood Dale.
’Tis seerly sum enchanted string,
That does sike croods tegither bring.
Like bees, they roond the steeple swarm,
In it they likely see neea harm.
Jim.—Neea harm! What harm, Joe, can there be,
I’ seeing sike a rarity:—
Ov men an’ hosses heeighly fed,
Wi’ priests an’ squires at ther head;
Ov gentlemen, an’ ladies gay,
As bonny as the floors i’ May.
Theer riches, yooth, an’ beauty shine,
Array’d i’ silk, an’ superfine.
An’ farmers’ maidens, yoong an’ fair,
We wonder hoo they’ve taame te spare;
Wi’ lads ov manners rough an’ rude,
All mixing i’ yah multitude.
An’ poor awd men, ’at scarce can blaw,
Wi’ beards an’ whiskers white as snaw;
Sad sample ov oor fallen race,
All rollin up to t’ Steeple Chase.
An’ farmers’ sarvants leeave ther pleugh,
Callin ther maister black an’ blue,
Whea for ther credit an’ ther neeame,
Hed coonsel’d them te stay at heeame.
Ah met ’em as Ah com alang,
(They wonder’d whah Ah waddn’t gang,)
Wi’ roosy cheeks, an’ shoothers brooad,
Bettin weagers up o’ t’ rooad.
Ther leeaks an’ words at yance declare,
Ther treasure an’ ther hearts are theer.
If yah contrary sentence drop,
That mooth they quickly try te stop.
When roond the splendid stand they meet,
’Twad deea a blinnd man gud te see’t;
Besaads the men’s seea faanly drist!
The Steeple Chase,—whah whea wad miss’t?
Joe.—Fra’ furst te last it is desaun’d,
Te pleease an’ fascinate the maand;
Te lift it, as on eagle’s wings,
An’ draave off thowghts o’ better things.
The stewards full o’ wardly wit,
Pronoonce ’at all things noo are fit,
When thoosands then roll up te see,
As drawn by Steeple witchery.
Fra’ whence they cum, or whoor they dwell,
If yoo’ve a paper it ’ll tell.
Ye ken the horses whea’s they are,
By t’ colours ’at ther riders wear.
Thus whether i’ the rooad or noa,
Wi’ whip an’ spur away they goa;
Ower hedge an’ dyke,—there’s nowght can stop ’em,
Unless an angry God unprop em.
Thus riding ower grass, or coorn
’Ats growin,—or ’ats leeatly sown,
There’s neean dare lift a hand, or say,
What hev ye deean, or whea’s te pay,
Whahl oaths profane, an’ lafter lood,
Are utter’d by the gaping crood;—
By some whea yance religion luv’d,
Not only sanction’d, bud appruv’d!
If ivv’ry ward an’ secret thowght,
Mun be yan day te judgment browght,
Oh, how unlike sike wark as this,
Is that which leads te glorious bliss!
Te see ’em thus seea blithe an’ merry,
Wur famous pastaame for Awd Harry.
If owght te him cud be delighting,
’Twad be to see ’em drunk an’ feighting.
He popt aboot amang t’ people,
At last he popt up on to’t steeple,
Open’d a pair ov dismal jaws,
Flapt his black wings, an’ yawn’d applause:
Like sum prood Emperor ov awd,
Upon the wether cock he rode,
’Whoor he mud all at yance survey,
The grand proceedings ov the day.
A flagstaff for a whip he seized,
An’ spurr’d the spire he wur seea pleeased,
Te think it sud his cause defend,
An’ that his bait hed answer’d t’end.
Jim.—Tis not for thee te criticise,
On men seea greeat, seea rich, seea wise,
They aim, neea doot, as weel as thee,
Te gang te heeaven when they dee.
What thof ther munney be bud lent,
Thoo knaws ’at munney mun be spent.
Besaads they hev example too,—
If t’ parson’s theer—What’s that te thoo?
Joe.—If thooase sud miss ther passage heeame,
A careless priesthood they may bleeame.
Blinnd guides they are, an’ t’Kirk’s ther moother,
An’ they wean’t gang te hear neea other.
We Christians run a diff’rent race,
Te what we call the Steeple Chase.
Besaads we finnd i’ Holy writ,
Ther’s neean cums theer ’at are nut fit.
Jim.—Thoo meeans te proove by argument,
Thooase ’at cums theer mun first repent,
An’ be throo Jesus Christ forgiven,
Afoore they’re i’ the rooad te heaven.
Neea carnal plissure they mun share,
Bud live a life ov faith an’ prayer.
If thooase alone hev saving grace,
Doon gangs at yance the Steeple Chase.
Joe.—Seea legions fell fra’ leeght te dark,
Seea Dagon fell afoore the ark,
Seea God prood Pharaoh owerthrew,
Wi’ Sisera, an’ Goliath too.
Seea fell the lords i’ sad supprise,
Wheas hands hed put out Samson’s eyes.
Thooase mighty men wur turn’d te dust,
An’ seean the Steeple Chasers must.
Jim.—Whah, Joe, it caps me fair te ken,
Hoo thooase heeigh flying gentlemen,
Can fra’ ther chasing gang te t’ kirk,
An’ join i’t’ blessed Sunday’s wooark,
Singing wi’ all ther might an’ main,
This heaven inspir’d, this holy strain,
“Let all thy converse be sincere,
“Thy conscience as the noon-day clear,
“For God’s all seeing eye surveys
“Thy secret thoughts, thy works and ways;”—
An’ then fra’ t’ kirk te t’ Steeple Chase,
An’ set at nowght God’s luv an’ grace,
Call t’dissenters, an’ shoot thruff t’nation,
For “Apostolical succession!”
Joe.—Te bring oor converse te a close,
Oor only aim is te expose,
The thing Almighty God doth hate,—
Nut te provoke unkind debate.
The day’s nut far ’at will reveal
The truth, an’ fix the final seal.
Sum may when its teea late te rue, }
Finnd what they hoped wur false—is true }
Consarning everlasting woe! }
FOOTNOTE:
[A] It was a saying of one of the Riders, that he carried two or three loose necks in his pocket, in case anything happened to his own.
[The end]
John Castillo's poem: Dialogue On A Steeple Chase
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