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SPLIInTTEES 
 
 STRUCK OKF 
 
 WINSKILL ROCK. 
 
 BY 
 
 TOM TWISLETON. 
 
 SETTLE: 
 
 WILDMAN AND SON. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2016 
 
 https://archive.org/details/splintersstruckoOOtwis 
 
T 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Good reader, when ye tack a look 
 Within the leaves of this lile book, 
 Ye needn’t stare an’ wonder, 
 If, when across its lines ye glance, 
 Ye pop upon a word by chance 
 That seems to be a blunder. 
 
 
 j:- 
 
 <v 
 
 
 For we who speak this dialect. 
 
 To grammar fine an’ words correct 
 We hev but sma’ pretence ; 
 
 An’ when our speeches, rough an’ queer, 
 Fa’ on a finely-polish’d ear, 
 
 ’Twill hardly sound like sense. 
 
 As lang sen near as I can tell, 
 
 I learnt to read, an’ write, an’ spell, 
 
 But didn’t learn mich grammar ; 
 An’, growing up baath rough an’ strang, 
 I threw down t’ books befoor ’twas lang 
 An’ tuck up t’ spade an’ hammer. 
 
IV 
 
 IKTIIODUCTIOX. 
 
 But often, when my wark I plied, 
 
 To mack a verse or two I tried. 
 
 To pass away the time ; 
 
 An’ when I sud hev been asleep, 
 
 I wacken lay in study deep, 
 
 Thrang mackin bits o’ rhyme. 
 
 An’ now ther’s nowt macks me as fain 
 As when the lines, like drops o’ rain, 
 Yan efter t’ other skelp it : 
 
 It’s not in hopes of winning fame. 
 
 Or vain desires to raise a name — 
 
 I rhyme cos I can’t help it. 
 
 An’ if to view wi’ lenient eye 
 Each fault an’ flaw that ye may spy 
 Yer generous heart inclines. 
 
 An’ not to scan wi’ eye severe. 
 
 Then please accept the thanks sincere 
 Of him who wrote these lines. 
 
 ■WlNSKILL, NEAR SETTLE, 
 
 January, 1867 . 
 
®ont ®(ur5(ctaifs Crakii ^oents. 
 
 OWD JOHNNY AN’ T’ GHOST. 
 
 AViiE^f t’ winter’s sun sunk down at neet, 
 An’ stars lied started peeping ; 
 
 When t’ timid haare, wi’ nimble feet, 
 
 Ower hill an’ daal was creeping ; 
 
 When t’ mother put to bed her flock, 
 
 An’ sat down to her knitting ; 
 
 A lot o’ chaps, at ten o’clock. 
 
 In t’ publichouse were sitting, 
 
 Hauf drunk that neet. 
 
 A chap they caud owd Johnny Sykes 
 (A farmer was his calling), 
 
 Wi’ two or three owd drucken tykes. 
 
 Was in the tap-room brawling. 
 
 He preacht an’ talk’d how t’ Government 
 Wi’ taxes was encroaching ; 
 
 He talk’d of rates an’ rising rent. 
 
 Till midneet was ap]3roaching 
 
 Fast on that neet. 
 
6 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Then up he gat, an’ at a swipe 
 He emptied off his noggin, 
 
 Poo’d out his box, an’ fill’d his pipe. 
 
 An’ said he mud be joggin’ ; 
 
 For t’ time was come for him to steer. 
 Though ’gainst his inclination ; 
 
 For he’d across a common di*ear. 
 
 An’ past a thick plantation. 
 
 To gang that neet. 
 
 Saa on he put his girt topcooat. 
 
 An’ leggins med o’ leather. 
 
 An’ teed his muffler round his throoat. 
 
 An’ stept out into t’ weather ; 
 
 An’ t’ coud north wind, sa fierce and keen. 
 Assailed him wi’ sich rigour. 
 
 It browt girt tear-drops fra his een. 
 
 An’ down his faace wi’ vigour 
 
 They ran that neet. 
 
 He knew he couldn’t mend his job 
 Wi’ being chicken-hearted ; 
 
 Saa seeaz’d his cudgel by the nob. 
 
 An’ haam he briskly started ; 
 
 An’ thus he thowt, as on he went, — 
 
7 
 
 OWD JOHNNY an’ t’ GHOST. 
 
 If t’ wife be up an’ wacken, 
 
 Sbe’ll rage an’ storm to some extent ; — 
 
 I’se git a famous blacking 
 
 Fra her this neet ! 
 
 He trudged along wi’ au his might, 
 
 Sa confident an’ fearless, 
 
 Though weel he knew t’ owd wife would flyte. 
 An’ t’ neet was cowd an’ cheerless : 
 
 Dark, heavy clouds across o’ t’ sky. 
 
 Urged on be t’ wind, were rolling ; 
 
 A huUat, fra a tree hard by, 
 
 Wi’ wild an’ dismal howling, 
 
 Screeam’d loud that neet. 
 
 But when he com to t’ fir-tree wood — 
 
 At t’ farther side o’ t’ common. 
 
 War t’ carrier, in a pool o’ blood, 
 
 Yance fand a murder’d woman, — 
 
 His com^age au began to dee ; 
 
 He slacken’d in his walking ; 
 
 He scaarce durst look around, lest he 
 Sud see her spirit stalking 
 
 Abroad that neet. 
 
8 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CEAVEN POEMS. 
 
 For oft, ’twas said, in t’ deead o’ t’ neet. 
 Near t’ spot wliar t’ carrier fand lier. 
 
 All drest i’ wliite, a ghastly seet. 
 
 Her ghost was seen to wander. 
 
 Two chaps, returning fra a spree, 
 
 Wi’ mony a druchen caper, 
 
 Yance sah her walk beneath a tree. 
 
 An’ vanish like a vapour 
 
 Fra view that neet. 
 
 The wind did waft amang the trees, 
 
 AVi’ moaning deep an’ hollow. 
 
 Then deed into a gentle breeze. 
 
 Then heavier gusts wad follow ; 
 
 An’ in a nook, i’ t’ edge o’ t’ wood. 
 
 As he look’d round wi’ terror. 
 
 He sah a seet ’at fraaze his blood. 
 
 An’ filled his soul wi’ horror 
 
 An’ awe that neet. 
 
 Aghast he stood, wi’ fear hauf deead. 
 His hair began ta bristle. 
 
 And stand streight u]3 upon his heead, 
 Like burrs upon a thistle ; 
 
9 
 
 OAVD JOHNNY AN’ t’ GHOST, 
 
 For, fra that corner two girt cen, 
 
 Wide open, hreet, an’ glaring, 
 
 Wlioso colour shaan a bluish green. 
 
 War througii the darkness staring 
 
 On liim that neet ! 
 
 Cowd drops upon his foreheead stood. 
 
 His knees did knock together ; 
 
 Hed ye bin thear. I’m sure ye mud 
 Ha’ fell’d him wi’ a feather. 
 
 To stir fra t’ spot he nivver tried ; 
 
 His brain, on fire, was reeling ; 
 
 His senses an war stupefied. 
 
 An’ paralyzed each feeling, 
 
 Wi’ fear that neet. 
 
 It mud be t’ ghost, he couldn’t tell. 
 
 That stood i’ t’ nook to watch him ; 
 
 Or else it was t’ owd lad” hissel 
 Hed come up here to catch him ; 
 
 Saa on his knees he down did fo, 
 
 He pray’d loud as a Ranter, 
 
 Till t’ ghost sprung out fra under t’ wo, 
 
 An’ started off o’ t’ canter 
 
 . Down t’ rooad that neet. 
 
TOM TWISLETOn’s CEAYEN POEMS. 
 
 Then au at yance, wi’ leetsome spring, 
 
 On to his feet he started ; 
 
 He laughed for joy, wal t’ woods did ring. 
 His fears hed au departed : 
 
 An’ when his noise the ghost did hear, 
 
 It faster went an’ faster, 
 
 For it was nought but t’ potter’s mear. 
 
 That hed bin turn’d ta paster 
 
 Down t’ looan that neet. 
 
 Wi’ cheerful heart an’ r eight good will. 
 
 He managed t’ rest o’ t’ distance. 
 
 For t’ moon peep’d out ower t’ top o’ t’ hill. 
 An’ lent him her assistance. 
 
 Although he gat an awful freet, 
 
 It proved owd Johnny’s blessing; 
 
 He now gangs haam wi’ good dayleet ; 
 
 He’s learnt a famous lesson 
 
 Fra t’ ghost that neet. 
 
 Ye owd wed chaps, that hev a knack 
 O’ ganging oft to Settle, 
 
 Don’t stop sa laat ere ye gang back. 
 
 It tries t’ owd woman’s mettle ; 
 
ON SHOOTING TWO DOGS. 
 
 11 
 
 But alus try to get away 
 
 Wal t’ sun shines breet an’ bonny; 
 
 Ye’ll ken a horse be t’ leet o’ day, 
 
 An’ not be like owd Johnny 
 
 Wi’ t’ ghost that neet. 
 
 ON SHOOTING TWO DOGS THAT WEEE 
 WOEEYING SHEEP, 
 
 ON THE NIGHT OF THE 3rd JANUAKY, 1865. 
 
 Yan moonleet neet, at edge o’ dark, 
 
 I stump’d about amang my wark ; 
 
 I just was crossing t’ yard, when — hark ! 
 
 I stood still as a mouse ; 
 
 I heeard a dog baath growl an’ bark, 
 
 I’ t’ paster clooas to t’ house. 
 
 Says I, A fair haufcrown I’ll bet 
 Yon’s some ill-bred neet-hunting ket. 
 
 That’s come up here wi’ dog an’ net, — - 
 I’ll see what they’re about. 
 
 I said na maar, but o& I set 
 To try to find ’em out. ^ 
 
TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN ROEMS. 
 
 E-eight cautiously, wi’ noiseless feet, 
 
 I trudged along ower t’ snaw that neet. 
 An’ on a hill, i’ t’ dim nioonleet, 
 
 I spied a terrier gray; 
 
 An’ when I com into it seet. 
 
 It hark’d and ran away. 
 
 An’ then I spied another thief, — 
 
 A girt an, too, as fat as beef ; 
 
 Says I, It is my firm belief 
 That summat is amiss ; 
 
 I doubt they’re up to some mischief,- — 
 An’, bless us ! what is this ? 
 
 Then up I went to t’ wo to |)cep. 
 
 An’ on a snaw-drift, cowd an’ deep, 
 
 Wi’ fleece au torn, I spied a sheep, 
 
 An’ mony a bite did bleed ; 
 
 Then t’ truth into my mind did creep, — * 
 Them dogs hez done this deed. 
 
 I thowt a bit what mud be done, 
 
 Then into t’ house I went for t’ gun, 
 
 An’ l^ack as fast as I could run. 
 
ON iiJ LOOTING TWO DOGS. 
 
 13 
 
 An’ t’ dog’s war baatli at t’ spot ; 
 
 Sa}^s I, I’ll stop yer barbarous fun, 
 
 Ye’s taast a bit o’ sliot. 
 
 Ye sheep ! that roLini on hills and banks, 
 To me and my good gun give thanks ; 
 
 AVe stopp’d their thievish worrying pranks 
 AVi’ lile round bits o’ leead ; 
 
 AYe made yan stretch his terrier-shanks. 
 An’ lig amang the deead. 
 
 An’ t’ other thief, that com to help, — 
 
 That ugly, girt Newfoundland vrhelp, — 
 
 It off as fast as it could skelp ; 
 
 Thowt I, I’ll mack thee smart : 
 
 I shot ; it raised an awful yelp. 
 
 An’ ran for ’t varra heart. 
 
 AVi’ skill, baath times I hit my mark. 
 Though it was varra dim an’ dark ; 
 
 I think I made a good neet’s wark. 
 
 An’ ye’ll na doubt think t’ saam ; 
 
 I sattled yan his ugly bark, 
 
 An’ t’ other’s varra laam. 
 
14 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Ye farmers round about, wbo keep 
 Yer Scotland yows an’ hauf-bred sheep, 
 May gang to bed content, an’ sleep 
 Without a bit o’ fear ; 
 
 Naa maar amang yer flocks they’ll creep ; 
 I stopp’d their mad career. 
 
 THE FAIE. 
 
 Yan morn in May, when blossoms gay 
 On ivvry hand were springing ; 
 
 When t’ cuckoo’s note through t’ air did float. 
 An’ lile birds they were singing ; 
 
 When ivvry bud, in fleld an’ wood, 
 
 Wi’ busy bees was swarming ; 
 
 When t’ freshening breeze blew soft through 
 t’ trees. 
 
 An’ au was gay an’ charming; — 
 
 Scarce hed the sun his wark begun, 
 
 And marked the flelds wi’ shadows ; 
 
 Scarce hed his rays dispelled the haze 
 An’ mist fra off the meadows ; 
 
THE FAIR. 
 
 15 
 
 When lasses, drest i’ an their best, 
 
 Wi’ mony a hat an’ feather. 
 
 An’ lads i’ scoors, fra out o’ t’ moors. 
 
 An jogg’d to t’ fair together. 
 
 On spooarting bent, on fun intent. 
 
 Towards the spot they’re clinking ; 
 
 Some lasses chat of dress or hat. 
 
 Some on their chaps are thinking. 
 
 The streets sa wide, fra end to side, 
 
 Wi’ silks an’ lace are blazing ; 
 
 An’ fooaks wi’ stands, on iwry hand. 
 
 Their different wares are praising. 
 
 A stall wi’ spice, an’ fruit sa nice, 
 
 Is standing at the corner ; 
 
 There’s orange, figs, an’ penny whigs. 
 
 An’ nuts fra Barcelona. 
 
 The best of ginger-beer’s sold here. 
 
 An’ corks do crack an’ rattle ; 
 
 ^ ^ This way, ’ ’ they cry ; ' ^ Come buy ! come buy ! 
 A penny for a bottle ! ” 
 
 A lad stands there, of money bare, ^ 
 
 Some mis-spent penny rueing ; 
 
IG 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CllAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Wi’ wistful eyes, some penny pies 
 He helplessly is viewing. 
 
 Another stands wi’ baath his hands 
 An’ mouth au daub’d wi’ toffy; 
 
 Whal them wi’ sense gah spend their pence 
 In butter’d rolls an’ coffee. 
 
 An’, farther back, there stands a (j[uack. 
 
 His drugs an’ physics vending ; 
 
 He cries his wares wi’ knawing airs. 
 
 An’ gabble nivver ending. 
 
 Full well he knows the cure and cause 
 Of fevers, fits, and ague ; 
 
 The cramp, the gout, pains in and out, 
 Eheumatics, and lumbago. 
 
 An auctioneer, wi’ voice austere. 
 
 Upon a stage is bawling ; 
 
 His teaspoons rare and Sheffield ware 
 He loudly is extolling. 
 
 He’s cast-steel saws hung u^) i’ raws. 
 
 An’ spectacles an’ caases ; 
 
 He’s purses neat, an’ razors breet. 
 
 To scrape owd men their faaces. 
 
THE FAIIl. 
 
 17 
 
 An’ plain i’ seet, down t’ side o’ t’ street, 
 
 A sliooting-booth stands ready; 
 
 There, if ye will, gah try your skill. 
 
 But mind yer hand be steady. 
 
 There ye may stay an’ shoot au t’ day. 
 
 If money ye hev got, sir ; 
 
 Then march up bold, take firmly hold, 
 
 A penny for a shot, sir ! ” 
 
 An’, farther down, i’ t’ midst o’ t’ town, 
 
 A wild beeast show is standing; 
 
 A cha^D does come, wi’ pipes an’ drum. 
 
 An’ jumps up on to t’ landing. 
 
 He cries, ‘‘We’ve coons, an’ wild baboons. 
 An’ other kinds o’ monkeys ; 
 
 We’ve t’ giraffe tall, an’ t’ wild cat small. 
 An’ two Egyptian donkeys. 
 
 “We’ve cockatoos an’ kangaroos. 
 
 An’ beasts ov ivvry natur ; 
 
 We’ve t’ tall elk-deer, an’ t’ polar bear. 
 An’ t’ wide-mouth’d alligator ; 
 
 We’ve t’ porcupine, wi’ quills sa fine, 
 
 An’ parrots famed for speech, man. 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Hollo ! I say ; roll up this way ! 
 
 It’s only twopence eacL., man!” 
 
 Beneath, yon sign they’re selling wine, 
 
 An’ ale likewise, an’ spirits ; 
 
 An’ in they gang, a jolly thrang. 
 
 To taste an’ try their merits. 
 
 They rant an’ sing whal t’ room does ring. 
 They er’ sa blythe an’ frisky ; 
 
 Then they regale wi’ pints of ale. 
 
 Or sups of gin or whisky. 
 
 Wi’ squalls an’ squeaks a fiddle speaks, 
 An’ feet begin to patter ; 
 
 They’re up in pairs, for reels or squares, 
 An’ t’ varra room does clatter. 
 
 There to an’ fro, an’ round they go, 
 
 As long as they think fitting ; 
 
 Then on a bench, their thirst to quench, 
 Wi’ glass in hand they’re sitting. 
 
 There deck’d out fine, wi’ crinoline, 
 
 The lasses they are flirting ; 
 
 They pass you by wi’ dress held high, 
 
 To show their fancy skirting. 
 
THE FAIH. 
 
 19 
 
 An’ if yo clianco at them to glance, 
 
 They, wi’ a queen-like air, sir. 
 
 Will stretch away, as if to say, 
 
 Como near me, if you dare, sir !” 
 
 A couple kind, to love inclined, 
 
 Down t’ fields are nicely walking ; 
 
 If ye git near an’ chance to hear, 
 
 On wedding they are talking. 
 
 How slow they walk ! how low they talk ! 
 An’ how she smiles an’ blushes ! 
 
 Nor thinks amiss to tack a kiss, 
 
 Behint some hawthorn bushes. 
 
 Now day is gone, an’ neet comes on. 
 
 For t’ sun i’ t’ west is sinking ; 
 
 Some tippling sots, wi’ pipes an’ pots. 
 
 In t’ taprooms still are drinking. 
 
 An’, for a lark, when it grows dark. 
 
 Some lads are thrang sweethearting ; 
 
 Whal owder fooaks, nane fond o’ jooaks, 
 For haam are fast departing. 
 
 An’ mony a yan, ba-ath lad and man, 
 
 His spendthrift folly curses, 
 
20 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 When foorc’d next day to gang away 
 Wi^ clean’ d-out empty purses. 
 
 Their money’s done ; in foolish fun, 
 
 Wi’ careless hand, they spent it ; 
 
 Then ha-am they slink, weel fill’d wi’ drink, 
 At leisure to repent it. 
 
 An’ now, I say, ye lads sa gay, 
 
 An’ lasses neat and tidy, 
 
 Whare’er ye be, whate’er ye see. 
 
 Let prudence alus guide ye. 
 
 Day after day its laws obey. 
 
 An’ follow its directions. 
 
 An’ spend this year that it will bear 
 Another year’s reflections. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE; 
 
 OR, ^‘WHARIVVER HEV YE BEEN?” 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 Whariyver hev ye been to, ye mauping owd tyke ? 
 For ye’ve grown sich a trail-tripe, I nivver saw t’ like ; 
 An’ here I’ve bin waiting, expecting ye soon. 
 
 An’ t’ supper’s bin ready an hour an’ aboon. 
 
 But it’s just like ye men — I declare ye’ve na-a thowt: 
 
HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 21 
 
 This tooast^s biu by t’ fire till it’s pined fair to nout — 
 
 Wlien ye’ll come yan can’t tell, if ye’re nobbut yance 
 ga-an ; 
 
 An’ this tea’s bin i’ t’ pot wal it’s cowd as a sta-an. 
 
 There’s na-a gittin’ a meal at t’ reight time, au’ 
 through t’ day, 
 
 For, as true as I’s here, ye’re alius away. 
 
 There’s na-a putting up wi’ ’t, ye’re grown sich a 
 ganger ; 
 
 But I’ve made up my mind ’at I’ll stand it na langer. 
 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 Now, praytha wisht, Betty — don’t mack sich a din ! 
 
 Thou macks t’ house like a bedlam, when a boddy 
 comes in ; 
 
 It’s nabody’s neck, if yan be rayther la- ate, 
 
 I’m sure it’s nowt that need set thee aga-at. 
 
 I met wi’ our Tommy, a-gangin’ past t’ Ploo, 
 
 An’ we caud in an’ gat an odd dobbin or two ; 
 
 An’, wi’ talking ower t’ markets, an’ farming, an’ 
 stock, 
 
 I gav’ it na thowt whal it struck ten o’clock ; 
 
 When I sed, ^‘Is that ten? I mun gangreight away. 
 
 Or our owd woman ’ll hev summat ta say.” 
 
22 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CllAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Sa-a I tuck uj3 my glass, an’ I drank what was in it, 
 An’ I com’ out o’ t’ house i’ less ’an a minute. 
 
 Thou’s hed nout ta do, nobbut sit at thy ease, 
 
 Sa-a let it drop, Betty ; now do, if ta please ! 
 
 WIPE. 
 
 Let it drop ? nay, not I — it wad mack ought fair mad ; 
 Ye’re grown just as rakish as ony young lad. 
 
 Ye may say what ye will, I declare it’s a sha-am 
 That an owd man like ye cannot stop ma-ar at ha-am ; 
 Owt ’at ye hev ta do ye mud do wal it’s leet. 
 
 An’ not stop out trailing whal this time o’ t’ neet. 
 
 Ye keep me up waiting here times without end. 
 
 An’ ye grow warse an’ warse, ’stead a trying ta mend; 
 But, if I sud hev ye mich ofter ta tell. 
 
 I’ll ta bed, an’ I’ll leave ye ta fend for yersel. 
 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 Now, Betty, my lass, do praytha be quiet ! 
 
 For thou drives sich a noise, an’ thou macks sich a 
 riot, 
 
 Fooaks, coming down t’ street, ’ll hear ivvrything 
 plain. 
 
 An’ they’ll say ’at yon two’s aga-at differing again. 
 
JLUSliANl) AND WIDE. 
 
 23 
 
 For tliou talks sicli a height, thou yowls, an’ thou 
 squeeaks, 
 
 Yan mud hear thee a mile an’ a hauf when ta speeaks. 
 When yan does come ha-am quiet, it wad be a capper 
 If thy tongue didn’t gang just like a bell-clapper. 
 But, t’ next time I’s out, now just let nought be said. 
 Git thy supper at t’ time, an’ march off to bed. 
 
 I can do varra weel be mesel, I don’t doubt it ; 
 
 If I can’t mack me supper, I’ll e’en gang without it. 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 That’s just what yan gits when yan’s done an yan can; 
 They’re weel ’at’s not pester’d at au wi’ a man ; — 
 Yan may sit up an’ bother, an’ nivver na eease. 
 
 An’ when yan’s done au, yan niwv^er can pleease. 
 
 Ye think yan sud humble, whatiwer ye say ; 
 
 But I tell ye, owd lad, ’at ye’ll see different play ! 
 But I’ll off ta bed, for it’s time I war tha-ar ; 
 
 If ye sit up an’ grumble au neet, I don’t ca-ar. 
 Whatiwer ye do, ye think yan sud say nout ; 
 
 But I tell ye, owd lad, ’at ye’ll find yer mistack out! 
 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 I praytha be ganging ! git out o’ me seet ! 
 
 An’ don’t stand tha-ar preaching an’ talking au neet! 
 
24 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CHAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Look as foul as ta likes, I don’t ca-ar a pin, 
 
 I’s just suit niysel wliat time I come in. 
 
 What occasion hev thou ta set up thy fa-ace ? 
 
 Thee mind thy awn business, an’ keep thy awn 
 pla-ace ! 
 
 If I hedn’t gone out, it wad just a bin t’ sa-am ; 
 
 For thou’s nivver at ease when I do stop at ha- am. 
 Thou’s alius o’ t’ grumle, thy tongue’s nivver still ; 
 I’s fair stoad wi’ t’ sound, an’ it seems thee reight ill. 
 But yan needn’t expect mich pleasure o’ life. 
 
 When yance yan gits teed to an ill-temper’ d wife ; 
 An’, ta alius put up wi’ yer queerness an’ scorn. 
 
 It wad fair mack yan wish ’at yan’d nivver bin born. 
 
 WIPE. 
 
 Nay, praya now drop it! for I’ve heeard quite enough. 
 An’ rayther too mich o’ that senseless stuff. 
 
 I think ’at ye’ve said near enough about me. 
 
 An’ I’m sure I’m not hauf as ill-natured as ye ; 
 
 For ye gang out, an’ stop out, here hour after hour. 
 An’ then ye come ha -am as surly an’ sour ; 
 
 If yan say hauf a word ’at ye don’t want ta hear. 
 Ye’re as crabb’d as a wasp, an’ ye growl like a bear. 
 
 It wad seem ye as weel if ye left yer ill-natur’ 
 
 Whar ye git au yer drink, ye ill-temper’d cratur ! 
 
ADAM .VND MAllY. 
 
 25 
 
 But tlia-ar yeUl be pleasant wi’ au ’at ye see, 
 
 An’ come ha-am an’ bring yer ill-natur’ ta me. 
 
 If I say liauf a word i’ my awn self-defence, 
 
 Ye storm like a madman, an’ talk wi’ na sense. 
 But, say wbat ye will, an’ do au ye can. 
 
 I’ll niwer be trod under foot wi’ a man : 
 
 An’ t’ next time ye gang, au ’at I bev to say 
 Is, come ha-am better temper’d, or else bide away. 
 Ye needn’t ta think I’s be ill off about ye ; 
 
 If ye niwer come back, I can put on without ye. 
 
 ADAM AND MAEY. 
 
 A STORY of truth to you I’ll relate. 
 
 Of what once occurred in the Ohio State, 
 
 Where, enjoying in peace all the comforts of life, 
 Dwelt a man they called Adam, and Mary his wife. 
 
 The priest, holy man ! he had looked in one day. 
 
 To absolve and confess, to admonish and pray ; 
 
 And, when he departed, left Mary a book. 
 
 With a charge that within it with care she must look ; 
 
 And on Friday the next he would call, he then said. 
 To ask a few things from the book she had read ; 
 
26 TOM TWISLETON’s CllAYEN POEMS. 
 
 And he said that, in truth, it would be a sin 
 If she could not answer the questions therein. 
 
 She humbly said that it was her desire. 
 
 To try and fulfil all that he should require ; 
 
 So, when he departed, she put it away, 
 
 Hesolving to read it the very next day. 
 
 But the next day, and next, had arrived and were past. 
 And the fixed-upon Friday had come at the last ; 
 
 But Mary had always neglected to look. 
 
 So she knew not a word that was writ in the book. 
 
 ^^Oh ! what shall I do she exclaimed in dismay, 
 ^^For the priest will be coming — he fixed on to-day ; 
 But if he be vexed when he happens to come, 
 
 I can win him to smiles with a glass of good rum.” 
 
 Then she went to the cupboard that stood in the nook. 
 And took out the bottle, and held it to look. 
 
 Oh ! dear, what a job I” she exclaimed in a minute. 
 For she saw that the bottle had got nothing in it. 
 
 Then Adam was straightway despatched to the store. 
 And with him the bottle, for a little drop more ; 
 With the strictest injunction he must not there stay, 
 And mind and not venture to taste on the way. 
 
ADAJkt AND MAKY. 
 
 27 
 
 But as Adam returned he made a full stop, 
 
 He thought he might venture on one single drop ; 
 
 A desire to taste it within him was growing, 
 
 And he thought he eould do it without Mary’s 
 knowing. 
 
 So he pulled out the cork, and the first drop he 
 swallowed. 
 
 And before it was long a second had followed ; 
 
 And a little bit further he made them up three. 
 
 And Adam was as drunk as he ever could be. 
 
 Then he staggered on homeward, like one half asleep. 
 Till he came to some stones that were laid on aheap; 
 And, attempting to cross them, the rum showed its 
 strength. 
 
 For he staggered, and stumbled, and lay at his length. 
 
 Then Mary, who watched his return at a distance. 
 When she saw what had happened, ran to his 
 assistance ; 
 
 And discovered, with grief and vexation unspoken, 
 That Adam was drunk, and the bottle was broken. 
 
 ^ ‘ Oh ! what shall we do, if his reverence should come ? 
 For Adam is drunk, and he’s spilt all the rum! 
 
28 TOM twisleton’s crayen poems. 
 
 But I must contrive it, and not let him see, 
 
 Or a curse he will lay upon Adam and me.’’ 
 
 While thus she was thinking, it came in her head 
 That the best place for Adam was under the bed ; 
 
 So she told him, with caution, to make little din, 
 
 And he just had crept under, when his reverence 
 came in. 
 
 With a dignified air, and a sanctified look, 
 
 He commanded poor Mary to bring him the book ; 
 And the very first thing that he ask’d her to tell 
 Was, when sin first began, and how Adam fell ? 
 
 This question so sudden, so unlooked-for came. 
 
 She was nearly o’ercome with vexation and shame; 
 And she faintly replies, while she inwardly groans. 
 That he fell on his face o’er a big heap of stones. 
 
 The priest was astonished at what Mary said. 
 
 And he thought that the book was not over well read; 
 So he ask’d her again, in a dignified drawl. 
 
 And where did he hide himself after his fall ?” 
 
 Poor Mary! this question was worst of the two — 
 
 She knew not whatever to say or to do. 
 
THE IIUNAWAY WEDDING. 
 
 29 
 
 She looked this way, and that, in confusion, and said, 
 ^ Please your reverence, IWe hidden him under the bed.’’ 
 
 The priest, in his turn, was now filled with surprise. 
 And he looked straight at Mary, with wondering eyes ; 
 Wlio rose up dismayed, and tremblingly shouted, — 
 ‘Here, Adam, come out, for he knows all about it!” 
 
 THE EUNAWAY WEHDING.^^ 
 
 I’ll tell ye a stooary, if willing ye be. 
 
 Of what, i’ my young days, yance happened to me : — * 
 Wi’ my fadher an’ mother at ha-am I did dwell. 
 
 An’ I’d nout else to do nobbut just suit mysel. 
 
 For twenty lang years our fooaks hed bin wed, 
 
 An’ I was au t’ barn ’at ivver they’d hed ; 
 
 I was petted an’ spoil’ d a good bit, I dar say. 
 
 For whatiwer I wanted I gat me awn way. 
 
 I was na-am’d like me fadher, they caud me Jack 
 Brown, 
 
 An’ a better-like lad nivver walk’d through that town. . 
 There was yan Doctor Thompson, me fadher’ s owd 
 friend, 
 
 Com’ ower to our pla-ace a few days to spend. 
 
 * Partly based on a story which appeared in CasselVs Paper. 
 
80 TOM twisleton’s ceaven poems. 
 
 An’ wi’ that owd chap there com’ a smart dowter — 
 For a bit of an out he sed he hed browt her. 
 
 Her age was eighteen, an’ her na-am it was Mary, 
 She wasn’t bad-looldng, but just the contrary ; 
 
 For her waist it was slender, an’ her fa-ace it was fair. 
 An’ down on her shoulders, in curls, hung her hair ; 
 Wi’ her fine rosy cheeks, an’ her sparkling een. 
 
 She was t’ bonniest lass that I ivver hed seen. 
 
 She seemed like some angel sent down fra above, 
 
 An’ at t’ varra first seet I was smitten wi’ love. 
 
 Sich queer sensations did ower me creep, 
 
 I was clean out o’ fettle for itting or sleep. 
 
 An’ what was my ailment our fooaks couldn’t tell, 
 An’ I hardly knew what I was doing myseh 
 Whariwer I went I was thinking about her. 
 
 Till it com’ i’ my heead I could do nout without her. 
 Well, the varra first chance, I tell’d her an this. 
 
 An’ she didn’t seem vext, or to tack it amiss ; 
 
 I hardly durst tell her, I was fiay’d t’ wad a teas’d her, 
 Then guess my delight when I saw ’at it pleas’d her. 
 It was useless my joy to disguise or to cover. 
 
 When she tell’d me ’at I was her accepted lover, 
 Sa-a I swa-ar that I wadn’t desert her,' — no, nivver, 
 An’ she said i’ return she’d be faithful for ivver. 
 
THE RUNAWAY WEDDING. 
 
 31 
 
 But soon slie mud leave me, for short was their stay, 
 Aii^ I felt just like crying when she’d gone away. 
 
 Sa lang an’ sa cheerless the days seemed to he. 
 
 That yan day was like hauf-a-dozen to me. 
 
 I maup’d up an’ down, depress’d an’ downhearted. 
 An’ an seem’d amiss sin’ my darling departed ; 
 
 But still, unsuspected we managed to meet. 
 
 For a-cooarting I went iwry Setter day neet ; 
 
 An’ my joy was sa big ’at my wits near hed flown, 
 AVhen I gat her to say she’d be Mrs. John Brown. 
 But we sed, to t’ owd fooaks we wadn’t explain it, 
 We were young, an’ we thowt ’at they mud be again it ; 
 She was nobbut eighteen, an’ me under twenty. 
 
 But we thowt to wirsels we were owd enough plent}^ 
 We’d made up wir minds to be wedded by t’ sly. 
 
 An’ to mack ’em na wiser whal t’ time hed gone b}”; 
 An’, if they were vex’d when t’ secret was spht. 
 
 We hedn’t mich doubt but they’d mend in a bit. 
 
 We agreed tha-ar an’ then ’at t’ next Wednesday neet 
 Was a likely time, for t’ moon wad give leet ; 
 
 An’ I mud com ower about t’ hour o’ three. 
 
 An’ she wad be ready at t’ sa-am time as me ; 
 
 An’ then to a parson we’d gang for wir life, 
 
 An’ befoor owt could stop us be made man an’ vdfe. 
 
32 TOM twisleton’s crayen poems. 
 
 Well, a Wednesday neet, wlien they’d an gone to bed, 
 I drest mysel up i’ grand style to be wed, — 
 
 I’d a swallow-tail’ d cooat, too big by a part. 
 
 But as it was ancient I tbowt it was smart ; 
 
 Though i’ truth it was not a bit suited to me. 
 
 For t’ tails were sa lang they hung down below t’ knee ; 
 It hed a breet button just under each showder ; 
 
 It was r eight for a man about fifty years owder. 
 
 I’d a stiffly-starch’d dicky — it look’d smart, did that ; 
 A pair o’ top boots, and a sugar-loaf hat ; 
 
 To my breast hung a watchguard, wi’ glittering span. 
 An’ I thowt, i’ my pride, ’at I look’d like a man. 
 When I’d made mysel sartin they au were asleep. 
 Fra the ha-am o’ my parents I softly did creep ; 
 
 An’ I went at the top o’ my speed, without baiting. 
 Till I com’ to the house whar my darling was waiting.- 
 T’ sky it was cloudy, an’ au to my liking. 
 
 An’ as I drew near I heeard three was striking ; 
 
 An’ when up the garden I softly was creeping. 
 
 Fra t’ oppen room window I spied my love peeping.- 
 Then to her assistance I fetch’d a short ladder. 
 
 She sed, ^ ^ Mack a lile noise or ye’ll wacken my fadder.” 
 Then she crept softly out, an’ she swiftly descended, 
 An’ wi’ wide oppen arms I received my intended. 
 
THE IIUNAWAY WEDDING. 
 
 33 
 
 Now, Mary’s next sister her na-am it was Bess, 
 
 She was varra like Mary, but younger, an’ less ; 
 Whariwer she went, mischief danced in her een ; 
 
 She was t’ wildest lile monkey ’at iwer was seen ; 
 
 An’ tha-ar, by the window, she smiling did stand, 
 
 An’ a bundle o’ cla-as she held in her hand. 
 
 Now, thraw us that bundle — ^be sharp,” Mary cried ; 
 To this, with a loud, scornful laugh, Bess replied. 
 ^‘Now, Bessie,” said Mary, ^^do praytha be quiet. 
 Thou’ 11 wacken au t’ house if thou don’t drop that riot. 
 Oh, what sail we do if my fadder sud hear !” 
 
 An’ she turned white as snaw, an’ she trembled wi’ 
 fear. 
 
 Then I said, Leave that bundle, an’ na ma-ar noise 
 about it;” 
 
 An’ we just hed turned round to set off without it. 
 When a voice out o’ t’ room cried What means au 
 that talking ? ” 
 
 An^ a heead^'aii’’ a*^ neetcap ‘ through t’ window com’ - 
 poking! . y 
 
 We stood fix’d o’^t’ spot, 'as" if ’bun' wi^' a spell,:"' " • """ 
 For *we' knew fit was owd Doctor Tompson hisser; 
 
 That imp of a'iBessie"Ked teff’d liim 'au t’ plet,'^ ' ' - 
 
 An’ he’d been on* t’ lobk-out befoor'T gat tofi’ spotr^’"' 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 TOM TWISLETOn’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 He’d crept into t’ room wi’ ca-ar an’ wi’ caution, 
 
 An’ he’d heeard iwry word, an’ he’d watch’d iwry 
 motion. 
 
 ^^Now, Bessie, don’t tease thy sister,” he shouted. 
 But give her her bundle, an’ look sharp about it ; 
 Thou sudn’t a plagued ’em i’ this way,” he sed; 
 
 They’re off in a hurry, they want to be wed.” 
 
 ‘‘An’ whar ar ye gahing to live. Jack,” he cried; 
 
 “I really can’t tell ye,” I faintly replied. 
 
 “Well,” says he, “ I niwer heeard sich a ta-al i’ my 
 life, 
 
 Thou’s a nice man to want owt wi’ a wife ; 
 
 To run off at this time o’ neet to be wed. 
 
 An’ hes nayther money, nor house, nor a bed. 
 
 Ay ! thou’s a nice man to 'want owt wi’ a wife,” 
 
 He shouted again, an’ he laugh’d for his life. 
 
 T’ sky, au through t’ neet, hed been owercast an’ 
 clouded. 
 
 An’ t’ moon hed behint their dark masses been 
 shrouded ; 
 
 But they started au t’ sudden a clearing away. 
 
 An’ t’ moon com’ out splendid, as leet near as day; 
 An’ things befoor hidden i’ t’ shadows o’ neet, 
 
 Sen it becom clearer whar au plain i’ seet ; 
 
• THE RUNAWAY WEDDING. 
 
 35 
 
 An’ t’ noise ’at we made wackened them at was 
 sleeping, 
 
 An’, to see what was up, they to t’ windows com’ 
 peeping. 
 
 An’ tha-ar, a deal plainer than owt I desired. 
 
 They spied me thus oddly, thus strangely attired ; 
 An’ then what a shout my poor ears did assail, 
 
 Yan cried, ‘‘What a hat!” an’ yan cried, “What a 
 tail!” 
 
 An’ their shouts an’ their laughter grew louder and 
 stranger, 
 
 Till-it gat to that pitch I could stand it na langer ; 
 But, fairly owercome wi’ vexation an’ sha-am, 
 
 I tuck to my heels i’ t’ direction of ha-am. 
 
 “Mind, don’t breck thy neck, lad, there,” some on 
 ’em cried ; 
 
 Some shouted, “ Come back for thy bundle an’ bride.” 
 Fra their noise, like a ha-ar fra the hunters, I fled. 
 An’ befoor it was lang, I was ha-am an’ i’ bed ; 
 
 An’ I vowed I’d ne’er meddle wi’ t’ women again. 
 For they caused nout but trouble to me, that was 
 plain ; 
 
 An’ I’ve manfully stood by my vow to this day, 
 
 For befoor I wad meet yan I’d turn out o’ t’ way. 
 
36 TOM twisleton’s craven poems. 
 
 Now lissen, ye lads, an’ tack my advice ; 
 
 Don’t meddle wi’ t’ lasses, though iwer sa nice. 
 
 But first ex yer mother, an then do her bidding ; 
 
 Remember Jack Brown an’ his Runaway Wedding. 
 
 JOHNNY BLAND, THE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 COMPOSED FOR, AND RECITED AT SETTLE TEMPERANCE FESTIVAL, 
 CHRISTMAS, 1865. 
 
 A BLACKSMITH strang was Johnny Bland, 
 
 He wrought within a smiddy; 
 
 Wi’ his girt hammer in his hand. 
 
 He used to bump the stiddy. 
 
 lie was a chap of girt renown, 
 
 A chap weel knawn to ony ; 
 
 Na-a other blacksmith i’ the town 
 Could shoe a horse like Johnny. 
 
 He was a chap of giant length. 
 
 He stood up like a steeple ; 
 
 He was a chap of giant strength. 
 
 Compared wi’ other people. 
 
 He was a brick to rant and fight, 
 
 Na-an liked wi’ him to quarrel ; 
 
 And yet, wi’ au his power .and mighty— 
 
 ^JHe bowed befoor^-a barrels 
 
JOHNNY BLAND, THE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 When iieet drew on her dusky veil, 
 His hammer ceas’d to clatter ; 
 
 He’d gang an’ can for pints of ale, 
 
 Or else for gin an’ watter. 
 
 An’ tha-ar, wi’ liis grim, sooty fa-ace, 
 He’d swear, an’ drink, an’ riot ; 
 
 An’ na-a policeman in the pla-ace 
 Durst try to mack him quiet. 
 
 Or wi’ a lot o’ worthy mates. 
 
 Some wondrous ta-al relating. 
 
 They’d sagely wag their rusty pates. 
 Some question fine debating. 
 
 Oft Johnny to his feet did start. 
 
 And brandishing a bottle. 
 
 Cry, ‘‘Lanlord, fill another quart! 
 We’ll niwer be teetotal.” 
 
 Now Johnny Bland he hed a wife. 
 
 Ye seldom see her marra ; 
 
 Yet she, poor woman, hed a life 
 Like a ta-ad beneath a harrow. 
 
 She was ba-ath thin an’ poorly drest, 
 Good cla-as she stood girt need on ; 
 
 An’ warse be far than au the rest. 
 
 She oft hed lile to feed on. 
 
38 TOM TWISLETON^S CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 She was a clever, thrifty wife, 
 
 Hed he but reightly used her ; 
 
 But au through this their wedded life. 
 
 He sa-arly hed abused her. 
 
 He play’d sa weel a tyrant’s part, 
 
 A cruel, harden’d sinner ! 
 
 She pined away ; her varra heart 
 Was broken down within her. 
 
 An’ Johnny hed a lot o’ barns, — 
 
 He used to treat ’em shocking ; 
 
 They ran about au specks an’ darns, 
 Without a shoe or stocking. 
 
 Asteead o’ learning what was reight. 
 
 They war an awful sample ; 
 
 They learned to swear, an’ brawl, an’ feight 
 They followed his example. 
 
 There com’ a chap yan efternoon, 
 Inquiring efter J ohnny ; 
 
 His cla-as were cloth, an’ ba-ath his shoon 
 Were black’d an’ sha-an reight bonny. 
 
 Tha-ar Johnny stood, an’ his girt hand 
 Again his ribs he planted. 
 
 An’ tell’d him he was Johnny Bland, 
 
 An’ ext him what he wanted. 
 
JOHNNY BLAND, THE BLACKSMITH. 
 
 39 
 
 Tlie stranger spack liim mild an’ fair, — 
 I am a temperance man ; 
 
 I come to bid ye all beware, 
 
 And try another plan. 
 
 Strong drink it is a deadly curse, 
 
 A foe to joy and gladness ; 
 
 It ruins health, it robs the purse. 
 
 And fiUs your homes with sadness.” 
 
 Then Johnny turned his heead away, 
 An’ said, ‘‘I tell ye plain. 
 
 If that be au ye hev to say 
 Ye’d best gang back again ; 
 
 I’ve heeard sich stuff as that befoor. 
 
 But hed ma-ar sense than heed it ; 
 
 Sa-a now ye’d best walk off to t’ door;” 
 But still the stranger pleaded. 
 
 He tell’d him of his evil ways. 
 
 Of wife an’ barns neglected. 
 
 An’ how they mud see happier days. 
 
 An’ au become respected. 
 
 The truth struck ha- am to Johnny now. 
 His ee began to glisten ; 
 
 Wi’ his rough hand he wiped his brow. 
 An’ stopt his wark to listen. 
 
TOM TWISLETOI^’S CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 The stranger bid him snap the chain, 
 Which in its links hed twined him, 
 
 An’ nivver touch or ta-ast again. 
 
 But cast the cup behind him. 
 
 Then Johnny said, I hev been wrang, 
 I frankly own my blunder ; 
 
 IVe been a slave to drink ower lang. 
 I’ll break my bonds asunder.” 
 
 Now Johnny’s ceas’d to be a fool, 
 
 An’ left off gin an’ whisky ; 
 
 His barns, like others, gang to school. 
 An’ na-an ma-ar fair an’ frisky. 
 
 An’ what a change is wi’ his wife ! 
 
 But ’tis a change for t’ better ; 
 
 I hardly think, upon my life, 
 
 Ye’d ken her if ye met her. 
 
 Asteead o’ gowns which look as though 
 They hed bin chew’d wi’ t’ rattens. 
 
 She can turn out wi’ t’ best, an’ show 
 Her muslins and her satins. 
 
 Her ha^am is now a tidy pla-ace. 
 
 An’ kept in ample order ; 
 
 She wears a happy, smiling fa-ace, 
 Beneath a smart cap border. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 
 
 41 
 
 Ye drinkers, come an’ sign yer na-ain, 
 Wi’ full determination ; 
 
 An’ pray for strength, when ye git ha- am. 
 To keep ye fra temptation. 
 
 Mack up yer minds to cast away 
 Ba-ath pe wter pint an’ bottle ; 
 
 Ye’ll find ye’ll niwer rue the day 
 Ye com’ to sign teetotal. 
 
 Ye maybe say drink macks ye strung. 
 
 Ye cannot wark without it ; 
 
 I beg to say I think ye’re wrung ; 
 
 That’s t’ lang an’ short about it. 
 
 There’s mony a yan who ne’er drank ale. 
 Or rum, or gin an’ watter. 
 
 Can stoutly wield a spade or flail, 
 
 Or mack a stiddy clatter. 
 
 THE OHEISTMAS PAETY. 
 
 When coud December’s sturdy breeze 
 In chimley-tops did grumble, 
 
 Or, tearing through the leafless trees, 
 On lang dark neets did rumble ; 
 
TOM TWISLETON^S CRAVEN- POEMS. 
 
 A lot o’ young fooaks, smart an’ gay, 
 
 An’ owd ans, free an’ hearty, 
 
 Agreed amang thersels ’at they 
 Wad hev a Christmas party 
 
 At ha-am some neet. 
 
 They kicked up sich a fuss an’ spread. 
 
 And made sich preparations — 
 
 They ba-ak’d grand tarts, an’ mix’d their 
 breead 
 
 Wi’ spices fra au nations, — 
 
 To drive away ba-ath want an’ cowd 
 It seem’d their inclination ; 
 
 An’ t’ nebors round, ba-ath young an’ owd, 
 Au gat an invitation 
 
 To gang yan neet. 
 
 Smart sprigs o’ spruce an’ ivy green 
 Were fra the ceiling hinging. 
 
 An’ in their midst, conspicuous seen. 
 
 The misaltoe was swinging. 
 
 The lamp sha-an forth as clear as day, 
 
 An’ nought was tha-ar neglected ; 
 
 An’ t’ happy smiling fa-aces say. 
 
 Some company is expected 
 
 To come this neet.” 
 
TUE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 
 
 An’ first com’ Moll wi’ girt lang Jack, 
 
 A strapping, good-like fellow. 
 
 An’ following clooasly at their back 
 Com’ Bob and Isabella. 
 
 With “ How’s yersel?” an’ How d’ye do 
 They sit down i’ their pla-aces. 
 
 Till room sa big, an through an’ through, 
 Wi’ happy smiling fa-aces 
 
 Was filled that neet. 
 
 A merrier lot than this I na-am 
 Ne’er met at ony party — 
 
 An girt grand balls they put to sha-am, 
 They were sa gay an’ hearty. 
 
 Here yan hed made hersel quite fine, 
 
 Wi’ la-ace an’ braid’s assistance ; 
 
 An’ tha-ar a girt grand crinoline. 
 
 To keep t’ lads at a distance. 
 
 Stood out that neet. 
 
 The lads draw up to t’ fire their chairs, . 
 
 An’ merrily pass the jokes off ; 
 
 The lasses au slip off upstairs, 
 
 • To pu’ their hats an’ cloaks off. 
 
44 
 
 TOM TWISLETON^S CKAYEN POEMS. 
 
 Befoor a glass that hings at t’ side 
 They au tack up their station ; 
 
 An’ think within thersels, wi’ pride, 
 They’ll cause a girt sensation 
 
 ’Mang t’ lads that neet. 
 
 An’ now their lusty Christmas cheer 
 Is brout out for t’ occasion ; 
 
 To pies an’ tarts, an’ beef an’ beer. 
 
 They get an invitation ; 
 
 An’ some, in tune to put it by. 
 
 Play havoc on each dainty, 
 
 Whal some there is, sa varra shy, 
 
 Sca-arce let thersels hev plenty 
 To itt that neet. 
 
 Against the host of good things tha-ar 
 They wage an awful battle ; 
 
 They’re crying out, ‘‘A lile bit ma-ar!” 
 An’ plates an’ glasses rattle. 
 
 Here yan’s na-a time a word to pass, 
 Thrang supping an’ thrang biting ; 
 
 There, simpering, sits a girt soft lass. 
 That waits for mich inviting 
 
 An’ fuss that neet. 
 
THE CUKISTMAS TARTY. 
 
 45 
 
 All’ when this good substantial fare 
 Has gi’n ’em satisfaction, 
 
 Tliey side an t’ chairs, an’ stand i’ pairs, 
 
 Wi’ heels i’ tune for action. 
 
 See-sawing, t’ fiddler now begins 
 The best that he is able ; 
 
 He rosins t’ stick an’ screws up t’ pins, 
 
 An’ jumps up on to t’ table 
 
 To play that neet. 
 
 Tha-ar, back an’ forrad, in an’ out, 
 
 His elbow it gahs tilting ; 
 
 An’ to an’ fro, an’ round about. 
 
 The dancers they are lilting. 
 
 Some dance wi’ ease in splendid style, 
 
 Wi’ tightly-fitting togs on ; 
 
 AVhal others bump about au t’ while, 
 
 Like drainers wi’ their clogs on, 
 
 Sa-a numb’d that neet. 
 
 An’ when they’ve reel’d an’ danc’d their fling, 
 Their* chairs au rbund^are ranged fy" 
 
 They tell droll ta-als^they laugfi, th^y sing. 
 And .jokes ' are interchanged. 
 
46 TOM TWISLETON^S CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 A merry tune t’ girt kettle sings, 
 
 An’ t’ fire is blazing breetly ; 
 
 Wi’ cbeerful din t’ owd farmbouse rings, 
 An’ hours fiy ower them sweetly 
 
 An’ swift that neet. 
 
 T’ owd women preach an’ talk about 
 Their cla-as being owd an’ rotten. 
 
 An’ still bein’ foorc’d to speck an’ clout. 
 It’s sich a price is cotton, 
 
 T’ owd men sit round, wi’ pipe an’ glass. 
 In earnest conversation ; 
 
 On t’ ways an’ means o’ saving brass. 
 
 An’ t’ rules an’ t’ laws o’ t’ nation. 
 They talk that neet. 
 
 Now girt lang Jack, that lives on t’ moor, 
 Wi’ cunning an’ wi’ caution. 
 
 Is beckoning Moll to gang to t’ door, 
 
 Wi’ sly, mischievous motion. 
 
 Moll tacks the hint, nor thinks it wrang. 
 Her heart that way inclining; 
 
 She says to t’ rest she thinks she’ll gang 
 To see if t’ stars are shining 
 
 Out clear that neet. 
 
THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 
 
 47 
 
 Then down a field they tack a walk, 
 
 An’ then they wend their way back ; 
 
 To hev a bit o’ pleasant talk 
 They shelter under t’ haystack. 
 
 She did not say For shame!” not she, 
 Though oft-times Johnny kiss’d her; 
 
 She said she just wad run an’ see 
 If t’ other fooaks had missed her 
 
 Fra t’ room that neet. 
 
 A chap that hed two watchful een. 
 
 Of which they waren’t thinking. 
 
 When peeping round that neet hed seen 
 Long Jack at Molly winking. 
 
 Says he, Now’s t’ time to hev a stir ; 
 Let’s just gang out an’ watch her. 
 
 We’s hev some famous fun wi’ her. 
 
 If we can nobbut catch her 
 
 Wi’ him this neet. 
 
 Then two or three, bent on a spree. 
 
 Out to the door gang thunging ; 
 
 But hauf a yard they sca-arce could see. 
 It was as dark as dungeon. 
 
48 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Jack hears their footsteps coming slow, 
 
 An’ fra her side he slinks off ; 
 
 E-uns round t’ house end, jumps ower a wa’. 
 An’ up ower t’ knee i’ t’ sink-trough 
 He splash’d that neet. 
 
 Now, ye young men, be who ye may, 
 
 That’s bent on fun an’ sporting, 
 
 Whare’er ye be, by neet or day, 
 
 Bern ember Jack’s misfortan. 
 
 Though things unlooked for on ye creep. 
 Don’t do ought in a splutter ; 
 
 But learn to look befoor ye leap. 
 
 Lest ye in some deep gutter 
 
 Stick fast some neet. 
 
 THE BACHELOE. 
 
 Behold him issuing fra yon den. 
 
 In his owd filthy garment ; 
 
 Despised 'Of wbme'n, shunn’d' by ineiip ' 
 
 A prey to flea's 'and vat'friint.' ^ ^ 
 
 Eor w^eks he he’ei’ ha"s'wesh"’d"hi§ 
 
 His hair he ne^feV ptitfe comb llif 'I 
 
THE BACHELOR. 
 
 49 
 
 Wi’ dogged looks, fra pla-ace to pla-ace 
 He cheerlessly is roaming 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 Na-a cheerful hearth, na-a fireside breet — 
 A pictur’ ma-ast delighting — 
 
 Shines in his gloomy cot at neet. 
 
 His ha-amward steps inviting. 
 
 Na-a thrifty wife, wi’ queenlike pride. 
 
 Sits tha-ar and plies her knitting ; 
 
 Tha-ar, by his dull and dark fireside. 
 
 He all forlorn is sitting 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 Come on wi^ me an’ view his cot. 
 
 His ha-am, his habitation ; 
 
 Mark weel the lone man’s dreary lot. 
 
 His cheerless situation. 
 
 Tha-ar meeat hauf cook’d in mucky. pan. 
 He swallows for subsistence : 
 
 It can’t be said, Here lives a man ! ” 
 
 But yan drags out existence 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 Mark weel his bed, ba-ath stock and post, 
 His blanket an’ his sheet ; 
 
 D 
 
50 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Yon heap o’ duds, in uproor tost, 
 Sarves for a bed at neet. 
 
 He doesn’t tack the thowt an’ care 
 To spread his rags about ; 
 
 But, like a fox, into his lair 
 Creeps in whar he crept out, 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 Exposed to coud, exposed to damps, 
 Wi’ smook an’ muck well scented ; 
 
 Wi’ rheumatism, pains, and cramps. 
 
 He hourly is tormented. * 
 
 To four ba-ar wa’s he may complain, 
 Na-a living soul comes near him ; 
 
 Tha-ar he may roll an’ gra-an wi’ pain. 
 There’s na-a kind wife to cheer him, 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 Of au the troubles, girt an’ sma’, 
 
 That harass and distress man, — 
 
 Of au the evils that befa’. 
 
 To punish and oppress man, — 
 
 Of au the ills that curse his lot. 
 
 The warst that I can tell 
 
EPISTLE TO W- 
 
 L 
 
 51 
 
 Is, to be sliiit in some dark cot 
 To live tlia-ar by liissel, 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 Of an the sluts that e’er were seen 
 To slop through muck an’ watter, 
 
 Wi’ hair an hinging ower their een, 
 
 An’ cla-as au rag an’ tatter — 
 
 Or any ill-tongued, scolding shrew 
 Ye chance to hear or see — 
 
 Give me the warst amang the crew, 
 Befoor I’ll live an’ dee 
 
 A Bachelor. 
 
 EPISTLE TO W L . 
 
 Dear Billy, 
 
 Wi’ pen in hand, yance ma-ar I sit, 
 An’ set my mind to wark a bit. 
 
 To conjure up a letter. 
 
 I feel i’ famous tune for t’ job. 
 
 The ready words rise to my gob 
 
 As fast as they can clatter. 
 
 
52 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s (kAVEN POEMS. 
 
 But, Billy, lad, in truth I doubt 
 IVe varra lile to write about 
 
 That will ye interest ; 
 
 For now-a-days, whare’er I gang, 
 
 It’s still the sa-am dark, mournful sang — 
 The plague, the rinderpest. 
 
 I’m glad to say, at Winskill here, 
 
 We fra the plague hev yet kept clear ; 
 
 But down at Cleatop Park, 
 
 An’ Gildersleets, an’ Earmill Green, 
 
 An’ other spots whar it hes been. 
 
 It hes made awful wark. 
 
 Girt talk is stirring now-a-days 
 About the Irish an’ their ways — 
 
 The base, ungrateful craturs ! 
 Fooaks seem to think befoor it’s lang 
 There’U be an army, fierce an’ strang, 
 
 Of Fenian conspirators. 
 
 They laugh and say we volunteers 
 Will drop our crest and hing our ears 
 
 When t’ Fenian banner waves. 
 
EPISTLE TO W- 
 
 L- 
 
 53 
 
 They say we’s drop ba-ath belt an’ gun, 
 An’ off as fast as wo can run, 
 
 An’ hide in woods an’ caves. 
 
 But is there ony base-born slink 
 Who’d see owd England’s flagstaff sink. 
 An’ au her glory fade ? 
 
 Who’d see her foes approaching near, 
 
 Wi’ gun an’ bayonet, pike an’ spear, 
 
 An’ not come forth to aid ? 
 
 If sich there be, whose coward shanks 
 Hes wheeled an’ march’d amang our ranks. 
 He weel desarves our scorn ; 
 He’s but a traitor an’ a slave. 
 
 Who will not feight — a hero brave — 
 
 For t’ land whar he was born. 
 
 But ye’re akin, I’ve heeard ye say, 
 
 To them who live in huts of clay 
 
 An’ cabins made o’ logs ; 
 
 Ye knaw ye’ve swagger’d oft to me 
 Yer girt grandsire com’ ower the sea. 
 
 Fra Tipperary bogs. 
 
TOM TWISLETON’S CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 But that’s au nowt ; I mack na-a doubt 
 But ye, a Briton, staunch and stout. 
 
 Like me, condemn their cause ; 
 And boldly plead owd England’s reight. 
 An’, if ’t be needed, stoutly feight 
 
 For our good Queen an’ laws. 
 
 I chanced yan neet to toddle down 
 To hear what raps at Langcliffe town, 
 
 An’ see a few owd friends ; 
 
 An’ when I landed ha-am that neet. 
 
 There Harry sat, with outstretch’d feet, 
 
 To warm his girt ta-a ends. 
 
 I’d hardly time to fassen t’ door. 
 
 When up he jumpt an’ on to t’ floor 
 As lish as ony cat ; 
 
 An’ whal I glower’d like, rayther capt. 
 
 He in my hand yer likeness clapt. 
 
 An’ said, Does thou ken that?” 
 
 I gox it tuck me by surprise, 
 
 I hardly could believe my eyes 
 
 When I beheld the fact ; 
 
EPISTLE TO W- 
 
 L 
 
 55 
 
 Yer lofty brow, sa bold an’ fair, 
 
 Yer een, yer free-an’-easy air, 
 
 AVere pictured tha-ar exact. 
 
 By George ! Bill, bow thy whisker grows ! 
 
 A black moustache beneath thy nose. 
 
 An’ on thy chin a beard! 
 
 Thou knocks me fairly out o’ pla-ace. 
 
 For on my brown an’ weel tann’d fa- ace 
 Na-a hair hes yet appear’d. 
 
 Still smooth an’ lass-like is my skin, 
 
 Na-a beard appears upon my chin, 
 
 Nor yet beneath my lug ; 
 
 At yan an’ twenty, I declare, 
 
 My fa-ace is just as free fra hair 
 As t’ outside of a jug. 
 
 But down each side of Harry’s fa-ace 
 A line of whiskers ye may tra-ace. 
 
 They shine i’ t’ sun sa yallow. 
 Tha-ar on his cheeks in pride they grow. 
 
 Like two lile bits o’ curly tow 
 
 Greas’d ower wi’ warm beef tallow. 
 
56 
 
 TOM TWISLETON’s CBAYEN POEMS. 
 
 A chap like him ye seldom meet, — 
 
 Whal t’ fire gangs out near ivvry neet 
 He sits just like a stock ; 
 
 Tha-ar ower a book his noa-as he hings, 
 
 An’ reads of ancient bards an’ kings 
 
 Whal it strikes yan o’clock. 
 
 Then, shivering, up to bed he’ll creep, 
 Whar I’s laid snug an’ warm asleep. 
 
 His feet like lumps o’ ice ; 
 
 An’ when yan’s laid wi’ snug warm skin, 
 An’ he rolls his cowd carcase in. 
 
 It doesn’t feel sa nice. 
 
 Ye’re still a single chap, I guess, 
 
 Ye manage to keep out o’ t’ mess — 
 
 I mean the wedded life. 
 
 If ye be wise, ye’ll bide a bit — 
 
 Ye’d rue it sa-arwere ye to git 
 
 A crabb’d, ill-temper’d wife. 
 
 But if ye fa’ owerheead i’ love. 
 
 An’ t’ lass should kind and gentle prove, 
 
 Wi’ na-a queer ways about her ; 
 
EPISTLE TO W- 
 
 L- 
 
 57 
 
 Ye’d maybe leead a happier life, 
 
 Were ye to tack her for your wife, 
 
 Than what ye wad without her. 
 
 If that’s the ca-ase, then fix the lock 
 Befoor the priest, in his white smock, 
 
 Yer wedding vows declare; 
 
 An’ while the bells, in merry peals, 
 
 Eing till the steeple fairly reels, 
 
 Leead ha-am yer darling fair. 
 
 Yer clooasest secrets let her know. 
 
 An’ share wi’ her yer joy an’ woe — ■ 
 
 She’ll cheer yer daily toil ; 
 
 For, when dark troubles vex the mind. 
 What can cast ivvry cloud behind 
 
 Like woman’s cheerful smile? 
 
 Then, now ye’re sattled down for life, 
 
 Wi’ ways an’ means to keep a wife. 
 
 Ye’d maybe best git wed; 
 
 Ye knaw yan fire for ba-ath wad do, 
 
 An’ there’ d be room enough for two 
 To sleep baath in a bed. 
 
TOM TWISLETON’s CEAVEN POEMS. 
 
 I’ll hasten now to end my sang, 
 
 In hopes that ye, befoor it’s long. 
 
 Will send a lile epistle. 
 
 Sa-a now, yance ma-ar, good bye, owd buck ; 
 I’ll wish ye health, an’ t’ best of luck, 
 
 Whal I hev wind to whistle. 
 
 CHUECH GANGING. 
 
 Yan Sabbath day, in summer time. 
 
 When leaves were green an’ flowers smelt 
 prime, 
 
 An’ lile birds rais’d a din, 
 
 I chanced to pass a house of prayer. 
 
 That rear’d its steeple in the air, 
 
 As fooaks were gangin’ in. 
 
 Ba-ath young an’ owd, an’ rich an’ poor. 
 
 In mackin’ for the oppen door. 
 
 An in a thrang did mix ; 
 
 Some strod in pride, like king or queen. 
 Some tripp’d like fairies ower the green. 
 Some totter’d in on sticks. 
 
 I stood an’ watch’d ’em walking in. 
 
 To hear of future woe for sin. 
 
 An’ bliss for t’ just an’ wise ; 
 
CHURCH GANGING. 
 
 59 
 
 An’ whal I glower’d wi’ vacant stare, 
 
 An’ watch’d ’em enter t’ house of prayer, 
 Strange thowts began to rise. 
 
 I ex’d mysel, What is it brings 
 Yon mingled group of human things, 
 
 That fra their houses come ? 
 Do they come here to sing an’ pray. 
 
 An’ to the priest attention pay?” 
 
 Answer says, ^‘Nobbut some.” 
 
 There’s yan smart Miss, in gay attire. 
 
 In hopes to mack ’em au admire. 
 
 Her varra best she’ll don ; 
 
 An’ yan sits near, whose wandering ee 
 Is peeping up an’ down to see 
 
 What sich a yan hes on. 
 
 An’ yan comes in wi’ waving hair, 
 
 Put up wi’ iwry art and care, 
 
 Beneath a fancy bonnet ; 
 
 She hopes to turn au een that way. 
 
 For it’s ba-ath new, an’ smart, an’ gay, 
 
 Wi’ artificials on it. 
 
 An’ yan comes in wi’ haughty stride. 
 
 His heart puffed up wi’ empty pride. 
 
 He thinks na-an like hissel ; 
 
TOM TWISLETON’s CKAYEN POEMS. 
 
 He hesn’t come in here this day 
 To join his voice wi’ them that pray, 
 
 But just to cut a swell. 
 
 An’ some, bent down as if in prayer, 
 
 Ower t’ top o’ t’ pew, wi’ careless stare, 
 
 Do nought but squint an’ sken ; 
 To words of truth they pay na-a heed, 
 
 They feel as if fra prison freed 
 
 When t’ clerk says t’ last Amen. 
 
 An’ then, again, there’s some who gang, 
 
 Wi’ solemn looks an’ fa-aces lang. 
 
 To sing the sang of praise ; 
 Who wear religion as a cloak. 
 
 To hide fra unsuspecting folk 
 
 Their cunning, roguish ways. 
 
 Au t’ sarvice through, wi’ pious looks. 
 
 They hing their fa-aces ower their books. 
 They act the saint right well ; 
 On holy things they seem intent. 
 
 While au the time, to save a cent. 
 
 They’d cheat t’ owd lad hissel. 
 
 There’s some, na doubt — ^but, ah! a few — 
 Who gang, wi’ hearts sincer’ an’ true. 
 
 To worship heaven’s high King ; 
 
’bacca smooking. 
 
 Who liumbly kneel befoor the throne, 
 And in return for mercies shown, 
 
 Their heartfelt praises sing. 
 
 ’BACCA SMOOKING. 
 
 Yan winter’s day, as I walked out, 
 
 I sah a chap, ba-ath strang an’ stout. 
 
 Come wa-ading through the snaw ; 
 He grasp’d a cudgel stout an’ strang. 
 An’, as he trudged the rooad alang. 
 
 His ’bacca he did blaw. 
 
 An’ as I watch’d him turn the nook. 
 Enveloped in the cloud o’ smook 
 
 That round his heead did thicken ; 
 I pondered deeply in my mind, 
 
 What joy he in the pipe could find 
 
 That in his mouth was stickin’. 
 
 For meet that man whene’er ye may, 
 
 Be ’t summer time or winter’s day, 
 
 Ye’re sure to see him smoking ; 
 Wi’ his black pipe beneath his snout 
 He thraws girt clouds o’ reek about, 
 
 Just like a chimley walking. 
 
TOM TWISLETON’s CRAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Last tiling ere lie retires to rest, 
 
 First thing as soon as he is drest, 
 
 The pipe niun hev a turn ; 
 
 An’ efter iwry meal he gits, 
 Grave-looking as a judge he sits, 
 
 His Indian weed to burn. 
 
 Though he of good substantial stuff 
 Hes itten till he’s hed enough, 
 
 He feels there’s summat wrang ; 
 Till fra the chimley-piece he brings 
 The queerest of invented things — 
 
 A pipe near two foot lang. 
 
 Then up to t’ fire his chair he draws, 
 
 An’ for his ’bacca-pot he cans. 
 
 An’ puffs wi’ might an’ main; 
 While t’ stifling vapour curls an’ creeps. 
 As mist alang the mountain sweeps 
 When it’s bin heavy rain. 
 
 Week efter week, an’ never miss, 
 
 In nasty stinking stuff like this 
 His money he will war ; 
 
 While if some beggar, fill’d wi’ grief. 
 Com’ up to him to crave relief. 
 
 He’d say he’d nowt to spar’. 
 
^BACCA SMOOKING. 
 
 An men who toil fra day to day, 
 
 Wi’ nowt else but their scanty pay 
 Their families’ wants to feed, 
 Although theirsels, their barns, an’ wife, 
 Sud gang in tatters au their life. 
 
 They, too, mun blaw their weed. 
 
 An’ fast young men, i’ iwry town, 
 
 Wi’ t’ fancy pipe strut up an’ down — 
 They think it is sa jolly ; — 
 Tha-ar, arm i’ arm down t’ streets they 
 reel ; 
 
 But while they think they look genteel. 
 They nobbut show their folly. 
 
 An’ nobbut look at bits o’ lads. 
 
 How soon they imitate their dads ; 
 
 For, ere they’re weel turned ten. 
 If they can suck a black clay stick 
 Without yance turning pale or sick. 
 They think it macks ’em men. 
 
 In some calm nook, wi’ mony a scratch 
 To set on fire a brimstoone match. 
 
 Some lile ragg’d scamp will stop; 
 Then, full o’ pride, he’ll stretch about. 
 While fra his mouth the reek spouts out 
 As fra a limekil’ top. 
 
64 
 
 TOM TWISLETON^S CBAVEN POEMS. 
 
 Now, ye owd men, wliose heeads are gray, 
 Thraw pipe an’ ’bacca-box away. 
 
 An’ on tbis habit trample ; 
 
 An’ ne’er advise the rising squad 
 To let ala-an a practice bad. 
 
 Till first ye set t’ example. 
 
 For I’ve oft seen it’s bin the ca-ase. 
 
 Ye, wi’ the pipe stuck in yer fa-ace, 
 
 Yer good advice wad tell ; 
 Persuading young uns ne’er to start, 
 
 But hedn’t courage in yer heart 
 To give it up yersel. 
 
 An’ be advised, ye lads, by me. 
 
 An’ let this stinking rubbish be — 
 
 It’s sure to mack ye sick ; 
 
 An’ if ye hev some brass to war. 
 
 Ye’ll find it will be better far 
 To buy a tofiy-stick. 
 
 WILDMAN AND SON, PRINTERS, SETTLE. 
 
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