Craven Echoes. A new series of original poems.

No. 2.
Humorous and Instructive pieces,


The Orphan’s Grave. Yorkshire’s Beauty.
Carter an’ th’ Eggs. Words fra’ ah’ Wey’ver.
Through street and court, there
trudged along,
A solitary lad;
His body it was far from strong,
His heart was far
from glad;
He passed by men well versed
in law,
And rich men hurried to
and fro,
But no one noticed, scarce one saw
This orphan lad.

The tears rolled down his pale thin
He sobbed aloud and cried;
It is his brother that he seeks,
But he, alas ! has died;
He lays by many a mouldering heap,
Where the shadows of the tall spires creep,
There Tommy sleeps his lasting sleep,
Beneath the green turf’s hide.

The people drew their mantles tight,
Jack shivered in the cold;
They heeded not the starving sight,
A few just looked and scowled;
But tightly in his hand he held
His profits for the wares he’d sell’d,
He passed by shops, through crowds that swelled,
Where pretty flowers were sold.

A little bunch of snowdrops soon
Were laid within his hand,
And could man dearer prize a boon
In houses or in land;
Without food freely he would go,
He fain would trudge through sleet and snow,
If he could one good action shew,
That would be something grand.
‘Twas all the money that he had,
Or that day had posess’t.
Though without money, yet he had
True love within his breast;
All day no food scarce had he got,
But yet, contented with his lot,
He hurried on towards the spot
Where Tommy lies at rest.

He knelt down on the little grave,
And dropped many a tear;
” Thank God,” he says, ” Tom’s now no slave,
But dwells with angels dear;
He never will be hungry more,
For hunger cannot reach that shore,
We’ll meet again when life is o’er,
And never shed a tear.’

The gravestone placed there by a friend,
These lonely words it bore,—
” In memory of Tommy,” there was penned,—
No place did Jack love more;
But placed beneath that lump of clay,
Shaded beneath the fir trees lay,
A body; but now in bright array,
The spirit it doth blend.

The bunch of snowdrops he had got
With his one copper piece;
He placed them gently o’er the spot
Where Tommy slept in peace.
Jack had to plod the world alone,
Scarce anything but skin and bone,
But the good seed of love was sown
In him to never cease.

Ere twelve months more was past and gone,
Poor Jack lay by his side,
His name also was graven on
The stone, where they both
God help us each to learn some good,
From these two, though nip’t in the
To follow in their footsteps would
Remove our little pride.

The graves within the churchyard now
Are covered o’er with grass;
The stone above the weeds that grow,
We see it as we pass;
Many a stranger stops to
The names whose history
scarce one knew;
And reads these words, and
counts them true,
“Life whithers like the grass.”
When aw wer’ carting da’an i’th
An incident ocurred; Which aw will tell wi’ pleasure
Ta you het hes’ent heard.

Country’s varry nice daan theear,
Th’ hedges are fill’d wi’ flaars;
Wheear men come fra’ ther’ wark,
Ta caar an’ smoke bi’ haars.

Aw wer’ kept i’ full employment,
An od biggish looads ta tak ;
And the parcels od ta ‘livver
Made it lat’ when aw gat back.

Aw went off ivvery Thursday
Ah marketing wi’t cart;
An me, being all het went,
Aw gat all’t jobbing wark.

Mi’ wage, of course, were low,
Tho’t job wer’ varry good ;
For od chance ah takking parcels,
An’ makking all aw could.

But one chap aw wer’ lick’t wi’,
He sent each market day;
Ten shillings’ worth of eggs wi’ me,
With ” Much Obliged’: for pay.

Os’t ah hed ta ge’en up lang since,

Ah better shop ta seek;
If all hed been like him, and
All hed hez big ah cheek.

But thanks ta say they wor’ net,
They wer’ some ” good fowk i’th land ;
Who saw het od hard scraping,
An’ they lent an’ helping hand.

Od carted fower years, er’ mo’or,
An’ taa’n the eggs for Benny,
Each wick for all that time,
An aw nivver gat ah penny.

He wer’ worth ah lot ah brass, besides
He lived on his o’an farm;
An’ od ollus been ah friend ah his,
An’ nivver done him harm ;

He knew het od ah family,
An’ he hissel hed nooan ;
“He must hev hed ah heart
Hez cow’d hez onny stooan.”

It soa’ happened het one day,
When od ah fairish load,
He’d peeaked his basket up i’th front,
An’ it gat knocked on ta’t road ;—

Aw did’nt do it purposely,
Some might think aw did,
But t’wer through some heavy stuff,
Het wer’ pressing ageean’t lid ;

Aw piked it up reight quietly
An’ put it inta’t cart;
Aw cared net, though aw knew,
Het od brokken all er’ part.

White an’t yok’ wer’ running free
Daon throo’t basket boddem ;
Os’t ah pick’t few whole en’s aght,
But od now’t het hed od ‘hem.

Aw took ’em ta’t th’owd shop i’th taan,
Chap call’d me nearly black ;
He looked em ower, then he says,
You’ll hev’ ta tak ’em back.

” Net aw ! aw says ! os’t pleaase missel
For awther thee ‘er Benny ;
An if aw looyse this job ah yaars,
Os’t looyse ah job too many.”

Od heeard now’t hev’ aboon ah wick,
When Benny he com’ daan
Ta aar haase, ta inform me
Od ta pay ah hauf-acraan;

” Ah hauf-a-craan ! what for ?” aw says,
“For breaking thee thi’ eggs;
Os’t ah thow’t tha might ah charged it
If od brokken thee thi’ legs !

If aw pay fo’t eggs, oi mind
Tha dos’ent goa shot free;
Tha’s paid me now’t for carriage yet,
Ol mak’ ah bill for thee :—

01 charge ah penny for each wick,
And that is cheap, ‘om baaund;
But if tha pays mi that, it comes
Ta varry near ah paand;

Should eggs be i’ mi’ care ? aw says,
When ov’ ta do’t for nowt;
Dos’ta think, becoss it’s me,
Tha’s ah perfect reight ta ow’t ?

Tha mun think on when tha sends ow’t,
Ta pay fo’t carriage too ;
Then, if ther’ ow’t happens,
Tha can tell what way ta do.”

He went hooame then an’ left ma,
Aw naah oft see him pass ;
But hez often hez aw see him,
He nivver mentions brass.

Os’t nivver tak him now’t noa mo’or,
Noa matter haah he begs,
For ov’ been bothered plenty
Wi’ booath Benny and his eggs.

Ye Yorkshire hills,
With rocks and rills,
Upon your craggy side,
Whose lofty peaks,
The tourist seeks,
From countries far and wide.

Ye Yorkshire dales,
Which never fails,
To fill men with delight;
And strangers gaze,
And give them praise,
While viewing o’er the sight:

Ye rivers flow,
With beauteous glow,
Encircled round with trees ;
Whose whispering thrill,
Is onward still,
Towards the open seas.

Ye moors so great,
Where men of State,
Come shooting in the season;
The birds so shy,
Which frightened fly,
As if they’d lost their reason.

Ye mountains rise
Towards the skies,
Your summits in the clouds;
Where nibbling sheep,
Boath eat and sleep,
Wrap’t in their fleecy shrouds.

Ye narrow glens,
With marshy fens,
Where ferns and lilies grow ;
And flowers wild,
In beauty piled,
Bloom on each sloping brow.

Ye fields of coal,
Which miners haul
From Yorkshire’s wealthy mines ;
Where day and night,
They work with might,
Where light and sun ne’er shines.

Ye rocky coasts,
Which always boasts,
(Through waves of ceaseless motion,)
That the rocky cliffs,
Can stand the tiffs,
Of all the German Ocean.

Ye limestone caves,
Which soon engraves
A picture on one’s mind ;
With stalactites,
And stalagmites,
From roof and floor combined.

The best on earth
Are of Yorkshire birth,
Deny the fact, who can !
Where can you find
A nobler mind
Than an honest Yorkshireman ?

Mooast ov’ you, het’s working folk,
Will perhaps net be afraid,

Ta hear me talk ah’ short time on
An honest upright trade.

This trade aw meean is wey’ving,
An’ haah monny ther’ is here
Het’s stood between ah’ pair ah’ looms.
For ten or twenty years.

Aw hev’nt wovven lang misself,
But then om’ young ya’ see ;
An’ aw can’t tell what may turn up,
Bi’ om th’age ah’ some ah’ ye.

For some het greatest men i’th land
Once like me they waa’ve;
An’ some they rise up ta’ be great,
Wol others hez ta starve.

But ah’ man may be ah’ Duke,
Ah’ Squire, M.P., or Lord;
Yet these can live past what
Their income can afford.

It isn’t money makes the man,
Tho’ pleasures they have got ;
I maintain there’s happier homes
Amongst the wey’ver’s lot.

From early morning until neet
We try ta do our best;
And sweetly at the close of day
Enjoy our evening rest.

The wey’vers ar’nt all boys and men
But mothers wey’ve beside ;
And they must have, I’m sure,
Their time well occupied.

After their day’s wark net mill,
They’ve all ta’ wash and clean ;
Ta’ mangle, bake, and mending, its
All ta’ be done between.

Wey’vers hez ah rule wi’ know
Belong ta’t poorer class ;
And we are looked on varry low,
Wi’ them het’s worth some brass.

We know that we are rather short
(Like mooast ah’ country folk)
Ah’ grammar : but if th’heart be reight,
It needs noa’ polished talk.

The broken grammar that we’ve got
We think it will suffice;
We wor’nt brought up het college, nor
Wi’ some B.A.’s advice.

They’se lots ah’ sharp young lads het mill
Would fill some higher station,
If they were brought up as the gents are
With an education.

Whativver wod this country be
Withaat the working class;
They’d finnd aght man needs moor
Ner just ah’ bit ah’ brass.

For they’re of moor importance
Than the gentry of our land ;
With ther’ thousands every year
Delivered to ther’ hand.

Which has not been got by honour,
Nor some mighty deed of fame,
‘But by their elder fathers,
And now its got by name.

If to a good and noble cause
They give ah paand er’ two,
Their gift must be inserted in
The papers England thro’.

They wod’nt hev sa’ mich T,a spare !
It is’nt comed at quick!
Net when it’s got wi’ working hard
For thirteen bob i’th wick.

It, wod’nt do ta’ all be rich,
Nor wod it ta’ be poor,
They’rs some’dy must mak goods, or else
They’d be nooan made i’ stoor.

If we are short of wark, it makes
Much difference we find ;
To the grocers, butchers, and to all
The trades of varied kind :—

For each of these don’t sell as much
When we are hard put tall,
As when our trade is very brisk,
And wark quite plentiful.


But if our hands be soiled with dirt,
Our brow not free from sweat,
‘Tis true we addle honestly
The little that we get.

But when our journey’s finished,
And we’ve getten thro’ the fight,
He’ll ask not whether poor or rich,
But have we lived aright.

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