LOCAL 
 
 ■IrRHYMES 
 
 HENRY NUTTER. 
 
 BURNLEY.
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 . — -"^^L^L-^^^T
 
 LOCAL 
 
 RHYM ES, 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY NUTTER, 
 
 BURNLEY. 
 
 BURNLEY : 
 
 p. MoouE, "Gazktte" Pkinting Works, Bripgk Strket. 
 
 1890.
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following songs and poems have appeared 
 from time to time in the Burnley Gazette. The 
 author, not deeming them worthy of more tlian a 
 passing notice, never intended placing them before 
 the public in any other way ; but in consequence of 
 the interest taken in a few of the pieces, he has 
 considered it his duty to publish them in the present 
 cheap form. This little volume contains poems 
 written chiefly on local topics, and can therefore be 
 of little interest except to those readers who have 
 some acquaintance with the circumstance or subject 
 of each piece. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 PtENRY NUTTER. 
 
 9378:^.0
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 — — 
 TO MR. H. HOULDING, BURNLEY. 
 
 Hail ! sAveetest poet of the Brun, 
 
 To you these heaitfelt lines are spun ; 
 
 Long may your kind autumnal sun 
 
 Keep bright and clear, 
 And safely through its orbit run 
 
 For many a year. 
 
 • My dear old minstrel, tell me why 
 Your Muse of late has been so shy 1 
 While in peculiar metre I 
 
 Dare touch the strings : 
 Or with spasmodic efforts fly 
 On broken win"s. 
 
 This minor bard has long revered 
 
 The poet who has nobly steered 
 
 A faithful pen ; while cowards feared 
 
 A soul so brave : 
 Long may his patriarchal beard 
 
 In honour wave ! 
 
 Your Muse, my friend, is sAveet and true ; 
 
 I've read the volume sent by you. 
 
 With growing interest through and through, 
 
 My reverend sire ; 
 And find each time more credit due 
 
 To your sweet lyre.
 
 6 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Your notes are touched with graceful ease 
 Their modulated numbers please 
 Like zephyrs playing through the trees 
 
 "In Summer Days ;" 
 With tuneful pure Parnassian breeze 
 
 You pour your lays. 
 
 Then come, dear Houlding, strike your lyre, 
 Atid like the soaring lark aspire ; 
 Or to your favourite shades retire 
 
 Among the woods, 
 And join the cheerful feathered choir 
 
 By Calder's floods. 
 
 Sing gently your sweet " Song of Rest," 
 
 Or read to me of " Pcndle's " crest, 
 
 Or " Walks in Snow " where children pressed 
 
 Their " tiny feet : " 
 Or "By the River " Avhich you blessed 
 
 With musings sweet. 
 
 In " Summer Skies " and " Moonrise " eves, 
 AVhen " In the Woods " your fancy weaves, 
 " Forget-me-nots," and " Autumn Leaves " 
 
 " In Peace "; and " Rest," 
 "Friendship " to " The Soul's Answer " cleaves 
 
 In " Wild Flowers " dressed. 
 
 Come then your huml)le friend to greet ; 
 Leave every proof and leader sheet, 
 And that hard Editorial seat, 
 
 And darksome ink : 
 In bowers ambrosial let us meet, 
 
 And nectar drink.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 I, like the simple robin sing, 
 The last in autumn, first in spring ; 
 At dusk or dawn, with shiverins; wini: 
 I chant alonir : 
 
 O 
 
 To you I dedicate and bring 
 This simple song. 
 
 The critic may such lines despise, 
 And carping look profoundly wise : 
 His scowling deep tempestuous eyes 
 
 May I oil away : 
 He harms me not, he may chastise, 
 
 But cannot slay. 
 
 With pen from fear or favour loose. 
 The honest critic must conduce 
 •To raise the poet's aim and use 
 
 Whom he assails : 
 If free from bias, or abuse, 
 
 He holds the scales. 
 
 But if his tooth be piercing sharp, 
 And badger bound in woof and warp, 
 He then in vain may carve and carp, 
 
 And cast his sting : 
 He cannot silence one sweet harp, 
 
 Or break a string. 
 
 My Muse is now on danger's brink ; 
 For suddenly I pause : and think. 
 That yoii have scribbled critic's ink, 
 
 And acid too, 
 And made artistic author.s shrink. 
 
 And tremble through.
 
 8 Local poems. 
 
 When to your strictures I allude, 
 I feel I'm from my latitude : 
 No fiu'ther no"\v will I intrude 
 
 Upon your time, 
 But right or wrong I thus conclude 
 
 This simple rhyme. 
 
 TO MR. GEORGE CROMPTON, 
 VIOLINIST, LAUND. 
 
 This simple scroll in haste I've penned 
 To you, my genial fiddler friend ; 
 More faithful lines no man can send 
 
 In your direction ; 
 To them your kind attention lend 
 
 And keen inspection. 
 
 This week, alas ! I heard again 
 That you for days in bed had lain 
 With that accurst i-heumatic pain, 
 
 AVhich sorely lingers ; 
 Still worse : I heard that it had slain 
 
 Your left hand fingers. 
 
 Good heavens, said I, those tuneful claws. 
 Which mark the quaver, breve and pause, 
 And timely answer when he draws 
 
 The glorious bow — 
 No more will win the loud applause, 
 
 The electric flow. 
 
 Those limbs could nimbly fly, or creep. 
 And true as nature, time could keep, 
 Attendant on the rapturous sweep 
 
 Of your fleet hand. 
 Which drew the heart-transporting cheep 
 
 With sure command.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 9 
 
 My thoughts that instant flew upon 
 Beethoven, Handel, Mendelssohn 
 And Spohr : musicians gone 
 
 To heaven safe — 
 And Growth er, Nelson, Titherington, 
 
 John Booth and Scaife. 
 
 And then I breathed this fervent prayer ; 
 May heaven these tuneful fiddlers spare ; 
 And your old nimble claios repair 
 
 And guiding thumb, 
 That I your pleasing notes may share 
 
 For years to come. 
 
 Just Avhen this heartfelt prayer I heaved 
 And to your case my soul had cleaved, 
 I from the postman's hand received 
 
 A welcome letter, 
 Announcing (what my heart relieved), 
 
 That you were better. 
 
 As sure as Irish eggs are eggs 
 
 And fiddlers to their neighbours plagues, 
 
 At once I sprung upon my legs 
 
 And spread my wings ; 
 Then seized my fiddle, screwed his pegs, 
 
 And touched the strings. 
 
 I thought of dear old Jubal's lyre. 
 And raised the pitch a little higher ; 
 Then English hornpipes went like fire, 
 
 And Irish jigs. 
 And Scottish airs that you admire, 
 
 With Barley Rigs.
 
 10 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 On Jack's the Lad, my heart went wiM, 
 Then reels and polkas quick were filed, 
 My wife cried, Harry ! draw it mild, 
 
 That wicked fiddle : 
 " I thougiit I was again a child," 
 
 With lightsome diddle. 
 
 Then on to Cambria's hills and dells : 
 My bow of Harlech's March oft tells, 
 And sweet Ash Grove in cadence swells 
 
 Its joyful tones — 
 With Aberdovy's dear old bells, 
 
 And Jenny Jones. 
 
 Through my poor scraping tweedling faults, 
 My graceless bow in lilts and waltz. 
 Makes bars by various slips and vaults, 
 
 Inconstant roll : 
 And yet the sound my heart exalts. 
 
 Or soothes my soul. 
 
 The happy fiddler's matchless art 
 In nature plays a glorious part ; 
 With magic bow quick as a dart 
 
 He sweeps the strings, 
 
 And near with joy the human heart, 
 
 To heaven he brings ! 
 
 His soul-inspiring dexterous skill, 
 Draws out the charming notes at will. 
 Sweet as the throstle's purest trill 
 
 Or linnets gay, 
 Whose songs the verdant valleys till 
 
 In merry May.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 11 
 
 And then, what joy his art promotes 
 When his enchanted bow devotes 
 Its power to strike staccata notes, — 
 
 Those brilliant sparks, 
 Like warblitigs from the happy throats 
 
 Of soaring larks. 
 
 While nature health and strength affords. 
 Oh ! may your fingers gauge the chords, 
 To draw from old Cremona boards 
 
 The scale chromatic, 
 And sweetly play like April birds, 
 
 AVith bow emphatic. 
 
 All hail, ye tuneful fiddlers then ! 
 The heart and ear direct my pen, 
 Xo sorrow is so deep as when 
 
 The fiddlers fall : 
 The happiest souls possessed by men, 
 
 Are fiddlers all. 
 
 THE NEW BOROUGH OF NELSON. 
 Tune : " St. Patrick was a Gintleman." 
 
 Come, listen to my simple song with patience 
 
 and attention ; 
 Keep silent every restless tongue Avhile here 
 
 with joy I mention 
 Th;it Nelson is my glorious theme — her charter, 
 
 Inicf, ;ind story — • 
 Her municipal borough scheme, in all its coming 
 
 glory.
 
 12 Local poems. 
 
 Chorus : 
 Success to Nelson's Council Board, her 
 
 Aldermen, and Mayor ; 
 That they may live in sweet accord, is our 
 
 united prayer. 
 
 This day with cheerful hearts we toast the 
 
 Nelson Corporation 
 (And England of that name will boast long as 
 
 the earth's duration) ; 
 Though honours high are on her piled, in 
 
 meritorious stages. 
 She is but yet a budding child to bloom in 
 
 future ages. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Young Nelson boasts an upright trade in all 
 
 her various classes ; 
 Her matchless fancy goods are made by 
 
 Nelson's bonny lasses. 
 Her brilliant spots and gay sateens adorn each 
 
 local heiress, 
 Her fine jeanettes and lovely jeans would grace 
 
 a Nelson Mayoress. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Your sixteen squares are full or more, without 
 
 the least disguising. 
 Where every inch counts sixty-four, of sterling 
 
 counts comprising ; 
 Thus merchants get their proper dues, goods are 
 
 what you define them, 
 And Oldham's honest thirty-twos are just as 
 
 they consign them. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 13 
 
 From right your tradesmen never flinch, sound 
 principles impel them, 
 ^7- Their warp and weft in every inch are truly as 
 they sell them. 
 These truths are clear, which I record, with 
 
 3'our entire permission, 
 No agent ever doubts their word, or charges 
 imposition. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 The Queen that wears the British crown has 
 
 granted you a charter. 
 The reason is that Nelson town is sound in 
 
 every quarter ; 
 Then cast away all care and gloom, throughout 
 
 the coming winter, 
 And may you clear in every loom, a shilling on 
 
 each printer. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Expand your wings, ye sage-like Board, in 
 
 neighbourly alliance, 
 But take not dear old Barrowford without her 
 
 full compliance. 
 The lovely vale might joy reflect with her 
 
 green banks and bowers, 
 Her generous heart and intellect would raise 
 
 your mental powers. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Her stately piles of ancient halls would throw 
 
 a lustre o'er you, 
 Her healing springs and waterfalls would dance 
 
 with joy before you !
 
 14 LOCAL POKMS. 
 
 The banks of Hutherstone Avould ling with 
 
 stock-doves sweetly cooing, 
 
 o 
 
 Above the groves where maidens sing when 
 lovers fond arc wooing. 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Include fair rosy Brierfield, and lovely Reedley 
 
 Hallows, 
 Then charming Whcatley Lane would yield, 
 
 which Pendle Forest follows ; 
 Spcn Brook and Thornyholme you'll take 
 
 without the slightest parle}', 
 And for your future honour's sake include 
 
 Newchurch and Barley. 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Take calm Roughlee, the boggarts' laii', where 
 
 witches walked abroad in. 
 And Blacko bright, and Foulridge fair, and 
 
 Laneshavvbridge and Trawden, 
 And bonny Colne, which monarchs prized and 
 
 poured their blessings on her ; 
 Although you think she's fossilized, she still 
 
 maintains her honour. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 On ancient charters do not trench, for these she 
 
 takes a pride in ; 
 On her impartial County Bench stern justice 
 
 sits deciding ; 
 For these prerogatives she'll fight, Nelsonians 
 
 may rest on ; 
 She must maintain her sacred right, of sending 
 
 roughs to Preston. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 15 
 
 Her dear old church and charming bells, with 
 their associations, 
 ^'" The organ's diapason swells, with pious 
 intonations, 
 Are sweet and sacred to the town by filial true 
 
 affection ; 
 To take in Colne with her renown would be a 
 sad reflection. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Let Nelson still discreetlj- reign, and hold what 
 
 she possesses ; 
 In honour's path she'll yet obtain far more 
 
 sublime successes. 
 Her borders still may she extend, may all her 
 
 works be thorough, 
 And at the next Reform Bill send a member for 
 
 the borough. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Old Burnley sends her love by me, and tenders 
 
 you her greeting ; 
 From jealous feelings we are free at this your 
 
 charter meeting ; 
 Wide may your borough still expand by well 
 
 directed labour. 
 Till Burnley grasps you by the hand a close and 
 
 friendly neighbour. 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 For Nelson's Council thus we'll pray, in love 
 
 and faith fraternal ; 
 May heaven l)less their lives each day, their sins 
 
 forgive nocturnal !
 
 16 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Long may your lads be strong and true, in 
 
 honour's path abiding 
 And Nelson's bonny lasses you, be cautious in 
 
 deciding ! 
 
 Success to Nelson's, &c. 
 
 Accept a simple poet's prayer, each Nelson saint 
 
 and sinner. 
 May every local magnate there, enjoy the 
 
 chairman's dinner : 
 My pen I now lay on the shelf, and feel a little 
 
 slighted ; 
 I should have dinnered there myself, but never 
 
 Gott invited ! 
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO 
 DINNER. 
 
 My esteemed Mr. Gott, I could see through the 
 plot. 
 On receiving your kind invitation ; 
 So I summoned my Muse, and she bade me 
 refuse 
 To attend on the present occasion. 
 
 Though my heart was relieved, when your card 
 I received, 
 With its neat little garland of beauty ; 
 'Twas a dear golden wreath, with a motto 
 beneath. 
 Saying " Nelson, this day do your duty." 
 
 Don't regard me remiss, in refusing the bliss 
 Of enjoying your dinner and laughter ; 
 
 Yet it surely is wise, and a fair compromise 
 If I turn in a few minutes after.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 17 
 
 But alas ! if you think, there's a crack in one link 
 In the chain of a friendship I cherish ; 
 
 I reply there is not, and I swear by my Gott 
 That a friendship like ours cannot perish ! 
 
 ADDEESS TO MR. TATTERSALL 
 WILKINSON, ANTIQUARIAN. 
 
 Dear Wilkinson, old antiquarian friend, 
 
 Of deep philosophical powers, 
 Whose lectures on science I often attend 
 
 In winter's dark, tedious hours : 
 Your knowledge is vast, and your faculties great, 
 
 False teaching through life you've eschewed, 
 Yet do not on subjects sidereal dilate. 
 
 But keep in your own latitude. 
 
 In realms of antiquity revel at will 
 
 On your ghastly mission alone, 
 Delve up your old cists with sepulchral skill, 
 
 Till you find the philosopher's stone. 
 Root out and unearth some pre-Adamite limb, 
 
 Flint implements, bronzes and jars, 
 Find bones of your ancestors, darksome and grim; 
 
 But shun the bright planets and stars. 
 
 Unchronicled facts are discovered and solved 
 
 By relics that you have amassed ; 
 Go on and reveal when our parents evolved 
 
 From anthropoid stems of the past. 
 Dig out the small skulls from the tombs of your 
 sires. 
 
 Examine their thickness and size, 
 All calcined with antedihivian fires. 
 
 But look not, my friend, to the skies.
 
 18 LOCAL POEMS, 
 
 Lay bare the mysterious tumulous mound, 
 
 With shrewd antiquarian pains ; 
 There archseological wonders are found, 
 
 And primeval human remains. 
 These ancient progenitors cahnly exhume, 
 
 And in your weird mission exult ; 
 Uncover with reverence each primitive tomb, 
 
 But touch not the star-spangled vault. 
 
 From times pre-historic to Adam you come, 
 
 To Nimrod, and Jacob, and Job ; 
 Through Babylon, Nineveh, Athens, and Rome, 
 
 To recent events on this globe. 
 Your tales of antiquity I can commend. 
 
 Your style is attractive and free. 
 Then stick to terrestrial matters, my friend. 
 
 And leave stellar subjects to me. 
 
 REPLY TO THE ANTIQUARIAN. 
 INTERCEPTED LETTER. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR. 
 
 Some verses from a friend I saw 
 In your Gazette, four days ago ; 
 An answer quick indeed I owe 
 
 To his petition : 
 So here is my reply below, 
 
 "With your permission. 
 
 I would not for the world offend 
 My noble antiquarian friend. 
 But to his prayer at once attend 
 
 Without refusal : 
 The simple lines enclosed I send 
 
 For his penisiil,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 19 
 
 Hail mighty chief of ancient urns ! 
 Who prehistoric tombs discerns, 
 And in yon haiinted vale sojourns 
 
 With ghostly notion ; 
 And cists and calcined bones upturns 
 
 With weird devotion. 
 
 Your kindly tuneful lines I've read, 
 And shuddered at the life you've led 
 Among the dark primordial dead, 
 
 Without complaining : 
 Where dismal mounds are grimly spread, 
 
 Old bones containing. 
 
 What find you there to entertain 
 
 Your highly convoluted brain, 
 
 In delving up with might and main 
 
 What death embraces 1 
 How dare you touch with hands profane 
 
 Those sacred places ? 
 
 It seems malicious, vile and strange,^ 
 Amid sepulchral scenes to range. 
 As if you sought an interchange 
 
 With some dark shade, 
 Or spiteful thirsted for revenge 
 
 Among the dead. 
 
 'o 
 
 Now just suppose (I humbly crave) 
 That some old antiquarian gave 
 A hungry look upon your grave, 
 
 With spade in hand : 
 Why, man ! you'd tremble, curse and rave, 
 
 And shake the land !
 
 20 T.OCAL T'OKMS. 
 
 Pray leave those jars and calcined bones 
 
 Where dim dejjarted echo moans, 
 
 And grasp the earth's wide circular zones 
 
 Or solar s})here : 
 Then soar aloft to starry thrones, 
 
 And revel there. 
 
 Mark Mercury's wild rapid flight. 
 Watch Venus — lovely Venus bright. 
 And valiant Mars, in ruddier light, 
 
 Wiio rolls serene, 
 With isles and continents in sight 
 
 In verdure green. 
 
 Away to Jupiter my friend, 
 
 His belts and moons pray comprehend. 
 
 To Saturn's glorious rings then bend 
 
 With love and praise : 
 Uranus and to Neptune lend 
 
 Your wonderinc; caze. 
 
 'O O" 
 
 Dig deep in yon star-spangled vault, 
 Through depths and heights, nor weary halt ! 
 Though doubts and fears thy faith assault. 
 
 They cannot sever 
 Thy mind from themes that must exalt 
 
 Thy soul for ever. 
 
 No perils shall thy heart despond 
 Through deep sidereal space beyond 
 Where distant triple stars are donned 
 
 In bright array ; 
 All gravitating in one bond 
 
 They roll away.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 21 
 
 Behold our •winter nights display, 
 The brilliant constellations gay, 
 Orion's belt, the Milky Way, 
 
 Those vapoury shrouds ; 
 Then near the Southern Cross survey 
 
 Magellan's clouds. 
 
 Could you each constellation trace 
 When viewing heaven's starry face, 
 All single stars and every brace, 
 
 With happy soul ; 
 You there would revel deep in spiice, 
 
 From pole to pole. 
 
 But still you get a feeble glance 
 Of yonder boundless wide expanse. 
 Where suns in countless millions dance, 
 
 With worlds around : 
 In billions more as you advance. 
 
 They still abound- 
 
 And pray, thou mighty man of jars, 
 Why ask of solar spectrum bars ? 
 Although there l)e canals in Mars, 
 
 And urns ! my friend : 
 There surely are no farthest stars. 
 
 They have no end. 
 
 For when the keen observer plies 
 His powerful lense to sweep the skies, 
 Where unknowri galaxies arise 
 
 In numbers vast ; 
 Still on imagination flies 
 
 To regions past.
 
 22 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 On every side, from every place, 
 No mind can grasp, no eye can trace, 
 No numbers count, no words embrace 
 
 The infinite scroll : 
 No end to stars, no end to space, 
 
 Alas my soul ! 
 
 Then from your mouldering bones get free. 
 With doubtful ghastly pedigree. 
 And sweep yon starry vault with me 
 
 With lisihtsome heart : 
 Celestial wonders bright we'll see, 
 
 And never part. 
 
 No jealous feelings here you'll find ; 
 As Shakespeare writes of hiiman kind 
 That dark suspicion haunts the mind 
 
 Of guilty man ; 
 Sublunar things we'll leave behind 
 
 For fools to scan. 
 
 We envy not the worldly wise 
 Who never raises his dull eyes 
 To fields, where suns in distant skies 
 
 Their rays unfold ; 
 But grovelling on the earth still lies 
 
 Scratching for gold. 
 
 Then bid farewell to urns and cists. 
 Your humble friend at once insists ; 
 Go sell your jars to alchemists 
 
 With wizard dreams : 
 And leave your dismal swamps and mists 
 
 For loftier themes.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 23 
 
 THE ASTRONOMER'S REPLY TO THE 
 ANTIQUARIAN'S SECOND LETTER. 
 
 Dear friend of antiquarian fame, 
 Whose love fraternal here I claim, 
 As thus with pride in rhyme I name 
 
 Your heavenly vision, 
 Which, when I read, at once I came 
 
 To this decision. 
 
 I thought your bugle sounded truce. 
 That you had slipped the stellar noose, 
 And vowed when you had broken loose 
 
 From yonder stars. 
 That no man should again seduce 
 
 You from your jars. 
 
 But this is folly I perceive. 
 
 For which your humble friend will grieve ; 
 
 Suppose you get a short rejDrieve 
 
 For recreation ; 
 Before you take a final leave. 
 
 Or observation. 
 
 I like your poem, the latter part 
 Is really written from the heart ; 
 You quote the scripture for a start. 
 
 My pious friend : 
 And ring the chords with tuneful art 
 
 On to the end. 
 
 Although your verses made me vain, 
 
 I've fallen to myself again ; 
 
 I'm free from envy, pride and pain 
 
 As any mortal ; 
 Or like you in your dreamy strain 
 
 At heaven's portal.
 
 24 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 The music of the minor bard, 
 
 At times receives the heart's reward : 
 
 He sings away without regard 
 
 To cold disdain : 
 The cruel critics ne'er retard 
 
 His cheerful strain. 
 
 Your tender feelings well I know — 
 Your bosom's gentle overflow — 
 To those who suffer here below, 
 
 You're not afraid 
 To soothe, and pit3% and to throw 
 
 Your kindly aid. 
 
 With wealth of knowledge still in store, 
 Sing on, great chief of ancient lore ; 
 Of eastern battles by the score, 
 
 In bygone ages, 
 In Nimrod's days, and long before 
 
 The Hebrew sages. 
 
 Tell, in thy clear harmonious strains. 
 
 Of plundering hordes, and mad campaigns, 
 
 In Egypt, Troy, on Chaldean plains, 
 
 And Spain's arena ; 
 Down from the ark thy mind retains 
 
 To Navarino. 
 
 Deep-versed in ancient Greece and Rome 
 In prehistoric lore at home. 
 Through j)yramids thy fancies roam 
 
 To Pharoah's cellar ; 
 From Eabel'.s tower to Csesar's tomb 
 
 And Pompey's pillar.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 25 
 
 To history's page, your mind is prone, 
 For proofs you stand unmatched, alone, 
 Each jar, and cist, and calcined bone 
 
 Your spade's uphurlcd, 
 Your buck-horn needles, bronze and stone, 
 
 Defy the world. 
 
 Look up to yonder blue abyss, 
 All former sympathies dismiss : 
 Those stars are matter, simply this. 
 
 Thou man of lore, 
 And indestructible it is 
 
 For evermore ! 
 
 Some people think it matters not, 
 
 And never seem to care a jot. 
 
 How worlds are made, or where they're got; 
 
 Oh wondrous theory ! 
 But grant me just a parting shot 
 
 Upon this query. 
 
 Let prejudice no truth evade, 
 
 Think and ask how worlds are made — 
 
 How they kindle, how they fade, 
 
 And how they die ! — 
 Why meteors nightly cannonade, 
 
 And blaze on high ! 
 
 No mortal can one tittle add 
 To matter, either good or bad ; 
 Though mattei' in all forms is clad, 
 
 Li boundless space, 
 It never a beginning had. 
 
 In time or place.
 
 26 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 In yonder spread of suns afar, 
 There is at times a stellar war ; 
 And though self luminous they arc, 
 
 As you well know, 
 At once some dimly-glittering star 
 
 Will brighter glow. 
 
 In scenes like these stai's may collide, 
 As on through space they swiftly glide; 
 In all directions, far and wide, 
 
 They fiercely meet, 
 And quickly melt, and then abide 
 
 In fervent heat. 
 
 These rolling suns, this wondrous mass 
 Is thus once more reduced to gas. 
 And must to smaller compass pass. 
 
 By radiation ; 
 Ten million years are spent, alas ! 
 
 In condensation. 
 
 The awful term of years must run 
 Before the blazing future sun 
 Has from its surface, one by one, 
 
 The planets cast — 
 The process must keep moving on 
 
 Until the last. 
 
 The atoms of this gaseous cloud 
 Would, in condensing, closer crowd : 
 A rolling ball, thus, boiled aloud 
 
 Our infant planet, 
 Until the cosmoplastic shroud 
 
 Cooled into granite. 
 
 o*
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 27 
 
 The cooling planets all, of course, 
 Move on by centrifugal force, 
 Around the gi-eat attractive source 
 
 From which they flew ; 
 This theory you may not endorse, 
 
 But yet 'tis true. 
 
 As on they roll, there surely must 
 In cooling down be formed a crust, 
 Which men of science don't distrust, 
 
 Though fools have jeered ; 
 Some say how life evolved, and just 
 
 When it appeared. 
 
 The rocks that lie above, in turn. 
 Were from the beds of granite worn : 
 Then by the sweeping floods were borne 
 
 To boiling seas. 
 Where lava streams, rocks split and torn 
 
 Were mixed with these. 
 
 Thus all the higher seams we know, 
 Are made from neighbour rocks below, 
 And fossil shapes of life there flow 
 
 In changing swarms, 
 Where species, still evolving, show 
 
 Improving forms. 
 
 When man appeared we'll leave it o'er, 
 As we have often done before ; 
 Henceforth I'll love you more and moie 
 
 Where e'er you rove ; 
 You're welcome ever to explore 
 
 The skies above.
 
 28 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 The truce is ended, peace is made, 
 Then roam away, where angels tread ; 
 Yea, soar aloft to scenes o'er head 
 
 Among the stars ; 
 Or deeper dig among the dead 
 
 For flint and jars. 
 
 REPLY TO H. BURROWS. 
 
 Dear Burrows, the verses you recently sent 
 
 To the Radical paper of Burnley, 
 AVere tunefully numbered and tenderly meant, 
 
 Though critics may grin and look sternly. 
 
 This answer accept, with the heartiest thanks, 
 Of him in whose honour you wrote them ; 
 
 Yet as for his random and doggerel pranks 
 Few people I trow ever note them. 
 
 Though on my poor rhymes your opinion is 
 wild! 
 A thoughtless and strange observation : 
 So please, my dear Burrows, henceforth draw 
 it mild. 
 And lower your false estimation. 
 
 The few puny lines, with their meteor glow. 
 That I write with a desperate muster. 
 
 Of service may be, as a contrast, to show 
 The change from a great poet's lustre. 
 
 My sails to the undermost current are spread, 
 
 My warbling at best is a wailing, 
 My efforts may touch not the heart or the head, 
 
 Yet still the sweet Muse I keep hailing.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 29 
 
 Great Browning and Swinburne are brilliant 
 lights, 
 
 And merit the laurels they're wearing, 
 And Tennyson, too, with his loftiest flights 
 
 His greatness is seen by comparing. 
 
 In sounding our simple unmusical drones, 
 
 For which toothy cavillers blame us ; 
 We add to the splendour and sweeten the tones 
 
 Of poets whose talents ai'e famous. 
 The thief (though a rascal) makes honesty shine, 
 
 The lazy exalts the industrious, 
 The sinks of iniquity blindly combine 
 
 To make spotless virtue illustrious. 
 Then let us sing on for the sake of the great. 
 
 To give them a broader foundation ; 
 The baser our notes, and the higher their state ; 
 
 Let this be our justification. 
 The snarler who censures us vainly assails. 
 
 Though proud of his learned authority, 
 We pay no regard to his measures and scales, 
 
 But sing for the simple minority. 
 Content let us write in our doggerel ways, 
 
 There surely is nothing else for us ; 
 In the vale of the Brun we will mumble our lays, 
 
 My dear brother sinner H. Burrows. 
 
 AN ANSWER TO THE MAYOR'S 
 
 INVITATION TO DINNER. 
 
 My dear Mr. Mayor, you may take it forgranted, 
 
 Your card is most welcome ; 'tis just what I 
 
 wanted ; 
 My Muse must reply, so at once I invoke her. 
 And dream of my swallow-tail coat and white 
 choker.
 
 30 LOCAL POEMS, 
 
 Your kind invitation is freely accepted, 
 And doubtless this answer is what you expected ; 
 So here is my promise, I'll come if I can, sir, 
 My palate spontaneously echoes the answer. 
 When dining with friends of a generous nature, 
 I'm at peace with the world, sir, and every 
 
 creature. 
 With scents aromatic my head well anointed, 
 I'll come at the time that the mayor has 
 
 appointed. 
 
 With an appetite fairly well sharpened and keen, 
 The attendant will instantly ken what I mean. 
 To your dinner although I shall joyfully bend, 
 'Tis a trifle compared to mine host and a friend. 
 With friendship so genial I'm truly content. 
 Of my home and surroundings I make no 
 
 complaint. 
 The old rocks at my feet are all sermons to me 
 In proclaiming the line of a long pedigree. 
 
 The moon, with her craters, her mountains and 
 
 plains, 
 With pleasure I note as she waxes and wanes ; 
 Dear Venus and Jupiter, Saturn and Mars, 
 Are neighbours compared to the far distant stars; 
 These planets I tell, and with reverence I halt. 
 And gaze with delight on the star-spangled vault; 
 The grand constellations that glitter above, 
 Their outlines I trace with amazement and love. 
 As nightly my thoughts on their grandeur repose. 
 Each star is a wonder to me as it glows ; 
 As seasons advance, their positions I trace. 
 And shrink at the thought of an infinite space, 
 Where numberless millions of systems extend, 
 Assembled in galaxies, worlds without end ;
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 31 
 
 Immeasurably deep, inconceivably vast, 
 
 With firmaments boundless, the mind stands 
 
 aghast. 
 All figures are useless that man has employed, 
 To number the stars, or encompass the void ; 
 No eye can distinguish or mind penetrate 
 To fathom their distance, connection or state. 
 Still deeper I trow where no telescope probes. 
 Are centres of systems with eomets and globes. 
 Good heavens ! dear Greenwood, our merciful 
 
 mayor, 
 You see no connection with dinners out there. 
 This dear little planet that flies round the sun, 
 With Burnley, the pride of the Calder and Brun, 
 Is dearer to you for the future by far, 
 Than sun, moon, or Venus, or comet, or star. 
 In local statistics you've reason to boast. 
 With subjects sublunar your mind is engrossed. 
 But here let my wandering Muse make a pause 
 And bring these unmusical lines to a close ; 
 Your patience I've wearied with this silly rhyme, 
 But hope to be with you next Friday in time. 
 
 ON THE MAKRIAGE OF 
 
 MR. CHARLES WHITTLE AND MISS 
 
 MARY BOND, BUKNLEY. 
 
 Dear Mary, you tender your freedom this day. 
 
 You sacrifice body and purse ; 
 Then be not rebellious, but love and obey. 
 
 And take him for better and worse. 
 
 A nervous sensation creeps over my skin, 
 That some of your friends must have shared, 
 
 When thinking that you will this morning begin 
 To be with a Whittle close pared.
 
 32 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 This day you engage in a treaty, dear girl, 
 
 No trifling, gossip or parley ; 
 Yet if the man's noble he'll find you a pearl, 
 
 A wife and blessing to Charlie. 
 
 How sweet were your lips, Mary, when you 
 were little, 
 Your nature was gentle and fond : 
 Thus may they remain when you turn to a 
 Whittle 
 And give up your heart with a Bond. 
 
 May Charlie in Bond-age be joyful and free 
 And his board supplied with good victuals ; 
 
 Long may his dear partner live happy and be 
 The mother of twenty sharp Whittles. 
 
 And now from my heart may you flourish in 
 peace. 
 
 May Charles never sullenly mutter : 
 As seasons advance may your pleasures increase. 
 
 Is the prayer of yours, Harry Nutter. 
 
 A SONG OF BUXTON. 
 Tune—" The Rakes of Mallow." 
 
 A PROTEST ON ACCOUNT OF THE EARLY 
 CLOSING OF THE CONCERT. 
 
 Oh ! Buxton is a pretty place. 
 
 There peace and comfort you embrace ; 
 
 A blessing to the human race 
 
 Is health-restoring Buxton. 
 The limpid streams are stored with fish 
 That every day provide a dish, 
 And you may catch them when you wish, 
 
 Then come along to Buxton,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 33 
 
 When fever burns within your veins, 
 Or when by fierce rheumatic pains 
 >5- Your joints are racked, what else remains 
 
 But coming on to Buxton. 
 The baths will soon all pains dispel, 
 And make you blooming, strong and well. 
 Your suffering friends you then will tell 
 
 To come along to Buxton. 
 
 You climb the hills for mountain air. 
 Take charming walks with ladies fair, 
 By night or day you'll not despair 
 
 Upon the heights of Buxton. 
 In Old Poole's cavern we must own 
 Dame Nature's mighty works are shown, 
 Where stalagmites and 'tites are grown, 
 
 Then come along to Buxton. 
 
 The Cat and Fiddle's lofty path, 
 The Tennis Courts and Buxton Bath 
 Where men are healed, if they have faith : 
 
 Then come along to Buxton. 
 Good bowling greens and skating rink. 
 There wholesome waters you may drink. 
 Grand reading-rooms, for those who think, 
 
 Are open here at Buxton. 
 
 Mysterious brigands in disguise 
 
 AVill charm your ears and wondering eyes. 
 
 With wisdom, folly, truth, and lies. 
 
 Then come along to Buxton. 
 But you will learn with some dismay, 
 The concert's o'er at close of day, 
 The trumpet sounds ! we slink away 
 
 And mourn the fate of Buxton.
 
 34 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 This brazen trumpet's piercing blast 
 Proclaims the entertainment's past ; 
 At nine o'clock ! we stand aghast 
 
 And weep for merry Buxton. 
 When evening joys are incomplete 
 Wc hear the dreadful sound retreat ! 
 Like wandering sheep we take the street, 
 
 And ramble on in Buxton. 
 
 FINALE. 
 
 'Tis Buxton thus my pen employs, 
 My darling buxom girls and boys, 
 Through life may you all pluck some joj's 
 
 Within the vale of Buxton. 
 And now good-bye, God bless you all, 
 (Success to concert, bath and ball : 
 I'll come to Buxton while I crawl. 
 My blessings on thee, Buxton. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO SLANDEROUS WORDS 
 
 USED BY HIGGINS, THE RECORDER 
 
 OF PRESTON, AND BY ADDISON, BARRISTER, 
 
 AGAINST BURNLEY. 
 
 Tune — Ash Grove. 
 
 Light hearts have good reason 
 For joy in each season. 
 When free from all treason 
 
 They revel in bliss : 
 At this our grand mcetirg 
 Each other still greeting, 
 This year that is fleeting 
 
 We gladly dismiss,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 35 
 
 Our soldiers are bounding, 
 The Afghans surrounding, 
 With bugle's truce sounding 
 
 We'll welcome them home ; 
 Cetewayo was haughty, 
 The Ameer was naughty, 
 Our soldiers are doughty 
 
 Wherever they roam. 
 
 No more Isandulas, 
 
 We've conquered the Zulus, 
 
 There's scarcely a screw loose 
 
 Throughout our domain : 
 The good time is coming. 
 Sweet peace is now blooming 
 With olive branch pluming. 
 
 And long may she reign. 
 
 But let us be humble, 
 Or Higgins will grumble. 
 And Addison crumble 
 
 Old Burnley to dust ; 
 Their wigs suit them quaintly, 
 Their gowns make them saintly. 
 Their words pierce but faintly, 
 
 Because they're unjust. 
 
 This point they may rest on, 
 A fact we'll contest on. 
 We're better than Preston, 
 
 The proud and demiu'e ; 
 Our youths are as sprightly. 
 Our girls trip as lightly, 
 And smile as politely, 
 
 With morals more pure.
 
 30 LOCAL rOEMS. 
 
 Our School Board and teachers, 
 Our orthodox preachers 
 Will scorn these impeachers 
 
 Of legal renown ; 
 Then ring out St. Peter 
 Thy bells in sweet metre, 
 No music is sweeter 
 
 In proud Preston town. 
 
 Though justices slander, 
 And barristers pander, 
 They never can brand her 
 
 With falsehood and shame ; 
 With her reputation 
 In this mighty nation. 
 This foul accusation 
 
 Won't sully her name. 
 
 Though Higgins looks sternly, 
 And proudly may spurn thee. 
 We love thee old Burnley 
 
 For deeds thou hast done ; 
 Let lawyers abuse thee, 
 With outrage accuse thee, 
 Yet honour imbues thee, 
 
 Thou pride of the Brun. 
 
 THE FALL OF ALEXANDRIA. 
 Tune — Bow, AYow, Wow. 
 
 The British fleet on July tenth in eighteen 
 
 eighty two, sir. 
 Proclaimed to Egypt and the world, the 
 
 Avonders it could do, sir,
 
 Local poeMs. §? 
 
 Tlie Frenchman would no risk involve, but 
 
 coolly turned away, boys, 
 And steered along, with high resolve, to fight 
 
 another da}^, boys. 
 
 With a cheer, boys, cheer, 
 Give our jolly sailor boys a cheer, boys, cheer. 
 
 The proud ambitions Arabi a rebol force united. 
 Ignored all friendly overtures, our power and 
 
 honour slighted ; 
 Our brave commander duly gave the rebel 
 
 leader warning, 
 Then opened fire from off the wave at seven in 
 
 the morning. 
 
 With a cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 The noble ships Penelope, Superb, and 
 
 Temeraire, 
 Were handled well by men whose aim and 
 
 courage never vary, 
 The Sultan and Invincible, Alexandra and the 
 
 Condor, 
 The Monarch and Inflexible were belching out 
 
 their thunder. 
 
 With a cheer, boj^s, cheer, etc. 
 
 The smaller craft were manned by tars whose 
 
 pluck was never shaken. 
 The Cygnet and the swift Decoy, the Bittern 
 
 and the Beacon, 
 These gallant gunboats fired away, the Moslem 
 
 forts defying. 
 And shared the honours of the day, with British 
 
 colours (lying. 
 
 With a cheer, boys, cheer.
 
 38 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 The cannon shot like lightning flew, at each 
 
 well guarded station, 
 The shells fell thick Avithin the walls with 
 
 fearful devastation, 
 Egyptians and the turban'd Turk found British 
 
 hrc unpleasant, 
 And cursed our wicked sailors' work, when 
 
 trampling on the crescent. 
 Still a cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 Thus in one day, those ancient forts were 
 
 promptly put to silence. 
 The battered walls were crumbled down by 
 
 iron-plated violence, 
 This haughty chief was of no use against our 
 
 mighty power, 
 He raised a lying flag of truce, and fled to Kafr 
 
 Dowar. 
 
 With a cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 Then let us toast our valiant tars, and their 
 
 commander, Seymour, 
 Who gave the first important blow to that 
 
 usurping dreamer. 
 Our soldiers bold, and Wolsley brave, for their 
 
 decisive labour ; 
 And peace to those who found a grave within 
 
 old Tel-el-Kebir. 
 
 With a cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 And now ye anxious cotton lords, good times 
 
 are just beginning. 
 May profits large attend you all in weaving and 
 
 in spinning ;
 
 LOCAL POEMS. SS 
 
 To let you have the lion's share may merchants 
 
 all be willing, 
 And on a common sixteen square your profit be 
 
 a shilling. 
 
 With a cheei', boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 Again adieu, my learned friends, may all our 
 
 ways be mended. 
 Another fifty years, alas ! will see our lives all 
 
 ended ; 
 You drank to tars, who will defend your homes 
 
 and constitution, 
 And in their names I here commend this 
 
 glorious Institution. 
 
 With a cheer, boys, cheer, etc. 
 
 HEALEY HEIGHT. 
 Tune — Jenny Jones. 
 
 One morning I strayed on the heights of old 
 
 Healey, 
 Where lovers and song birds in harmony meet, 
 The skylark above me was chanting so freely, 
 The voice of the blackbird was mellow and sweet; 
 The throstle's song filled all the valley before me. 
 The robin poured out his fine song in mine ear ; 
 These dear, charming ^yarblers appeared to 
 
 adore thee. 
 Oh, balm-breathing Healey, sweet Healey so 
 
 clear. 
 
 The bells of St. Peter's were ringing so sweetly, 
 Each heart beat on Healey with rapturous glow, 
 And Burnley's fair damsels Avere trijjpiiig so 
 
 neatly 
 On the hill where the daisies and buttercups 
 
 grow.
 
 40 LOCAL I'OKMS. 
 
 They may tell of Olympus, the Alps and 
 
 Parnassus, 
 And snow-covered peaks far away in the west, 
 But the mountain I sing of is one that surpasses, 
 'Tis Healey, sweet Healey, the hill I love best. 
 
 'Twas here the fair daughters of Burnley stood 
 
 gazing, 
 Whilst husbands and sons were engaged with 
 
 the foe ; — 
 Yes, there were the matrons, with beacon fires 
 
 blazing, 
 When Brunanburg's battle was raging below. 
 Old Venice may boast of her pleasant gondola. 
 And Kome may be proud of her palaces bright. 
 The darkie may dance in the groves of Angola, 
 But give me old Healey, yes, sweet Healey 
 
 Height. 
 
 There's joy in the song of the lark, as he rises, 
 There's joy for his mate, as she bathes in the 
 
 dew ; 
 There's joy for the boy, with the girl that he 
 
 prizes. 
 There's joy in sweet friendship, that ever proves 
 
 true. 
 Then sing, ye fair maids in the valley before us. 
 And shout, ye brave boys, your loud songs in 
 
 the gale ; 
 Ye sweet, feathered songsters, still join in the 
 
 chorus, 
 And chime, ye delightful old bells, through the 
 
 vale.
 
 LOCAL tOEMS. 41 
 
 THE GIRL IN THE CALICO DRESS. 
 Tune — Paddle .your own Canoe. 
 In flowery July upon Healey's proud Height, 
 
 As tbe plover sprung from the morass, 
 And southward the cuckoo was taking his flight, 
 
 And the corncrake was deep in the grass ; 
 The swallow and swift were aloft in the air, 
 
 And the starling was feeding her young ; 
 The milkmaid was tending her cattle with care. 
 
 And the haymakers cheerfully sung — • 
 
 " The maidens of Burnley in satin or silk, 
 
 Are pretty, I freely confess ; 
 But give me the maid who is neatly arrayed 
 
 In a beautiful calico dress." 
 
 They may praise the Italian ladies, in vain, 
 
 Or the maidens of France or Peru, 
 Or worship the languishing beauties of Spain, 
 
 And the blushing Circassians, too. 
 But she whom I love has an eye like the sloe, 
 
 And her cheeks are like roses in June, 
 So graceful each step as she trips like the doe, 
 
 And her sweet ruby lips are in tune. 
 
 The maidens of Burnley, &c. 
 
 Her dress (though of print) was embroidered 
 with care, 
 And the flowers on her bosom were sweet ; 
 The zephyrs waved gently her dark curly hair, 
 
 And the buttercups bloomed at her feet. 
 As dew from the daisies she carelessly dashed, 
 The young men were all seized with surprise ; 
 How sweetly she smiled, and what mischief she 
 flashed 
 From the glance of her dark rolling eyes. 
 The maidens of Burnley, &c.
 
 42 LOCAL POLMS. 
 
 Should fortune or friendsliip impel me to roam, 
 
 Or a thirst after changes constrain, 
 I'd still call the banks of Old Healey my home, 
 
 And I'd sing of its beauties again. 
 Sweet gardens of roses, or art-cultured bowers. 
 
 May delight a poor soul to possess ; 
 But give me old Healey, bedecked with wild 
 flowers. 
 
 And the girl in the calico dress. 
 
 The maidens of Burnley, &c. 
 
 ' OLD JIM,' THE ENGINEER. 
 Tune— Old Towler. 
 
 We boast of British heroes brave. 
 
 Our valiant sons of Mars, 
 Are proud to see the banners wave 
 
 Above our gallant tars. 
 Our bonny barks that plough the main, 
 
 We welcome with a cheer, 
 But seldom sing of a railway train. 
 Or a worthy engineer. 
 With a hey ho chivey. 
 Hark forward, hark forward tantivy. 
 Then here's to Jim, make way for him ! 
 And keep the main line clear ! 
 
 Then let my song your hearts inspire 
 
 To trust and honour him. 
 That good old man we all admire, 
 
 They call him railway Jim ; 
 He bids the stoker mind the brake, 
 
 Then with his whistle clear 
 He makes the sleepy pointsman quake, 
 
 Old Jim the engineer. 
 
 With a hey ho chivey, &c.
 
 
 LOCAL POEMS 43 
 
 ^yhen storms and tempests wildly rage, 
 
 And lightnings rend the sky, 
 The lever doth his hands engage, 
 
 Though thunders roll on high. 
 Midst danger signals, green or red, 
 
 In fogs or darkness drear. 
 There's one with caution looks a-head, 
 
 'Tis Jim the engineer. 
 
 "With a hey ho chivey, &c. 
 
 When special trains the line invade 
 
 Down Portsmouth's lovely dale, 
 Or shunted goods the rails blockade. 
 
 Or summer trips prevail, 
 ^Yith watchful eye he scans the road, 
 
 When perils dire appear, 
 He ne'er forgets his precious load, 
 
 Old Jim the engineer. 
 
 With a hey ho chivey, &c. 
 
 On pastures green the lowing herds 
 
 Lie fearless on the grass. 
 Among the woods the bonny bii^ds 
 
 Are chanting as we pass. 
 Holme's sweet sequestered glades rejoice. 
 
 The hills, both far and near, 
 Ke-echo loud thy engine's voice, 
 
 Old Jim, the engineer ! 
 With a hey ho chivey, &c. 
 
 In winter's cold, or summer's heat, 
 
 I sit at ease with thee, 
 Mazeppa's* throbbing voice is sweet, 
 
 'Tis always dear to me. 
 
 * Name of the engine.
 
 44 Local pokmk. 
 
 I've not the slightest dread, indeed 
 AVith thee I've nought to fear. 
 
 Then welcome to thy puffing steed, 
 Old Jim, the engineer. 
 With a hey ho chivey, &c. 
 
 OLD JIM, THE ENGINE-DRIVER. 
 
 Tune— "Poor Mary Ann." 
 
 Death throws gloom o'er every station, 
 
 Poor old Jim ! 
 
 Lower your flags— Oh, sad occasion ! 
 
 Poor old Jim ! 
 
 Duty's post he well attended. 
 
 Guard and stoker oft l)efriended, 
 
 Now his final trip is ended. 
 
 Poor old Jim ! 
 
 Drape each signal post and depot 
 
 For old Jim ! 
 
 Clothe in weeds his swift "Mazeppa" 
 
 For old Jim ! 
 
 Safe in charge of thy commanding. 
 
 Often have we seen thoe landing, 
 
 Firmly on the engine standing, 
 
 Brave old Jim ! 
 
 Dear old Redford, all who knew thee 
 
 Loved old Jim ! 
 
 When in retrospect wc view thee. 
 
 Dear old Jim, 
 
 Memory often will remind us 
 
 Of thy honesty and kindness, 
 
 When in safety thou consigned us, 
 
 Dear old Jim.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 45 
 
 Through the Calder's sylvan valley, 
 
 Dear old Jim 
 'rWill " Vesuvius " no more sally 
 
 With old Jim 1 
 Unprotected, onward steering, 
 In thy dangerous charioteering, 
 Through the darksome tunnel peering, 
 
 Dear old Jim. 
 Careful by the signal steaming. 
 
 Dear old Jim ; 
 Still alert, with whistle screaming. 
 
 Cautious Jim : 
 Storms and tempests he confronted, 
 Always at his post when wanted, 
 Now, alas, old Death has shunted 
 
 Dear old Jim ! 
 Though in sadness we bewail thee. 
 
 Dear old Jim, 
 Bitter storms no more assail thee. 
 
 Dear old Jim, 
 Angel trains express are speeding. 
 Heavenward jDointing signals reading. 
 Danger lamps are fast receding, 
 
 Glorious Jim ! 
 
 THE TRAM. 
 
 SUNG AT THE LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC 
 SOIREE, DECEMBER 1 oTII, 1881. 
 
 Tune— Tramp, tramp. 
 Come around, my merry boys, you that merit 
 earthly joys, 
 While I sing a simple ditty here to-night ; 
 Of the railway and the 'bus, people make a 
 mighty fuss. 
 But a ride upon the tram is my delight.
 
 46 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Then, tram, tram, tram it along the road, boys, 
 With freedom, ease, and elegance combined, 
 You will never have a jar, as you ride upon 
 the car, 
 And you'll leave the rumbling omnibus 
 behind. 
 
 The genius of our race has been moving on 
 apace. 
 And inventing everything that we require, 
 You can travel now with ease on to Padiham 
 when you please. 
 And the guard will put you down when you 
 desire. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 Passing on to Brierfield, what a pleasure it will 
 yield. 
 When you gaze on Pendle's noble crest of 
 blue : 
 And the silent wheels will spin, straight away 
 to Nelson Inn, 
 With the town of bonny Colne within the 
 view. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 When conditions will afford you may trip to 
 Barrowford, 
 'Tis the boast of Pendle Forest, and its pride : 
 The sweet village in the dale, where the pretty 
 girls prevail, 
 Though the stately buildings stand upon one 
 side. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 47 
 
 As you fleetly pass along, you may hear the 
 
 Cuckoo's song, 
 : And the little birds will chant upon the trees ; 
 You'll repose in graceful style sat upon the 
 velvet pile, 
 And from danger well protected, and at ease. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 There is nothing that will mar people's comfort 
 in the car, 
 'Tis a place where use and ornament combine ; 
 Thus a lady or a queen may be proud of this 
 machine, 
 As she smoothly skims away upon the line. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 As along the road you pass, there will only be 
 one class, 
 "Where the rich and poor together may rejoice; 
 There is no distinction there for an Alderman 
 or Mayor, 
 But the ladies though must always have a 
 choice. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 Horses, waggonettes, and sheep, must a proper 
 distance keep, 
 And the cabman with his precious little load ; 
 And the bridegroom with his bride must keep 
 on the 2)roper side. 
 For the tram has got a charter on the road. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c.
 
 48 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 You will never hear the crash of the driver's 
 cruel lash, 
 Nor his curses at the humble plodding team ; 
 But with pleasure you'll proceed by a bonny 
 iron steed, 
 For the easy cushioned carriage goes by 
 steam. 
 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 All the novelties in dress will around you gently 
 press, 
 When you take up your position in the car : 
 Thus you'll have a pleasant ride with a lady by 
 your side, 
 But the swell must go aloft with his cigar. 
 Chorus — Tram, tram, &c. 
 
 A BURLESQUE 
 
 On tiif: Reservoir Levels, Rainfalls, 
 Filiter's Waterworks Scheme of Robin 
 Hood ; and in Answer to a Correspon- 
 dent IN THE ' Gazette ' signing Himself 
 'Good Health.' 
 
 Scene : Swindon Bank. 
 
 Good Health 
 (Addressing the Water Spirits) : 
 
 Why all this useless squander, tell me why ? — 
 Why all this lavish waste 1 Ye shades reply. 
 Ye powers of necromancy it doth seem 
 That some mysterious demon haunts this stream. 
 Tell me ye magic spirits of the air, 
 Ye aqueous spirits listen to my prayer.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 49 
 
 Without the aid of falling rain or snow 
 What is it makes these waters ebb and flow 1 
 Ye rippling rills, meandering down each dale, 
 Why do your numerous tributes not avail ? 
 Say why do melting snows, or hail or rain, 
 Or torrents pour their gushing streams in vain ? 
 Fleet speckled grouse, and simple moorland 
 
 sheep, 
 Unearthly demons must around you creep ! 
 Ye sheddings marshy, and your watery dens. 
 And cloud condensing hills and treacherous fens. 
 Wild howling whistlers through the furious 
 
 storms : 
 Who shrinks the gathering ground, and thus 
 
 transforms 
 The surface of this undulating scene 1 
 Disclose the mystery, spirits ! is it spleen ? 
 How strange ! though rains pour down on every 
 
 hand, 
 We cross the lake like Israel on dry land. 
 When summer's heat dries up the mountain 
 
 rills, 
 Good heavens ! without the rain the lake soon 
 
 fills. 
 'Tis true that number one is sometimes high 
 When eveiy inch of gathering ground is dry ! 
 
 The spirits answered, 'List, my anxious friend, 
 These lakes do not upon the clouds depend 
 For their sup})ly. My answer thus is clear, 
 Charge not the shades with your wild follies 
 
 here. 
 Prohibited are we,' they all exclaim, 
 ' To ears of flesh to indicate the name
 
 50 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Of him who wields those strange mysterious 
 
 powers, 
 And fills the lakes without the aid of showers : 
 The freaks which our ethereal eyes behold 
 Must never unto mortal man be told ; 
 But hark ! what meansthat weird and dismal wail, 
 That from yon ponderous pipes our ears assail 
 AVith hollow tones. Good Health,be not deceived, 
 The spirits know thy talents, and are grieved 
 To know that thou should sanction give to 
 
 schemes 
 Which squander money on these petty streams. 
 Come, honest man, if thou wouldst be discreet, 
 Cast now thy shoes from off thy weary feet : 
 The place whereon we stand is haunted ground, 
 And yonder massive pipes the truth resound. 
 I'll now convey thee through the mountain 
 
 breeze, 
 And show thee wilder schemes by far than these.' 
 
 That moment by some mystic power they stood 
 Upon the dismal swamps of Robin Hood. 
 The Swindon vision fled, the Bouldsworth gale 
 Too keenly blew for spirits of the vale ! 
 At once, the spirit of the mountain rill 
 Appeared with aspect wild. ' What is thy will, 
 Good Health, at this vast height above the sea. 
 What is thy mission; what dost want with me?' 
 Inquired the ghost, with eye and voice austere. 
 ' In search of crystal water, came I here,' 
 Good Health replied, ' Thou knows the district 
 
 best. 
 Show me the waters which I now request ! ' 
 
 The spirit answered thus : ' Oh, never dream, 
 Or drink of this small semi-stagnant stream ;
 
 LOCAL POEMS. .51 
 
 But turn thy steps to purer vales below, 
 Where limpid waters in abundance flow. 
 Of schemes like these, thy noble mind divest. 
 And leave this mountain's wild tempestuous crest. 
 To this inconstant stream no longer cling, 
 But haste at once to jockey's gushing spring ; 
 There look around, and affluent streams you'll find, 
 And leave this cloudy wilderness behind. 
 There, bubbling rills burst out on every side. 
 Around a basin made by nature wide : 
 Then view the contour of the favoured land, 
 And mark the outlet where the bank should 
 
 stand ; 
 A cape projects two-thirds across the vale, 
 Where water pressure never could prevail. 
 Old nature, with a friendly forethought keen, 
 From east to west has left a bank between. 
 Where honest men of competence and sense 
 Could safely seal the gap at small expense ; 
 But engineers,when on such schemes they're bent, 
 Their eye is firmly fixed on five per cent. 
 Look round to neighbouring boroughs I could 
 
 name. 
 Whose spendthrift works are now a lasting 
 
 shame, 
 Their rates are raised to prop some alien scheme. 
 Though local men condemned it as a dream, 
 A fact experience often times has shown, 
 That prophets in their country are not known, 
 The spirits see (and often are enraged) 
 That talent by the distance now is gauged. 
 
 To bring my friendly mission to an end. 
 Take this advice : upon thyself depend : 
 Let not professions, foreign, low or high, 
 Against thy common sense thy wants supply.
 
 52 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Though engineers draAv plans and lines 
 
 complete, 
 They're oft unlearned on rocks beneath their 
 
 feet. 
 Then let your neighbour's wisdom, not his 
 
 birth. 
 Be duly weighed, and valued at its worth ; 
 The city phantom, title proud and vain, 
 On rural Avisdom looks with proud disdain. 
 Then mark my parting words with rigorousheed. 
 True worth is not in title, rank, or creed. 
 And now, Good Health, my honest friend adieu,' 
 The vision then with kindred spirits flew. 
 
 LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CLUB 
 DINNER. 
 
 Tune — " Nancy Dawson." 
 
 Ye noble men with learning fraught. 
 Who leading questions long have taught, 
 And have with superstition fought, 
 
 In this great age of science : 
 Take heed my friends that sit around, 
 Who scientific truths expound. 
 Till certain data you have found 
 
 Pray never yield compliance. 
 
 This night we set apart for glee, 
 
 At this our special jubilee, 
 
 We spend the time in harmony. 
 
 As happy mortals can do. 
 No question we to-night discuss, 
 So I will rhyme our syllabus. 
 This club is noAV unanimous — 
 
 This science propaganda,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. b^ 
 
 Our officers are most discreet, 
 
 With fifteen members now complete ; 
 
 The president gets on his feet 
 
 As Henry Houlding rises. 
 Friends Brumwell, Grant and Anningson, 
 J. Langfield AYard, A. Waddington, 
 And Mr. Strange is also one 
 
 Of our notorious vices. 
 
 Our grand committee's names you want, 
 Whose hearts for useful knowledge pant; 
 The first I name is Lewis Grant, 
 
 Who able service lends you. 
 J. Monkman, Lancaster, F. Hill, 
 B. Sagar, Roberts, — men of skill. 
 And two that useful places fill, 
 
 J. Kay and J. Mackenzie. 
 
 The opening paper of the year 
 Was read by one who made it clear, 
 That England was the pioneer 
 
 Of honest legislation. 
 By fact and figure he impressed, 
 (And proved by many a searching test), 
 That Britain had far more progressed 
 
 Than any other nation. 
 
 Not more than forty years ago. 
 When food was high, and wages Ioav, 
 Before the corn bill's overthrow 
 
 The taxes were oppressing. 
 Sir Ughtred J. Kay-Shuttleworth 
 Said, England had been stepping forth 
 Among the nations of the caith, 
 
 In peace and wealth progressing.
 
 54 Local roKM«. 
 
 The second paper critics say, 
 Was written well by William Kay, 
 On southern California, 
 
 The golden land he went to. 
 With humming birds and turtle doves. 
 Fleet antelopes, the huntsman loves ; 
 The towering pines, and orange groves 
 
 Of glorious Sacramenta. 
 
 Of Cashmere Vale in Industan, 
 Where dwells the proud Mohammedan, 
 Friend Doxy brought a map or plan 
 
 Of all the peninsula. 
 There tall Himalayan cedars grow, 
 In Chuna bowers the roses blow. 
 Where Juilam's river rushes through 
 
 The pass of Baramula. 
 
 We shall a pleasant story hear 
 Of Cecil Slingsby's short career. 
 Among the wolves and Norway deer, 
 
 On Galdhoppigen's mountain. 
 The snow-capped peak, the swampy fen, 
 The Salten river, and Ramsen, 
 The Sauren, Drammen, and Glommen, 
 
 And Tanar's lonely fountain. 
 
 Upon the wretched cotton trade 
 
 Friend Greenwood next will make a raid, 
 
 He'll show how profits may be made 
 
 By proper calculation — 
 Statistics too from first to last, 
 Both of the present and the past. 
 And of the future, a forecast, 
 
 Without exaggeration.
 
 LOCiL POEMS. 
 
 Then Doctor Monkman will dispel 
 All foi'mci" doubts, and wonders tell 
 Of ages past, and what befel 
 
 At certain times and stages. 
 He'll speak of icebergs long ago, 
 And mighty slips of mountain snow, 
 Where land was raised or sunk below 
 
 In prehistoric ages. 
 
 We know Frank Nicholson has toiled, 
 And many a useful hour beguiled ; 
 With animals which now run wild ; 
 
 He knows each name and habit 
 The British weasel, mouse and rat. 
 The fox, the hedgehog and pole-cat, 
 The squirrel, deer, the mole and bat, 
 
 The otter, hare and rabbit. 
 
 J. Grant is the interpreter. 
 Of a lithographic soiree, sir. 
 From stone to paper he'll transfer 
 
 A well defined impression. 
 The printing process upon stone 
 Which has to such perfection grown, 
 Will then by him be clearly shoAvn 
 
 In certain quick succession. 
 
 The meeting next, J. Langfield Ward 
 (For whom this Club has great regard) 
 Will name the Frogs of a Grecian bard, 
 
 Their greatest comic writer, 
 Who wrote some brilliant comedies, 
 And ridiculed wise Socnites ; 
 Than thirs great Aristophanes 
 
 Few poets have been brighter,
 
 56 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 The ensuing evening, Mr, Finn 
 
 With modern epic will begin, 
 
 A lul doubtless will the favour win 
 
 Of this grand institution. 
 I now must try to expedite, 
 Lest I should mar your appetite, 
 For I appear the following night, 
 
 Discussing evolution. 
 
 The annual meeting comes the next. 
 When our officials get perplexed, 
 While some have reason to be vexed, 
 
 And others will be merry ; 
 Then many evenings stand between 
 Before a meeting we convene. 
 Let Mr. Midgely close the scene 
 
 With a good dramatic soiree. 
 
 ON THE REMOVAL OF THE 
 MAYOR'S LAMPS. 
 
 Ye neighbours, come join my affliction and 
 sorrow, 
 Our darkness and gloom have begun ; 
 From your vision the lamps will be taken to- 
 morrow, 
 And raised near the banks of the Brun ! 
 From the dusk to the dawn they will never 
 more light us. 
 No longer protect us from scamps ; 
 For the loss of their splendour there's nought 
 to requite us, 
 Oh ! what shall we do without lamps.
 
 Local poems. 57 
 
 Our borough's chief magistrate, shield and 
 defender, 
 Two years having faithfully reigned ; 
 Will cheerfullj' doff, and on Wednesday tender. 
 
 The cloak and regalia unstained. 
 At the court he will gracefully bow to the 
 bench, 
 On the day when his worship decamps : 
 Then he'll lecture the council and bid them 
 retrench, 
 When taking his leave of the lamps. 
 
 When the chair is adorned by his prudent 
 successor. 
 With aldermen smiling around ; 
 Of goodness and mercy may he be possessor, 
 
 With wisdom and judgment profound. 
 AVhen an alderman's horn is well-budded and 
 pointed, 
 He merits the seals and the stamps ; 
 With the oil of the morning then have him 
 anointed, 
 And give him a couple of lamps. 
 
 The children of Israel, when homeward 
 returning, 
 
 Well pleased with an enemy's spoil. 
 Would order a number of lamps to be burning, 
 
 And fully provided with oil. 
 'Neath the pillar or cloud, famous Aaron and 
 Moses 
 
 Securely reclined in their camps ; 
 Thus a mayor on his couch as securely reposes, 
 
 When duly protected with lamps.
 
 53 toCAL i'OEMS^, 
 
 A lamp for a mayor in whom we can trust is 
 
 An emblem of honour, a mark 
 And a light to the feet in the path of a justice, 
 
 Like Bezaleel's glorious ark. 
 The lamp of the wicked will flicker and perish, 
 
 Wherever on earth he encamps ; 
 But the glory and strength of the righteous 
 shall flourish, 
 
 When properly lighted with lamps. 
 
 A BRAVE TOWNSMAN. 
 
 Mead on the occasioii of Thomas Dev-hurst rcceivivfj 
 a purse of gold for rescuing from droivning seven 
 lives. 
 
 When nations to war's wicked influence yield. 
 
 And feelings revengeful create, 
 When armies are sweeping the forest and field. 
 
 To plunder a neighbouring State, 
 The angel of darkness, with terrible swoop. 
 
 Brings ruin commercial, and death. 
 The vine and the olive trees sicken and droop, 
 
 With a touch of its poisonous breath. 
 
 When war's mighty engines, with shivering 
 boom, 
 
 Strike kingdoms with dreadful alarms, 
 How little we think, till our dear happy home 
 
 Is robbed of its circle of charms, 
 The army and navy, when evil portends. 
 
 Are pillars on which we rely. 
 Defending our country, our homes and our 
 friends, 
 
 More dauntless when danger is nigh. .
 
 LOCAL POfiMS. Sd 
 
 The tears and the thanks of GreatBritain are due, 
 
 And tendered Avith grateful regard, 
 -To the lions whose standard is red, white and 
 blue. 
 
 And these are a nation's award. 
 In guarding our country, to die with the brave, 
 
 Is ranked among glorious deeds, 
 Yet 'tis nobler to rescue from danger, and save 
 
 The son of a widow in weeds. 
 
 Biave men we have yet who imperil their lives, 
 
 The one whom this evening we toast. 
 Is dauntless in danger, and manfully strives 
 
 Not to kill, but to save is his boast. 
 May his heart never fail nor his courage decline 
 
 When perils in future may come, 
 But like a true hero with pleasure consign 
 
 The drowning boys safe to their home. 
 
 When his ears are assailed by a shriek of 
 distress, 
 To assist like an arrow he flies ; 
 His arms are extended to rescue and bless, 
 
 Regardless of pension or prize. 
 For many long years, may the lives he has 
 saved 
 Do honour to Dewhurst's good name ; 
 And at last o'er his dust let the facts be 
 engraved, 
 Recording the deeds of his fame. 
 
 ON THE BIRTHDAY OF A NIECE. 
 
 Many happy returns of the day 
 
 I now wish you, and bless you, dear niece. 
 And as seasons keep rolling away. 
 
 May your wisdom and pleasures increase.
 
 60 tocAL roilMS. 
 
 On this earth, with its troubles and strife, 
 May yon never in vain seek a friend, 
 
 But in comfort and peace throughout life, 
 Be a blessing, and l:»lessed to the end. 
 
 May your heart remain kindly and warm, 
 And your mind be a fountain of bliss ; 
 
 May your life to your friends be a charm, 
 And your temper no worse than it is. 
 
 THE MAYOR OF BRUNSWICK. 
 
 Ye fountains bursting from the rock or fen. 
 That sweetly flow through Ormerod's lovely 
 
 glen, 
 From Holme's laburnum groves, or Derply's 
 
 crown. 
 In limpid streams to serve our ancient town ; 
 Just when your wandering, useful waters meet 
 In foaming torrents wild, each other greet. 
 Then clap your hands, ye floods, with joy 
 
 declare 
 That Brunswick sacred temple owns a mayor. 
 
 Ye holy steeples pointing to the sky. 
 Unfurl your banners only half mast high ; 
 Let Wesleyans weep with unavailing tears. 
 Their prestige now is gone for two long years. 
 And mourn ye proud deserted banks of Brun, 
 Your sister Calder doth exulting run 
 Beside the stately church and civic chair, 
 Where worships Brunswick's modest, gracious 
 mayor.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 61 
 
 Flow on, sweet Calder, through the wide domain, 
 By Towneley's ancient hall and sacred fane, 
 ' EoU down,ye mountain streams,in surging pride, 
 "When nearing Brunswick pray more gently glide, 
 Eush as ye will in rough tempestuous style, 
 But smoothly skim when near the noble pile : 
 Let storms and tempests, floods and lightnings 
 
 spare 
 The glorious temple, and its honoured mayor. 
 
 Ye lofty chimneys, black with poisonous smoke, 
 By rods protected from the lightning's stroke. 
 Pour out your breath, and nod each sooty crest ; 
 Tell hungry sea-gulls rambling from the west 
 In search of distant coasts, and calmer seas— 
 To waft the tidings by each passing breeze — 
 And every wild bird floating through the air 
 Proclaim the joyful news of Brunswick's mayor. 
 
 Ye prudent councillors will honour gain 
 By circling Brunswick's son with civic chain : 
 Pay due regard, and strict obedience show ; 
 He can suspend, or can enforce the law. 
 Ye portly aldermen, ye honoured few, 
 Give veneration when 'tis fairly due ; 
 Ye learned clerks that sit around, beware ; 
 And duly reverence Brunswick's noble mayor. 
 
 Sing out, sweet choir, and spread the glorious 
 
 news, 
 Thou sacred pulpit, and ye spacious pews 
 Ke-echo from the gilded pillars round. 
 To join the diapason's deepest sound ; 
 Let teachers, scholars, too, the theme prolong, 
 And all the congregation join in song ; 
 Thus with united breath and fervent prayer 
 Bring blessings rich upon our Brunswick mayor.
 
 62 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 With trembling pen I humbly dare to trench 
 Upon the sacred threshold of the bench, 
 Where sits impartial justice on her throne, 
 And villains cringe with penitential groan. 
 May justice guard the pure and good from ill, 
 And seize the guilty with unerring skill ; 
 Let nine escape, yea rather nineteen Cains, 
 Than let one guiltless Abel die in chains ; 
 If honest doubt distract one troubled breast, 
 Release the wretch, your honours, 'tis the best. 
 The grapes of Eshcol then shall crown the fare 
 Of Burnley's magistrates, and Brunswick's 
 mavor. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY RHYME. 
 
 The earth's daily motion brings darkness and 
 
 light. 
 The light is called day, and the darkness is 
 
 night ; 
 Three hundred and sixty-five days and six 
 
 hours, 
 Give a year's busy changes, through sunshine 
 
 and showers. 
 We speed round the sun as he shines in the sky, 
 A thousand long miles in a minute we fly. 
 The planets' centripetal circuit will bring 
 The summer and autumn, the winter and spring. 
 As it swiftly moves through the celestial signs, 
 Three-and-twenty degrees and a half it inclines 
 To the plane of its orbit, and this I suppose 
 Brings the change of the seasons ; a natural 
 cause.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 63 
 
 So long as the axi& inclines, never mourn, 
 The seed time and harvest will surely return ; 
 Each year into seasons this angle divides ; 
 The moon's great attraction produces the tides. 
 While great revolutions keep sweeping along, 
 We'll honour our friends in a cup or a song, 
 Our wives and our sweethearts, we love and 
 
 embrace. 
 While millions of worlds are revolving in space. 
 And thus, as this earth in its whirligig course, 
 Is held by the sun's gravitation and force. 
 So is he who is married and settled in life, 
 Compelled by a power to revolve round his wife. 
 She brightens his home with caresses and smiles, 
 Whate'er be his conduct, she seldom reviles. 
 And now, my dear lady, I honestly pray, 
 That you may see many returns of the day. 
 When riper in years, may you never despair, 
 Though children's dear children encircle your 
 
 chair ; 
 And their little branches I hope you will see. 
 To honour the stem of the darling old tree. 
 'Tis a wish, yea a prayer ! that I fervently utter, 
 As witness the signature, friend Harry Nutter. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Written on the occasion of a visit of teti members 
 oj the Burnley Literary and Scientific Club to 
 Lothersdale. 
 
 Tune— 'Cork Leg.' 
 Ye prudent and wise who are not very grave, 
 Whose earnest attention I fervently crave, 
 I know that you honour the witty and brave 
 Who went on a visit to Lothersdale cave, 
 Ki too ral loo, &c.
 
 64 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 These ten merry boys, during holiday time, 
 Once entered a cavern deep down in the lime, 
 If you'll join in the chorus, a musical chime, 
 I'll give you their names mingled up in my 
 rhyme, 
 
 Ri too ral loo, &c. 
 
 Although our director had learning and skill, 
 We had plenty of fun when ascending the Jlill, 
 His scholars were sportive and would not be 
 
 still, 
 Yet while he was JFitham he got his own JFill, 
 Ri too ral loo, &c. 
 
 You will Grant that this question required a 
 
 wide range, 
 When the mountains before us were subject to 
 
 change, 
 On the south of the valley near Lothersdale 
 
 grange, 
 Where the rocks are ujjheaved and appear 
 
 rather Strange, 
 
 Ri too ral loo, &c. 
 
 Wild animals roamed in this beautiful dell, 
 At a time so remote that no mortal can tell. 
 They ranged through this county and Yorkshire 
 
 as well. 
 From Lancaster castle to Waddington fell, 
 Ri too ral loo, &c. 
 
 We could not old Whalley or Clitheroe see, 
 Nor the castle or sacred monastery 
 Where the JVard and the Monhnan used to be — 
 'Twas a Nutter impossibility, 
 Ri too ral loo, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 65 
 
 ON THE OCCASION OF MISS HORNER 
 LEAVING BURNLEY 
 
 For the Eoi/al Academy of Music , Jan. 1st, 1S8S. 
 
 A maiden's song we often heai-d, 
 
 In charming numbers spun ; 
 But now the dear harmonious bird 
 
 Has fled the banks of Brun. 
 
 Through Calder's vale, each fragrant bower, 
 And rippling burn and spring 
 
 Will murmur sadl}', till the hour 
 She homeward spreads her wing. 
 
 A temper kind, a graceful frame. 
 
 Retiring and discreet ; 
 Her voice, a kindling mellow flame, 
 
 Than Miriam's voice more sweet. 
 
 Our Choral Unions sadly moan, 
 
 Her loss they deeply feel ; 
 And local bards in fervent tone, 
 
 Petition for her weal. 
 
 May health her tuneful voice sustain 
 Throughout the passing year ; 
 
 When merry Christmas comes again. 
 We'll give her welcome cheer. 
 
 The organ's diapason deep. 
 
 Its solemn tones shall lend ; 
 The fiddle with its glorious cheep. 
 
 Shall her sweet voice attend. 
 
 Messiah's songs, and sweet refrains, 
 She'll render true and clear ; 
 
 And in Creation's noblest strains, 
 Will charm the finest ear. 
 
 \
 
 66 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 May honest friends and future fame 
 Give joy in years to come ; 
 
 And merit give an lionoured name 
 To bless her home, sweet home. 
 
 ON THE PEESENTATION TO 
 MR. LEWIS GRANT 
 
 For Services rendered to the Burnley Literary 
 and Scientific Club. 
 
 When told that a gift was in store for our 
 
 friend, 
 The Muses I summoned at once to attend ; 
 Those Queens of Parnassus are artful and shy, 
 Too modest at times or o'er proud to reply. 
 Could dew from the wings of one goddess 
 
 descend, 
 And moisten my quill till a poem I'd penned — 
 Or give it a dip in the helicon stream, 
 Oh ! then would each stanza adorn this high 
 
 theme. 
 I've hailed the sweet Muses since I was a boy. 
 And found them unwilling, conceited, and coy, 
 Their favours poetic, still distant I scan, 
 I rhyme on without them as Avell as I can. 
 Regardless of measure I scribble each line. 
 Deserted or shunned by the musical nine. 
 But if I this evening Parnassus could clime 
 I'd stamp Lewis Grant on the sands of old time. 
 This night we convene, and each member is 
 
 proud 
 To gratefully thank him for labours bestowed. 
 This purse, and address where our mites have 
 
 been cast. 
 Are trifles compared to his work of the past.
 
 LOCAL POEMS, 67 
 
 These tokens of honour, of love, and respect 
 For toils volunteered, with such valid efi'cct. 
 Are tendered with grateful and fervent regard, 
 And so are the lines of your servant the bard. 
 With kindness of heart for this club ho has 
 
 striven, 
 So also our hearts have responsively given, 
 No tiraepeice of marble, Sicilian cold, 
 But nuggets of ophar, or Balarat golfl. 
 The dear, precious metal is sometimes a curse. 
 Yet Shakespeare advises, get gold in thy purse. 
 We honour friend Grant for his heart and his 
 
 head, 
 For man is the goud, honest Robin hath said. 
 
 That Lewis may live a long life and be blessed, 
 Is a wish that's re-echoed from every breast, 
 No discord in life his enjoyments should mar, 
 His years should make infants of Jenkins and 
 Parr. 
 
 For all our excursions he marked out a plan. 
 With kindness he catered and led up the van. 
 Through sacred cathedrals with reverence he 
 
 steered — 
 And abbeys in ruins most dismal and weird ; 
 Where poets and painters once flourished and 
 
 died, 
 Friend Lewis was chosen commander and guide ; 
 Could we have our wishes his name and his home 
 Should have a grand record for ages to come. 
 The sights we have witnessed by mountain and 
 
 dale, 
 Arc more than my muse can with prudence 
 
 detail.
 
 68 LOCAL rOEMS. 
 
 Through manors and castles with ample 
 
 demesnes, 
 Where oft were imprisoned proud England's 
 
 good queens. 
 Through colleges also with high nodding towers, 
 With telescopes mounted, of marvellous powers, 
 By their aid Father Perry can nightly descry 
 Ten millions of suns in the depths of the sky. 
 Churches we entered and filed down the naves ; 
 Stained windoAvs we gazed at with grand 
 
 architraves. 
 And now Mr. Lewis I'll bid 3'ou adieu, 
 Your labours now passed we are pleased to 
 
 review. 
 Your modest successor now fills up the void, 
 Like yourself he's good naturcd, kind, una-L\oyd 
 He will stick to his post for this reason, I saj'' 
 You have left him in charge of a *JFard and a 
 
 \Kmj. 
 
 JOB WHITTAM HAETLEY, GUAEDIAN. 
 
 A MEMENTO. 
 
 The poor man's friend, the pauper's stay, 
 No more his genial smiles will pla}^. 
 With doubtful glance, or humour ga}'. 
 
 At morn or noon : 
 Job's useful life has passed away, 
 
 Alas ! too soon. 
 
 *Presiclent, fTreasurer,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. Gt) 
 
 Ye kind protectors of the poor, 
 The friend j^ouVe met so oft before, 
 His welcome face you'll see no more ! — 
 
 Ye guardian class — 
 The threshold of the council door 
 
 No more he'll pass ! 
 
 The workhouse ! misery's last retreat, 
 No more resounds his well-known feet ! 
 The wretched there no more will greet 
 
 Their generous friend : 
 No more his kindly heart will beat, 
 
 Nor hand extend. 
 
 Ye outdoor poor, in pain and grief, 
 Who weekly cringe to claim relief ! 
 In dust now lies your guardian chief. 
 
 In his last robe : 
 Grim death has nipt the yellow leaf 
 
 Of honest Job ! 
 
 Ye frugal poor, of lean estate. 
 Who duly pay your yearly rate. 
 And struggle with an adverse fate — 
 
 The brave unknown — 
 You've lost a friend and advocate, 
 
 In him that's 2;one ! 
 
 o^ 
 
 And you that deal with cautious hand 
 The hard earned rates, don't rejjrimand 
 The wortJiy poor, that starving l)and. 
 
 Nor curse and rave ; 
 Your child or sister so may stand, 
 
 And hiDiibly crave !
 
 10 Local poeMf^. 
 
 TO MISS NANNIE MAY C- 
 
 Your appearance on earth was a blessing divine, 
 In the year eighteen hundred and sixty and 
 
 nine ; 
 You were born in December, the seventeenth 
 
 day. 
 Yet your name like your nature, dear Nannie, 
 
 is May. 
 As your life is unfolding discretion acquire, 
 Let your conduct be such as your parent's 
 
 desire, 
 Study closely old nature, her laws to explore. 
 Learning something each day that you knew 
 
 not before. 
 Be established in truth ; be brave, but not rude ; 
 And more anxious to listen than rashly obtrude ; 
 Trusted secrets disclose not ; be true to your 
 
 friends ; 
 If you thoughtlessly vex, pray, at once make 
 
 amends. 
 
 For all favours be grateful, but fawning despise. 
 Silly gossips avoid, pay regard to the wise ; 
 To the pauper be kind, though he oftentimes 
 
 pleads. 
 For this life's highest pleasures are generous 
 
 deeds ; 
 Violent passions restrain, never envy nor sneer. 
 Make a name to be loved by a noble career. 
 And now, in conclusion, my dear Nannie May, 
 I hope you'll have many retiu-ns of the day ; 
 From childhood I've loved you, before you 
 
 could utter 
 The name of your friend and subscriber, 
 
 H. Nutter.
 
 LOCAIi POEMS. 
 
 FLOWERS FROM THE TOMBS OF 
 THE BARDS. 
 
 n 
 
 Written in answer to a letter containing flowers 
 gathered near the graves of Shelley and Keats, by a 
 Jricnd, and sent from Rome. 
 
 Many thanks for your letter and kindly regards, 
 And the flowers that you culled from the tombs 
 
 of the bards. 
 Sweet emblems of love from the sacred retreats, 
 Where repose the dear ashes of Shelley and 
 
 Keats. 
 Though a joy to me, yet, not for ever, I fear. 
 For the violet's soft petals are now turning sear, 
 I shall keep and protect them in crystalline urns. 
 And adorn them with leaves from the shrine of 
 
 Rob Burns, 
 There to rest till their delicate fibres decay, 
 And by slow dissolution have fallen away, 
 Then the dust I will cherish, protect, and retain, 
 While the visible atoms of mutter remain, 
 As they mingle and change undisturbed on the 
 
 shelf. 
 From the rude hand of danger I'll shield them 
 
 myself, 
 Till the last debt to natuie I finally pay — 
 And thus like the leaves and the fiowers, drop 
 
 away. 
 
 TO MISSF. E. J., ON HER TWENTY-FTRST 
 BHiTHDAY. 
 
 Dear Florence, this day is the last in the year 
 That numbers you twciity-and-one ; 
 
 Henceforth you may boast of a woman's career, 
 Until the last circuit is run.
 
 ^'1 Local pokms. 
 
 Seven thousand six hundred and seventy days 
 Ho.ve passed since the hour of your birth, 
 
 And through the whole number your genial ways 
 Have made you a blessing on earth. 
 
 Your heart is not poisoned with envy or pride, 
 But heaves with compassionate swell ; 
 
 Your future in life, if the past be a guide, 
 Will prove that dame Eve never fell. 
 
 Now life's verdant season with you is in bloom ; 
 
 May summer your pleasures increase ; 
 May autumn be free from all sorrow and gloom ; 
 
 And then may your winter be peace. 
 
 And now Florence Ellen, I fervently pray 
 That your heart may keep happy and true ; 
 
 A hundred returns of your dear natal day 
 I now wish you. Dear lady adieu. 
 
 A STORY OF A POODLE. 
 
 My dear Mister Editor Houlding, 
 With poets I never was classed ; 
 
 I neither want praising nor scolding, 
 For either the present or past. 
 
 But I ask to relate you a story. 
 In plain honest doggerel verse ; 
 
 Though clear as the waters of Shorey, 
 The spring is undoubtedly worse. 
 
 A man of a generous nature. 
 
 Though not over foolish or wise. 
 
 Will love a kind innocent creature, 
 And not o'er a brute tyrannise.
 
 Local poems. i^ 
 
 Their use and devotion compel us 
 
 To love them and even caress ; 
 Yet cruel cantankerous fellows 
 
 Will torture the things they possess. 
 
 I once had a bonny French poodle, 
 
 A cunning affectionate thing, 
 At ray feet she would fondle and cuddle, 
 
 But she strayed one morning in spring. 
 
 She deserted the home she was born in, 
 The cottage wherein she was reared ; 
 
 In your paper on Saturday morning, 
 This curious notice appeared : 
 
 " Lost, stolen, or strayed, I cannot tell which, 
 A beautiful dark faced poodle bitch, 
 With dark brown eyes, and an excellent smell, 
 Her ears are uncut, and she answers to Nell. 
 Her action is good, though her tail is unfurled. 
 She's a regular swell as she trots through the 
 
 world, 
 A handsome reward any person will get. 
 Who brings to my office that brute of a pet." 
 
 On the morrow she came with a caper, 
 I know not how she was constrained ; 
 
 But she followed the boy with your paper. 
 As if she knew what it contained. 
 
 I had scarcely unfastened the shutter. 
 The boy had just opened the door ; 
 
 'Tis as true as my name's ILirry Nutter, 
 That Nellie jumped on to the Huor.
 
 fi LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 A POEM IN SCOTCH. 
 
 The folloiriiig poem is dcilicalcd to a Scotch friend, 
 Dr. Mackenzie, the honorary neerctary to Ihe 
 Burnlcij Literary and Seientijie CIkU. 
 
 Dear doctor, ye should na be stealin awa, 
 Ayont the north border by clachaii and ha ; 
 0\vre braid rairhig rivers whare warriors hae 
 
 baithed, 
 Whare foes ha been dunted and friends muckle 
 
 scaithed. 
 
 Ye braw winsome swankie, ye're in your hot 
 
 bluid, 
 I thought ye were willyart, auldfarren an guid ; 
 Ye're mislear'd an sleekit, in rinning aff hame — 
 But aiblins wanrestful and seeking a dame. 
 
 It gars us feel lanely an maistly unweel, 
 To lose sik a birkie and leesome young chiel 1 
 And thus in your absence we canna do mair, 
 Than greet for a brither, till hameward ye steer. 
 
 The excursion ye planned had excited our 
 
 hoj^es, 
 That you would gang with us to Pendle's wild 
 
 slopes ; 
 Although ye were absent we gat a good drive, 
 An the wonders we saw there I'll try to descrive. 
 
 Auld abbeys sae eldritch are there to be found, 
 AVharc the mavis and lintwhite sing sweetly 
 
 around ; 
 The bumclock hums freely, the laverock sings 
 
 high— 
 Fond cushats coo safely nae oidet ib high.
 
 ioCAL POEMS. 75 
 
 Auld mansions are lonely and crumblin away, 
 crKow feckless and worset, to time they're a prey ; 
 Yet ance they were poughty an weel fortified, 
 An swats and'thickbannocks werefreely supplied. 
 
 Armorial bearings were over the door, 
 An gurgoyles projected behind and before ; 
 The^ghaistly old rooms were all fairly weel lit, 
 An cuspated Avinnocks were mullioned wi grit. 
 The ramparts are standing, wi ivy they're green, 
 Where Henry de Hoghton ruled over the scene ; 
 At Mearley brave warriors haemetwi theirdeath, 
 An valiant Lord Sussex here drew his firstbreath. 
 The biggins are ourie, the chimlies are braid. 
 Their walls ance so stalwart are maistly decayed; 
 Ane's fashed and unsicker.for warlocks are there. 
 An bogles might scaithus when speelingthe stair. 
 
 "We gloured an we graipit and muckle Ave swat. 
 Our sarks amaist dripping, our breeks might be 
 
 wat — 
 An doubtless ourhearts were all meltinglike wax, 
 Our knees were unsicker and feckless our backs. 
 The lightning was flashing — we glinted wi fear, 
 Lest boggarts should fleg us and then disappear — 
 The streamlet near Mearley dashed by in a flood, 
 An Pendle's proud summit was cap't wi a clud. 
 No skelpies we saw there to scar and to fash, 
 Yet witches were with us, baith cannie an gash ; 
 Not soft menseless gaukies, nae gossi}) or sneak. 
 But sonsie young maidens, and dames unco meek. 
 No pibroch was sounded your friends to salute. 
 But through the weird mansion re-echoed the flute, 
 Wiiich rallied our' party in Mearley's old shrine : 
 \Vc liiiislied our labours wi singing Lang Syne.
 
 lb,. 
 
 i b 
 
 LOCAL 1\)KJ\1S. 
 
 Then backliiis avc li;istcncil wccl plciiscd \vi the 
 
 day, 
 'J'hough some of our brithers luul wandered away ; 
 A guid tea was served at the Brouidaw Hotel, 
 Eamfeezl'd and droukit we relished it well. 
 
 GLOSSARY. 
 
 Tlie following glossary will be found to contain 
 exjilaniitions of some of the toiius and phrases used 
 in the above [lueni : — 
 
 Ha, hall. 
 
 SCAITHED, injured. 
 
 WlLLYART, bashful. 
 
 AuLDFARUEN, sagacious. 
 
 AlBLINS WANUE.STFUI-, 
 jjerhaps restless. 
 
 BiRKlE, young man. 
 
 Leesome Ciiiel, plea- 
 sant fellow. 
 
 Mavis and Lintwhite, 
 thrush and linnet. 
 
 Cushats, stock doves. 
 
 POUGHTY, proud. 
 
 SwATTS— Bannocks, ale 
 and Scotch bread. 
 
 Oukie, drooping. 
 
 Bogles, goblins. 
 
 SCAITH, harm. 
 
 Gloured an w^iGraipit 
 stared and groped 
 
 Unsicker — Feckless, 
 unsafe — weak. 
 
 C A N N I E AND GASH, 
 gentle and wise. 
 
 Son SIR, sweet and en- 
 gaging. 
 
 Kamfei':zl'd an Drou- 
 kit, fatigued and wet. 
 
 Clacha>, village. 
 
 Dunted, beaten. 
 Braw Winsome Swan- 
 
 KIE, hearty youngman. 
 Mislear'd and Sleekit 
 
 mischievous and sly. 
 Gars, makes. 
 Maistly, mostly. 
 Greet, weep. 
 Eldritch, frightful. 
 B u M c L o c K, humming 
 
 beetle. 
 Feckless and Worset, 
 
 weak and Avorsted. 
 Ghaistly, ghostly. 
 WiNNOCKS, Mindows. 
 Fashed an Unsicker, 
 
 troubled and unsafe. 
 Speeling, climbing. 
 Swat, sweat. 
 Sarks, shirts. 
 Wat, wet. 
 Fleg, random blow. 
 Skelpies, water spirits. 
 Menseless Gaukies, 
 
 ill-mannered, h a 1 f- 
 
 wiitcd. 
 BACKiaxs, homeward. 
 Muckle, much.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 77 
 
 ON THE OCCASION OF THE 
 REV. WILLIAM REID LEAVING NELSON. 
 
 ^m son-}', dear Amos, in fact, I am grieving, 
 To learn that 3^our parson is talking of leaving. 
 Just allow me to warn'j-ou, in this humble letter, 
 'Tis a thousand to one that you'll e'er get a 
 
 better ; 
 You may get a man prouder, and full of pretence, 
 But not like your Reid, with his sound common 
 
 sense. 
 He is gentle and kind — also bold and outspoken. 
 And no one can call him a Heed that is broken ; 
 His purpose is honest, and simple his creed. 
 That a fool need not err, and a runner may 
 
 Bead. 
 May he ne'er lack a shilling, a friend, or a 
 
 dinner, 
 Is the earnest desire of a brother and sinner ; 
 May his years be prolonged, and may age bring 
 
 him ease. 
 And his passage from life be by painless disease. 
 In the dark shades of death may his pillow be 
 
 soft. 
 And his password be ' Jesus,' when soaring aloft ; 
 Maj' angels attend the last words he can utter. 
 Is the prayer of his personal friend, Harry 
 
 Nutter. 
 
 — To Mr. Amos, secretary. 
 
 THE ROYAL VISIT TO BURNLEY. 
 
 Hail ! grandson of our noble Queen, 
 And Albert Edward's son, 
 
 Our banners wave in blue and green, 
 A welcome on the Brun,
 
 78 LOCAL rOEMS. 
 
 This (lay wc politics abjure, 
 And with one mind evince 
 
 A welcome by the rich and poor 
 To Albert Victor, Prince. 
 
 And when in distant future years 
 He dons the British crown, 
 
 May he throughout both hemispheres 
 Have earned a high renown. 
 
 No potency can e'er obtain, 
 Or monarch long endure, 
 
 Unless the people's hearts he gain, 
 His throne is insecure. 
 
 May manly deeds and noble worth 
 
 Embellish his career, 
 And be to every Prince on earth 
 
 A glorious pioneer. 
 
 THE QUEEN AND JOHN BPvIGHT. 
 
 In reference to Bright's defence of Her Majesty's 
 absence from public Ufe after the death of Frince 
 Albert. 
 
 I'll sing you a song of a lady ; 
 
 The Queen of our sea-beaten isle, 
 This dear little creature was ready 
 
 To welcome John Bright with a smile ; 
 'Your friendship I'm happy to make, sir, ' 
 
 The Queen of Great Britain began, 
 ' Your Sovereign you'll never forsake, sir. 
 
 But stand in defence like a man.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 79 
 
 My dauirhter is waiting to greet you, 
 
 The Princess of Prussia is here ; 
 She has come to old Windsor to meet you, 
 
 For Bright is a name she holds dear ; 
 Long time she's been anxiously waiting, 
 
 And casting her eye to the door, 
 And now she's the pleasure of meeting 
 
 The friend of the perishing poor. 
 
 Your speeches we read with great pleasure, 
 
 They're faithful, and lo3'al, and true. 
 Your words of afliection we treasure. 
 
 And ever feel grateful to you.' 
 As she gazed on the Liberal chieftain 
 
 A tear in her eye might be seen ; 
 She said, ' You're the kindest of statesmen, 
 
 You defended your widowed Queen. 
 
 I thought of your kind benediction 
 
 When moistening my couch Avith a tear. 
 Lamenting in deej)est afHiction 
 
 The loss of a partner so dear ; 
 When my heart was sinking in sadness, 
 
 Your words were a source of relief ; 
 And now I can welcome with gladness, 
 
 Old England's great Liberal chief.' 
 
 THE MAYOR'S DINNER. 
 
 My Dear Mr. Mayor, at your call I'll be there. 
 
 On the thirtieth day of October ; 
 At the name of a dinner, like many a sinner, 
 
 I turn up again like Micauber. 
 
 As chief magistrate I am bound to relate, 
 That your conduct has always inclined 
 
 To pity and pardon. Yet those you wore hard on, 
 Got justice, with mercy combined.
 
 go LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 When the ruffian or wench stood arraigned 
 at the bench, 
 Yon were touched with their pitiful wailings, 
 But when you had chided, you sighed, and 
 decided, 
 And thought of your own little failings. 
 
 Through each busy year I have watched your 
 career, 
 And am proud to declare without scorn, 
 That the badge and the chain will be never 
 again 
 More kindly or faithfully worn. 
 
 The brave and the witty, give judgement with 
 
 pity. 
 
 Regardless of evil reports. 
 But we who are nervous, may goodness 
 preserve us 
 From magistrates, lawyers, and courts. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A PRESENT. 
 
 Dear Lady, the presents arrived, with your card, 
 For which, pray accept the best thanks of a 
 
 bard ; 
 With care the dear parcel at once I unpacked. 
 The contents of which I began to extract : 
 When lo ! to my wonder and grateful surprise, 
 Two gray speckled water-fowl gladdened my 
 
 eyes, 
 Their weight and condition I gaugcil by a lift, 
 And honoured the feelings that prompted the 
 
 gift.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 81 
 
 The dear little ducklings were tenderly bred, 
 No game could be richer, no birds better fed ; 
 The fowl were delicious, the best of their kind 
 To please a man's palate, the keen or refined. 
 Although they were welcome, in time, and in 
 
 place, 
 It was not the beauty, or weight of the brace 
 That gave me the pleasure, or measured their 
 
 worth. 
 Or kindled emotions my bosom heaved forth, 
 Though plump and well-flavoured, and tender 
 
 each part, 
 Their value I prized by the donor's kind heart. 
 In friendship's true standard,the heart is the guide, 
 'Twas therefore I relished the ducklings with 
 
 pride. 
 Your dutiful husband, no doubt had a voice 
 In point of selection ; and wise was his choice. 
 Not only in water-fowl, jmrtridge, or snipe, 
 But judgment in game of a far nobler type. 
 The test of his wisdom's criterion was true. 
 When his heart's warm ai?ections centred on you, 
 Whose bosom was faithful, untainted and fair, 
 'Twas then that a dear tender duckling you were. 
 But now to my pen a strong brake I'll apply, 
 To wander still further, my Muse is too shy. 
 Such terms of endearment as duckling, my friend. 
 Must bring my effusion, though short, to an end. 
 
 WRITTEN FOR THE VICTORIA 
 ASSEMBLY ROOM, DECEMBER 31, 1887. 
 
 The year will end when you observe this night 
 The hands upon the dial stand upright ; 
 Our time is measured by this whirling sphere, 
 To-night at tivelve she marks another year.
 
 82 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 On this last day, just when the year is spun, 
 Our wicked world is nearest to the sun. 
 Though swift the planet round her orbit roves, 
 When near the sun with greater speed she 
 
 moves. 
 And yet there's not the slightest jar or sound, 
 As this huge globe flies in her circuit round. 
 Bound to her path, b}'' Sol's attractive force, 
 She turns upon her axis in her course. 
 From West to East she daily tumbles o'er, 
 While eight and sixty thousand miles an hour 
 She rolls along her wondrous yearly flight 
 Around the glorious central orb of light. 
 She lingers not when at the winning post, 
 But flies along the course. She's never lost ; 
 Swift circling round the sun in endless space, 
 Attended by the moon, with smiling face. 
 The mighty orb, of light and heat the source, 
 Keeps moons and planets in sweet intercourse. 
 The earth's diurnal movement tells the hours ; 
 Days, weeks, and years are marked as round 
 
 she tours. 
 The sage will soon depart. Old Eighty-seven, 
 With all the cai^es and pleasures he has given ; 
 Young Eighty-eight takes up the race again. 
 He must alike the usual speed maintain. 
 Before the earth once more flies round the sun. 
 May Horner find you wisdom, wit, and fun. 
 Our Queen the year of jubilee survives ; 
 No monarch in this world more truly strives 
 To keep a kindly sympathetic bond 
 With subjects here at home, and those beyond 
 The seas ; the millions, south, and east, and 
 
 west. 
 Whom no terrestrial monarch dare molest.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 83 
 
 No Sovereign of the past so loved has been 
 As our Victoria, honoured, widowed Queen. 
 The prayer of each one here is this, that she 
 May long survive her year of jubilee. 
 To rule in peace a people brave and free. 
 
 'Tis just four days and sixty-seven weeks. 
 Since we commenced our funny friendly freaks 
 In this grand room, wherein we meet to-night — 
 This hall of splendour, reared for your delight. 
 Already what a mighty void it fills. 
 What joy, and useful lessons it instils. 
 Our greates*^. poets' fancies, flights and dreams : 
 Their potent proverbs, and exalted themes 
 Are here interpreted, with instinct clear. 
 For your instruction, guidance, hope and cheer. 
 From year to year our special aim shall be 
 To keep the moral tone both high and free. 
 The villain's deep laid schemes we here expose. 
 When rounds of hearty, well-deserved applause 
 Burst from the lusty throats above, below. 
 At each designing rascal's overthrow. 
 When victory crowns a brave and noble deed. 
 Or loving hearts for others intercede, 
 When honest worth receives its just reward. 
 And fiends are from their deadly game debarred, 
 With these portrayed, when voice and act 
 
 combine, 
 'Tis then the stage fulfills her high design. 
 
 We prize our high class sweet orchestral band, 
 Which timely answers the conductor's wand. 
 From cornet, fiddle, flute and clarionette, 
 Down to the double bass, we music get. 
 No selfish Calvinistic creeds we preach, 
 But broad and human principles we teach.
 
 84 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 All shades of politics we here abjure, 
 
 From bribery and corruption we are pure. 
 
 From some imperial matters we dissent. 
 
 At times we blame our local parliament. 
 
 Our councillors and aldermen and mayors 
 
 Have had a large amount of local cares ; 
 
 Our new fledged mayor we wish him health and 
 
 peace, 
 May all that's good surround him and increase, 
 And when he justice metes to hardened sinners, 
 May he be merciful to young beginners. 
 
 When we compare with boroughs here around, 
 Our rates are less than theirs, sir, in the pound ; 
 Although our gas is cheap and shineth clear, 
 It yields a golden harvest year by year ; 
 Our streets, hotels, and shops are bright and 
 
 gay, 
 
 With nineteen candle gas of lustrous ray, 
 Trees, hills and clouds are shining as we pass, 
 The heavens declare the power of Burnley gas. 
 That this department pays, you clearly see, 
 And blazes brightly 'neath the G^reenwood tree. 
 
 From gas to water : Now we come in view 
 Of mountains, where the moorcock and curlew 
 Skim o'er the cloud-capt, rugged summit, free ; 
 And mountain lambs are sheltering on the lee, 
 Those distant, filtering hills of millstone grit, 
 By Vulcan's power upheaved, or lightning split, 
 Where rocky glens and heath-clad vales abound, 
 And ancient, prehistoric urns are found. 
 
 Brave Wilkinson ! we thank thee now at last, 
 For glimpses thou hast furnished of the past ; 
 This patient antiquarian wanders o'er 
 The heath, unsheltered, and in search of lore.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 85 
 
 New light was thrown (though superstition 
 
 spurns) 
 When he unearthed those rude primeval urns. 
 What time has passed since these men lived, 
 
 ye seers ? 
 Say, is it two, or fifty thousand years 1 
 That theme I leave to-night. I must pursue 
 Those rippling streams of crystal mountain dew. 
 
 Success to Swindon, Thursden, and Cant Clough ! 
 Of faults and loamy clay, we've had enough. 
 From Shedding Top, and Bouldsworth's snow- 
 capped hills. 
 The limpid currents dash in sparkling rills ; 
 From Gorple point, and down from Robin Hood, 
 Each valley pours a pure transparent flood. 
 The Muses never sweeter water drank, 
 Than Jockey Spring, which bubbles from the 
 
 bank. 
 With streams like these I name, wide, deep, and 
 
 clear. 
 And water from Cant Clough, we need not fear. 
 Let York and Chester laud their hills and dales, 
 We boast of scenes in our Lancaster vales. 
 When all those streams are tapped that 
 
 clearly run. 
 No man need thirst along the banks of Brun. 
 Then let this town, Lang'Cast-(h)er future hopes, 
 On Thursden's gushing streams and Shedding's 
 
 slopes. 
 The Streets Department's health I humbly 
 
 move; 
 Of all improvements some men disapprove. 
 This great committee makes your level streets, 
 Though some it leaves undone, and some 
 
 com})letes,
 
 S6 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Their labours often make them many foes ; 
 Fair phxy's a jewel, so the motto goes, 
 Though hard its duties, yet it ne'er exults, 
 Nor is it Baron either of results. 
 I know not who's to blame or who began it. 
 This awful row about Dalbeatie granite ; 
 I don't condemn its purchase, or excuse it, 
 But why not lay it in the streets and use it. 
 'Tis Avorse than madness, thus to go on raving, 
 The sets are paid for, get along with paving. 
 
 Success, long life, and if they want it, wealth 
 To that department, which secures us health; 
 'Tis true we've clean swept streets and spacious 
 
 paths, 
 But wretched roads to our ill-lighted baths. 
 Your household refuse, too, is swept away 
 Without offence, before the break of day; 
 Who now permits a nuisance is a dunce, 
 And must be sent to Keighley, sir, at once. 
 
 That dull department, Sewage, comes the next, 
 The members of this branch may feel perplexed; 
 If gratitude is due, it is to those 
 Who kindly take a nuisance from our nose. 
 If well paved streets each district once secures, 
 With channels clean, and ventilated sewers. 
 All pipes and drains well trapped and throttled, 
 And all vile smells at Duckpits bottled ; 
 Where every nuisance and effluvium, 
 Shall i-est in beds of pure alluvium. 
 If traps and pipes are not in good repair, 
 Then go and tell the man that Burrows there.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 87 
 
 Through all confusion and through all 
 
 mischances, 
 Good men we have obtained for our finances ; 
 Each cheque long may they honour at the call, 
 Like Higham's hindmost man they pay for all, 
 If you withhold your rates, you'll fare the worse, 
 And find a Thorn-bur sharply in your purse. 
 
 The town is also Watched and all within 
 Who now disturb the peace, will be run in. 
 Their guardianship we know, and thus accept, 
 Row-arths and homes are now securely kept. 
 
 Our market branch has seen her troubles end. 
 Large profits now her useful work attend, 
 And those who break or injure any stall, 
 Must surely go to Bailey one and all. 
 
 The cemetery branch I name the last ; 
 This finds a home, to which we're travelling fast. 
 That final, purely democratic spot. 
 Where each man gets, of land, an equal plot ; 
 The good, the bad, the sordid, rich, and poor, 
 Must pass in solemn silence that dark door ; 
 Of all that's earthly each man gets his share, 
 And till the crack of doom he's Holden there. 
 
 TO THE CHAIRMAN OF THE NELSON 
 LOCAL BOARD. 
 
 I thank you, my friend, for your kind invitation, 
 To dinners or luncheons I need no persuasion, 
 The courses, though many, are seldom too 
 
 fuls'ime, 
 My system salutes them as kindly and 
 
 wholesome ;
 
 ^^ Local poems. 
 
 Then mark these few lines, that in rhyme I'm 
 
 transmitting, 
 I'll turn up in time, and in garments befitting. 
 And now my friend Wilidnson, Nelson's good 
 
 chairman, 
 At duty's high post, be impartial and fair, man; 
 The balance of justice hold firmly and meekly, 
 Yet if it incline, let it lean to the weakly. 
 May wisdom and truth be the stars of your 
 
 guiding, 
 To steer the sage Board over which you're 
 
 presiding ; 
 May envy, and discord, and selfishness perish, 
 And Nelson, brave Nelson, still prosper and 
 
 flourish. 
 Long life to yourself, and your wise Local 
 
 Boarders, — 
 (With faculties free from all mental disorders), 
 Your sons, and your wives, and your daughters 
 
 of beauty ; 
 Like Nelson of old, may you all do your duty ; 
 This prayer in conclusion, I fervently utter, 
 As thus I subscribe myself, friend, Harry Nutter. 
 
 A BURNLEY FISHERMAN'S SONG. 
 
 Tune — ' Derry Down.' 
 
 In Burnley, the pride of the Calder and Brun, 
 Ere Bruce with his license restrictions begun, 
 Two fishermen met at the Wellington Inn, 
 And fathomed a noggin of Nicholson's gin. 
 Derry down, &c.
 
 LOCAL fOEMS. 8d 
 
 For rods or for swimmers they ne'er had a wish, 
 But both had a weakness for groping for fish ; 
 Old Joseph or Steven would far sooner die, 
 Than strike with a hook or deceive with a fly. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 They called him a savage and void of all skill 
 Who pierced a poor innocent fish through the 
 
 gill ; 
 
 Such arts they discarded, by river and pool, 
 And called Isaac Walton a cruel old fool. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Unsafe in their coverts were gudgeon or trout, 
 If Joseph and Steven were groping about ; 
 With dexterous fingers they stroked them all o'er, 
 Producing sensations they ne'er felt before. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Contentions arose as to which was the best. 
 At tickling a fish when asleep or at rest ; 
 These fishermen knew when the evening had 
 
 closed 
 Where nightly the dear little fishes reposed. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 The art of an angler a trout might defy. 
 
 With a worm covered hook or a treacherous fly ; 
 
 But could not the hands of these sportsmen 
 
 elude 
 In the darkest recess where their hands could 
 
 obtrude. 
 
 Derry down, &c
 
 90 LOCAL POElMS. 
 
 They tickled their bosoms, their sides, and their 
 
 fins. 
 And chuckled them tenderly under their chins, 
 Then fondly they clasped them, and raised them 
 
 on high, 
 They changed their condition, then calmly 
 
 they'd die. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 A challenge of skill by old Steven was made ; 
 On Joseph a guinea was instantly laid : 
 The wager was fixed and the poachers set out, 
 To tickle and capture the dear dappled trout. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 The night was propitious, conditions allured. 
 The full harvest moon by a cloud was obscured ; 
 Old Calder flowed smoothly, the fish were well 
 
 fed. 
 The watch-dogs and keepers were snoring in bed. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 The fishermen ran to the banks of the stream, 
 Disdainful of danger, their vows to redeem; 
 When Joseph announced that the game had 
 
 begun. 
 The bell in St. Peter's tolled solemnly one. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Old Towneley's ancestral mansion was dark, 
 The timorous deer were alert in the park ; 
 The valley was silent from Dinely to Ridge, 
 When the contest commenced at the foot of 
 Handbridge. 
 
 Derry down, &c.
 
 LOCAL POfiMS. 91 
 
 ' One favour I'll grant you,' said Steven, ' for 
 
 luck ; 
 
 ^-^ Ten minutes a start you shall have in the brook ;' 
 
 Then Joseph rushed down to the water in haste, 
 
 So eager for sport that no time would he waste. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Each corner he tested with masterly hand, 
 While crafty old Steven remained on dry land, 
 And slily pretended to keep a look out. 
 To see if the keepers were lurking about. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 ' Here's a pool,' said old Steven, ' where often- 
 times I 
 
 Have groped it alone, and got many a fry ; 
 
 Your fingers are nimble, your knowledge is 
 great, 
 
 Experience has taught you to tickle and wait. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Just under this bank, Joseph, give it a feel. 
 It's a nice shady nook for a trout or an eel ;' 
 In vain Joseph groped, then began to despair, 
 He found not a fish under boulder or weir. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Then Steven's deep trick was beginning to dawn, 
 On Joseph, who forded the river alone ; 
 'Dear comrade,' said Steven, 'pray keep up 
 
 your heart, 
 Just make a beginning, and then I will start.' 
 Derry down, &c.
 
 92 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 The fisherman trembled without and within, 
 'Are you satisfied yet ? ' said his friend, with a 
 
 grin ; 
 But Joseph stood silent, disgusted and cold, 
 His nether lip dropped, when he saw he was 
 
 sold. 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 Poor Joseph now sullenly gazed on his friend, 
 He saw the old barn where the contest should 
 
 end ; 
 Dismayed and outwitted, he felt in disgrace, 
 While Steven, old fox, had a smile on his face. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 ' No fish have we caught,' Steven artfully cried, 
 ' You cunning old carving-knife,' Joseph replied, 
 'The wager is mine, sir, and that you shall 
 
 know,' 
 ' Nay, nay,' answered Steven, ' we'll call it a 
 
 draw.' 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 ' It's a draw, I confess : Steven, lend me your 
 
 hand, 
 And give me a lift, for I scarcely can stand ;' 
 But Steven held fast to a tree where he stood, 
 Or instantly he would have been in the flood. 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 ' You seemed to pull hard, Joseph ; was it a slip ? 
 Or were you intending to give me a dip ? 
 Your game I perceived, brother — do not look 
 
 gruff; 
 One draw at a time, sir, is surely enough.' 
 Derry down, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 93 
 
 Thus Steven addressed his friend Joseph, who 
 
 sighed : 
 ' Pray take this advice as a lesson and guide — 
 Whenever you enter a contest again, 
 Just measure your man by the weight of the 
 
 brain.' 
 
 Derry down, &c. 
 
 'Tis sweet to rejoice o'er a conquest complete, 
 But nobler, with grace to accept a defeat ; 
 Then let this cold lesson sink deep in your heart. 
 Don't enter the stream with a ten minutes' start. 
 Derry down, &c, 
 
 OPENING OF THE TOWN HALL, 
 BURNLEY. 
 
 October 27th, 1888. 
 
 With tuneful strains my simple lines infuse, 
 Thou dear reserved and fickle-hearted Muse ; 
 Enlighten me with thy poetic beam. 
 While here I ponder o'er this mighty theme. 
 With lofty thoughts my mind illuminate. 
 As on this glorious subject I dilate. 
 
 The stately building, Burnley's hope and pride, 
 This day the major her doors throws open wide. 
 With hand ungloved and massive golden key. 
 The willing lock obedient yields the way. 
 Omnipotent its power the gold maintains 
 On 'Change, in fine town halls, or holy fanes ; 
 With key of gold from Balaiat in hand, 
 No earthly bolt such lever can withstand.
 
 94 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 This potent metal locks the human heart, 
 And makes it pity-proof in every part ; 
 The gold-lined icy bosom tearless sees 
 A needy brother bending on his knees. 
 Yea, sires and grandsires feeble, worn and old, 
 Have sued in vain to sons with keys of gold. 
 
 As humble bards all selfish themes must spurn, 
 
 I to my subject once again return. 
 
 The glorious structure with its modest spire, 
 
 And noble front with stout and neat attire, 
 
 Where Burnley's loyal banner proudly waves. 
 
 Above the pillars and the architraves. 
 
 The cheerful four faced clock with tuneful 
 
 chime. 
 Whose wheels will work with true sidereal time, 
 Will be a signal clear on every side. 
 By night and day a beacon and a guide. 
 
 Henceforth we dedicate this hall to those 
 Who must in faith administer the laws 
 Of this great empire, with unbiassed mind, 
 With justice stern, and mercy sweet combined ; 
 Like old Lycurgus wise of Spartan fame. 
 May equity well meted be their aim ; 
 Let no cold hearted, cruel Justice trench 
 Upon the sacred precincts of the bench, 
 Nor ever judgment once be guided wrong 
 By any luring lawyer's wicked tongue. 
 The deeply penitent with prayer sincere 
 May plead with hope for true compassion here, 
 And youthful sinners, who for grace implore. 
 Will go their promised way, and sin no more.
 
 •LOCAL POEMS. 95 
 
 The cells below where pity seldom strays 
 ..V (Where scamps unhanged resolve on better 
 
 ways), 
 Are warm, and dry, and safely under guard. 
 And well-aired beds are there, though somewhat 
 
 hard. 
 Some men, 'tis true, are dungeoned free from 
 
 guile. 
 And rashly thrust below to durance vile ; 
 To cases such as these, our hearts have moved, 
 When clear the victim's innocence was proved. 
 
 The Corporation now I name with pride, 
 
 In whom the grateful burgesses confide ; 
 
 His worshipful the aldermanic mayor, 
 
 With badge and chain must take the central 
 
 chair. 
 To right and left the aldermen are ranged. 
 Where confidential words are interchanged. 
 These portly gentlemen, with great respect. 
 And sage-like mien, support the mayor elect. 
 The common councillors before them sit 
 With due allegiance, and submission fit. 
 The chairmen of committees take the lead ; 
 Upstanding, they address the mayor, then read 
 The minutes of committee meetings clear, 
 Reporting good results throughout the year. 
 On matters of importance they debate. 
 Devising means to lower the borough rate ; 
 Retrenchment is their object, aim and end, 
 And on efficiency you may depend. 
 Your thoroughfares and bridges, streets and 
 
 roads. 
 Are now complete, that nothing incommodes. 
 The gas is cheap and bright without compeer, 
 The water pure and soft, like crystal clear ;
 
 96 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 No borough in the kingdom can bestow 
 Such perfect blessings, and with rates so low. 
 Then chime away, ye glorious Town Hall bells, 
 Ring out St. Peter with thy heavenly peals, 
 Ye bands assist with instrumental call, 
 And give a welcome to our new Town Hall. 
 
 DISSOLUTION OF THE ODDFELLOWS' 
 CLUB, BAKROWFORD. 
 
 The following lines were given on Saturday 
 evening, December 11th, 1886, on the dissolution 
 of the Oddfello^vs' Club, which had held its meetings 
 at the ^Fleece Inn,' Barrowford, fm' nearly sixty 
 years : — 
 
 Most noble grand, and past grandmasters, too, 
 And loyal vice, this night we bid adieu. 
 Ye grand provincial masters of the past, 
 This noble lodge, to fate succumbs at last. 
 The club you loved through many a toiling year, 
 Must close this night a useful, grand career. 
 As all things have an end beneath the sun, 
 So must our club, its mission now is done. 
 The Ward who safely kept the outer door. 
 With broad brimmed hat, alas ! we see no 
 
 more ; 
 The Tyler's cheerful voice and kindly glance 
 Will never more his brethren's names announce ; 
 He'll welcome us no more with heart and hand, 
 Nor sign or password at the door demand. 
 We give no more the deferential bow. 
 Nor raise our willing fingers to our brow. 
 The costumes which our high officials wore, 
 Who graced those benches in the days of yore,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 97 
 
 The gilded valance and the master's chair 
 ^^, Will soon be classed among the things that 
 "• ~ were ; 
 
 No sounds harmonious will fraternal ring, 
 Nor sacred mystic rites new pleasures bring. 
 In bygone happy years, good heavens, how long ! 
 Since these old walls resounded our first song ; 
 This room where secret ties were knit secure, 
 Where no fantastic show could long endure. 
 At festive seasons long ago Ave joined 
 In councils sweet, in one firm bond combined. 
 'Tis true our club has reached its journeys end ; 
 To aid the poor, yet willing hands we'll lend — 
 Love mercy still, be generous, kind and wise, 
 Like brethren live in peace and fraternize. 
 
 Although onr institution now is nil, 
 For all that's good we stand united still. 
 Clubs end like all things mortal in decay ; 
 So empires fall and kingdoms pass away ; 
 Conditions ever change, and we with them 
 Are doomed to fall, like branches from the stem. 
 May we, like wise and prudent men, resolve 
 To make the best of things as they evolve. 
 Be bounteous still, without the mystic line. 
 And emulate the days of auld lang syne. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A NEPHEW IN HIS 
 21ST ^EAR, NOV. 1, 1888. 
 
 In silence I entered the home of my youth : 
 There death had again cast a gloom. 
 
 The lad that I valued for honour and truth, 
 Was cut like a flower in its bloom.
 
 98 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 A brother sat pensive and gazed in tlie fire, 
 Depressed by affliction profound ; 
 
 His darling old mother, his sisters and sire. 
 In sorrow sat weeping around. 
 
 The charming old fiddle lay mute in the case, 
 The bow by its side was unstrung ; 
 
 The fiddler lay sleeping in death's cold embrace, 
 Once noble, still life-like and young. 
 
 There close wept an angel attendant and ward, 
 
 A loving companion and friend , 
 Who cherished and nursed with a tender regard, 
 
 The poor suffering youth to the end. 
 
 In solo, or trio, or in the full score, 
 
 He cheerfully tendered his part ; 
 Those hands will, alas ! be responsive no more, 
 
 To gladden his dear honest heart. 
 
 Attentive, acute, and refined were his ears, 
 
 To music, to morals, and worth : 
 Those eyes that oft bathed in affectionate tears. 
 
 Are closed to all things upon earth. 
 
 Those fingers which tunefully tempered the 
 screw, 
 
 And swept each melodious string 
 With timely precision, so graceful and true. 
 
 Will nevermore harmony bring. 
 
 Alas ! that musicians should sicken and die, 
 That draw out the heart-stirring tone ; 
 
 Alas ! that such merit and attributes high. 
 Should perish in life's blushing dawn.
 
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 09 
 
 SUNG AT THE MAYOR'S DINNER, 
 JANUARY 24th, 1890. 
 
 Tune—' St. Patrick was a Gentleman.' 
 
 Come, dear capricious, careless Muse, 
 
 At this our festive season ; 
 My wayward mind this night infuse. 
 
 With Avisdom, truth, and reason ; 
 Ethereal flights to me are vain, 
 
 I sing of deeds sublunar ; 
 When friendly themes engage my pen. 
 
 My task is finished sooner. 
 
 The Council members we revere. 
 
 Who nobly represent us ; 
 Since every man that labours here, 
 
 Is sound and compos mentis ; 
 Take heed, ye striplings, young in years. 
 
 To sages who are riper ; 
 Be honest in your various spheres. 
 
 To those who pay the piper. 
 
 Ye generous mayors of by-gone days, 
 
 Who filled your posts divinely. 
 Accept old Burnley's thanks and praise. 
 
 From Palace House to Dinely ; 
 Departed souls of sterling worth. 
 
 Heaven rest each honest spirit. 
 May those who still remain on earth 
 
 Your mantles pure inherit. 
 
 Four noble mayors St. Peter's found, 
 
 Who kept the town in order : 
 Four Wesleyaris true, Armenians sound, 
 
 Who cherished aiuj adored her:
 
 100 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Still one remains within the fold, 
 Whose worth Old Time enhances, 
 
 With steadfast aim, he true and bold 
 Adjusted our finances. 
 
 The Independents, firm in faith, 
 
 Who sing the song of Balaam, 
 Sent Lomas, Massey (true till death), 
 
 And gentle Scott from Salem ; 
 Young Brunswick is, what we adore, 
 
 Firm as the hills of Sharon ; 
 For wisdom deep, and gospel lore. 
 
 She Keighley gave and Baron. 
 
 Here let my Muse expand her wings ; 
 
 Her flight must never falter, 
 While Thornber reads and Greenwood sings, 
 
 By Bethel's sacred altar ; 
 In facts and figures Bethel shines. 
 
 Illustrious in the nation. 
 From rule of three to Euclid's lines, 
 
 And Jones's mensuration. 
 
 Be Thornber wise throughout his term : 
 
 Regardless of each party. 
 To hold the Corporation firm. 
 
 The graceless eight and forty ; 
 When aldermen on either hand 
 
 Are restless and unruly. 
 Then let him shake the chastening wand, 
 
 And force obedience duly. 
 
 The mayor of Burnley let us toast. 
 His wife, bis sons and daughters. 
 
 May all their foes, like Pharaoh's host, 
 Be lost in troubled waters ;
 
 Local poeMs. 101 
 
 Long may our mayor adorn the scene, 
 Where good men sat before him, 
 
 And at life's close, with soul serene, 
 Have great-grandchildren o'er him. 
 
 Hail, Bethel ! Burnley's mayoral shrine, 
 
 Raise high your glorious standard ; 
 Hold firm the grip of grace divine. 
 
 From which we all have wandered ; 
 For Bethel's good I breathe a prayer. 
 
 For scholars, friends, and teachers : 
 Heaven bless her mayoress and her mayor. 
 
 Her members and her preachers. 
 
 JOHN ENGLAND'S (NELSON) 74th 
 BIRTHDAY. 
 
 This day brings your seventy-fourth year to an 
 
 end ; 
 Your leaf is not withered nor yellow : 
 Thus may you appear till you're ninety, my 
 
 friend. 
 And then may your nature be mellow. 
 
 That you may have many returns of the day, 
 When you shrieked your first salutation. 
 
 Is the wish of a friend, who implores that you 
 may. 
 Be blessed with a fifth generation. 
 
 When viewing our passage through life upon 
 earth. 
 In honest and keen retrospection ; 
 Of scenes daily changing, of mourning and 
 mirth. 
 How meagre is our recollection.
 
 Ib2 LOCAL I'ofekS. 
 
 Tlio years of our lifo, John, are three score 
 and ten, 
 
 Though Death with his scythe may oppose us ; 
 Yet this was the time once allotted to men, 
 
 And sung by the patriarch Moses. — 
 
 At times men by reason of strength survive 
 more, 
 
 Yet deeper is ploughed every furrow ; 
 And years when extended to four or five score, 
 
 Are mingled with labour and sorrow. 
 
 Man born of a woman, his seasons are few, 
 He droops like a flower in the meadow ; 
 
 Of visions departed he takes a review, 
 ' He fieeth also as a shadow.' 
 
 Job spoke of a shuttle in ages gone by, 
 When Bildad upbraided him sternly ; 
 
 But Job never dreamt that a shuttle would fly, 
 As swift as they now do in Burnley. 
 
 Your wedding I well can remember, old boy, 
 Forget it, John 1 Can you ? Oh, never ! 
 
 So ardent in love and encompassed with joy, 
 When Jinny cried ' England for ever ! ' 
 
 Hurrah for Old England, John England I mean. 
 Heaven keep you in age from repining ; 
 
 May England's dear grandchildren's children 
 convene 
 To bless you in autumn's declining. 
 
 Your name is an anchor of hope, and a tower, 
 As firm as the nethermost granite : 
 
 Long may it remain with its freedom and power. 
 The pride of this whirligig planet.
 
 Local poifiMS. lOS 
 
 In terms astronomical, long may you steer, 
 With an eye to the plane of your orbit ; 
 C Due East be your flight, like Elijah the seer, 
 And Satan himself cannot curb it. 
 
 TO MR. AND MRS. H. S. ON THEIR 
 
 WEDDING DAY. 
 I wish from this morning, dear Herbert and 
 
 Annie, 
 That you may be prosperous, cheerful and canny, 
 And through a long life of such pleasures be 
 
 sharing. 
 That with the best couples you'll shine by 
 
 comparing. 
 Be kind to her, Herbert, though not eulogistic. 
 And don't interfere much with matters domestic; 
 May Annie be always a dear little darling. 
 And both of you free from contention and 
 
 snarling. 
 Let her by affection endeavour to sway you, 
 As Paul has commanded, she dare but obey you ; 
 She's bound by this oath, this hymeneal fetter. 
 To do what you order her up to the letter ; 
 And, Herbert, you swore and you promised to 
 
 cherish, 
 So if you refuse you will certainly perish. 
 Let home be a point of attraction, the centre, 
 And Annie must greet with a smile when you 
 
 enter ; 
 But if in late hours you desire an expansion, 
 Even then she must smile when you enter your 
 
 mansion. 
 Yet if in one matter to please her you're willing, 
 Don't ask how she spends every penny or 
 
 shilling,
 
 104 LOCAL poeMs. 
 
 l)Uttakeitfromme that she'll do whatshecan, sir, 
 Let this be admitted Avithout a back answer. 
 And now, my dear Herbert, one word in 
 
 conclusion, 
 Excuse this impertinent, saucy effusion ; 
 As guardian I claim just a last observation 
 On this most important auspicious occasion ; 
 While you're in the honeymoon fondly caressing, 
 A warden thus gives his advice and his blessing ; 
 May angels of mercy their wings ever flutter 
 Around the young couple, thus prays Harry 
 
 Nutter, 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 Tune — 'Bow, wow, wow.' 
 
 Old Time is on the wing, ray boys, the world 
 
 is all in motion : 
 We live in days of telegraphs, and rapid 
 
 locomotion. 
 And Christmas comes but once a year : we'll 
 
 give him kindly greeting, 
 And sing our merry songs to-night, at this our 
 
 yearly meeting. 
 And the toast shall be, ' Welcome, Merry 
 Christmas and our jubilee.' 
 
 Ye men of comprehensive skill, whose know- 
 ledge is expanding. 
 
 When learning scientific facts, keep clear your 
 understanding. 
 
 Both mind and matter study Avell, with rigid 
 perseverance, 
 
 But don't assail religious truths by foolish 
 interference. 
 And our toast shall be, Welcome, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEM^. iOS 
 
 You say the moou creates the tides, — now is 
 not that a wonder 1 — 
 
 And some explain the wind and rain, the 
 lightning and the thunder. 
 
 The great Gulf Stream some make their theme, 
 monsoons and hurricanos. 
 
 And others speak of boiling springs, and earth- 
 quakes, and volcanos. 
 Still our toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 You talk of Afric's burning sands, her valleys 
 
 and her mountains, 
 Her wondrous alligator lakes, and Nile's 
 
 mysterious fountains ; 
 Burton and Baker, Speke, and Grant, were 
 
 truthful, bold, and manly, 
 But all admire old Livingstone, and also brave 
 
 young Stanley. 
 Still the toast shall bo, Welcome, &c. 
 
 Geologists assembled here are men of observa- 
 tion. 
 
 Who fossils find of ancient things, mollusca and 
 crustacean. 
 
 Ten million years they talk about, and pre- 
 historic ages, 
 
 And Adam, Noah, and Abraham, they term our 
 modern sages. 
 Yet the toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 Astronomers among us too, who give us exposi- 
 tions 
 Of comets, and of meteors, occultations and 
 
 transitions ;—
 
 166 LOCAL POfeMg. 
 
 Of stars and systems so remote, though heretics 
 
 may cavil, 
 'Twould take a cannon ball from here ten 
 
 million years to travel. 
 Still the toast shall be. Welcome, &c. 
 
 Here men talk loud of railway shares, of pre- 
 ference and Contangos, 
 
 Of scrip and consols. Three per cents, and what 
 the Erie gang does ; 
 
 By Fisk and Gould how some were sold, which 
 threw them in dilemmas, 
 
 Honduras bonds and Luxemburgs, Grand Trunks 
 and faithless Emmas. 
 Still the toast shall be. Welcome, &c. 
 
 We've one old prophet here to-night, a clear 
 
 delineator, 
 A man well read in ancient lore, a true prog- 
 
 nosticator ; 
 He tells of old Chaldean kings and many a 
 
 Gentile nation ; 
 How Moses slew the Amorites, and Og the 
 
 king of Bashan. 
 Still our toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 He speaks of mighty men of old, who fought 
 
 in fields of battle ; 
 How David killed a giant bold, and made his 
 
 forehead rattle ; — 
 Relates how old Belshazzar drunk, and what 
 
 his father fed on ; — 
 Foretells a conflict yet to come, that dreadful 
 
 Har. Magedon. 
 Still our toast shall be. Welcome, &c.
 
 Local poeM^. 107 
 
 PART II. 
 
 John Cronkshaw is our host to-night, a man of 
 
 reputation ; 
 He gives us to this Christmas feast a friendly 
 
 invitation : 
 With well-spread board, fit for a lord, in 
 
 courses there's redundance ; 
 The tables groan with good roast beef, and 
 
 puddings in abundance. 
 And the toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 Rich soups were served and seasoned well, good 
 
 oxtail, hare, and turtle ; 
 Fat ducks were brought, whose rich perfume 
 
 spread fragrance sweet as myrtle ; 
 And good roast geese and turkeys too (with 
 
 sausage in decm-um), 
 Well stuffed with onions, suet, eggs, green 
 
 sage, and sweet marjorum. 
 And the toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 Fresh hallibut and turbot too, with good cream 
 
 sauce I'll mention ; 
 Boiled chickens, tender ham and tongue, all 
 
 served with prompt attention ; 
 Red-currant jam and venison I do not care a fig 
 
 for ; 
 The best of all upon the board was a little 
 
 roasted pig, sir. 
 And the toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 Potatoes, carrots, turnips, greens, and plants 1 
 
 cannot number ; 
 Asparagus and oelery, pine-apple and cucumber.
 
 l08 Local poems. 
 
 We had custard made of cream and eggs, and 
 some of Monmouth snow too, 
 
 And puddings, phim, and cabinet, and some of 
 Tapioca, too. 
 The toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 We had fine Italian jellies, and ribbon, I 
 
 remember ; 
 Cheese, apple pies, and charlotte too, adapted 
 
 for December ; 
 Delicious tarts, preserve and mince, fit for the 
 
 queen Bellona ; 
 Apples, pears, and oranges, and nuts from 
 
 Barcelona. 
 And the toast shall be, Welcome, &c. 
 
 So now good night, my merry boys, the year is 
 
 nearly ended ; 
 In that which is approaching fast, may all our 
 
 lives be mended. 
 May memories of departed friends be a sweet 
 
 and sacred treasure ! 
 May health and peace and plenty flow upon 
 
 you without measure ! 
 A nd the toast shall be. Welcome, &c. 
 
 SONG ON EVOLUTION. 
 
 Tune. — 'Jockey to the fair.' 
 
 A discussion having taken place in Cronksliaw's 
 Hotel on * Darwin's Evolutionary Theory,' the 
 following song was composed, and sung at a 
 Christmas party in the same place. 
 
 As years roll round with rapid flight, 
 Each season brings some sweet delight, 
 The charming spring, the summer bright. 
 And autumn's golden hours.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 109 
 
 And winter : what a grand array 
 Its lengthened frosty nights display ; 
 The silver moon, the planets gay, 
 The twinkling stars, the milky way, 
 And meteors fiery showers. 
 
 And when the heavens are overcast, 
 And blinding sleet is falling fast, 
 Or Boreas blows his keenest blast 
 
 In furious storms of hail. 
 When falling showers obscure the gate, 
 And starlings to the south migrate. 
 Then in this room wise men debate. 
 And people's rights they advocate, 
 
 And bigotry assail. 
 
 Our festive night comes once a year, 
 When our good host gives welcome cheer 
 Let fierce discussion disappear, 
 
 And harmony abound. 
 The kindly toast, the merry song, 
 The sparkling wit, the ready tongue. 
 The honest friendly feeling strong. 
 To Cronkshaw's happy tribe belong, 
 
 And here true joys are found. 
 
 And now, that patience I implore. 
 Which you have granted heretofore ; 
 I'll sing of curious things of 3'ore, 
 
 Which some of you dispute. 
 Was man created from the dust ? 
 Is one great question here discussed. 
 For some this theory now distrust, 
 And say, forsooth, we really must 
 
 Be offsprings of the brute.
 
 no LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 They say the fossils still proclaim 
 
 The forms of life through which we came, 
 
 And give the history of our frame, 
 
 By nature's wise decree. 
 Through every class, through every clan, 
 Through ages vast for proofs they scan, 
 To find how first our race began : — - 
 The high antiquity of man. 
 
 Our ancient pedigree. 
 
 No matter how obscure and strange, 
 This life's low germs evolve and change — 
 They each connecting link arrange, 
 
 And every proof assign. 
 Though prejudice and pride demur, 
 The Ape was our progenitor : 
 That cunning thief, I tell you, sir. 
 Was our most gracious ancestor, 
 
 Your grandpapa and mine. 
 
 While fossiliferous rocks remain, 
 And life's evolving forms contain, 
 Let wild fanatics rave in vain, 
 
 The truth will still prevail. 
 Let Darwin every care bestow. 
 The true descent of man to show ; 
 How twenty million years ago 
 The monkey into man did grow. 
 
 And how he lost his tail. 
 
 Now let me ask you to reflect 
 Before this theory you reject. 
 And treat the monkey with respect, 
 And filial kindness too.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. Ill 
 
 So, when the organ-grinders bring 
 That little ancient crafty thing, 
 Held by the collar with a string, 
 A copper, please, be sure to fling, 
 As kinsfolk ought to do. 
 
 And now, my boys, once more adieu, 
 Our time is short, our pleasures few, 
 Let this our festive night renew 
 
 The memories of the past : 
 And though we fail to comprehend 
 How life began, how life will end, 
 We still with adoration bend 
 To one great Author, Maker, Friend, 
 
 Of power and wisdom vast. 
 
 GEOLOGICAL CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 December 31st, 1S74. 
 
 Tune—' Cork Leg.' 
 
 'Tis Cronkshaw's feast my pen employs, 
 So I must sing you a song my boys 
 At Christmas time, with all its joys. 
 When puddings and pies each man destroys, 
 Ri too ral loo ral loo, &c. 
 
 When winter's whistling winds are bleak, 
 And bats and toads for shelter seek, 
 In some old wall or dismal creek, 
 'Tis then that pigs and turkeys squeak. 
 
 When in this room contentions cease. 
 We wave the olive branch of peace. 
 Though love and friendship still increase, 
 'Tis a terrible time for ducks and^geese.
 
 112 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 This is an age of enterprise, 
 When all false theories we despise ; 
 We really now are grown so wise, 
 That everything we must revise. 
 
 We've great philosophers here to-night, 
 Whose kind attention I'll invite, 
 For wondrous things I will recite, — 
 And tell how atoms re-unite. 
 
 This earth, we are told, was all gases at first, 
 And thus through its orbit for ages traversed, 
 Until by invisible power it was forced 
 To slowly condense, then the vapours 
 dispersed. 
 
 Thus during these ages 'twas terrible weather, 
 When numberless particles, light as a feather. 
 Were whirling through space, and which nothing 
 
 could tether. 
 Till forces molecular bound them together. 
 
 These primitive atoms, by law, aggregate. 
 Completely in time to their second estate ; 
 How strange that these gases should consolidate. 
 And crush and unite at a wonderful rate. 
 
 These atoms were pressed in a circular crowd. 
 All molten and glowing, and boiling aloud, 
 Then steam was thrown off in the form of a 
 
 cloud, 
 And covered the earth with a vapoury shroud. 
 
 Now this is a theory that I have been told,— 
 Our globe in this state must for ages have rolled, 
 Until the hot surface began to grow cold, 
 And this is the doctrine that I shall uphold.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 113 
 
 Some say at the first from the sun it was cast, 
 That Sol threw it off by a terrible blast : — 
 - It then as a comet for ages was class'd, 
 And these are the changes through which it 
 has pass'd. 
 
 In time, then, the primary shell of our planet 
 Was foimed, when the gases condensed that 
 
 o'er ran it ; 
 No doubt radiation it was that began it, 
 And now this first crust is most beautiful 
 
 granite. 
 
 But ere I begin from the base to ascend, 
 
 The minerals I'll name that these rocks 
 
 comprehend, 
 They are mica and feldspar and quartz and 
 
 hornblende. 
 And granite's the mother of rocks, I contend. 
 
 Then the series they call the Laurentian rocks 
 Come next, which contain life's original stocks ; 
 And this I am told, that these primitive blocks 
 Were rent and upheaved by Plutonian shocks. 
 
 Now the next crust above the Laurentian zone. 
 Is the tilted and useful old Cambrian stone ; 
 These primary rocks a great thickness had 
 
 grown 
 You'll now understand, for in Wales they are 
 
 shown. 
 
 Just above is the lower Silurian bed, 
 Where traces of life are perceptibly spread ; 
 And rivers, and seas, and huge tempests have 
 
 sped 
 For millions of years o'er the living and dead.
 
 114 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Though the upper Sihirian series consist 
 Of rocks, where the fossils of zoophytes exist, 
 Yet most of the vertebrate fishes are miss'd, 
 All this I am told by the geologist. 
 
 So now I must leave the Silurian strand. 
 Where forms of the crustacean Trilobite stand, 
 And rise to the rocks of Devonian sand. 
 With fish in the oceans, and trees on the land. 
 
 Then limestone, and grit, and the coal beds 
 
 obtain, 
 Where ferns and the Lepidodendron remain. 
 On which the whole Permian system has lain, 
 For millions of ages, some people maintain. 
 
 I still proceed upwards, and looking around 
 Where fossils of plants and strange insects 
 
 abound, 
 And where the Marsupial Mammals were found, 
 And hideous reptiles crawled over the ground. 
 
 I pass many other strange groups on my way, 
 The Liassic, Oolitic, and chalk I survey, 
 Till at length I arrive at the London clay. 
 And all the strange forms of the Tertiary day. 
 
 The next group above are the crags Coralline, 
 And just over that is the group Pliocene, 
 Where the Till of the Clyde, and crags 
 
 intervene. 
 And primeval man near the surface is seen. 
 
 If time would allow of great wonders I'd sing, 
 And tell how strange creatures from others 
 
 might spring ; 
 Of lizards and vampires and bats on the wing. 
 When foiests with huge roaring monsters did 
 
 ring.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 115 
 
 Of glacial action and storms long ago — 
 Convulsions, and drifts of whole mountains of 
 
 snow ; 
 Of earthquakes, volcanos, with terrible throe. 
 Where land was upheaved, and where land slipt 
 
 below. 
 
 And now, in conclusion, I beg to remind you 
 That seventy-four you are leaving behind you ; 
 May the year seventy-five invariably find you 
 Enjoying good health, with good temper com- 
 bined too. 
 
 SPIRITUALISM— A BURLESQUE. 
 
 Sung at Cro?ikshaiv's Christtnas Party December, 
 28th, 1876. 
 
 Tune — 'There is no Luck about the House.' 
 
 The world still moves around, my boys. 
 
 And seasons come and go, 
 And health and pleasure in their turn 
 
 Must follow pain and woe ; 
 Though war, and crime, and ignorance, 
 
 May scourge us for a time, 
 Yet happy days we have in store, 
 
 I'll prove it in my rhyme. 
 
 The changes that have come about 
 
 W'^ithin a few short years. 
 Will set your troubled minds at rest, 
 
 And dry your foolish tears. 
 The greatest wonders of the past 
 
 Are nothing now indeed. 
 Compared to those we hear of now, 
 
 I'll prove as I proceed.
 
 116 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 The doctors hence will have no work, 
 
 And no one will complain, 
 For mediums will cure us all 
 
 Of every cursed pain. 
 Young otfice boys take my advice, 
 
 And learn another trade, 
 For spirit guides will do your work, 
 
 Through Monck and Doctor Slade. 
 
 The soothsayers of the present day 
 
 Have surely lost the spell, 
 And dark-eyed Spanish gipsy girls 
 
 No fortunes more will tell. 
 Though Pendle Forest witches once 
 
 On magic broomsticks flew ; 
 Demdyke and Chattox are eclipsed, 
 
 And the witch of Endor too. 
 
 The prophets who prognosticate 
 
 Of famines, plagues, and wars, 
 Astrologers who wisely rule 
 
 The planets and the stars, 
 And shrewd magicians of the past. 
 
 Who answered Pharaoh's call. 
 With mediums of the present day, 
 
 Could not compare at all. 
 
 Our fathers all desired to see 
 
 The great men of the past. 
 And, lo ! the mystic mediums 
 
 Have found them out at last ; 
 Then on a table lay your hands. 
 
 Just as the medium begs, 
 The spirits soon will flock around, 
 
 And run about your legs.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 117 
 
 The spirits come by magic force, 
 
 And some b)^ sleight of hand, 
 They tap and turn the table round, 
 
 And answer each command ; 
 Though spirits pass the shades of death. 
 
 And peaceful rest obtain, 
 Professor Monck and Dr. Slade 
 
 Can bring them back again. 
 
 From distant climes the spirits come, 
 
 Though some are very near, 
 A few are brought against their mind, 
 
 Yet others volunteer ; 
 The spirits walk around the room, 
 
 And sing behind the screens, 
 Whilst others play the fairy bells. 
 
 And some the tambourines. 
 
 The spirits come from east and west. 
 
 The friend as well as foe, 
 From purgatory some are torn, 
 
 And others from below ; 
 Thougli all the powers of earth and air 
 
 May firmly hold their grip, 
 When Slade's enchanted hand is raised 
 
 Old Satan lets them slip. 
 
 Now when the tables move about 
 
 These wondrous things I'm told — 
 That you can have an interview 
 
 With marvellous men of old ; 
 One evening lately such a host 
 
 Of friends came in a crack, 
 The Caliph of Bagdad, Old King Cole, 
 
 And the Prince of Sarawack.
 
 Il8 LOCAL 1>0EMS. 
 
 And two great souls dropp'd in also, 
 
 By the medium's high command, — 
 Bold Robin Hood and Little John 
 
 With bow and arrow in hand ; 
 The medium urged the forester bold. 
 
 Whose darts were bright and keen, 
 To empty his quiver of fatal shafts 
 
 On Cook and Maskeyleyne. 
 
 Some true-born Irishmen came next, 
 
 Bedecked in colours green, 
 Saint Patrick danced a jig, and sang 
 
 The wedding of Ballyporeen ; 
 And Scottish chiefs in native dress 
 
 With plaids of each design. 
 Will Wallace gave the Highland fling. 
 
 And Bruce sang Auld Lang Syne. 
 
 Next came Llewelyn, Prince of Wales, 
 
 Of whom each Welshman boasts, 
 W^ho proudly dared King Edward's power, 
 
 With Cambria's valiant hosts. 
 He sang the song of Harlech men. 
 
 Who never would be slaves. 
 Then last of all brave Nelson sang 
 
 "Britannia rules the waves." 
 
 John Gilpin and Jack Horner came, 
 
 Dick Whittington with his cat, 
 Giles Scroggins and Dame Durden too, 
 
 Dan Tucker and Jack Spratt. 
 King Dick and JSicodemus called 
 
 As they were passing through, 
 And Nebuchadnezzar came with them, 
 
 And Kobinson Crusoe too.
 
 Local poems. H^ 
 
 Will Watch and Black-eyed Su&an came, 
 
 AVith Joe, the poor marine, 
 Kate Kearney brought the Minstrel Boy, 
 
 And sang " God save the Queen." 
 The Lass of Richmond Hill v/as there, 
 
 And a pretty girl was she, 
 And Nancy Dawson introduced 
 
 The Miller of the Dee. 
 
 The kindly spirits come alone, 
 
 Though some will bring a mate. 
 And others even write a verse 
 
 With pencil on a slate. 
 But just before I close my song. 
 
 Which mediums will condemn, 
 I warn them to be careful, lest 
 
 The tables turn on them. 
 
 So now adieu my boys again, 
 
 May pleasure be your lot. 
 Whilst memory holds her seat with me, 
 
 You'll never be forgot. 
 And when the storms of life are past, 
 
 And each his part has played, 
 May none of us e'er be disturbed 
 
 By Monck or Doctor Slade. 
 
 MAN AND THE APE. 
 
 Tune — ' The King of the Cannibal Island.' 
 
 Come list to what I've got to say, 
 Whilst our relations I survey, 
 I'll prove to you as cleai' as day 
 That man is akin to the monkey.
 
 120 Local poems. 
 
 Down in the deep Laurentian stone, 
 The protoplcastic germs were sown, 
 Which formed the simple eozoon, 
 From which all living things have grown ; 
 The ancient rocks beneath contain 
 A true and clear connected chain. 
 The intermediate links explain 
 How man has evolved from the monkey. 
 Then look at your lineal pedigree, 
 The gorilla, or gibbon, a brother may be, 
 The orang-outang, or the chimpanzee, 
 Or some other pithecus monkey. 
 
 From fish and flesh descending through 
 
 Amphibia, snakes, and reptiles too, — 
 
 The vampire and the kangaroo. 
 
 Before you arrive at the monkey ; 
 
 And when the struggle for life arrives, 
 The best developed oft survives, 
 And thus the fittest form deprives 
 Ill-favoured creatures of their lives. 
 
 The varying forms and species strange, 
 
 In grand transitional order range ; 
 
 By fresh conditions all must change, 
 
 Both fish and fowl, and monkey. 
 
 Then look at your lineal pedigree, &c. 
 
 These proofs successive ages find. 
 
 From divers groups of mammal kind. 
 
 That man is but an ape refined, 
 
 So never despise the monkey. 
 
 His restless cunning eye bespeaks, 
 
 That he some artful mischief seeks, 
 
 His gambols are like boyish freaks. 
 
 With his dimpled chin and whisker'd cheeks.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 121 
 
 * 
 
 Like us vile passions they display, 
 And surely you will not gainsay 
 That, when your children disobey, 
 You call them little monkeys. 
 
 Then look at your lineal pedigree, &c. 
 
 When paths of rectitude they leave, 
 
 And unto bad companions cleave, 
 
 Like us the miscreants sometimes grieve, 
 
 And turn repentant monkeys. 
 
 But when their violent passions rise. 
 They scream and scratch each other's eyes, 
 Like mortal men they tyrannise, 
 The strongest will the weak chastise ; 
 
 Like boys they roll in fits of rage, 
 
 And direful conflicts sometimes wage. 
 
 When only death can disengage 
 
 These little wicked monkeys. 
 
 Then look at your lineal pedigree, &c. 
 
 They nurse their children, helpless things. 
 The mother rocks, and hums, and sings. 
 And o'er her shoulder sometimes swings 
 The little infant monkeys. 
 
 Like Christians sometimes blessed with twins. 
 And when the suckling time begins, 
 They clasp them close beneath their chins. 
 And kiss their hands and stroke their skins. 
 They place one gently to each breast, 
 And nestling fondly by them pressed ; 
 When washed and combed and neatly dressed. 
 They scarcely look like monkeys. 
 
 Then look at your lineal pedigree, &c.
 
 122 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 By human plagues their infants droop, 
 Convulsions, chicken pox, and croup, 
 And measles take at one full swoop 
 A tribe of delicate monke3'S. 
 
 Like children too the young ones weep, 
 And during teething miss their sleep, 
 A constant watch their parents keep, 
 And round their suffering offspring creep. 
 But when their children droop and die. 
 With sorrowful lip and tearful eye. 
 And piteous wail and bitter cry, 
 They mourn their poor lost monkeys. 
 
 Then look at your lineal pedigree, &c. 
 
 Just look at his fatherly form and face, 
 How much he resembles the human race, 
 No great distinction you can trace 
 Between the man and the monkey. 
 
 The proud may sneer with haughty pride, 
 And bigots too may snarl and chide ; 
 The truth I'll tell whate'er betide. 
 They're only monkeys modified : 
 Then don't deny your brotherhood. 
 The fossils prove the kindred stood, 
 A million years before the flood. 
 So never disown the monkey. 
 
 But look at your lineal pedigree, &c. 
 
 NEW INVENTIONS. 
 Tune — ' Durable Dum Dearie.' 
 
 'Tis pleasant to gather each year, and behold 
 The wonders which nature and science unfold : 
 Truth, reason, and error, huge conflicts have 
 
 waged ; 
 Traditions and falsehoods with science engaged :
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 123 
 
 Old legends must wane, 
 But truth will remain, 
 Though dark superstition may ne'er be assuaged. 
 
 Could visits be paid by our fathers, to view 
 The past and the present, the old and the new, 
 A blessing they'd deem it to live at this day, 
 When the strongholds of bigotry yield and decay, 
 When science sheds light, 
 False theories take flight, 
 And stupified prejudice stands in dismay. 
 
 We are told that the spirits of evil conspire 
 To torture and dip us in brimstone and fire : — 
 That Satan would chuckle to see us in pain, 
 And, serving us right, would eternally chain 
 
 Us in darkness and gloom : 
 
 This pitiless doom 
 Would be ours and thus we should ever remain ! 
 
 But, thanks to those parsons who preach to us 
 
 now, 
 Who cast off false dogmas and honestly vow 
 That the Scriptures of old no terrors contained ; 
 But hell and its agonies priests had ordained : 
 
 They put on this threat 
 
 In order to get 
 Our wicked and obdurate natures restrained. 
 
 So now we are taught that the Fathei- above, 
 W^hose justice is tempered with mercy and love, 
 Will look with compassion on Adam's poor heirs, 
 Consider our natures, afflictions, and cares, 
 
 And wiien He begins 
 
 To look up our sins. 
 Will think of our passions, temptations, and 
 snares.
 
 124 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 What mighty inventions this age has unfurled ! 
 Lo, telegraph wires now encompass the world ; 
 The regions of darkness are well nigh explored, 
 And distance and time are completely ignored ; 
 
 To the uttermost clime, 
 
 In a moment of time, 
 A definite telegraph message is scored. 
 
 Through telephones, lately invented by Hughes, 
 You'll bring every sound to your homes if you 
 
 choose : 
 If stormy the weather, you need not despair. 
 You'll listen to sermons at home in your chair. 
 And if you desire, 
 To chant with the choir, 
 You thus at a distance the worship will share. 
 
 When sick, and the doctor great care 
 
 recommends. 
 You'll sit by the fire with your wife and your 
 
 friends ; 
 Connections of wire with the pulpit you'll keep 
 When sermons are long, or the subjects too 
 
 deep, 
 
 You will be justified, 
 And the parson won't chide. 
 If by chance you quietly drop over to sleep. 
 
 But where it will end there's not one of us 
 
 knows, 
 This telephone now may each secret expose — 
 Each whisper in private, by damsel or swain — 
 And even the innermost thoughts of the brain, 
 
 Which now are concealed, 
 
 May soon be revealed, 
 And all our mysterious deeds be explained.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 125 
 
 Our naturalists now may all listen with glee, 
 
 To the song of a midge, or tramp of a flea ; 
 
 Their coughing and sneezing be heard, and each 
 groan ; 
 
 And the signs of buzzards and butterflies known. 
 When sick or in grief, 
 They will ask for relief. 
 
 And our natural sympathy then may be shown. 
 
 The phonograph, too, is a wonderful thing ; 
 
 Repeating the words they may utter or sing ; 
 
 A song or a sermon which anyone bears, 
 
 May turn up again, when he likes it appears. 
 Each familiar word 
 By his friends may be heard. 
 
 At the lapse of many long troublesome years. 
 
 To friends at a distance, the phonograph may 
 Assist correspondence, in this simple way ; 
 Enclose in your letter the tinfoil you use, 
 And friends any time can the sounds reproduce, 
 The identical voice 
 That will make them rejoice ; 
 Their pleasure in future will thus be profuse. 
 
 Thus many advantages yet may be found. 
 
 By means of repeating and transmitting sound ; 
 
 What joys you may reap with this talking 
 
 machine. 
 Any night when a number of friends you 
 
 convene. 
 
 It will whistle or sing 
 Any tune that you bring — 
 " The last rose of summer, ' or "God save the 
 
 Queen."
 
 126 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 But the greatest discovery I mention the last, 
 Oil, candles, and gas lamps are things of the 
 
 past ! 
 For a light is invented, so brilliant and pure, 
 That the dazzle of noonday may always endure. 
 Then never repine, 
 For each village will shine, 
 No matter however the place be obscure. 
 
 In future this charming and wonderful light 
 Will luminate cities and towns in the night. 
 From Pcndle, and Boulsworth, and Hambledon 
 
 Hills, 
 You'll light up the valleys, shops, houses and 
 mills. 
 
 The light is so keen, 
 All points will be seen. 
 For every corner with brightness it fills. 
 
 These lights will be beaming from mountains 
 and towers, 
 
 And darkness unknown in this island of ours. 
 
 In vain will the stars try to brighten the scene — 
 
 The blaze of the planets will scarcely be seen. 
 And our neighbom*, the moon, 
 Which has long been a boon. 
 
 Will seldom, if ever, be noticed, I ween. 
 
 And now, my dear boys, I must bid you adieu. 
 
 Of recent inventions you've got a revieAv^, 
 
 To you that are upright these things have a 
 
 charm. 
 But lovers of darkness may feel some alarm ; 
 For the deeds of the night 
 Will be brought unto light. 
 And virtue be certainly shielded from harm.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 127 
 
 THE BURNLEY WATER SCHEME. 
 
 Tune — ' dear, what can the matter be.' 
 
 Twoyears ago, when this borough was flourishing, 
 Hopes in the future, the Council was cherishing; 
 Some one announced that we soon should be 
 perishing, 
 What could the jeopardy be 1 
 
 CHORUS : 
 
 dear, what can the matter be, 
 Dear, dear, where can the water be ; 
 What will become of old Burnley's posterity, 
 What will they do for their tea ? 
 
 The Council's position was not very pleasing, 
 The water was scarce, and the Borough increas- 
 ing, 
 Improvements required their attention unceas- 
 ing :— 
 And bothered for money were they. 
 
 O dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 Bngineers were engaged, whose worth we might 
 
 count on. 
 To fly to the hills and examine each fountain : — 
 To measure the sheddings, each valley and 
 mountain, 
 And on a good site to agree. 
 
 dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 The valley of Swinden had surely not done ill. 
 Yet Emmott would take Robin Hood through 
 
 a tunnel ; 
 And pour into Swinden his stream through a 
 funnel. 
 And mix it with one, two, and three. 
 dear, what can the matter be, &c.
 
 128 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Wise people would make down the hill a conduit, 
 Old Burnley they ventured to say would not 
 
 rue it ; 
 The water from Robin would gravitate through 
 it, 
 And pass by the side of the Lee. 
 
 dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 The prospects of Stephen, though distant and 
 
 gloomy, 
 Its natural basin is rounded and roomy ; 
 They falsely report that the clay is all loamy, 
 Alas ! what will engineers say ? 
 
 dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 This truth you will learn, that wherevei- you 
 
 travel. 
 That proud engineers are accustomed to cavil, 
 They say that Old Stephen is troubled with 
 gravel, , 
 
 His water -svill never be free. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 'Tis said that his water when boiled in a kettle 
 Will turn rather milky and canker the mct:il, 
 When clay in suspension refuses to settle, 
 What will your grandmothers say ? 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, S:c, 
 
 John Sagar then asked Mr. Filliter's pardon, 
 And firmly maintained, and would venture his 
 
 word on 
 The water being pure in the streamlet of 
 Jordan, — 
 And limpid as water could be. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 129 
 
 John Williams protested against the expenses, 
 And also proclaimed that a man in his senses 
 Had only to look at the walls and the fences 
 For proofs that the surface would stay. 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 The speeches of Heap and of Riley and Taylor 
 Proved clearly that Filliter's scheme was a 
 
 failure ! 
 The Mayor in his robes then began to look paler 
 And tapped the Town Clerk on the knee. 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 The Burnley Town Council now thought it a pity, 
 Yet sympathised much with the Water Com- 
 mittee, 
 They all were determined that this future city 
 Should have a good water for tea. 
 
 Oh dear, Avhat can the matter be &c, 
 
 F. Hargreaves the chemist (whose aid was 
 
 requested) 
 Then bottled the waters, and filtered, and tested, 
 And by his analysis he manifested. 
 Which was the best water for tea. 
 
 dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 The lovers of Stephen, though not very clever. 
 Consented at last from the valley to sever : 
 But yet they will love it for ever and ever. 
 Though fate gave another decree. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 Farewell to New Bridge, Robin Hood, and old 
 
 Stephen, 
 Hell Clough and Jerusalem too we are leaving. 
 For tbee, little Jordan, I also am grieving, 
 Your beauties no more shall I see. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c.
 
 130 LOCAL FOKMS. 
 
 James Emmett resolved that his mind hed 
 
 unfetter, 
 Then slipped off to Leeds about Filliter's letter, 
 And brought out a scheme that he said would 
 be better, 
 And offered his plan Avithout fee. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 Now Filliter soon fell a sighing and sobbing. 
 When learning the news of the meeting on 
 
 Robin. 
 In summer they scarcely could water old 
 Dobbin ; 
 A dearth there would certainly be. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 Wiseacres seemed but to chuckle and laugh 
 
 again, 
 Came to their senses, and then they Avent off 
 
 again. 
 Then at the wise engineers they would scoff 
 again, 
 How could they ever agree 1 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c 
 
 We now bid adieu to the banks of Jerusalem, 
 The tunnel and Bridge, we have fairly got loose 
 
 of them, 
 Then drink from Cant Clough till your old like 
 Methusalem ; 
 Three cheers for our bright jubilee. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c. 
 
 I hope you will pardon this silly effusion, 
 Which now I must bring to a hasty conclusion ; 
 May all your discussions be free from confusion 
 At this Eighty -two Jubilee. 
 
 Oh dear, what can the matter be, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 131 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG 
 Tune — Fine Old English Gentleman. 
 
 When days are short and nights are cold, and 
 
 cruel roars the blast : 
 In winter's frost, or driving snows, old Christmas 
 
 comes at last. 
 When local quarrels, doubts and fears, are all 
 
 behind us cast. 
 When honest men shall meet no foes, but friend 
 
 to friend stand fast. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 No scorn, malignity or pride, can flourish in 
 
 this place, 
 For every welcome comrade here beams with a 
 
 smiling face : 
 Let recitation, toast and song, keep moving on 
 
 apace. 
 And let us all be merry, boys ; nor think it a 
 disgrace. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 Of rare profession we have men, and men of 
 
 title too, — 
 Solicitors and chemists wise, and doctors not a 
 
 few, — 
 Engineers and loom makers, and blacksmiths 
 
 in our crew. 
 With other men of metal keen, who make the 
 
 bolt and screw. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 We've book-keepers and managers, who are not 
 there misplaced,
 
 132 
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 And men who make good peppermint, and 
 
 pop to suit your taste ; 
 Firm pickermakers, paper hangers, sizcrs with 
 
 their paste. 
 And men of reputation high, who deal in fly 
 and waste. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. — 
 
 In earthenware we have, who deal in fire-brick) 
 
 pipe and pot, 
 And architects, and stationers, and masons we 
 
 have got ; 
 With ironfounders, tinners too, and joiners in 
 
 our lot. 
 Cabmen, and undertakers grave, but sextons we 
 
 have not. 
 At this our Christmas Festival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 Collectors smart and clerks we have, who claim 
 
 each local tax, 
 And gard'ners and greengrocers, with potatoes 
 
 in their sacks ; 
 Sharp tailors, grocers, drapers clean, and 
 
 hawkers with their packs. 
 And butchers, skinners, tanners brown, and 
 
 cobblers with their wax. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 We've men who manufacture cloth, and some 
 
 who spin for gain ; 
 Shrewd agents and good salesmen too, for fancy 
 
 goods and plain : 
 A clear-voiced bellman, deep and wise, with 
 
 penetrating brain,
 
 LOCAL POEMS. ^^^ 
 
 And one who makes velocipedes, and all things 
 can ex})lain. 
 At this our Christmas testival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 And yet, ere I conclude my song, if you will 
 
 tolerate. 
 About this motley company some other things 
 
 I'll state— 
 Of bakers, painters, readers, poets, whom we 
 
 venerate, 
 And men of engineering skill, who prove and 
 demonstrate. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. — 
 
 Geologists, zoologists and botanists of fame, 
 And titled physiologists, who understand our 
 
 frame ; 
 Photographists, biologists (and mesmerists I'll 
 
 name), 
 And one old wise evangelist of true prophetic 
 flame, 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time. 
 
 My song is ended now my boys long may 
 
 your hearts be light. 
 Let song, and glee, and speech go round this 
 
 merry festive night ; 
 May Cronkshaw's children live in peace and 
 
 never have a blight ; 
 Our host and hostess now we toast, l^t each 
 
 man stand upright. 
 At this our Christmas festival, one of the 
 present time.
 
 134 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 CHEISTMAS ASTRONOMICAL SONG. 
 Tune— ' Bow-wow.' 
 
 This wicked world still onward flies, and 
 
 measures out a year, sir ; 
 And spinning as she steers away, throughout 
 
 her wild career, sir ; 
 Like cannon shot she flies along, still on the sun 
 
 depending, 
 And wings her utmost speed to-night, just when 
 
 the year is ending. 
 
 Though changing speed as on she flies, she keeps 
 
 her true position, 
 And finishes her yearly race to time with true 
 
 precision ; 
 But yet the year is not complete, till nearly six 
 
 to-morrow, 
 Then every leap year you contrive to pay back 
 
 what you borrow. 
 
 Oceans and clouds adhere to her, as on her path 
 
 she courses. 
 Mid thunder-storms and earthquake shocks, and 
 
 all sublunar forces, 
 As through ethereal space she flies, persistently 
 
 she's turning, ^^ — 
 And gently in those merry rounds produces 
 
 night and morning. 
 
 The happy seasons come and go with kindly 
 
 variation. 
 In consequence of one great law : the polar 
 
 inclination ; 
 O'er twenty three and half degrees, she bows 
 
 unto her orbit, 
 As on through space she takes her flight, where 
 
 nothing can disturb it.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 135 
 
 This night I dwell on mighty themes, and 
 
 theories deep unravel, 
 I'll tell you at what speed you fly, as round the 
 
 sun you travel ; 
 This planet's path is well defined; she keeps 
 
 exactly in it, 
 And thirteen hundred Irish miles, she flies in 
 
 every minute. 
 
 Did fehe one moment stop her flight, the shock 
 
 would be unpleasant, 
 Like wax this ponderous globe would melt to 
 
 matter incandescent ; 
 Ye sages, raise your prayers on high, and 
 
 ardently petition, 
 That this dear jslanet never pause, or fly in 
 
 swift collision. 
 
 Empires and kingdoms all would end with every 
 
 institution. 
 Old Pendle would that moment be in fervent 
 
 dissolution. 
 The pyramids. Mount Ararat, and Sinai and 
 
 Hermon, 
 Would fall with all their ancient lore, each 
 
 sacred book and sermon. 
 
 But things are not just what they seem, indeed, 
 
 I'll try to prove, sir, 
 The moon inconstant though she is, all honest 
 
 people love her : 
 Although she gaily shines by night, in haughty 
 
 pride and splendour, 
 Her light, she borrows from the sun, as much 
 
 as he will lend her.
 
 136 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Though Cynthia seems to wax and wane, and 
 
 hide her features from us, 
 Or spiteful steal behind the clouds, and unto 
 
 darkness doom us, 
 She undergoes no lunar change through her 
 
 capricious phases. 
 But casts reflections from Old Sol, as on the 
 
 earth she gazes. 
 
 The flaming source of light and heat that 
 
 brightens the horizon, 
 That millions daily worship and devoutly fix 
 
 their eyes on ; 
 It seems to fly from East to West, and never 
 
 once relaxes, 
 'Tis but the earth, though turning round, upon 
 
 her silent axis. 
 
 The sun is not where he appears, to our terrestrial 
 
 vision, 
 We see him where eight minutes prior, he took 
 
 his true position ; 
 The stars in yon sidereal vault, that glitter on 
 
 so brightly. 
 They are not where they seem to be, although 
 
 you see them nightly. 
 
 Li^ht flies along at lightning speed, and this is 
 
 duly reckoned. 
 Two hundred thousand English miles it travels 
 
 in a second ; 
 Light takes a hundred years and more (on this 
 
 you may rely, sir), 
 To come from stars that you can see, with 
 
 unassisted eye, sir.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 137 
 
 The stars of heaven are numberless, and space is 
 
 deep and endless, 
 I'll leave you on the threshold there, but not 
 
 entirely friendless ; 
 And now good night, once more, my boys, may 
 
 blessings rich betide you — 
 And all your stars be lucky stars, that will to 
 
 fortune guide you. 
 
 MICHAEL THE BRAVE. 
 
 Tune — ' Derry Down.' 
 
 In a Barrowford dandyshop, long, long ago. 
 On the banks of the clear Pendle Water below. 
 When the salmon and trout graced the silvery 
 
 stream, 
 And the shuttle was pickt through the shed 
 
 \vithout steam. 
 Derry Down, Down Die Derry Down. 
 
 Each weaver was busy at work in his loom, 
 When an Irishman, frantic, rushed into the 
 
 room : 
 "Who struck Paddy Kelly f he asked with a 
 
 frown. 
 " By Jabus I'll crack in a moment his crown." 
 Derry Down, &c. 
 
 "For vengeance I came; I am Michael the brave 
 Whoever smote Pat must prepare for his grave 
 The rascal shall know that I'm famous in deeds ; 
 No truce will I make, while a counthryman 
 bleeds." 
 
 Derry Down, &c.
 
 138 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 (A mighty shillelagh he waved in the air, 
 And eyed every weaver with menacing glare:) 
 " Tbe man who struck Paddy must meet me in 
 
 strife 
 The divil a chance there will be for his life." 
 Derry Down, &c. 
 
 His coat he threw down in a terrible rage, 
 Saying show me the man that will Michael 
 
 engage ; 
 The villain at once I will seize by the throat, 
 If he will but stej) on the tail of my coat. 
 Derry Down, &c. 
 
 Then down on his coat thundered big Barley 
 
 Jack, 
 Mick saw his dimensions, then stepped a pace 
 
 back; 
 Down dropped his shillelagh slap bang on the 
 
 floor, 
 "When he saw that big Johnny had bolted the 
 
 door. 
 
 Derry Down, &c. 
 
 With horror poor Michael the giant surveyed. 
 Then fell on his knees and for mercy he prayed ; 
 But Jack bared his arm and prepared for the 
 
 fight, 
 ' By gorra," said Michael, " you served the fool, 
 
 right." 
 
 Derry Down, &c. 
 
 •' Pick up your shillelagh," said Jack with a 
 
 smile," 
 " Ye witty and dexterous cunning old file : 
 Yoiu- heart is too tender, your head is too wise, 
 To fight with a man nearly double your size." 
 Derry Down, &c.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 139 
 
 " You're a gintleman, snr," answered Michael at 
 
 once, 
 " Bad luck to Pat Kelly, the coward the dunce, 
 The spalpeen I know is a quarrelsome elf, 
 When I meet the young rascal 1 11 bate him 
 
 myself." 
 
 Derry Down, &c. 
 
 In toiling through life, to this counsel attend. 
 Give faithful and earnest support to a friend; 
 Take Michael's advice, 'tis an excellent plan, 
 Before you do battle, just measure your man. 
 Derry Down, &c. , 
 
 ANSWER TO AN INVITATION 
 TO A PARTY. 
 
 Your kind invitation came duly to hand, 
 
 Though very untimel}- for me ; 
 Far off on that date in a beautiful land, 
 
 Your friend will undoubtedly be. 
 
 I'm sorry dear sir, thus to hasten away. 
 
 From dinner, from friends, and from home ; 
 
 But when you are feasting this sinner will pray, 
 And send you his blessings from Rome. 
 
 You'll think, though, when toasting in pleasure 
 and hope, 
 
 In friendship's most affable grip. 
 That I may be kissing the toe of the Pope, 
 
 With a curl on my nethermost lip. 
 
 Should I in St. Peter's with Romans convene, 
 
 To bend on apostasy's knee ! 
 The toe of the Pontifi", no matter how clean. 
 
 Would not receive kisses from me.
 
 140 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Bright eyes must dictate with a passionate glow, 
 
 What words ever fail to express ; 
 And joys the most sacred, dear lips must bestow. 
 
 Both pilgrim and Pope must confess. 
 
 TO Dr. burns ON HIS SILVER 
 WEDDING DAY. 
 
 I wish you most fervently many returns 
 Of your dear silver wedding, remember ; 
 
 Your love for each other still ardently Burns, 
 On this twenty-first day of September. 
 
 It seems but a season, sir, since she was young, 
 When the ring on her finger was shaking, 
 
 And you were high-swearing with promises 
 strong. 
 To the beautiful girl you were taking. 
 
 You say that you never had cause to regret. 
 Or a fear that your passion might falter, 
 
 This twenty -five years, since the day that you 
 met 
 Her, before the Hymenial Altar. 
 
 Still may you be sturdy and buoyant on earth, 
 And not from her pleasures with-holden, 
 
 May long rolling years give you comfort and 
 mirth, 
 Until the grand wedding day-golden. 
 
 Then on may you laugh with your darling old 
 wife, 
 Still may she obey your kind bidding ; 
 May grand children's children, then bless you 
 through life. 
 And attend at your diamond wedding.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 141 
 
 There's a genuine charm in the name that you 
 bear, 
 
 Pure, electric, acute and refined. 
 That name will ring on everlasting and fair, 
 
 A rich blessing, and boon to mankind. 
 
 TO MR. C, ON RECEIVING A BRACE 
 OF PHEASANTS. 
 
 Your messenger came to my cottage this 
 morning. 
 With a radiant smile on his face ; 
 Two pheasants his generous hands Avere 
 adorning, 
 A beautiful dear speckled brace. 
 
 My gratitude turned to a feeling of pity, 
 When viewing their plumage of gold ; 
 
 Their poor broken pinions and bosoms so pretty, 
 Afflicted my heart to behold. 
 
 The glossy young birds, though, were juicy and 
 tender. 
 
 And plump as dame Nature could bring ; 
 Especially that of the feminine gender. 
 
 In brisket, leg, kidney, and wing. 
 
 Accept my best thanks for the lusty, delicious, 
 
 Oviparous, vertebrate pair ; 
 That fortune to you may henceforth be 
 propitious, 
 
 Is the humble recipient's prayer.
 
 142 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 AN ELEGY ON EDWIN WAUGH. 
 
 Grim Death, old Nature's ancient foe, 
 Has winged a shaft with fatal blow, 
 And laid a darling poet low, 
 
 Whom we deplore : 
 The harp of dear old Edwin Waugh 
 
 Will sound no more. 
 
 Ye local bards, whose music rings, 
 When fanned by dialectic wings. 
 Your homely Muse now vainly springs, 
 
 And deeply grieves : 
 Hang up your harps and drape the strings 
 
 In Cypress leaves. 
 
 Permit a poor North-eastern bard, 
 Whose Muse is feeble and ill-starred, 
 To thus express his deep regard 
 
 And reverence. 
 For one, whose verses seldom jarred. 
 
 Or gave offence. 
 
 Thee, Waugh, alas, no more we see ! 
 But, wherefore say alas for thee. 
 From pain and trouble now lies free 
 
 Thy manly frame, 
 And Waugh henceforth, will ever be 
 
 An honoured name. 
 
 No squeamish culture mars his lines. 
 Nor pride fastidious e'er confines 
 His vein of wit, or undermines 
 
 His merry theme : 
 In fireside stories there he shines 
 
 In fun supreme.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 143 
 
 His Barrel-organ's cheerful trill, ■ 
 And Besom Ben, are with us still, 
 His songs of love our valleys fill, 
 
 And ring on high : 
 The fruits of his Parnassian quill 
 
 Will never die. 
 
 Two bards stood by his sacred bier 
 Who long had loved their great compeer, 
 And will his honoured name revere — 
 
 While here below : 
 The name to them was ever dear, 
 
 Of Edwin Waugh. 
 
 Ben Brierley's trembling feet, and slow, 
 Walked round the poet's dust below, 
 His genial face betrayed deep woe, 
 
 And silent grief — • 
 Whose silvery locks now clearly show 
 
 The yellow leaf. 
 
 Sam Laycock paced the sacred place. 
 With anguish written on his face, 
 A genuine sorrow you could trace 
 
 Upon his brow : 
 This tuneful dialectic brace 
 
 Are lonely now. 
 
 These brother bards with ringlets gray, 
 Placed on his dust two garlands gay : 
 But on the turf their tears display 
 
 What love bequeaths : 
 These signs fraternal far outweigh 
 
 A thousand wreaths.
 
 144 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Farewell, dear Waugh, thy genial smile 
 Broad beamed in Nature's happiest style, 
 Thy books will tedious hours beguile, 
 
 For years to come : 
 Though Death will soon thy brethren file 
 
 To their long home. 
 
 TO Mr. WILLIAM CHRISTIE, THE REAL 
 SCOTCH MINSTREL, 
 
 On his Silver Wedding Day, Sep. 30th, 1890. 
 
 The theme of my verses, dear Christie, old fiiend, 
 May be seen by the style of their heading ; 
 
 Just twenty-five Summers have rolled to an end, 
 Since the day of your bright happy wedding. 
 
 That fortunate morning, my dear Scottish boy. 
 With delight you will ever remember, 
 
 Which promised long years of connubial joy. 
 From that thirtieth day of September. 
 
 Man's life is a puzzle, a blessing or curse. 
 For unquenchable pleasures he's sighing : 
 
 But when he takes woman for better or worse, 
 A most dangerous path he is trying. 
 
 Yet blessed is the man who secures a good wife, 
 (Though a bachelor always is dreading), 
 
 But dearer b}- twenty-five times is her life, 
 On the morn of her grand silver wedding. 
 
 With love for your wife may your bosom still 
 flame — 
 And be free from all worldly temptations ; 
 Still long may you cherish and bless the old 
 dame. 
 At least through a fourth generation.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 145 
 
 Sing on as each season Autumnal returns, 
 Sing of Wallace, of Bruce, and of Charlie ; 
 
 Sing on, the sweet songs of your own poet, 
 Burns, 
 Scots Wha Hae, and the dear Eigs O'Barley. 
 
 Your voice to a circle of friends is a boon. 
 Of your songs we shall never be weary — 
 
 Bonnie Jean, and the waters of Afton and Doon, 
 Mary Morison, and Highland Mary. 
 
 Your children, dear branches, that honour the 
 stem. 
 May each one be a boon and a blessing ; 
 And, Christie, ray boy, may you still honour 
 them, 
 When their children you're fondly caressing. 
 
 Throughout a long life may your heart remain 
 soft — 
 
 Keeping clear of all wicked Philistines ; 
 When closing life's scenes, you will all soar aloft. 
 
 For your wife, and your children are Christians. 
 
 LONG SERMONS. 
 
 A little boy, named Simeon Pratt, 
 Late in a Burnley temple sat. 
 One dull autumnal Sabbath day, 
 Passing his youthful time away ; 
 No text or subject could he tell. 
 Nor did he like the sermon well ; 
 His face betokened deep dismay. 
 And still the parson preached away. 
 The lad was tired and sighed to go, 
 His nether lip was hanging low,
 
 146 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 With anxious aspect, I suppose, 
 
 He prayed that soon the book might close. 
 
 An hour and more at School he'd been, 
 
 His appetite was growing keen ; 
 
 In pain he sat, his limbs being pent 
 
 In undeserving punishment ; 
 
 The teacher would not let him sleep, 
 
 Although his yawns were loud and deep. 
 
 Poor Simeon's visage seemed to say, 
 
 Oh, close the book, and sing and pray. 
 
 Fat Jacob Swires and Jonas Moor 
 Had fallen twice upon the floor ; 
 Their little knees and feet and shins, 
 Were pricking like a thousand pins. 
 Sylvanus Ward and Isaac Towers, 
 With cunning and mischievious powers 
 Were twisting William Turner's hair, 
 As he sat jaded, sleeping there. 
 Both boys and girls were tired I saw, 
 And so were we in pews below. 
 
 Ye who in lengthy sermons deal, 
 Pray hear a local bard's appeal ; 
 Recall the days when you were young, 
 And then restrain your tiresome tongue. 
 Let darling girls and noble boys 
 Have ample time for youthful joys. 
 Confine them not, I crave in rhyme, 
 As if they'd done some awful crime. 
 
 These youths (for whose release I speak) 
 
 Are toiling hard throughout the week ; 
 
 Each day half time at school and mill, 
 
 Of work and precept get their fill. 
 
 Observe what high extatic bliss 
 
 Thrills through their souls when you dismiss.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 147 
 
 Lastly, brethren, now supposing 
 We combine for early closing ; 
 Urging each denomination 
 For a closer condensation. 
 If united, we determine. 
 For a twenty minutes' sermon, 
 Then the children — bless their faces, 
 Would sit smiling in their places. 
 Preachers would, in acquiescing, 
 Then receive a children's blessing. 
 
 In conclusion, let me mention, 
 No one pays the least attention. 
 To your sermons long and serious, 
 For they vex and often weary us ; 
 But to poor imprisoned children 
 Such discourses are bewildering : 
 English, Irish, French or German, 
 No one likes a lengthy sermon. 
 
 FROM BURNLEY. 
 
 In Celebration of Mr. Alderman Scan-'s Fijty Year's 
 Residence in Leeds. 
 
 All hail, fair Leeds, with Mayoral badge and 
 
 gown. 
 Permit a stranger from a neighbouring town 
 To share your joys on this auspicious day. 
 And to your host his grateful homage pay. 
 Let no discordant jealous feelings mar 
 Your bliss with your good townsman, ex-Mayor 
 
 Scarr. 
 Her greetings, Burnley sends to you this night, 
 And hails this great event with keen delight,
 
 148 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 This night, in merry song and heartfelt toast, 
 She joins with your fair hostess and your host : 
 Thus Burnley on the Brun, her feelings share 
 With Leeds, upon the classic banks of Aire, 
 Here in this vale ^carr passed his youthful 
 
 hours. 
 And from our town he turned his steps to 
 
 yours : 
 Friend Scarr on Burnley looks with love and 
 
 pride, 
 For there he sighed, and wooed, and won his 
 
 bride. 
 With joy long may he retrospective muse, 
 Upon the day that sealed the nuptial noose. 
 'Tis meet that Leeds and Burnley thus respond 
 In this fraternal, generous, social bond. 
 With honest pride long may his host relate 
 The fact, that fifty years before this date 
 He placed his youthful feet — tired, trembling, 
 
 sore — 
 Upon the very threshold of your door, 
 And how he toiled the busy crowd among, 
 With steadfast aim, and resolution strong, 
 Through all these changing years, with anxious 
 
 care. 
 Till Leeds awarded him the civic chair. 
 Success must crown the youth who runs and 
 
 reads, 
 And emulates friend Scarr's career in Leeds. 
 
 THE TURKISH ATROCITIES. 
 
 There arose from the East a loud cry o'er the 
 
 sea — 
 'Twas the wail of the poor wretched slave to be 
 
 free ;
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 149 
 
 Twas the weeping of infant, and mother, and 
 
 sire. 
 And the shrieks of the victims rose higher and 
 
 higher. 
 Shall the maids of Bulgaria for help vainly cry, 
 A nd the nations of Europe stand silently by 1 
 Let the proud flag of England defend us, they 
 
 pray. 
 Or depart with your vessels from Besika Bay. 
 
 Lo, the dastardly monster slays widow and bride, 
 When your uplifted fingerwould stop theredtide; 
 And such deeds are allowed which we blush to 
 
 record. 
 When a menace from England would sheathe 
 
 the vile sword. 
 Sure the sight of each victim, and unburied 
 
 skull. 
 Will proclaim the Turk's cup of iniquity full ; 
 Then arouse, mighty England ! your influence 
 
 display, 
 Or else pull down your standard in Besika Bay ! 
 
 Shall the bold and the generous true sympathy 
 
 shirk 
 Whilst violence and murder are wrought by the 
 
 Turk? 
 Shall the ag'd and the infant be sabred and shot. 
 And their fate be ignored, unavenged, or forgot ? 
 Shall the tars of Old England, the brave and 
 
 the good, 
 Protect hideous fiends whilst they revel in blood? 
 Shall the tigers and wolves fill the world with 
 
 dismay — 
 With the flag of Old England in liesika Bay ?
 
 150 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS SONG ON CO-OPERATION. 
 
 Tune—' The Rakes of Mallow, or 
 Bobby Shakky, 0.' 
 
 Part First. 
 
 As time rolls on and years expire, 
 When snows the leafless trees attire 
 We gather round John Cronkshaw's fire, 
 
 And never disagree, sir ; 
 It is our custom you perceive. 
 To take a final, friendly leave 
 Of passing years, on New Years' Eve, 
 
 At Cronkshaw's jubilee, sir. 
 
 While plodding through life's little span, 
 Let each one here do all he can 
 To cheer and help his fellow-man. 
 
 By wise co-operation. 
 That times are good, you're all agreed ; 
 I'll sing of schemes as I proceed, 
 With profits large, and risks indeed 
 
 Have all a limitation. 
 
 Each morning's early news consists 
 Of railway stocks and shipping lists. 
 Of mining shares, where wealth exists, 
 
 And how each market ranges ; 
 Of Yankie liulls, and English bears, — 
 Egyptian funds, and canal shares, 
 And Chillian bonds, and Buenos Ayres, 
 
 And all the stock exchanges.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 151 
 
 What mighty wonders we behold, — 
 
 How stocks and shares are bought and sold, 
 
 And every project rings with gold, 
 
 Without the least disguising ; 
 We've broker's journals once a week, 
 With information that you seek, 
 From Sandy Gate to Cedar Creek, 
 
 And every land comprising. 
 
 Now all prospectuses denote 
 
 What grand concerns there are afloat, 
 
 If you don't buy a joint-stock vote 
 
 You'll be quite isolated ; 
 If you will search the borough through, 
 Of joint-stock mills you'll find a few ; 
 We've got some paper makers too. 
 
 Who are incorporated. 
 
 Hill Top and Oxford Mills are seen. 
 And Olive Mount and Keighley Green ; 
 And Crook and Collinge too I ween, 
 
 Are profitable spinners ; 
 Each tradesman now co-operates 
 With lawyers and with magistrates; 
 The parson too confederates 
 
 With publicans and sinners. 
 
 We ve card machines -vvith maker's names. 
 And drawing, slub, and roving frames, 
 All tended well by trusty dames, 
 
 Who walk the alleys proudly ; 
 Dead mules are moving to and fro, 
 Sweet throstles sing the winter through, 
 With pretty jiirls to feed them too. 
 
 And devils roaring loudly. —
 
 152 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 New looms for fancy goods and plain, — 
 Sateens and drills, and good twilled jean, — 
 Fine shirtings wide, and stripes for Spain, 
 
 And heavy goods for winter ; 
 The madopolam and common T, — 
 The jacconet, and small dhootie, 
 We also hold supremacy. 
 
 For Mexican and printer. 
 
 Part Second. 
 
 Co-ops. we have for selling tea, 
 A Burnley Carriage Company, 
 And ironmongers too I see, 
 
 With chimney-piece and fender ; — 
 In Burnley's handsome market place. 
 And just beneath the large clock face, 
 Where Sheffield goods the windows grace,— 
 
 Of modern style and splendour. 
 
 They here supply all minor trades 
 With silver spoons and delving spades, 
 And pocket knives with Rogers' blades. 
 
 And plated knives and forks too. 
 Good drills and files for artisans, 
 And garden rakes and watering cans, 
 And dripping tins and frying pans, 
 
 With stomach pump, and corkscrew. 
 
 There's everything upon the rack. 
 Both pans and kettles painted black, 
 The toddy spoon and bottle jack, 
 
 And papier machie waiters ; — 
 Steel gimlets, saws, and planes and rules, 
 And various kinds of joiners' tools, — 
 Strong iron stands, and kitchen stools. 
 
 And mops and nutmeg graters. —
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 153 
 
 Bright cruet frames to suit your wives, 
 And buck-horn handled table knives, 
 And patent earthenware beehives, — 
 
 And troughs for cattle graziers ; — 
 Strong jockey bars, and larding pius, 
 Fine jelly moulds and pudding tins, 
 And lather brushes for your chins, 
 
 And shaving pots and razors. 
 
 They've shovels, pokers, tongs, and rakes, 
 And oven tins for pies and cakes, 
 And iron grids for frizzling steaks, 
 
 And mincing pots and beaters. 
 A patent steel with ivory hand, — 
 A handsome nursery basin stand. 
 And cans and canisters japanned, 
 
 And warming pans and heaters. — 
 
 Light slop pails, cans, and copper cones, 
 And small machines for mowing lawns, — 
 Good Brunswick black and rotten stones, 
 
 And blacking paste and bootjacks ; 
 They've cocoa, tea and coffee urns, — 
 A useful toasting jack that turns, — 
 Plates, dishes, butter knives, and churns, 
 
 And curling tongs and nutcracks. — 
 
 Flour bins, weights, and family scales, 
 
 And water pipes and water pails. 
 
 And locks and bars, and bolts and nails, 
 
 And warming tins for cradles ; — 
 Fine corner dishes, green and blue, 
 And sugar nippers, choppers too, 
 And porridge pans, and some for stew 
 
 And basting spoons and ladles. —
 
 1-^4 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Strong wardrobe hooks for cloaks and caps,- 
 Brass kettle stands, and water taps, 
 And mouse, and rat, and rabbit traps, 
 
 And hammers, vice, and gauges. — 
 Rich Toilet sets, and iron cots, — 
 Grand iron bedsteads, and what-nots, 
 And porridge spoons, and mustard pots, 
 
 And parkin-cans, and cages. — 
 
 Good barrel taps, and copper pegs, 
 And silver spoons for salt and eggs. 
 And carving knives, and jackolegs, 
 
 And clipping shears for ileecemen ; — 
 Bright lanterns, lamps, and candlesticks, 
 And hammers, levers, spades, and picks, — 
 Handcufts for thieves and lunatics. 
 
 And bulls-eyes for policemen. — 
 
 Fine gasaliers, of bronze and brass, 
 And smart reflectors, lined with glass. 
 And cooking stoves prepared for gas, 
 
 Of every new invention. 
 Time won't allow me to define 
 How use and ornament combine 
 In articles of high design, 
 
 Too numerous to mention. 
 
 And now to all assembled here — 
 Long may our friendship be sincere. 
 Long may this house provide good cheer. 
 
 And never harbour treason ; 
 Long may our generous host prepare. 
 On New Year's Eve, a sumptuous fare. 
 Long may his wife and daughters share. 
 
 The pleasures of the season.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 155 
 
 A NEW YEAR'S ADDRESS. 
 
 To Mr. C, M. Foden, Hon. Secretary to the Mechanics' 
 Instittition, Burnley. 
 
 Dear Foden, our grand Institution, you make 
 Her service your duty, though Large ; 
 
 Her business you know, and with joy undertake, 
 In strict honest faith to discharge. 
 
 With pleasure, now twenty -two years I review. 
 Your patience, industry and care ; 
 
 In duty so zealous, obliging and true. 
 From weariness free, and despair. 
 
 Exertions most noble have made you revered 
 In meeting, and concert, and ball : 
 
 To teachers and scholars you're truly endeared. 
 And loved, and respected by all. 
 
 Your word is as true as divinity's scroll. 
 Your purpose is never disguised : 
 
 Your bosom is blessed with an untarnished soul, 
 In labours of love exercised. 
 
 For our Institution, you see what's required. 
 
 Yea, every want, and appliance ; 
 The classes you furnish with all that's desired, 
 
 In technical arts, or in science. 
 
 The masters 3'ou prove, and secure us the best, 
 You challenge the haughty inspectors ; 
 
 Against all extravagant schemes you protest. 
 As checker, and guide to directors. 
 
 Reports you submit, all accounts you compile. 
 
 Read out, criticise and explain : 
 When passed and discounted, you place on a file, 
 
 They then in your archives remain.
 
 156 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 Newsp ipers and telegrams quick you provide, 
 For Burnley's grand Royal Exchange : 
 
 And chemicals, basins and bottles beside, 
 For work in each class you arrange. 
 
 When funds are depressed, and requirements 
 encroach, 
 You never forsake her in trial ; 
 Her friends for subscriptions you kindly 
 approach, 
 And never will brook a denial. 
 
 Our mayors, lords, and gentry, you humbly 
 beseech, 
 To open their ponderous purses : 
 More power to the donors, who fill up the 
 breach, — 
 Supplying what Foden disburses. 
 
 All matters artistic with pencil or paint, 
 
 In this Institution are rife : 
 There pupils may practice with little restraint, 
 
 Fine drawing and painting from life. 
 
 For languages foreign, Dutch, German or French, 
 
 Provision most ample is made : 
 For teacheis and scholars on every bench, 
 
 All books for their service are laid. 
 
 For ladies, specific arrangements are found, 
 And kitchen utensils are brought : 
 
 For lessons domestic provisions abound. 
 And all kinds of cooking are taught. 
 
 All courses of study for those that compete, 
 Are well with preceptors supplied : — 
 
 Geology, botany, sound, light and heat. 
 And others not here specified.
 
 LOCAL POEMS, 157 
 
 If one man has earned the best wishes of all 
 Directors, and wards, and trustees, 
 
 'Tis you honest Foden that answers the call, 
 On this every member agrees. 
 
 The thousands of pupils at home and abroad, 
 
 Who now are enlightened adults. 
 Will bless their friend Foden with tears over- 
 flowed, 
 
 For labours with glorious results. 
 
 At last, let me name the great efforts combined. 
 Of Foden and Alderman Scott, — 
 
 Your dear predecessor, so gentle and kind, 
 Whose mantle you certainly got. 
 
 These few broken lines, though but faintly 
 impart, 
 
 The feelings my thanks are bestowed in : 
 Yet freely they're poured with a fulness of heart, 
 
 To you my dear friend C. M. Foden. 
 
 No vain adulation my Muse will conjure, 
 
 No flattering favour express 
 To one so deserving, unselfish and pure. 
 
 Whose value no man can assess. 
 
 In service by day, not a moment you waste. 
 
 Your duties are never neglected ; 
 You're trusted by those that are over you 
 placed — 
 
 By those who are under; respected. 
 
 Work on, my dear Foden, your labours will tell, 
 
 And benefit ages to come • 
 Long may you in honour and harmony dwell. 
 
 To bless this old town, and your home.
 
 158 LOCAL POEMS. 
 
 TO Mr. a. STANSFIELD, 
 KERSAL MOOR, MANCHESTER. 
 
 Hail, brother bard, with cultured brain ! 
 Your lines in Scotch have made me vain ; 
 You should not speak so strong and plain 
 
 Of what you feel. 
 For you're so powerful with your pen, 
 
 And versatile. 
 
 I doubt not that your honest heart 
 Felt keen and warm in every part ; 
 But men like you, who are so smart, 
 
 Should be mair tentie, 
 And shed less kindness at the start, 
 
 Although you've plenty. 
 
 You pour your brilliant, tuneful flame 
 Too freely (though with friendly aim) ; 
 For this, my boy, you're much too blame. 
 
 And I must grumble ; 
 Your city friends had prior claim 
 
 To one so humble. 
 
 Friends Tam and Geordie I admire, 
 And well I know each fine strung lyre ; 
 My feeble Muse could not aspire 
 
 To their dominions ; 
 They sweeter sing, and soar far higher, 
 
 On stronger pinions, 
 
 With mundane things I'm so beset. 
 That with you three I've rarely met ; 
 But every time we closer get 
 
 I'm more enlightened ; 
 The future may bring leisure yet. 
 
 With raptures heightened.
 
 LOCAL POEMS. 159 
 
 Could we arrange, say, once a week. 
 To spend an hour just cheek to cheek. 
 And blithely sing, or freely speak, 
 
 And form a set. 
 My Muse would join (though poor and meek) 
 
 In full quartette. 
 
 I'd friendly chat with you in turns. 
 On poets' works, and what concerns 
 Great Dante, Shelley, Byron, Burns, 
 
 Groldsraith, and Keats ; 
 To hear of these my spirit yearns, 
 
 And thus entreats. 
 
 A social evening now and then 
 
 Our minds would burnish, we might ken 
 
 The imperfections of each pen, 
 
 And meet as brothers ; 
 Pray write (and fix the place and when), 
 
 And bring the others. 
 
 Adieu, my genial friend, once more ! 
 Your heart is noble to the core ; 
 In foreign deep linguistic lore, 
 
 You're eminent ; 
 Had I your knowledge well in store, 
 
 I'd be content. 
 
 SONG.— OLD BETHESDA. 
 
 Tune—' Afton Water.' 
 
 I'll sing of Bethesda, the pride of my youth, 
 The shrine where is taught the sweet gospel of 
 
 truth : 
 Though poor is her flock, and her Church 
 
 unendowed, 
 Yet here our dear forefathers piously bowed.
 
 160 LOCAL POKMS. 
 
 Thy service, Bethesda, is modest and pure, 
 Thy tenets are sacred, and so must endure ; 
 Thy dear hallowed story with joy we enrol, 
 Thy temple, Bethesda, is dear to my soul. 
 
 Thy school where on Sundays the youths gaily 
 
 throng, 
 Whose walls once re-echoed our infantine song, 
 Is now inconvenient, unhealthy and old, 
 Its days are all numbered, and soon will be told. 
 Thus temples and schools upon earth must decay, 
 In life's evolutions the old pass away : 
 The school of our parents will soon disappear, 
 Yet fondly we love it, and long will revere. 
 
 Bethesda, the sacred, true faith's pioneer. 
 Thou church where each Sabbath glad tidings 
 
 we hear. 
 Thy pulpitis famous for freedom of thought. 
 Advanced are thy doctrines, and fearlessly 
 
 taught. 
 Thy teachers and pastors whose names we still 
 
 love. 
 Are gone to sweet mansions of pleasure above, 
 We love thee, Bethesda, thou dear holy shrine, 
 Sweet memories around thee eternally twine.
 
 I isr ID E 2§: 
 
 To Mr. Heury Houlding, Editor of the Burnley "Gazette" 5 
 
 To Mr. George Crompton, Violinist, Laund, near Burnley . . 8 
 
 The New Borough of Nelson on its Charter Day 11 
 
 Answer to a Late Invitation to Dinner from Mr. Gott, 
 
 Provisional Mayor of Nelson 16 
 
 Address to Mr. TattersaU Wilkinson, the Local Antiquarian 17 
 
 Reply to the Antiquarian's Intercepted Letter 18 
 
 The Astronomer's Reply to the Antiquarian's Second 
 
 Poetical Letter 2S 
 
 Reply to Mr. H. Burrows, a Local Poet 23 
 
 Answer to Mr. Alderman Greenwood, (Mayor). Invitation 
 
 to Dinner 2» 
 
 Marriage of Mr. Charles Whittle and Miss Mary Bond 31 
 
 A Song of Buxton 32 
 
 Reply to the Slanders of Higgins and Addison 34 
 
 The Fall of Alexandria (Sung at the Mechanics' Jubilee) 36 
 
 Healey Height 39 
 
 The Girl in the Calico Dress 41 
 
 Old Jim the Engineer (Redford) 42 
 
 Old Jim the Engine Driver (Redford) 44 
 
 On the Introduction of Steam Trams into Burnley 45 
 
 A Burlesque on the Burnley Water Scheme, and in answer 
 to Mr. Clement (signing himself " Good Health") in 
 
 his correspondence in the Buriile;/ Gazette 48 
 
 The Programme of the Burnley Literary and Scientific 
 
 Club. Sung at Dinner 52 
 
 On the Removal of the Mayor's Lamps 56 
 
 A Brave Townsman 68 
 
 On the Birthday of a Niece 59 
 
 The Mayor of Brunswick— Alderman Barou 60 
 
 A Birthday Rhyme 62 
 
 Ten Members of the Scientific Club 63 
 
 On Miss Horner Leaving Burnley 65
 
 ii INDEX. 
 
 On the Presentation to Mr. Lewis Grant 66 
 
 Job Whittain Hartley (Memento) 68 
 
 To Miss Nannie May C. on her Birthday 70 
 
 Flowers from the Tombs of the Bards. To Mr. J. 
 
 Whittaker 71 
 
 To Miss F. E. J. on her Twenty-first Birthday 71 
 
 A Story of a Poodle 72 
 
 A Poem in Scotch to Dr. Mackenzie 74 
 
 On the occasion of the Rev. Wm. lieid leaving Nelson .. 77 
 
 Royal Visit to Burnley 77 
 
 The Queen and John Bright 78 
 
 The Mayor's Dinner (Alderman Keighley) 79 
 
 In Answer to a Present from a Lady 80 
 
 Written for the Victoria Assembly Room (Dec. 31st, 1887) . . 81 
 
 To the Cliairman of the Nelson Local Board, Mr. John 
 
 Wilkinson S7 
 
 Song of Two Burnley Fishermen 88 
 
 Opening of the Town Hall, Burnley, by Mr. Alderman 
 
 Sutcliffe, Mayor 93 
 
 Dissolution of the Odd-Fellows' Club, Barrowford 96 
 
 On the Death of a Nephew 97 
 
 Mayor's Dinner (Alderman Thornber) 99 
 
 John England's 74th Birthday 101 
 
 To Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Sutcliffe, on their Wedding Day. . 101 
 
 Christmas Song (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 31 , 1872 104 
 
 Song on Evolution (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 31, 1873 108 
 
 Geological Song (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 31, 1874 Ill 
 
 Song on Spiritualism— Burlesque (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 28, 1876 115 
 
 Song.— Man and the Ape (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 26, 1877 119 
 
 Song.— New Inventions (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 31, 1878 122 
 
 Song.— The Burnley Water Scheme (Cronkshaw's) Dec. 31, '82 127 
 
 Song.— Trades and Professions of the Guests at Cronkshaw's 
 
 Dinner, December 31st, 1870 131 
 
 Scientific Song (Cronkshaw's;, Dec. 31, 1888 134 
 
 Song— Michael the Brave 137 
 
 Answer to an Invitation (from Mr. J. S. B.) to Dinner ISO 
 
 To Dr. Burns on his Silver Wedding-Day 140 
 
 To Mr. Carrington on receiving a Brace of Pheasants 141 
 
 An Elegy on Edwin Waugh, the Lancashire Poet 142
 
 INDEX. Ill 
 
 To Ml-. William Christie on his Silver Wedtliiig-Day 144 
 
 Long Sermons I'lS 
 
 From Burnley.— To Alderman Scarr, Leeds 147 
 
 The Turkish Atrocities 148 
 
 Song.— On Co-operation (Cronkshaw's), Dec. 31, 1875 150 
 
 A New Year's Address to Mr. C. M. Foden.— In Recog-nition 
 of hisextraordinai-y services for the Burnley Mechanics' 
 
 Institution, for 22 years 155 
 
 To ilr. Abraham Stansfleld, Kersal Moor, Manchester 158 
 
 Old Bethesda " 159
 
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