Th’ last Scene of all that ends this strange eventful…

“Th’ last Scene of all that ends this strange eventful history.”

Fra th’ Corrispondent o’ th’ Hoylus End Mercury.

Good folks you’ve inkwired at home an’ abroad, Ha we’re gettin on wi wur famous railroad; And when I’ve tell’d yo the disasters we’ve hed, Yo’ve greeved monny a time wal yo’ve tain to yor bed, But ha yo will gape when yo read farther dahn, What famons big stirrins we’ve hed up i’th’ tahn.

I knaw yo’d be mad as soin as yo heard, Abaht that oud kah at belong’d to Blue Beard, For I like as I saw yo just hod of its tail, And braying it rump wi’ the end o’ yor flail; For I wisht monny a time at yo hed been here, For swallowing the plan yo’d a geen it what cheer.

Ha ivver good folk I’ll try to be breef, For I knaw you’re i’ pain and I’ll give yo releef— So to tell yo the truth in a plain, honnest way, The railroad is finish’d an oppen’d to-day; And I’ve tain up my pen for ill yo’d a taint, If I hednt a geen yo a truthful ackahnt.

Hasumivver this morning, as I tell’d yo before, I wur wakken’d wi hearin a awful uproar, What wi’ the prating o’ wimen and the shahtin o’th’ folk, And the bells at wur ringin, they wur past onny joke, For ivvery two minnits they shahted hurrah, We are nah bahn to oppen the Haworth Railway.

So I jump’d up i’ bed, an’ I gat on the floor, I slipt on my cloas and ran out at door, And the first at I met, it wur one Jimmy Peg, He cum’d up fra Bocking and brout a gert flag, And just at his heels wur the Spring-headed band, Playing a march—I thout it wur grand.

So I fell into the step for I knaw how to march, For I’ve been stiffen’d up wi’ guvernment starch; And first smell o’ music it maks me fair dance, And I prick up my ears like a trooper his lance, Hasumivver, I thout as I’d gotten i’ th’ scent, I’d follow this music wharever it went.

Then I march’d up erect, wal I come to the grand stand, And that wur a’ th’ stashun where the train hed to land; There wur flags of all nashuns fra the Union Jack To Bacchus and Atlas wi’ the globe on his back, For the Inspector and conductor and all sorts o’ fray Wur expected directly to land at the railway.

So I star’d wal both een wur varry near bleared, And waited and waited—at last it appear’d, It wur filled full o’ folk as eggs full o’ meat, And it tuk four ingens to bring it up reight, Two hed long chimlas and th’ tuther hed noan, But they stuck weel together like a dog to a bone.

They wur gruntin and growling wur the folks at gat aht, So I made some inquiries what it wur abaht; And i’ all my born days I ne’er heard nout so call’d, For three or four times they sed it hed stall’d, Wal some o’th’ crookt-legg’d ens bethout of a scheam, And they went back to Keighley for a hamper o’steam.

And my word and honour it did mak a gert din, For I stud by and heard it, and saw it come in; I expected it coming as quiet as a lamb, But no daht at the noises wur nobbut a sham; But what’s the use o’ telling yo ha it did come, I’d forgotten yo’d ridden to Wibsey begum.

There wur fifty i’ number invited to dine, All us at hed acted reight loyal to the line; So I thout that I’d go, for I knew weel enuff At the puddings this time wud be made at reight stuff, And noan o’ that stuffment they gav the Keighley band, Toan awf on it rubbish and the other awf sand.

For twelve stone o’ flour (3lbs. to a man) Wur boiled i’ oud Bingleechin’s kah lickin pan, Wi gert lumps o’ suet at the cook hed put in’t, At shane like a ginney just new aht at mint; Wi’ knives made a purpose to cut it i’ rowls, And the sauce wur i’ buckets and mighty big bowls.

They wur chattin and taukin and souckin ther spice, And crackin at dainties they thout at wur nice, Wal the oud parson gat up and pull’d a long face, And mutter’d some words at they call saying th’ grace, But I nivver goam’d that, cos I knew for a fact It wur nobbut a signal for the puddin attack.

And aw’l tell yo wot, folk tho’ yo maint beleeve, But yo tauks abaht Wibsey fooak heytin horse beef, Yo sud a seen Locker-taaners brandishing ther nives, An choppin an cutting ther wollopin shives; An all on em shaatin thay lik’d th puddin th best, Fer nout wur like th puddin for standin th’ test.

An while thay wor cutting an choppin away, The gallant Spring-Heeaders wor order’d ta play, But thay didn’t mich loike it fer ivvery wun, Wur flaid at thayd play wol th puddin wor dun; But as luck wor thay tice’d em, wi a gert deeal to do, Ta play Roger the Plowman an Rozzen the bow.

Ike Ouden wor th chairman at com to preside, An Will Thompson o Guiseley wor set by his soide, Na Will’s a director o’th Midland line, An as deeacent a chap as sat dahn ta dine; Along wi Jin Sugden at held th Vice-chair, Wor won Billy Brayshaw, Bradford Lord Mayor.

Their wor Jonathan Craven, Mic Morrell and me, And a lot o more lads at wur for a spree; There wur Nedwin o George’s and Pete Featherstone, They sat side by side like Darby and Joan; And I hardly can tell yo, but yor noan to a shade, But I knaw they wur Ingham and little Jack Wade.

So he says, be silent, all the folk i’ this hall, So as any won on yo can hear a pin fall; And Jone o’ Bill Olders just shut up thi’ prate, For I’ve summat to say and I mun let it aht; For I mun hev silence whativer betide, Or I’ll cum aht oth loom and some o’ yo hide.

Three years hes elapsed and we’re going on the fourth, Sin we first started th railway fra Keighley to Haworth What wi’ dreamin by neet, and workin by day, Its been to poor Haworth a dearish railway. And monny a time I’ve been aht o’ patience Wi’ the host o’ misfortunes and miscalculations.

The first do at we hed wur th kah swallowing th plan, And then wur bad luck and misfortunes began; For before Ginger Jabus cud draw us another, All went on wrong and we’d a gert deal o’ bother; He must a been dreamin, a silly oud clahn, For three fields o’ Oud Doodles he nivver put dahn.

As for thee, Jonny Broth, it’s a pity I knaw, For thart one o’ the best drivers at ivver I saw; And nobody can grumble at what tha hes dun, If thi buss driven wearisome race it is run; For who nah cud grumble, ha fine wur thur cloth, To ride up to Haworth wi oud Johnny Broth.

So Johnny, my lad, don’t thee mak onny fuss, I shuttin thi horses, or sellin thi buss; For if the railway hes done thee, there’s wun thing I knaw; Tha mud mak ’o th’ oud bus a stunnin peep show, And if I meet thee at Lunden, tho two hundred miles, I sall patronise thee if it be in St. Giles.

So strike up yor music and give it some mahth, And welcum all nashuns fra north to the sahth; The black fra the east, and the red fra the west, For they sud be welcum as weel as the rest: And all beyond the Tiber, the Baltic or Rhine, Shall knaw at we’ve oppen’d the Worth Valley Line.