Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet

’Twor twelve o’clock wun winter’s neet, Net far fro Kersmas time, When I met wi this Feoffee Goast, The subject ov my rhyme.

I’d been hard up fer mony a week, My way I cuddant see, Fer trade an commerce wor as bad As ivver they cud be.

T’poor hand-loom chaps wor running wild, An t’combers wor quite sick, For weeks they niver pool’d a slip, Ner t’weivers wave a pick.

An I belong’d to t’latter lot, An them wor t’war o t’wo, Fer I’d nine pairs o jaws e t’haase, An nowt for em ta do.

T’owd wife at t’time wor sick e bed, An I’d a shocking coud, Wal t’youngest barn we hed at home, Wor nobbut three days oud.

Distracted to my vary heart, At sitch a bitter cup, An lippening ivvery day at com, At summat wod turn up.

At t’last I started off wun neet, To see what I could mak; Determin’d I’d hev summat t’ eit, Or else I’d noan go back.

Through t’Skantraps an be t’ Bracken Benk, I tuke wi all mi meet; Be t’Wire Mill an Ingrow Loin, Reight into t’oppan street.

Saint John’s Church spire then I saw, An I wor rare an fain, Fer near it stood t’oud parsonage— I cuddant be mistain.

So up I went to t’Wicket Gate, Though sad I am to say it, Resolv’d to ax em for some breead, Or else some brocken meit.

Bud just as I wor shacking it, A form raise up afore, An sed “What dus ta want, tha knave, Shacking t’ Wicket Door?”

He gav me then to understand, If I hedant cum to pray, At t’grace o’ God an t’breead o’ life, Wor all they gav away.

It’s feaful nice fer folk to talk Abaat ther breead o’ life, An specially when they’ve plenty, Fer t’childer an ther wife.

Bud I set off agean at t’run, Fer I weel understood, If I gat owt fra that there clan, It woddant do ma good.

E travelling on I thowt I heeard, As I went nearer t’tahn, A thaasand voices e mi ears Saying “John, where are ta bahn?”

An ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d, A play-card I cud see, E t’biggest type at e’er wod print— “There’s nowt here, lad, for thee.”

Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d, Astead o’ meit wor seen, A mighty carving-knife hung up, Hi, fair afore me een.

Destruction wor inviting me, I saw it fearful clear, Fer ivvery druggist window sed— “Real poison is sold here.”

At t’last I gav a frantic howl, A shaat o’ dreead despair, I seized mesen be t’toppin then, An shack’d an lugg’d me hair.

Then quick as leetening ivver wor, A thowt com e me heead— I’d tak a walk to t’Symetry, An meditate wi t’deead.

T’oud Cherch clock then wor striking t’time At folk sud be asleep, Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat, An t’Pindar after t’sheep.

Wi lengthened pace I hasten’d off At summat like a trot; To get to t’place I started for, Me blooid wor boiling hot.

An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate, Rear’d up agean a post, I cuddant tell—but yet I thowt It wor another goast!

Bud whether it wor goast or not, I heddant time to luke, Fer I wor taken be surprise, When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.

Abaat two hundard yards e t’front, As near as I cud think, I thowt I heeard a dreadful noise, An nah an then a clinck!

What ivver can these noises be? Some robbers, then I thowt!— I’d better step aside an see, They’re happen up to nowt!

So I gat ower a fence there wor, An peeping through a gate, Determined I’d be satisfied, If I’d awhile to wait.

At t’last two figures com to t’spot Where I hed hid mesel, Then walkers-heath and brimstone, Most horridly did smell.

Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat, His face as black as soit, His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben, He hed a clovven fooit.

An t’other wor all skin an bone His name wor Mr. Deeath; Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor, An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.

He hed a scythe, I plainly saw, He held it up aloft, Just same as he wor bahn to maw Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft.

“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?” Sed Nickey, wi a grin, “Tha knaws I am full up below, An cannot tack more in.”

“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks, “Tha ruffin ov a dog, I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean, To see wun John o’ t’Bog.

I cannot see it fer me life, What it’s to do wi thee; Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick, An nivver thee heed me.”

“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks, Whativver tha may say, For I been roasting t’human race For mony a weary day.”

Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee, This last two years or so; Wi Germany an Italy, An even Mexico.

An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil Browt in some thaasands more; An sooin fra Abysinnia, Tha’ll bring black Theodore.

So drop that scythe, oud farren Death, Let’s rest a toathree wick; Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan, Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”

“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath, Who spack it wi a grin, “Ise just do as I like fer thee, So tha can hod thi din.”

This made oud Nick fair raging mad, An lifting up his whip, He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash Across o t’upper lip.

Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks, To give oud Nick leg bail, He started off towards the tahn, An Nick stuck aht his tail.

Then helter-skelter off they went, As ower t’fence I lape; I thowt—well, if it matters owt, I’ve made a nice escape.

But nah the mooin began to shine As breet as it cud be; An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d, Where I cud plainly see.

The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw, An t’winding Aire wor still, An all wor quite save t’hullats, At wor screaming up o’ t’hill.

Oud Rivvock End an all araand Luk’d like some fiendish heead, Fer more I stared, an more I thowt It did resemble t’deead.

The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah, To what I’d seen afore; An luk’d as though they’d never be T’oud friendly Oaks no more.

Fer wun wor like a giant grim, His nose com to a point, An wi a voice like thunner sed— “The times are aaght o’ t’joint!”

An t’other like a whipping-post, Bud happen not as thin, Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil, So pray, nah, hod thi din?”

I tuke no farther gawm o’ them, Bud paddled on me way; Fer when I ivver mack a vow, I stick to what I say.

I heddant goan so far agean, Afoar I heeard a voice, Exclaiming—wi a fearful groan— “Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!”

I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro, An cautiously I bowed, Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice, I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.

Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place, A sudden change o’ scene; Fer miles where all wor white afore, Wor nah a bottle-green.

Then com a woman donned e white, A mantle gert she wore; A nicer lukin, smarter form, I nivver saw afore.

Her features did resemble wun O that kind-hearted lot, At’s ivver ready to relieve The poor man in his cot.

Benevolence wor strongly marked Upon her noble heead; An on her breast yo might hev read, “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”

In fact, a kinder-hearted soul Oud Yorksher cuddant boast; An who wod feel the least alarmed, To talk to sitch a goast?

I didant feel at all afraid, As nearer me she drew; I sed—Good evening, Mrs. Goast, Hah ivver do yo dew?

Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm, Bud pointed up at t’mooin, An beckon’d me to follow her Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.

So on we went, an dahn we turned, An nawther on us spack; Bud nah an then sho twined her heead, To see if I’d runned back.

At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd An luked ma fair e t’een; ’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce, Sho wor no human been.

Sho rave a paper fra her breast, Like some long theatre bill; An then sho sed “Weak mortal, Will ta read to me this will?

But first, afoar tha starts to read, I’ll tell thee who I iz; Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff, I judge it by thi phiz.

Well, I’ve a job fer thee to do, That is, if tha will do it; I think tha’rt t’likeliest man I knaw, Becos tha art a poet.

If I am not mistaken, friend, I offan hear thi name; I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;” Says I—“Oud lass, it’s t’same.”

“It’s just so mony years this day, I knaw it by me birth, Sin I departed mortal life, An left this wicked earth.

But ere I closed these een to go Into eternity, I thowt I’d do a noble act, A deed o’ charity.

I hed a bit o’ brass, tha knaws, Some land an’ property; I thowt it might be useful, John, To folks e poverty.

So then I made a will o t’lot, Fer that did suit my mind; I planned it as I thowt wor t’best, To benefit mankind.

I left a lot to t’Grammar Skooil, By reading t’will tha’ll see; That ivvery body’s barn, tha knaws, May hev ther skooling free.

An if tha be teetotal, John, Tha may think it a fault, Bud to ivvery woman ligging in I gav a peck o’ malt.

Bud t’biggest bulk o’ brass at’s left, As tha’ll hev heeard afore, Wor to be dealt hauf-yearly Among arr Keighley poor.

I certainly did mack a flaw, Fer which I’ve rued, alas! ’Twor them at troubled t’parish, John, Sud hev no Feoffee Brass.

An nah, if tha will be so kind, Go let mi t’trustees knaw At I sall be obleged to them To null that little flaw.

An will ta mention this anall, Wal tha’s an intervue?— Tell em to share t’moast brass to t’poor, Whativver else they due.

Then I sall rest an be at peace, Boath here an when e Heav’n; Wal them at need it will rejoice Fer t’bit o’ brass I’ve giv’n.

An tell em to remember thee Upon t’next Feoffee Day!” I says—I sallant get a meg, I’m getting parish pay.

So when sho’d spocken what sho thowt, An tell’d me what to doo, I ax’d her if sho’d harken me, Wal I just said a word or two.

I’ll nut tell yo one word a lie, As sure as my name’s ‘John;’ I think at yo are quite e t’mist Abaht things going on.

Folks gether in fra far an near, When it is Feoffee-Day; An think they hev another lowse Wi t’little bit o’ pay.

Asteead o’ geeing t’brass t’ poor, It’s shocking fer to tell, They’ll hardly let em into t’door— I knaw it be mesel.

Asteead a being a peck o’ malt Fer t’wimmen lying in, It’s geen to rascals ower-grown, To drink e rum an gin.

Then them at is—I understand— What yo may call trustees, They hev ther favorites, yo knaw, An gives to who they please.

Some’s nowt to do bud shew ther face, An skrew ther maath awry; An t’brass is shuvv’d into ther hand, As they are passing by.

There’s mony a woman I knaw weel, Boath middle-aged an oud, At’s waited for ther bit o’ brass, An catch’d ther deeath o’ coud.

Wal mony a knave wi lots o’ brass, Hes cum e all his pride, An t’flunkeys, fer to let him pass, Hes push’d t’poor folk aside.

Fra Bradford, Leeds, an Halifax, If they’ve a claim, they come; But what wi t’Railway fares an drink, It’s done be they get home.

Wal mony a poorer family At’s nut been nam’d e t’list, At weel desarves a share o’ t’spoil, Bud thenk yo—they are miss’d.

We see a man at hes a haase, Or happen two or three, They Mr. him, an hand him aaght Five times as mitch as me.

’Twor better if yo’d teed yer brass Tight up e sum oud seck, An getten t’Corporation brooms To sweep it into t’Beck.”

No longer like Capias’ form, Wi a tear e boath her een, But like the gallant Camilla, The Volscian warrior Queen.

She, kneeling, pointed up aboon, An vow’d be all so breet, Sho’d rack her vengence on ther heeads, Or watch em day an neet.

Sho call’d the Furies to her aid, An Diræ’s names sho us’d, An sware if I hed spocken t’truth, Sho hed been sore abus’d.

Alas, poor Goast!—I sed to her— Indeed it is too true; Wi that sho vanish’d aht o’ t’seet, Saying “Johnny lad, adieu!”