gat into t'train,
Owd Ned began to screeam;
Then Master Pratt doft off his hat,
An' just pept aght at t'steeam.

This jovial band when they did land,
Got off the train so hearty,
For they all went, wi' that intent,
To hev a grand tea-party!

The country foak did gape an' luke,
To see us all delighted,
An' ivvery one did say "Begum,
Aw wish awd been invited."

'Tis joy to tell, they marched as well
As t'Scots did ower the border,
Owd Wellington an' all his men
Ne'er saw such marchin' order.

The lookers-on, to see them come,
Gat on ta t'second storey;
Reight dahn the park they did 'em mark,
Comin' i' their full glory.

Then to the place each smilin' face,
Moved on i' grand succession;
The lookers on did say "Well done,
It is a grand procession!"

When they'd all pass'd the hall at last
They form'd into a column;
Then Jimmy Wreet, wi' all his meet,
Gav aght a hymn so solemn:

Then all did raise their voice i' praise,
Wi' music in the centre;
They sang a hymn i'praise o' Him,
'At is the girt Creator.

That bit bein' done, they all did run,
To get a pleasant day in,
Some went there, an' some went here,
An' t'Bands began o' playin'.

Wi' mich amaze, we all did gaze,
Arahnd this splendid park;
Then little Jake began to talk,
An' thus he did remark:--

"At Morecambe Bay I've been a day,
At Bolton Woods an' Ilkley;
But Malsis Hall outstrips 'em all,
'At I've seen aght o' Keighley."

The girt park wall arahnd the hall,
Majestical does stand;
Wi' wavin' trees, an' pleasant breeze,
It's like a fairy land.

It fill'd wur eyes wi' gert surprise,
To see the fahnten sporting;
An' on the top, stuck on a prop,
The British flags wor floatin'.

The walks so grand, wi' yellow sand,
An' splendid wor the pavin',
High over all, arahnd the wall,
Wor flags an' banners wavin'.

Nah--some made fun, an' some did run,
Owd women they wor singin'--
"Do you ken the Moofin Man,"--
An' others they wor swingin'.

I' sooth 'twor grand to see this band,
Assembled all together;
Bud sad to say, that varry day
Turn'd aght some shockin' weather.

Bud war ner t'rain, aw mun explain,
'At caus'd a girt disaster,
All but one sort o' breead ran short--
It wor no fault o' t'maister.

O, Gormanton! thy breead an' bun,
An' judgment it wor scanty;
Oh, what a shame, an' what a name,
For not providing plenty!

O