ngham wi' white spots an' blue,
O then is Rebecca so pleasin' to view.
Wi' her gray Wolsey stockings by hersel knit an' spun,
An' a nice little apron, hieroglyphic'ly done:
It needs no rich velvets or Cashmere shawl,
To deck out Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

Love, grace, an' beauty attend at her will;
She wounds wi' a look, wi' a frown she can kill;
The youths as they pass her, exclaim--"Woe is me!"
Who sees her must love her, who loves her must dee.
At Church on a Sabbath, owd men raise ther arms,
An' cry, "O, great heavens! wor ivver sich charms?"
While matrons an' maidens God's blessin' they call,
On the head of Rebecca o' Riddlesden Hall.

[Picture: Decorative picture of plant]

The City of "So be I's."
(A DREAM).

[It is said that when Giles Clumps, the South-downer, first came to
Keighley, the first question he asked his fellow labourer was this, "What
religion be th' master here?" "A Liberal," was the answer; "So be I,"
says Giles. "And what politics be th' master?" asked Giles again, "He's
a Methody," was the reply; "So be I," says Giles again, "I be a Methody
too." Now do not imagine for a moment that Giles Clumps is the only "So
be I" in Keighley, for the whole town is full of "So be I's," and it is a
well-known fact that if six long YELLOW chimneys were to turn BLUE
to-morrow, there wouldn't be a Liberal in six hours in the city of "So be
I's," with the exception of the old veteran SQUIRE LEACH.]

Oh list to my dream, nor yet think it wrong,
If I tell it in rhyme, or sing it in song;
For when I look back on the sights that were there,
I could almost, like Blondin, dance high in the air.

For when I reflect, my heart leaps with joy--
What I saw in my dream in old "So be I,"
For thousands were shouting on that pleasant day.
We are all "So be I's," hip, hip, hip hurrah!

And I took the first chance to ask what it meant,
Of the people who shouted, what was their intent,
When an elderly lady soon gave me the cue,
Of what was the matter and what was to do.

Six great millocrats, call them Whigs if you will,
The gods of our labour in workshop and mill:
Have all turned their colours from Yellow to Blue,
Which has caused this commotion the city all through.

Led on by the nose, like a bull in a band,
See how all the "So be I's" follow so grand,
The fag and the artist, the plebian also,
Have now chang'd their colour from yellow to blue.

There's twenty-eight thousand true "