I now purpose briefly to refer to a few old singers whose friendship or acquaintance I enjoyed. Mr Edwin Ogden was well known in the neighbourhood as being about one of the best local singers of his day. Many townsfolk will remember Edwin, together with William Haggas, another old musician, teaching a singing-class. Ogden was a shoemaker by trade but he dabbled more in music than in wax and leather. For many years he held the position of leading chorister at St. Anne’s Roman Catholic Church. He also “gave of his talents” on frequent occasions at local concerts, and was in great favour with the public. He made as many young singers, I suppose, as Joe Turner made musicians in the instrumental sense of the word. Turner was for many years the conductor of Marriner’s Brass Band. Not a few of our present-day musicians will be able to date the commencement of their musical career from the time they took up instruction with either Ogden or Turner. The former has been removed by death, but the latter is still with us. James Greenwood was also one of the school to which Ogden and Turner belonged; and the three took great interest in the musical training of the late Mademoiselle Matilda Florella Illingworth previous to her visiting the conservatoires of music on the Continent. Mr James Wright, my father, also interested himself in Miss Illingworth, in whom at an early period of her life he detected material for the making of an accomplished vocalist. She was a frequent visitor at our house, and often have I heard her sing “Robin Adair”—my father’s favourite song. After she had been on the Continent, I heard Miss Illingworth tell how often while there she was swindled by the proprietors and managers of theatres and music-halls. In some instances she was subjected to the most cruel impositions. More than once she was robbed of all her stage properties, and in Florence she was duped out of every half-penny of the proceeds of a concert which she promoted. Other musicians of the time, I may mention, were John Dunderdale, Daniel Ackroyd, and Joe Constantine. It was in memory of these old musicians that I wrote the following verses:—

“COME, GIE US A WAG O’ THI PAW.”

Come, gie us a wag o’ thi paw, Jim Wreet,
Come, gie us a wag o’ thi paw;
Ah knew thee when thi heead wor black,
But nah it’s as white as snow;
Yet a merry Christmas to thee, Jim,
An’ all thi kith an’ kin:
An’ hopin’ tha’ll hev monny more
For t’ sake o’ owd long sin,
Jim Wreet,
For t’ sake o’ owd long sin.

It’s soa monny year ta-day, Jim Wreet,
Sin owd Joe Constantine
An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee and me,
An’ other friends o’ thine
Went up ta sing at t’ Squire’s house
Net hawf-a-mile fra’ here;
An’ t’ Squire made us welcome
To his brown October beer,
Jim Wreet,
To his brown October beer.
An’ owd Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet,
’At kept the Old King’s Arms.
Wheear all t’ church singers used ta meet,
When they hed sung their Psalms;
An’ thee an’ me amang ’em, Jim,
Sometimes hev chang’d the string,
An’ wi’ a merry chorus join’d,
We’ve made yon’ tavern ring,
Jim Wreet,
We’ve made yon’ tavern ring.

But nearly three score year, Jim Wreet,
Hev passed away sin then;
When Keighley in Apollo’s art
Could boast her music men.
But music, nah, means money, Jim,
An’ that tha’s sense ta knaw;
But just for owd acquaintance sake,
Come gie us a wag o’ thi paw, Jim Wreet;
Jim Wreet,
Come gie us a wag o’ thi paw.

A DISAPPOINTED MAN

I think an apology will be scarcely needed for introducing a few remarks regarding Mr James Wallbank, a well-known and eccentric character in the town. I have heard that James is dead. Whether this is so or not I cannot say; certainly I have not seen the old gentleman about for some time. James was for many years billiard-marker at the Devonshire Hotel. He cherished the idea that he was related to royalty. He often told me that he was a relative of one of the old kings of France, and insisted that his name instead of being Wallbank should be Wal de Brooke, or something like that. When Burridge, the celebrated American painter, was in Keighley, he stayed at the Devonshire Hotel and painted Mr Walbank’s portrait, and the picture is now in the possession of Mr Martin Reynolds.

“GOOISE AN’ GIBLET PIE.”

Another well-known character was Harry Smith, manufacturer. Harry was a man intensely fond of fun, and one Christmas Eve, I remember, when I was coming from the station after returning from Scotland, he tapped me on the shoulder, and, after ascertaining where I had been of late, quoted a motto of the Freemasons’—“In my Father’s house are many mansions, but such as I have I give unto thee. Follow me.” I went with Smith to his house, and spent Christmas Eve there. The subject of my poem, “Gooise and Giblet Pie,” arose out of that night’s proceedings:—

A Kersmas song I’ll sing mi lads,
If you’ll but hearken me,
An incident i’ Kersmas time
I’ eighteen sixty three:
Withaht a cypher i’ the world
I’d scorn to tell a lie—
I dined wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I’ve been i’ lots o’ feeds, mi’ lads,
An’ hed some rare tuck-ahts;
Blood-pudding days wi’ killing pigs,
Minch pies an’ thumping tarts.
But I wired in, an’ reight an’ all,
An’ supped when I wor dry;
For I wor dining wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.
I hardly knew what ailed me, lads,
I felt so fearful prahd;
Mi ears prick’d up, mi collar rose,
Towards a hawf-a-yard;
Mi chest stood aht, mi charley in,
Like horns stuck aht mi tie;
For I dined wi’ a gentleman
O’ gooise an’ giblet pie.

I offen think o’ t’ feed, mi lads,
When t’ gentleman I meet;
But nauther of us speyke a word
Abaht that glorious neet;
In fact, I hardly can mysel—
I feel so fearful shy;
For I ate a deal o’ t’ roasted gooise,
An’ warmed his giblet pie.