And who were they that did this mighty work.

The veil's removed, and now my sight is clearer,
Upon the sacred history of our isle;
For while I view these scenes it brings me nearer
Unto the Church on which the angels smile.

Who would not shuffle off his worldly pleasures,
For one short hour to bring before his sight,
The pictures of the great and mighty treasures--
Our English Church, which brought the world to light.

Great Men dive deep down into wisdom's river--
The poet, philosopher, and sage--
For wisdom's pearls, which showeth forth for ever,
Nor waste their sweetness or grow dull with age.

Who would not walk through ruins old and hoary,
And make each relic and persue his search?
Who would not listen and applaud each story,
Told of an ancient good and English Church?

Each view so grand, mixed up with sacred singing,
Of that old Church--I humbly call it mine,
For still my heart to it is ever clinging,
And He who died for me in ancient Palestine.

[Picture: Decorative picture of ferns]

[Picture: Keighley Parish Church, 1891]

The Old Hand-Wool-Combers:

Lines written on the occasion of a Banquet given by His Worship the Mayor
(Ald. ICKRINGILL), March 28th, 1891.

Come hither my muse and give me a start,
And let me give praise to the one famous art;
For it's not an M.P. or a Mayor that I toast,
But the ancient Wool-comber, the Knight of the post.

In the brave days of old when I was a boy,
I went to the Comb Shop, my heart full of joy;
Where I listened to stories and legends of old,
Which to me were more precious than silver or gold.

The old Comber would tell of his travels through life,
And where he had met with his darling old wife;
And how he had stole her from her native vale,
To help him to pull the "old tup" by the "tail."

He would go through the tales of his youthful career,
An undaunted youth without dread or fear;
He knew all the natives, the rich and the poor,
He knew every acre of mountain and moor.

He could make a sad tale of the wrongs of the State,
And tell where old England would be soon or late;
How nations would rise, and monarch's would fall,
And tyrants would tremble and go to the wall.

He was very well read, though papers were dear,
But he got _Reynold's_ newspaper year after year;
It was bound to his bosom and he read it so keen,
While at times he fair hated a King or a Queen.

He was fai