oak wur ragin' mad
abaat th' kaa, an' if it hedn't a been a wizen'd oud thing thay'd a
swallow'd it alive--th' nasty, greedy oud kaa.

Thay hed a meeting th' tother neet,
Fair o'th' top o' wuthering street,
To see what things thay'd got complete,
Concerning Haworth railway.

Wen Penny Wabbac tuk the chair,
He lukt to be i' grate despair,
He sez, good foak, are yo' aware,
Wat's happened to the railway?

Wi' persperashun on his bra,
He sez, good foaks, I'll tell yo' nah;
Oud Blue Beard's nasty wizen'd kaa
Hez swallow'd plan o'th' railway.

Wi' theas remarks poor Wabbac sat,
Wen Jonny Broth doft off his hat,
His een they blazed like some wild cat
Wi' vengence for the railway.

He sed, mi blud begins to boil,
To think 'at we sud work and toil,
And even th' cattle cannot thoyle
To let us hev a railway.

On hearing this the Haworth foak
Began to think it wur no joak,
An wisht 'at greedy kaa ma choak
'At swallow'd plan o' th' railway.

But hasumiver thay gat ower this, an' wur net long at after afore they
hed more disasters, such as tunnils shutterin', and chapels sinkin', and
law suits, an' so an, wal Haworthers thout bet hart at both th' foak an'
th' grund wur soft daan at Keighla, an' thretten'd to coam sum o'th'
crookt legg'd ens thair heads if they insinuated; an' th' Volunteers
thretten'd to tak thair part if thair wur owt to do; an' farther ner
that, they vowed 'at they wur ready to go to war wi' onny nashun that sud
insult awther them or th' railway under the present difficulties.

For sighs an' tears an' doubts an' fears
Prevails with greatest folly,
For th' sinagog hez cockt its clog,
An' th' parson's melancholy.

Tunnils sink an' navvies drink,
An' chapels are upsetting;
For railway shares nobody cares,
An' iverybody's fretting.

The iron horse they curse of course,
An' fane wud it abondon,
An' loyer' fees thair pockets ease,
A thousand pounds i' Londen.

Misfortunes speed as rank as weed,
An' puts on such a damper,
Wal th' foaks declare i' great despair,
It's up wi' th' iron tramper.

The Volunteers prick up thair ears,
An' mack a famos rattle;
They want to run to Wimbledon,
Or onny field o' battle.

Thair black cravats an' toppen'd hats
Are causin' grate attraction;
'Gainst Bonepart they want to start,
I