Widnes Examiner. — 1890-07-12 (Widnes, Cheshire, England)

RHYMES IN THE.DIALECT.  TR' ENGINE-DRIVERS - MATE  Dorn'd talk to me abeawt heroes, whooa swagger wi' medals an' stars, 'Ats nobbut badges for murders done i' thr strife o' terrible wars-;: Wheer kings hey offered sacrilio-6 at heigh, Aknbition's shrine, An' at Booth's festival spilt blood; like cltunkards spillin' wine. Co' id Fame or Glory—Honour, orwod tha willi Yet th' owd Commandment tells us plump, an' plain, "Thou shalt not kill," But tha declares-t'chaps heroes—aye, deothless sons o'  , Fame,— Beeose ther trained to slaughter,to pillage, weawnd, an' maim thad gret human shamble—a reekin' battle plhin, Wheer VietoryWbowt wi' horrors, an' tens 43'theausands  slain • Wheer o's'doneat produces a crop o' woes an' 'tears, An meks War's victims slink i' misery thru' ther after years. _ Id doesn'd suit my notions,—foza hero true saves life, An' th' noblest deeds o' valour's done away fro' t' fields o' strife ; If tha'll just hearken patiently aw'll tell a simple tale Abeawt.mi mate—a stoker,—one 'th' bravest chaps on t'  Rail. Bob Burnham'§wod we co him 4. Neaw,.tlraliaows him,  aw daresay ; He sticks to duty reglar like, an' ne'er hes mitch to say. We've warked together for a year or two, ant' pea like gradely mates, An' every yard o'th' route woknow,—brigs, points, an' crossite gates. Strange seeta we've sometimes witnessed,. are narro' escapes we've bed, When th' danger signal's ftasht id baleful lee* o" crimson  red. _ But one o' Rob's brave acticns con ne'er fade.eavrt o' mi mind. If aw live tell aw'm a hundred, id equal nooan, con find. We vrur running swift we t'spashul, o reight an' up to  time,. An' aw weer hummin' a ditty,--a bit o' hooandy rhyme, We'd getten eawt t' country, 'mong t'"blossones, birds,  an' son, An' tekkin' o things eosy„for we bed a tidy run, When Ebb bawled, "Loot ahead, mate!" an'' he pointed reight up th' line, Ate the& two hundred + yards i' th' front,, happy i' th' breet sunshine, Wur two fair little chileer, playin' reikht railrooad track. Aw  _ seawnded th' engine whistle, thinkie thad wod drive 'em back; But nowe !—ageon aw whistled, an, th' owdest lass th' two Looked reawnd an instant stupiSed, woredrin' wod to do;  Then off to th' edge& t' line id leapt—we watched wi bated breoth, An' left id younger. sister thew t'• front o' certain  deoth •- For, freetened b? th' advancin' train, thad toddlin' youngster fell Across t'.thM gleomin' metals—Oh, mi feelin's nooan  cud tell ! Aw shut of steam, an' earnest prayed, as aw'd ne'er • prayed afoear. An' thowt o' my own pets as played areawnd mi cottage  _ door. Th' brake wi' oid fooarce RUT on ; an' t' child wur lyin  theer, An' o' at followed wur to me a dream, dilitinet an' clear. Nearer !—nearer I.—nearer the rumblin' engine glidin' aped  An' eery hope o' savin' t' lass hed fro' mi' bosom fled, For we wur on a slopie track, an' varra clooase to t' child,— Mt brain id felt afire, aw wur lush like sombry wild. Th' brake wur actin' badly; cowd sweot run down nil face. Aw turned tort Bod I' blank despair,—he'd vanished fro'' his place! Meer cud he be ?—aw fainted for a second, gradely feared, For weel aw liked him,—then a seawnd familar aw heeard. 'Twur like his voice aw thowt, as th' train stopt id mad race at last, • An' leynin" eawt o'er th' engine side, mi breoth coom thick a' fast. , Aw looked an' see wod suited ma, mi nattattood safe an' seawnd th' bonny child he' saved, miheyd went spinnin' reawnd, Aw felt o'ercome wi' joy, but soon we flew past hill plain, An' took booath childer wi us to t' next station on eawr train. Mi mate bed sin as th' distance wur too short to ply • eawr brake, An' soon he'd leapt off th' engine, an' ruin kard for UV life at stake. Ahead o' th' alackenin' express, he rushed, wi pantin'• • breoth, An' just as th' wheels wur touchin' id; snatched th' child fro' fearful deoth. He's hod a stoker, but at heart he's nobber than a king; He wears no medals on his breast ; no badges breet cud - bring ' To Bob thad satisfaction an' fond pride he he i' life, For t' childer wur a widdo's—an, Bob's med her in his wife.