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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of the Ridings by F. W. Moorman
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
+other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
+whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
+the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
+www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
+to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
+
+Title: Songs of the Ridings
+
+Author: F. W. Moorman
+
+Release Date: April 2, 2001 [EBook #3232]
+[Most recently updated: November 16, 2020]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF THE RIDINGS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Dave Fawthrop
+
+
+
+
+Songs of the Ridings
+
+by F. W. Moorman
+
+
+I DEDICATE
+THIS VOLUME TO THE
+YORKSHIRE MEMBERS OF THE
+WORKERS’ EDUCATIONAL
+ASSOCIATION
+
+
+Contents
+
+ Preface
+ A Dalesman’s Litany
+ Cambodunum
+ Telling the Bees
+ The Two Lamplighters
+ Our Beck
+ Lord George
+ Jenny Storm
+ The New Englishman
+ The Bells of Kirkby Overblow
+ The gardener and the Robin
+ Lile Doad
+ His last Sail
+ One Year older
+ The Hungry Forties
+ The Flowers of Knaresborough Forest
+ The Miller by the Shore
+ The Bride’s Homecoming
+ The Artist
+ Marra to Bonney
+ Mary Mecca
+ The Local Preacher
+ The Courting Gate
+ Fieldfares
+ A Song of the Yorkshire Dales
+ The Flower of Wensleydale
+
+
+
+
+Preface
+
+
+Abut two years ago I published a collection of Yorkshire dialect poems,
+chosen from many authors and extending over a period of two hundred and
+fifty years[1]. The volume was well received, and there are abundant
+signs that the interest in dialect literature is steadily growing in
+all parts of the county and beyond its borders. What is most
+encouraging is to find that the book has found an entrance into the
+homes of Yorkshire peasants and artisans where the works of our great
+national poets are unknown. I now essay the more venturesome task of
+publishing dialect verses of my own. Most of the poems contained in
+this little volume have appeared, anonymously, in the Yorkshire press,
+and I have now decided to reissue them in book form and with my name on
+the title-page.
+
+A generation ago the minor poet was, in the eyes of most Englishmen, an
+object of ridicule. Dickens and Thackeray had done their worst with
+him: we knew him—or her—as Augustus Snodgrass or Blanche Amory—an
+amiable fool or an unamiable minx. The twentieth century has already,
+in its short course, done much to remove this prejudice, and the minor
+poet is no longer expected to be apologetic; his circle of readers,
+though small, is sympathetic, and the outside public is learning to
+tolerate him and to recognise that it is as natural and wholesome for
+him to write and publish his verses as it is for the minor painter to
+depict and exhibit in public his interpretation of the beauty and power
+which he sees in human life and in nature. All this is clear gain, and
+the time may not be far distant when England will again become what it
+was in Elizabethan days - a nest of singing birds, where te minor poets
+will be able to take their share in the chorus of song, leaving the
+chief parts in the oratorio to the Shakespeares and Spensers of
+tomorrow.
+
+The twenty-five poems of which this volume consists are meant to serve
+a double purpose. Most of them are character-sketches or dramatic
+studies, and my wish is to bring before the notice of my readers the
+habits of mind of certain Yorkshire men and women whose acquaintance I
+have made. For ten years I have gone up hill and down dale in the three
+Ridings, intent on the study of the sounds, words and idioms of the
+local folk-speech. At first my object was purely philological, but soon
+I came to realise that men and women were more interesting than words
+and phrases, and my attention was attracted from dialect speech to
+dialect speakers. Among Yorkshire farmers, farm labourers, fishermen,
+miners and mill workers I discovered a vitality and an outlook upon
+life of which I, a bourgeois professor, had no previous knowledge. Not,
+only had I never met such men before, but I had not read about them in
+literature, or seen their portraits painted on canvas. The wish to give
+a literary interpretation of the world into which I had been privileged
+to enter grew every day more insistent, and this volume is the
+fulfilment of that wish.
+
+Of all forms of literature, whether in Verse or prose, the dramatic
+monologue seemed to me the aptest for the exposition of character and
+habits of mind. It is the creation—or recreation—of Robert Browning,
+the most illuminating interpreter of the workings of the human mind
+that England has produced since Shakespeare died. My first endeavour
+was therefore
+
+to watch
+The Master work, and catch
+Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool’s true play.
+
+I have been, I fear, a clumsy botcher in applying the lessons that
+Browning was able to teach, but the dramatic monologues of which this
+volume is largely composed owe whatever art they may possess to his
+example. My dramatic studies are drawn from life. For example, the
+local preacher who expresses his views on the rival merits of Church
+and Chapel is a Wharfedale acquaintance, and the farmer in _Cambodunum_
+who declares that “eddication’s nowt but muckment” actually expressed
+this view to a Chief Inspector of Schools, a member of the West Riding
+Education Committee, and myself, when we visited him on his farm. I do
+not claim that I have furnished literal transcripts of what I heard in
+my conversations with my heroes and heroines, but my purpose throughout
+has been to hold a mirror up to Nature, to give a faithful
+interpretation of thought and character, and to show my readers some of
+the ply of mind and habits of life that still prevail among
+Yorkshiremen whose individuality has not been blunted by convention and
+who have the courage to express their reasoned or instinctive views of
+life and society.
+
+But the interpretation of the minds of Yorkshire peasants and artisans
+for the benefit of the so-called general reader is only the secondary
+object which I have in view. My primary appeal is not to those who have
+the full chorus of English song, from Chaucer to Masefield, at their
+beck and call, but to a still larger class of men and women who are not
+general readers of literature at all, and for whom most English poetry
+is a closed book. In my dialect wanderings through Yorkshire I
+discovered that while there was a hunger for poetry in the hearts of
+the people, the great masterpieces of our national song made little or
+no appeal to them. They were bidden to a feast of rarest quality and
+profusion, but it consisted of food that they could not assimilate.
+Spenser, Milton, Pope, Keats, Tennyson, all spoke to them in a language
+which they could not understand, and presented to them a world of
+thought and life in which they had no inheritance. But the Yorkshire
+dialect verse which circulated through the dales in chap-book or
+Christmas almanac was welcomed everywhere. Two memories come before my
+mind as I write. One is that of a North Riding farm labourer who knew
+by heart many of the dialect poems of the Eskdale poet, John Castillo,
+and was in the habit of reciting them to himself as he followed the
+plough. The other is that of a blind girl in a West Riding village who
+had committed to memory scores of the poems of John Hartley, and,
+gathering her neighbours round her kitchen fire of a winter evening,
+regaled them with _Bite Bigger_, _Nelly o’ Bob’s_ and other verses of
+the Halifax poet. My object is to add something to this chorus of local
+song. It was the aim of Addison in his _Spectator_ essays to bring
+“philosophy out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to
+dwell in clubs and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffeehouses”; and,
+in like manner, it should be the aim of the writer of dialect verse to
+bring poetry out of the coteries of the people of leisure and to make
+it dwell in artisans’ tenements and in cottagers’ kitchens. “Poetry,”
+declared Shelley, “is the record of the best and happiest moments of
+the happiest and best minds,” and it is time that the working men and
+women of England were made partakers in this inheritance of wealth and
+joy.
+
+It maybe argued that it should be the aim of our schools and
+universities to educate the working classes to appreciate what is best
+in standard English poetry. I do not deny that much maybe done in this
+way, but let us not forget that something more will be needed than a
+course of instruction in poetic diction and metrical rhythm. Our great
+poets depict a world which is only to a very small extent that of the
+working man. It is a world of courts and drawingrooms and General
+Headquarters, a world of clubs and academies. The working man or woman
+finds a place in this charmed world only if his occupation is that of a
+shepherd, and even then he must be a shepherd of the Golden Age and
+answer to the name of Corydon. Poets, we are solemnly assured by Pope,
+must not describe shepherds as they really are, “but as they may be
+conceived to have been when the best of men followed the employment of
+shepherd.” Class-consciousness—a word often on the lips of our
+democratic leaders of today—has held far too much sway over the minds
+of poets from the Elizabethan age onwards. Spenser writes his _Faerie
+Queene_ “to fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle
+discipline,” and Milton’s audience, fit but few, is composed of
+scholars whose ears have been attuned to the harmonies of epic verse
+from their first lisping of Virgilian hexameters, or of latter-day
+Puritans, like John Bright, who overhear in _Paradise Lost_ the echoes
+of a faith that once was stalwart.
+
+But what, it may be asked, of Crabbe, and what of Wordsworth? The
+former by his own confession, paints
+
+the cot,
+As truth will paint it and as bards will not;
+
+but as we listen to his verse tales we can never forget that it is the
+Rev. George Crabbe who is instructing us, or that his pedestal is the
+topmost story of his three-decker pulpit at Aldborough. Wordsworth’s
+sympathy with the lives of the Cumberland peasantry is profound, and
+the time is surely not distant when such a poem as ‘Michael’ will win a
+place in the hearts of working men; but it is to be feared that in his
+own generation “Mr Wudsworth” served rather—as a warning than an
+encouragement to his peasant neighbours. “Many’s the time,” an old
+Cumberland innkeeper told Canon Rawnsley, “I’ve seed him a-takin’ his
+family out in a string, and niver geein’ the deariest bit of notice to
+’em; standin’ by hissel’ an’ stoppin’ behind a-gapin’, wi’ his jaws
+workin’ the whoal time; but niver no crackin’ wi’ ’em, nor no pleasure
+in ’em—a desolate-minded man, ye kna... It was potry as did it.”[2]
+
+Our English non-dramatic poetry from the Renaissance onwards is second
+to none in richness of thought and beauty of diction, but it lacks the
+highest quality of all—universality of interest and appeal. Our poets
+have turned a cold shoulder to the activities and aims of the working
+man, and the working man has, in consequence, turned a cold shoulder to
+the great English classic poets. The loss on either side has been
+great, though it is only now beginning to be realised. “A literature
+which leaves large areas of the national activity and aspiration
+unexpressed is in danger of becoming narrow, esoteric, unhealthy. Areas
+of activity and aspiration unlit by the cleansing sun of art, untended
+by the loving consideration of the poet, will be dungeons for the
+national spirit, mildewed cellars in which rats fight, misers hoard
+their gold, and Guy Fawkes lays his train to blow the superstructure
+sky-high.”[3]
+
+There was a time when poetry meant much more to the working men of
+England. In the later Middle Ages, above all in that fifteenth century
+which literary historians are fond of describing as the darkest period
+in English literature, the working man had won for himself what seemed
+a secure place in poetry. Narrative, lyric and dramatic poetry had all
+opened their portals to him, and made his life and aims their theme.
+Side by side with the courtly verse romances, which were read in the
+bowers of highborn ladies, were the terse and popular ballads, which
+were chanted by minstrels, wandering from town to town and from village
+to village. Among the heroes of these ballads we find that “wight
+yeoman,” Robin Hood, who wages war against mediaeval capitalism, as
+embodied in the persons of the abbot-landholders, and against the class
+legislation of Norman game laws which is enforced by the King’s
+sheriff. The lyric poetry of the century is not the courtly Troubadour
+song or the Petrarchian sonnet, but the folk-song that sings from the
+heart to the heart of the beauty of Alysoun, “seemliest of all things,”
+or, in more convivial mood, accounts good ale of more worth than a
+table set with many dishes:
+
+Bring us in no capon’s flesh, for that is often dear,
+Nor bring us in no duck’s flesh, for they slobber in the mere,
+But bring us in good ale!
+Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale;
+For our blessed Lady sake bring us in good ale.
+
+
+Most remarkable of all is the history of the drama in the fourteenth
+and fifteenth centuries. The drama was clerical and not popular in its
+origin, and when, in course of time, it passed out of the hands of the
+clergy it is natural to suppose that it would find a new home at the
+King’s court or the baron’s castle. It did nothing of the kind. It
+passed from the Church to the people, and it was the artisan craftsmen
+of the English towns, organised in their trade-guilds, to whom we owe
+the great cycles of our miracle plays. The authors of these plays were
+restricted to Bible story for their themes, but the popular character
+of their work is everywhere apparent in the manner in which the
+material is handled and the characters conceived. The Noah of the
+Deluge plays is an English master joiner with a shrewish wife, and
+three sons who are his apprentices. When the divine command to build an
+ark comes to him, he sets to work with an energy that drives away “the
+weariness of five hundred winters” and, “ligging on his line,” measures
+his planks, “clenches them with noble new nails”, and takes a
+craftsman’s delight in the finished work:
+
+This work I warant both good and true.[4]
+
+In like manner, the Shepherds of the Nativity plays are conceived and
+fashioned by men who, fortunate in that they knew nothing of the
+seductions of Arcadian pastoralism, have studied at first hand the
+habits and thoughts of English fifteenth-century shepherds, and paint
+these to the life.
+
+Thus, at the close of the Middle Ages, narrative, lyric and dramatic
+poetry seemed firmly established among the people. Not unmindful of
+romance, it was grounded in realism and sought to interpret the life of
+the peasant and the artisan of fifteenth-century England. The
+Renaissance follows, and a profound change comes over poetry. The
+popular note grows fainter and fainter, till at last it becomes
+inaudible. Poetry leaves the farmyard and the craftsman’s bench for the
+court. The folk-song, fashioned in to a thing of wondrous beauty by the
+creator of Amiens, Feste and Autolycus, is driven from the stage by Ben
+Jonson, and its place is taken by a lyric of classic extraction. The
+popular drama, ennobled and made shapely through contact with Latin
+drama, passes from the provincial market-place to Bankside, and the
+rude mechanicals of the trade-guilds yield place to the Lord
+Chamberlain’s players. In the dramas of Shakespeare the popular note is
+still audible, but only as an undertone, furnishing comic relief to the
+romantic amours of courtly lovers or the tragic fall of Princes; with
+Beaumont and Fletcher, and still more with Dryden and the Restoration
+dramatists, the popular element in the drama passes away, and the
+triumph of the court is complete. The Elizabethan court could find no
+use for the popular ballad, but, like other forms of literature, it was
+attracted from the country-side to the city. Forgetful of the
+greenwood, it now battened on the garbage of Newgate, and _Robin Hood
+and Guy of Gisburn_ yields place to _The Wofull Lamentation of William
+Purchas, who for murthering his Mother at Thaxted, was executed at
+Chelmsford_.
+
+We are justly proud of the Renaissance and of the glories of our
+Elizabethan literature, but let us frankly own that in the annals of
+poetry there was loss as well as gain. The gain was for the courtier
+and the scholar, and for all those who, in the centuries that followed
+the Renaissance, have been able, by means of education, to enter into
+the courtier’s and scholar’s inheritance. The loss has been for the
+people. The opposition between courtly taste and popular taste is hard
+to analyse, but we have only to turn our eyes from England to Scotland,
+which lost its royal court in 1603, in order to appreciate the reality
+of the opposition. In Scotland the courtly poetry of the fifteenth and
+sixteenth centuries soon disappeared when James I exchanged Holyrood
+for Whitehall, but popular poetry continued to live and grow. The
+folk-song gathered power and sweetness all through the seventeenth and
+eighteenth centuries, till it culminated at last in the lyric of Burns.
+Popular drama, never firmly rooted in Scotland, was stamped out by the
+Reformation, but the popular ballad outlived the mediaeval minstrel,
+was kept alive in the homes of Lowland farmers and shepherds, and
+called into being the great ballad revival of the nineteenth century.
+
+It is idle to speculate what would have been the progress of poetry in
+England if the Renaissance had not come and the Elizabethan courtier
+had not enriched himself at the expense of the people. What we have to
+bear in mind is that all through the centuries that followed the
+Renaissance the working men and women of England looked almost in vain
+to their poets for a faithful interpretation of their life and aims.
+The wonder is that the instinct for poetry did not perish in their
+hearts for lack of sustenance.
+
+There are at the present time clear signs of a revival of popular
+poetry and popular drama. The verse tales of Masefield and Gibson, the
+lyrics of Patrick MacGill, the peasant or artisan plays which have been
+produced at the Abbey Theatre, Dublin, and the Gaiety Theatre,
+Manchester, may well be the beginning of a great democratic literary
+movement. Democracy, in its striving after a richer and fuller life for
+the people of England, is at last turning its attention to literature
+and art. It is slowly realising two great truths. The first is that
+literature may be used as a mighty weapon in the furtherance of
+political justice and social reform, and that the pied pipers of
+folk-song have the power to rouse the nation and charm the ears of even
+the Mother of Parliaments. The second is that the working man needs
+something more to sustain him than bread and the franchise and a fair
+day’s wage for a fair day’s work. Democracy, having obtained for the
+working man a place in the government of the nation, is now asserting
+his claim to a place in the temples of poetry. The Arthurian knight,
+the Renaissance courtier, the scholar and the wit must admit the
+twentieth-century artisan to their circle. Piers the ploughman must
+once more become the hero of song, and Saul Kane, the poacher, must
+find a place, alongside of Tiresias and Merlin, among the seers and
+mystics. Let democracy look to William Morris, poet, artist and social
+democrat, for inspiration and guidance, and take to heart the message
+of prophecy which he has left us: “If art, which is now sick, is to
+live and not die, it must in the future be of the people, for the
+people, by the people.”
+
+In the creation of this poetry “of the people, by the people” dialect
+may well be called upon to play a part. Dialect is of the people,
+though in a varying degree in the different parts of the wide areas of
+the globe where the English language is spoken; it possesses, moreover,
+qualities, and is fraught with associations, which are of the utmost
+value to the poet and to which the standard speech can lay no claim. It
+may be that for some of the more elaborate kinds of poetry, such as the
+formal epic, dialect is useless; let it be reserved, therefore, for
+those kinds which appeal most directly to the hearts of the people. The
+poetry of the people includes the ballad and the verse tale, lyric in
+all its forms, and some kinds of satire; and for all these dialect is a
+fitting instrument. It possesses in the highest degree directness of
+utterance and racy vigour. How much of their force would the “Biglow
+Papers” of J. R. Lowell lose if they were transcribed from the Yankee
+dialect into standard English!
+
+But the highest quality of dialect speech, and that which renders it
+pre-eminently fitted for poetic use, is its intimate association with
+all that lies nearest to the heart of the working man. It is the
+language of his hearth and home; many of the most cherished memories of
+his life are bound up with it; it is for him the language of freedom,
+whereas standard English is that of constraint. In other words, dialect
+is the working man’s poetic diction—a poetic diction as full of savour
+as that of the eighteenth-century poets was flat and insipid.
+
+It is sometimes said that the use of dialect makes the appeal of poetry
+provincial instead of national or universal. This is only true when the
+dialect poet is a pedant and obscures his meaning by fantastic
+spellings. The Lowland Scots element in _Auld Lang Syne_ has not
+prevented it from becoming the song of friendship of the Anglo-Saxon
+race all the world over. Moreover, the provincial note in poetry or
+prose is far from being a bad thing. In the _Idylls_ of Theocritus it
+gave new life to Greek poetry in the third century before Christ, and
+it may render the same high service to English poetry to-day or
+to-morow. The rise of Provincial schools of literature, interpreting
+local life in local idiom, in all parts of the British Isles and in the
+Britain beyond the seas, is a goal worth striving for; such a
+literature, so far from impeding the progress of the literature in the
+standard tongue, would serve only to enrich it in spirit, substance and
+form.
+
+ [1] _Yorkshire Dialect Poems_, 1673-1915 (Sedgwick and Jackson 1916)
+
+ [2] _Reminiscences._
+
+ [3] J. Dover Wilson, Writing in the _Athenæum_ under the pseudonym
+ “Muezzin,” February, 1917. The quotation is from one of four articles,
+ entitled “Prospects in English Literature,” to which the ideas set
+ forth in this Preface owe much.
+
+ [4] “York Plays”: _The Building of the Ark_.
+
+
+
+
+A Dalesman’s Litany
+
+
+From Hull, Halifax, and Hell, good Lord deliver us.
+                                        _A Yorkshire Proverb_.
+
+It’s hard when fowks can’t finnd their wark
+    Wheer they’ve bin bred an’ born;
+When I were young I awlus thowt
+    I’d bide ’mong t’ roots an’ corn.
+But I’ve bin forced to work i’ towns,
+    So here’s my litany:
+Frae Hull, an’ Halifax, an’ Hell,
+    Gooid Lord, deliver me!
+
+When I were courtin’ Mary Ann,
+    T’ owd squire, he says one day:
+“I’ve got no bield[1] for wedded fowks;
+    Choose, wilt ta wed or stay?”
+I couldn’t gie up t’ lass I loved,
+    To t’ town we had to flee:
+Frae Hull, an’ Halifax, an’ Hell,
+    Gooid Lord, deliver me!
+
+I’ve wrowt i’ Leeds an’ Huthersfel’,
+    An’ addled[2] honest brass;
+I’ Bradforth, Keighley, Rotherham,
+    I’ve kept my barns an’ lass.
+I’ve travelled all three Ridin’s round,
+    And once I went to sea:
+Frae forges, mills, an’ coalin’ boats,
+    Gooid Lord, deliver me!
+
+I’ve walked at neet through Sheffield loans,[3]
+    ’T were same as bein’ i’ Hell:
+Furnaces thrast out tongues o’ fire,
+    An’ roared like t’ wind on t’ fell.
+I’ve sammed up coals i’ Barnsley pits,
+    Wi’ muck up to my knee:
+Frae Sheffield, Barnsley, Rotherham,
+    Gooid Lord, deliver me!
+
+I’ve seen grey fog creep ower Leeds Brig
+    As thick as bastile[4] soup;
+I’ve lived wheer fowks were stowed away
+    Like rabbits in a coop.
+I’ve watched snow float down Bradforth Beck
+    As black as ebiny:
+Frae Hunslet, Holbeck, Wibsey Slack,
+    Gooid Lord, deliver me!
+
+But now, when all wer childer’s fligged,[5]
+    To t’ coontry we’ve coom back.
+There’s fotty mile o’ heathery moor
+    Twix’ us an’ t’ coal-pit slack.
+And when I sit ower t’ fire at neet,
+    I laugh an’ shout wi’ glee:
+Frae Bradforth, Leeds, an Huthersfel’,
+Frae Hull, an’ Halifax, an’ Hell,
+    T’ gooid Lord’s delivered me!
+
+ [1] Shelter.
+
+ [2] Earned.
+
+ [3] Lanes.
+
+ [4] Workhouse.
+
+ [5] Fledged.
+
+
+
+
+Cambodunum
+
+
+Cambodunum is the name of a Roman station, situated on a farm at Slack,
+on the hills above Huddersfield.
+
+Cambodunum, Cambodunum,
+    how I love the sound o’ t’ name!
+Roman sowdiers belt a fort here,
+    gave th’ owd place its lastin’ fame.
+
+We’ve bin lords o’ Cambodunum
+    for well-nigh eight hunderd yeer;
+Fowk say our fore-elders
+    bowt it of a Roman charioteer.
+
+Ay, I know we’re nobbut farmers,
+    mowin’ gerse an’ tentin’ kye,
+But we’re proud of all we’ve stood for
+    i’ yon ages that’s gone by;
+
+Proud of all the slacks we’ve drained,
+    an’ proud of all the walls we’ve belt,
+Proud to think we’ve bred our childer
+    on the ground wheer Romans dwelt.
+
+“Niver pairt wi’ Cambodunum,”
+    that’s what father used to say;
+“If thou does, thou’ll coom to ruin,
+    beg thy breead thro’ day to day.”
+
+I’ll noan pairt wi’ Cambodunum,
+    though its roof lets in the rains,
+An’ its walls wi’ age are totterin’;
+    Cambodunum’s i’ my veins.
+
+Ivery stone about the buildin’
+    has bin dressed by Roman hands,
+An’ red blooid o’ Roman sowdiers
+    has bin temmed[1] out on its lands.
+
+Often, when I ploo i’ springtime,
+    I leet on their buried hoard—
+Coins an’ pottery, combs an’ glasses;
+    once I fan’ a rusty sword.
+
+Whisht! I’ll tell thee what I saw here
+    of a moon-lit winter neet—
+Ghosts o’ Romans i’ their war-gear,
+    wheelin’ slow wi’ silent feet;
+
+Pale their faces, proud their bearin’,
+    an’ a strange gloor i’ their een,
+As they marched past an’ saluted,
+    while th’ east wind blew snell an’ keen.
+
+Dalewards, dalewards, iver dalewards,
+    th’ hill-fowk wander yeer by yeer,
+An’ they toss their heeads an’ flout me,
+    when they see me bidin’ here.
+
+I’ve one answer to their fleerin’:
+    “I’ll noan be a fact’ry slave,
+Breathin’ poison i’ yon wark-shops,
+    diggin’ ivery day my grave.”
+
+“You may addle brass i’ plenty,
+    you’ll noan addle peace o’ mind;
+That sal bide amang us farmers
+    on th’ owd hills you’ve left behind.”
+
+See that place down theer i’ t’ valley,
+    wheer yon chimleys spit out smoke?
+Huthersfield is what they call it,
+    wheer fowk live like pigs i’ t’ poke;
+
+Wheer men grind their hearts to guineas,
+    an’ their mills are awlus thrang,
+Turnin’ neet-time into day-time,
+    niver stoppin’ th’ whole yeer lang.
+
+Cambodunum up on th’ hill-tops,
+    Huthersfield down i’ yon dale;
+One’s a place for free-born Britons,
+    t’other’s ommost like a jail.
+
+Here we live i’ t’ leet an’ sunshine,
+    free as larks i’ t’ sky aboon;
+Theer men tew[2] like mowdiwarps[3]
+    that grub up muck by t’ glent o’ t’ moon.
+
+See yon motor whizzin’ past us,
+    ower th’ owd brig that spans our beck;
+That’s what fowk call modern progress,
+    march o’ human intelleck.
+
+Modern progress, modern ruin!
+    March o’ int’leck, march o’ fooils!
+All that cooms o’ larnin’ childer
+    i’ their colleges an’ schooils.
+
+Eddication! Sanitation!!—
+    teeming brass reight down a sink;
+Eddication’s nowt but muckment,
+    sanitation’s just a stink.
+
+Childer mun have books an’ picturs,
+    bowt at t’ most expensive shops,
+Teliscowps to go star-gazin’,
+    michaelscowps to look at lops.[4]
+
+Farmers munnot put their midden
+    straight afoor their kitchen door;
+Once a week they’re set spring-cleanin’,
+    fettlin’ up their shippen[5] floor.
+
+Women-fowk have taen to knackin’,[6]
+    wilent speyk their mother-tongue,
+Try to talk like chaps i’ t’ powpit,
+    chicken-chisted, wake i’ t’ lung.
+
+Some fowk say I’m too owd-feshioned;
+    mebbe, they are tellin’ true:
+When you’ve lived wi’ ghosts o’ Romans,
+    you’ve no call for owt that’s new.
+
+Weel I know I san’t win t’ vict’ry:
+    son’s agean me, dowters, wife;
+Yit I’ll hold my ground bout flinchin’,
+    feight so long as I have life.
+
+An’ if t’ wick uns are agean me,
+    I sal feight for them that’s deead—
+Roman sowdiers i’ their trenches,
+    lapped i’ mail thro’ foot to heead.
+
+Here I stand for Cambodunum,
+    eagle’s nest on t’ Pennine hills,
+Wagin’ war wi’ modern notions,
+    carin’ nowt for forges, mills.
+
+Deeath alone sal call surrender,
+    stealin’ on me wi’ his hosts,
+And when Deeath has won his battle,
+    I’ll go seek my Roman ghosts.
+
+Then I’ll hear their shout o’ welcome
+    “Here cooms Bob ’o Dick ’o Joe’s,
+Bred an’ born at Cambodunum,
+    held th’owd fort agean his foes;
+
+“Fowt for ancient ways an’ customs,
+    ne’er to feshion bent his knee;
+Oppen t’ ranks, lads, let him enter;
+    he’s a Roman same as we.”
+
+ [1] Poured.
+
+ [2] Slave.
+
+ [3] Moles.
+
+ [4] Fleas.
+
+ [5] Cow-house.
+
+ [6] Affected pronunciation.
+
+
+
+
+Telling the Bees
+
+
+On many Yorkshire farms it was—perhaps still is—the custom to tell the
+bees when a death had taken place in the family. The hive had to be put
+into mourning, and when the arval, or funeral feast, was held, after
+the return from the grave, small portions of everything eaten or drunk
+had to be given to the bees in a saucer. Failure to do this meant
+either the death or departure of the bees.
+
+Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low ;
+Cauld i’ his grave ligs your maister dear,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+Nea mair he’ll ride to t’ soond o’ t’ horn,
+Nea mair he’ll fettle his sickle for t’ corn.
+Nea mair he’ll coom to your skep of a morn,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+
+Muther sits cryin’ i’ t’ ingle nook,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low ;
+Parson’s anent her wi’ t’ Holy Book,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+T’ mourners are coom, an’ t’ arval is spread,
+Cakes fresh frae t’ yoon,[1] an’ fine havver-bread.
+But toom’[2] is t’ seat at t’ table-head,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+
+Look, conny[3] bees, I’s winndin’ black crape,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low ;
+Slowly an’ sadly your skep I mun drape,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+Else you will sicken an’ dwine[4] reet away,
+Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay ;
+Or, mebbe, you’l leave us wi’ t’ dawn o’ t’ day,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+
+Sitha ! I bring you your share o’ our feast,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low;
+Cakes an’ yal[5] an’ wine you mun taste,
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+Gie some to t’ queen on her gowlden throne,
+There’s foison to feed both worker an’ drone ;
+Oh ! dean’t let us fend for oursels alone ;
+    Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.
+
+ [1] Oven.
+
+ [2] Empty.
+
+ [3] Darling.
+
+ [4] Waste.
+
+ [5] Ale.
+
+
+
+
+The Two Lamplighters
+
+
+I niver thowt when I grew owd
+    I’d tak to leetin’ lamps;
+I sud have said, I’d rayther pad
+    My hoof on t’ road wi’ tramps.
+But sin I gate that skelp[1] i’ t’ mine,
+    I’m wankle[2] i’ my heead;
+So gaffer said, I’d give ower wark
+    An’ leet town lamps atsteead.
+
+At first, when I were liggin’ snug
+    I’ bed, warm as a bee,
+’T were hard to rise and get agate
+    As sooin as t’ clock strake three.
+An’ I were flaid to hear my steps
+    Echoin’ on ivery wall;
+An’ flaider yet when down by t’ church
+    Ullets would skreek and call.
+
+But now I’m flaid o’ nowt; I love
+    All unkerd[3] sounds o’ t’ neet,
+Frae childer talkin’ i’ their dreams
+    To t’ tramp o’ p’licemen’ feet.
+But most of all I love to hark
+    To t’ song o’ t’ birds at dawn;
+They wakken up afore it gloams,
+    When t’ dew ligs thick on t’ lawn.
+
+If I feel lonesome, up I look
+    To t’ sky aboon my heead;
+An’ theer’s yon stars all glestrin’ breet,
+    Like daisies in a mead.
+But sometimes, when I’m glowerin’ up,
+    I see the Lord hissen;
+He’s doutin’ all yon lamps o’ Heaven
+    That shines on mortal men.
+
+He lowps alang frae star to star,
+    As cobby[4] as can be;
+Mebbe He reckons fowk’s asleep,
+    Wi’ niver an eye to see.
+But I hae catched Him at his wark,
+    For all He maks no din;
+He leaves a track o’ powder’d gowd[5]
+    To show where He has bin.
+
+He’s got big lamps an’ laatle lamps,
+    An’ lamps that twinkles red;
+Im capped to see Him dout ’em all
+    Afore I’m back i’ bed.
+But He don’t laik about His wark,
+    Or stop to hark to t’ birds;
+He minds His business, does the Lord,
+    An’ wastes no gaumless words.
+
+I grow more like Him ivery day,
+    For all I walk so lame;
+An’, happen, there will coom a time
+    I’ll beat Him at His game.
+Thrang as Throp’s wife, I’ll dout my lamps
+    Afore He’s gotten so far;
+An’ then I’ll shout—“I’ve won my race,
+    I’ve bet Him by a star.”
+
+ [1] Blow.
+
+ [2] Unsteady.
+
+ [3] Strange, eerie.
+
+ [4] Active.
+
+ [5] The Milky Way.
+
+
+
+
+Our Beck
+
+
+I niver heerd its name; we call it just “Our beck.”
+    Mebbe, there’s bigger streams down Ripon way;
+But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck!
+    Thou’ll travel far for cleaner, ony day.
+
+Clear watter! Why, when t’ sun is up i’ t’ sky,
+    I’ve seen yon flickerin’ shadows o’ lile trout
+Glidin’ ower t’ shingly boddom. Step thou nigh,
+    An’ gloor at t’ minnows dartin’ in an’ out.
+
+Our beck flows straight frae slacks o’ moorland peat,
+    An’ gethers sweetness out o’ t’ ling an’ gorse;
+At first its voice sounds weantly[1] saft an’ leet,
+    But graws i’ strength wi’ lowpin ower yon force.
+
+Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks—
+    Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn;
+Dippers, that under t’ watter play sike pranks,
+    An’ lang-nebbed curlews, swaimish[2] as a fawn.
+
+Soomtimes I’ve seen young otters leave their holes,
+    An’ laik like kitlins ower the silver dew;
+An’ I’ve watched squirrels climmin’ up the boles
+    O’ beech trees, lowpin’ leet frae beugh to beugh.
+
+Fowers! Why, thou’d fill thy skep,[3] lass, in an hour,
+    Wi’ gowlands, paigles, blobs,[4] an’ sike-like things;
+We’ve daffydills to deck a bridal bower,
+    Pansies, wheer lady-cows[5] can dry their wings.
+
+Young childer often bathe, when t’weather’s fine,
+    Up yonder, wheer t’ owd miller’s bigged his weir;
+I like to see their lish,[6] nakt bodies shine,
+    An’ watch ’em dive i’ t’ watter widoot fear.
+
+Ay, yon’s our brig, bent like an archer’s bow,
+    It’s t’ meetin’ place o’ folk frae near an’ far;
+Young ’uns coom theer wi’ lasses laughin’ low,
+    Owd ’uns to talk o’ politics an’ t’ war.
+
+It’s daft when chaps that sit i’ Parliament
+    Weant tak advice frae lads that talk farm-twang;
+If t’ coontry goes to t’ dogs, it’s ’cause they’ve sent
+    Ower mony city folk to mend what’s wrang.
+
+They’ve taen our day-tale men[7] to feight for t’ land,
+    Then tell us we mun keep our staggarths[8] full.
+What’s lasses, gauvies,[9] greybeards stark[10] i’ t’ hand,
+    To strip wer kye, an’ ploo, an’ tew wi’ t’ shool?[11]
+
+But theer, I’ll nurse my threapin’ while it rains,
+    An’ while my rheumatiz is bad to bide;
+I mun step heamwards now, through t’ yatts[12] an’ lanes,
+    Wheer t’ owd lass waits for me by t’ fireside.
+
+ [1] Strangely.
+
+ [2] Timid.
+
+ [3] Basket.
+
+ [4] Kingcups, cowslips, globe-flowers.
+
+ [5] Ladybirds.
+
+ [6] Smooth.
+
+ [7] Day Labourers.
+
+ [8] Stock Yards.
+
+ [9] Simpletons.
+
+ [10] Stiff.
+
+ [11] Shovel.
+
+ [12] Gates.
+
+
+
+
+Lord George
+
+
+These verses were written soon after the Old Age Pensions Bill came
+into operation.
+
+I’d walk frae here to Skipton,
+    Ten mile o’ clarty[1] lanes,
+If I might see him face to face
+    An’ thank him for his pains.
+He’s ta’en me out o’ t’ Bastile,[2]
+    He’s gi’en me life that’s free:
+Five shill’n a week for fuglin’[3] Death
+    Is what Lord George gives me.
+
+He gives me leet an’ firin’,
+    An’ flour to bak i’ t’ yoon.[4]
+I’ve tea to mesh for ivery meal
+    An’ sup all t’ afternoon.
+I’ve nowt to do but thank him,
+    An’ mak’ a cross wi’ t’ pen;
+Five shillin’ a week for nobbut that!
+    Gow! he’s the jewel o’ men.
+
+I niver mell on pol’tics,
+    But I do love a lord;
+He spends his savin’s like a king,
+    Wheer other fowks ’ll hoard.
+I know a vast o’ widdies
+    That’s seen their seventieth year;
+Lord George, he addles brass for all,
+    Though lots on ’t goes for beer.
+
+If my owd man were livin’,
+    He’d say as I spak true;
+He couldn’t thole them yallow Rads,
+    But awlus voted blue.
+An’ parson’s wife, shoo telled me
+    That we’ll sooin go to t’ poll;
+I hope shoo’s reight; I’ll vote for George,
+    Wi’ all my heart an’ soul.
+
+I don’t know wheer he springs frae,
+    Happen it’s down Leeds way;
+But ivery neet an’ mornin’
+    For his lang life I pray.
+He’s ta’en me out o’ t’ Bastile,
+    He’s gi’en me life that’s free:
+Five shill’n a week for fuglin’ Death
+    Is what Lord George gives me.
+
+ [1] Muddy.
+
+ [2] Workhouse.
+
+ [3] Cheating.
+
+ [4] Oven.
+
+
+
+
+Jenny Storm
+
+
+Young Jenny, she walked ower t’ ribbed sea-sand,
+    (T’ lairocks sing sae sweetly, O!)
+Wheer she met a fisher-lad, net i’ t’ hand,
+    As t’ tide cam hoamin’[1] in.
+
+“Jenny, thy farm is twee mile away;
+    (T’ wing-mouse flits sae featly, O!)
+Say, what is thou latin’[2] at dusk ’o day,
+    When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”
+
+“I’s latin’ waif an’ straif[3] by the feam,
+    (O! esh an’ yak are good for bield)
+I’s latin’ timmer to big me a heam,
+    As t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”
+
+“What for is thou latin’ waif an’ straif?
+    (T’ summer-gauze[4] floats ower hedge an’ field)
+What for is thou biggin’ a heam an’ a hafe,[5]
+    When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in?”
+
+“To-morn is t’ day when I sal be wed,
+    (T’ bride-wain’s plenished wi’ serge an’ silk)
+Jock’s anchored his boat i’ t’ lang road-stead,
+    An’ t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.
+
+To-morn we gan to t’ kirk on t’ brow,
+    (Nesh satin shoon as white as milk)
+Fisher-folk wi’ me, an’ ploo-lads enow,
+    When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”
+
+“Frae thy jilted lad what gift mun thou get?
+    (T’ lairocks sing sae sweetly, O!))
+Twee lucky-steanes, or fine ear-rings o’ jet,
+    When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in?”
+
+“I’ll tak nayther rings nor steanes frae thee,
+    (T’ wing-mouse flits sae featly, O!)
+But yon token I gave thee gie back to me,
+    Noo t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”
+
+“Thy token is safe i’ t’ Boggle Nook
+    (T’ sea-mew plains when t’ sun clims doon)
+Thou can finnd it thisel, if thou’ll gan an’ look,
+    When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”
+
+Young Jenny, she tripped ower t’ yallow strand,
+    (White ullets[6] dance i’ t’ glent o’ t’ moon)
+Her step was ower leet to dimple t’ sand,
+    As t’ tide cam hoamin’ in.
+
+I’ t’ Boggle Nook lay t’ lad she sud wed;
+    T’ neet-hags skreek sae dowly, O!)
+Foul sea-weed cluthered[7] aboon his head,
+    An’ t’ mouth she had kissed wi’ blood was red,
+As t’ tide cam hoamin’ in.
+
+Nea tear she shed, nea word she spak,
+    (T’ witches gloor sae foully, O!)
+But an awfish[8] laugh flew ower t’ sea-wrack,[9]
+    As t’ tide cam hoamin’ in.
+
+They carried them heam by t’ leet o’ t’ moon,
+    (T’ neet-hags skreek sae dowly, O!)
+Him to his grave on t’ brow aboon,
+Her to yon mad-house i’ Scarbro’ toon,
+    Wheer t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.
+
+ [1] Murmuring.
+
+ [2] Searching for.
+
+ [3] Flotsam and jetsam.
+
+ [4] Gossamer.
+
+ [5] Shelter.
+
+ [6] Owls.
+
+ [7] Tangled.
+
+ [8] Eldritch / hideous.
+
+ [9] Drifts of sea-weed.
+
+
+
+
+The New Englishman
+
+
+I’ve lived all my life i’ Keighley,
+    I’m a Yorkshire artisan;
+An’ when I were just turned seventy
+    I became an Englishman.
+
+Nat’ralised German! nay, deng it!
+    I’m British-born, same as thee!
+But I niver thowt mich to my country,
+    While[1] my country thowt mich to me.
+
+I were proud o’ my lodge an’ my union,
+    An’ proud o’ my town an’ my shire;
+But all t’ consans o’ t’ nation,
+    I left to t’ parson an’ t’ squire.
+
+Class-war were t’ faith that I Iived for,
+    I call’d all capit’lists sharks;
+An’ “T’ workin’ man has no country,”
+    Were my Gospel accordin’ to Marx.
+
+When I’d lossen my job back i’ t’ eighties,
+    An were laikin’ for well-nigh two year,
+Who said that an out-o’-wark fettler
+    Were costin’ his country dear?
+
+Owd England cared nowt about me,
+    I could clem[2] wi’ my barns an’ my wife;
+Shoo were ower thrang wi’ buildin’ up t’ empire
+    To build up a brokken life.
+
+“Ivery man for hissen,” shoo said,
+    “An’ t’ dule can catch what he can;
+Labour’s cheap an’ trade’s worth more
+    Nor t’ life of a workin’ man.”
+
+When t’ country were chuff,[3] an’ boasted
+    That t’ sun niver set on her flags,
+I thowt o’ wer back-to-back houses,
+    Wer childer i’ spetches[4] an’ rags,
+
+When t’ country drave by i’ her carriage,
+    Wi’ flunkies afore an’ behind,
+I left her to bettermy bodies,
+    An’ I gav her a taste o’ my mind.
+
+But when shoo were liggin’ i’ t’ gutter,
+    Wi’ a milit’rist mob at her throit,
+“Hands off her!” I cried, “shoo’s my mother:”
+    An’ I doffed my cap an’ my coit.
+
+I’d gien ower wark at seventy,
+    But I gat agate once more;
+“I’ll live for my country, not on her”
+    Were my words on t’ fettlers’ floor.
+
+Shoo’s putten her trust i’ us workers,
+    We’ll save her, niver fear;
+Feight for her, live for her, dee for her,
+    Her childer that loves her dear.
+
+Eight o’ my grandsons has fallen,
+    My youngest lad’s crippled i’ t’ arm;
+But I’ll give her choose-what[5] shoo axes,
+    Afore I’ll see her tak harm.
+
+T’ war is a curse an’ a blessin’,
+    If fowks could understan’;
+It’s brokken my home an’ my childer,
+    But it’s made me an Englishman.
+
+ [1] Until.
+
+ [2] Starve.
+
+ [3] Arrogant.
+
+ [4] Patches.
+
+ [5] Whatever.
+
+
+
+
+The Bells of Kirkby Overblow
+
+
+Draw back my curtains, Mary,
+    An’ oppen t’ windey wide;
+Ay, ay, I know I’m deein’,
+    While to-morn I’ll hardlins bide.
+But yit afore all’s ovver,
+    An’ I lig cowd as snow,
+I’ll hear once more them owd church bells
+    O’ Kirkby Overblow.
+
+Mony a neet an’ mornin’
+    I’ve heerd yon church bells peal;
+An’ how I’ve threaped an’ cursed ’em
+    When I was strong an’ weel!
+Gert, skelpin’, chunterin’ taistrils,[1]
+    All janglin’ in a row!
+Ay, mony a time I’ve cursed yon bells
+    O’ Kirkby Overblow.
+
+When you hear yon church bells ringin’,
+    You can’t enjoy your sin;
+T’ bells clutches at your heart-strings
+    I’ t’ ale-house ower your gin.
+At pitch-an’-toss you’re laikin’,
+    Down theer i’ t’ wood below;
+An’ then you damn them rowpy[2] bells
+    O’ Kirkby Overblow.
+
+An’ when I’ve set off poachin’
+    At back-end o’ the year,
+Wi’ ferret, bag an’ snickle,[3]
+    Church bells have catched my ear.
+“Thou’s takken t’ road to Hell, lad,
+    Wheer t’ pit-fire’s bumin’ slow;”
+That’s what yon bells kept shoutin’ out
+    At Kirkby Overblow.
+
+But now I’m owd an’ bed-fast,
+    I ommost like their sound,
+Ringin’ so clear i’ t’ star-leet
+    Across the frozzen ground.
+I niver mell on[4] parsons,
+    There ain’t a prayer I know;
+But prayer an’ sarmon’s i’ yon bells
+    O’ Kirkby Overblow.
+
+Six boards o’ gooid stout ellum
+    Is what I’ll want to-morn;
+Then lay me low i’ t’ church-yard
+    Aneath t’ owd crooked thorn.
+I’ll have no funeral sarvice
+    When I’m browt down below,
+But let ’em touzle t’ bells like mad
+    At Kirkby Overblow.
+
+I don’t know wheer I’m boun’ for,
+    It hardlins can be Heaven;
+I’ve sinned more sins nor most men
+    ’Twixt one an’ seven-seven.
+But this I’ll tak my oath on:
+    Wheeriver I mun go,
+I’ll hark to t’ echoes o’ yon bells
+    O’ Kirkby Overblow.
+
+ [1] Unwieldy, grumbling rascals.
+
+ [2] Hoarse.
+
+ [3] Snare.
+
+ [4] Meddle with.
+
+
+
+
+The Gardener and the Robin
+
+
+Why! Bobbie, so thou’s coom agean!
+    I’m fain to see thee here;
+It’s lang sin I’ve set een on thee,
+    It’s ommost hauf a yeer.
+What’s that thou says? Thou’s taen a wife
+    An’ raised a family.
+It seems thou’s gien ’em all the slip
+    Now back-end’s drawin’ nigh.
+
+I mun forgi’e thee; we’re owd friends,
+    An’ fratchin’s not for us;
+Blackbirds an’ spinks[1] I can’t abide,
+    At doves an’ crows I cuss.
+But thou’ll noan steal my strawberries,
+    Or nip my buds o’ plum;
+Most feather-fowl I drive away,
+    But thou can awlus coom.
+
+Ay, that’s thy place, at top o’ t’ clod,
+    Thy heead cocked o’ one side,
+Lookin’ as far-learnt as a judge.
+    Is that a worrm thou’s spied?
+By t’ Megs! he’s well-nigh six inch lang,
+    An’ reed as t’ gate i’ t’ park;
+If thou don’t mesh him up a bit,
+    He’ll gie thee belly-wark.
+
+My missus awlus lets me know
+    I’m noan so despert thin;
+If I ate sausages as thou
+    Eats worrms, I’d brust my skin!
+Howd on! leave soom for t’ mowdiwarps[2]
+    That scrats down under t’ grund ;
+Of worrms, an’ mawks,[3] an’ bummel-clocks[4]
+    Thou’s etten hauf a pund.
+
+So now thou’ll clear thy pipes an’ sing:
+    Grace after meat, I s’pose.
+Thou looks as holy as t’ owd saint
+    I’ church wi’ t’ brokken nose.
+Thou’s plannin’ marlocks[5] all the time,
+    Donned i’ thy sowdier coat;
+An’ what we tak for hymns o’ praise
+    Is just thy fratchin’ note.
+
+I’ve seen thee feightin’ theer on t’ lawn,
+    Beneath yon laurel tree;
+Thy neb was reed wi’ blooid, thou looked
+    As chuffy[6] as could be.
+Thou’s got no mense nor morals, Bob,
+    But weel I know thy charm.
+Ay, thou can stand upon my spade.
+    I’ll niver do thee harm.
+
+ [1] Chaffinches.
+
+ [2] Moles.
+
+ [3] Maggots.
+
+ [4] Beetles.
+
+ [5] Tricks.
+
+ [6] Haughty.
+
+
+
+
+Lile Doad
+
+
+The Lord’s bin hard on me, Sir,
+    He’s stown my barn away.
+O dowly, dowly was that neet
+    He stole lile Doad away!
+
+’Twas Whissuntide we wedded,
+    Next Easter he was born,
+Just as t’ last star i’ t’ April sky
+    Had faded into t’ morn.
+Throstles were singin, canty,[1]
+    For they’d their young i’ t’ nest;
+But birds don’t know a mother’s love
+    That howds her barn to t’ breast.
+
+When wark was ower i’ summer,
+    I nussed him on my knees;
+An’ Mike browt home at lowsin’-time
+    Wild rasps an’ strawberries.
+We used to sit on t’ door-sill
+    I’ t’ leet o’ t’ harvist-moon,
+While our lile Doad would clench his fists
+    An’ suck his toes an’ croon.
+
+But when t’ mell-sheaf[2] was gotten,
+    An’ back-end days set in,
+Wi’ frost at neet an’ roke[3] by day,
+    His face gate pinched an’ thin.
+We niver knew what ailed him,
+    He faded like a floor,
+He faded same as skies’ll fade
+    When t’ sun dips into t’ moor.
+
+Church bells on Kersmas mornin’
+    Rang out so merrily,
+But cowd an’ dreesome were our hearts:
+    We knew lile Doad must dee.
+He lay so still in his creddle,
+    An’ slowly he dwined away,
+While[4] I laid two pennies on his een
+    On Holy Innocents’ Day.
+
+The Lord’s bin hard on me, Sir,
+    He’s stown my barn away.
+O, dowly, dowly was that neet
+    He stole lile Doad away!
+
+ [1] Briskly.
+
+ [2] The last sheaf of the harvest.
+
+ [3] Mist.
+
+ [4] Until.
+
+
+
+
+His Last Sail
+
+
+GRANDFATHER
+
+T’ watter is blue i’ t’ offin’,
+    An’ blue is t’ sky aboon;
+Swallows are settin’ sou’ard,
+    An’ wanin’ is t’ harvist moon.
+Ower lang I’ve bin cowerin’ idle
+    I’ my neuk by t’ fire-side;
+I’ll away yance mair i’ my coble,
+    I’ll away wi’ t’ ebbin’ tide.
+
+MALLY
+
+Nay, Gransir, thoo moant gan sailin’,
+    Thoo mun bide at yam to-neet;
+At eighty-two thoo sudn’t think
+    O’ t’ Whitby fishin’ fleet.
+North cone’s up on t’ flagstaff,
+    There’s a cap-full o’ wind i’ t’ bay;
+T’ waves wap loud on t’ harbour bar,
+    Thoo can hardlins fish to-day.
+
+GRANDFATHER
+
+It’s leansome here i’ t’ hoose, lass,
+    When t’ fisher-folk’s at sea,
+Watchin’ yon eldin[1] set i’ t’ fire
+    Bleeze up, dwine doon, an’ dee.
+An’ t’ sea-gulls they coom flyin’
+    Aboon our red roof-tiles;
+They call me doon the chimley,
+    An’ laugh at other whiles.
+
+“There’s mack’rel oot at sea, lad,”
+    Is what I hear ’em say;
+“Their silver scales are glestrin’ breet,
+    Look oot across the bay;
+But mack’rel’s not for thee, lad,
+    For thoo’s ower weak to sail.”
+My een wi’ saut tears daggle[2]
+    When I hear their mockin’ tale.
+
+MALLY
+
+Dean’t mind their awfish[3] skreekin’,
+    They ’tice folk to their death;
+Then ride aboon yon billows
+    An’ gloor at them beneath.
+They gloor at eenless corpses
+    Slow driftin’ wi’ the tide,
+Deep doon amang the weedy wrack,
+    Wheer t’ scaly fishes glide.
+
+GRANDFATHER
+
+I’d fain lig wi’ my kinsfolk,
+    Fore-elders, brothers, sons,
+Wheer t’ star-fish shine like twinklin’ leets,
+    An’ t’ spring-tide watter runs.
+T’ kirkyard’s good for farm-folk,
+    That ploo an’ milk their kye,
+But I could sleep maist soondly
+    Wheer t’ ships gan sailin’ by.
+
+T’ grave is whisht[4] an’ foulsome,
+    But clean is t’ saut sea-bed;
+Thoo can hark to t’ billows dancin’
+    To t’ tune o’ t’ tide owerhead.
+Yon wreaths o’ floors i’ t’ kirkyard
+    Sean wither an’ fade away,
+But t’ sea-tang wreaths round a droon’d man’s head
+    Will bide while Judgment Day.
+
+Sae fettle[5] my owd blue coble,
+    I kessen’d her “Mornin’ Star,”
+An’ I’ll away through t’ offin’
+    Wheer t’ skooals o’ mack’rel are.
+Thoo can look for my boat i’ t’ harbour,
+    When thoo’s said thy mornin’ psalm;
+Mebbe I’ll fill my fish-creel full—
+    Mebbe I’ll nean coom yam.
+
+ [1] Kindling.
+
+ [2] Grow moist.
+
+ [3] Elfish.
+
+ [4] Silent.
+
+ [5] Get ready.
+
+
+
+
+One Year Older
+
+
+One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
+    That’s what I sal awlus say.
+Draw thy chair a little nearer,
+    Put yon stockin’s reight away.
+Thou hast done enough i’ thy time,
+    Tewed i’ t’ house an’ wrowt at loom;
+Just for once thou mun sit idle,
+    Feet on t’ hear’stone, fingers toom.[1]
+
+One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
+    So I promised when we wed.
+Then thy een were glest’rin’ clearer
+    Nor the stars aboon us spread.
+If they’re dimmer now, they’re tend’rer,
+    An’ yon wrinkles on thy face
+Tell a lesson true as t’ Bible,
+    Speik o’ charity an’ grace.
+
+One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
+    We’ve supped sorrow, tasted joy,
+But our love has grown sincerer,
+    Gethered strength nowt can destroy.
+Love is like an oak i’ t’ forest,
+    Ivery yeer it adds a ring;
+Love is like yon ivin tendrils,
+    Ivery day they closer cling.
+
+One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
+    Time’s the shuttle, life’s the yarn.
+Have thy crosses seemed severer
+    ’Cause thou niver had a barn?
+Mebbe I sud not have loved thee
+    Hauf so weel, if I mud share
+All our secret thowts wi’ childer,
+    Twinin’ round my owd arm-chair.
+
+One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
+    ’Tis our gowden weddin’ day.
+There sal coom no gaumless fleerer
+    To break in upon our play.
+Look, I’ve stecked[2] wer door and window
+    Let me lap thee i’ my arms;
+Hushed to-neet be ivery murmur,
+    While my kiss thy pale face warms.
+
+ [1] Empty.
+
+ [2] Latched.
+
+
+
+
+The Hungry Forties
+
+
+Thou wants my vote, young man wi’ t’ carpet-bags,
+    Weel, sit thee down, an’ hark what I’ve to say.
+It’s noan so varry oft wer kitchen flags
+    Are mucked by real live lords down Yelland[1] way.
+
+I’ve read thy speyks i’ t’ paper of a neet,
+    Thou lets a vast o’ words flow off thy tongue;
+Thou’s gotten facts an’ figures, plain as t’ leet,
+    An’ argiments to slocken[2] owd an’ young.
+
+But what are facts an’ figures ’side o’ truths
+    We’ve bowt wi’ childer’ tears an’ brokken lives?
+An’ what are argiments o’ cockered youths
+    To set agean yon groans o’ caitiff[3] wives?
+
+’Twere “hungry forties” when I were a lad,
+    An’ fowks were clemmed, an’ weak i’ t’ airm an’ brain;
+We lived on demick’d[4] taties, bread gone sad,
+    An’ wakkened up o’ neets croodled[5] wi’ pain.
+
+When t’ quartern loaf were raised to one and four,
+    We’d watter-brewis, swedes stown out o’ t’ field;
+Farmers were t’ landlords’ jackals, an’ us poor
+    Tewed in Egyptian bondage unrepealed.
+
+I mind them times when lads marched down our street
+    Wi’ penny loaves on pikes all steeped i’ blooid;
+“It’s breead or blooid,” they cried. “We’ve nowt to eat;
+    To Hell wi’ all that taxes t’ people’s fooid.”
+
+There was a papist duke[6] that com aleng
+    Wi’ curry powders, an’ he telled our boss
+That when fowk’s bellies felt pination’s teng,[7]
+    For breead, yon stinkin’ powders they mun soss.[8]
+
+I went to wark when I were eight yeer owd;
+    I tended galloways an’ sammed up coils.
+’Twere warm i’ t’ pit, aboon ’t were despert cowd,
+    An’ clothes were nobbut spetches,[9] darns an’ hoils.
+
+Thro’ six to eight I worked, then two mile walk
+    Across yon sumpy[10] fields to t’ kitchen door.
+I’ve often fainted, face as white as chalk,
+    Then fall’n lang-length upon wer cobble-floor.
+
+My mother addled seven and six a week,
+    Slavin’ all t’ day at Akeroyd’s weyvin’-shed:
+Fayther at t’ grunstone wrowt, while he fell sick;
+    Steel filin’s gate intul his lungs, he said.
+
+I come thee then no thank for all thy speyks,
+    Thou might as weel have spared thisen thy pains;
+I see no call to laik at ducks an’ drakes
+    Wi’ t’ bitter truth that’s burnt intul our brains.
+
+“Corn laws be damned,” said dad i’ forty-eight;
+    “Corn laws be damned,” say I i’ nineteen-five.
+Tariff reform, choose, how, will have to wait
+    Down Yelland way, so lang as I’m alive.
+
+If thou an’ thine sud tax us workers’ fooid,
+    An’ thrust us back in our owd misery,
+May t’ tears o’ our deead childer thin thy blooid,
+    An’ t’ curse o’ t’ “hungry forties” leet on thee.
+
+ [1] Elland.
+
+ [2] Satiate.
+
+ [3] Infirm.
+
+ [4] Diseased.
+
+ [5] Bent double.
+
+ [6] Duke of Norfolk.
+
+ [7] Sting.
+
+ [8] Sip.
+
+ [9] Patches.
+
+ [10] Swampy.
+
+
+
+
+The Flowers of Knaresborough Forest
+
+
+But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning
+The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
+_Jane Elliot_ (1727-1805).
+
+O! day-time is weary, an’ dark o’ dusk dreary
+    For t’ lasses i’ t’ mistal, or rakin’ ower t’ hay;
+When t’ kye coom for strippin’, or t’ yowes for their clippin’,
+    We think on our sowdiers now gone reet away.
+
+The courtin’-gate’s idle, nae lad flings his bridle
+    Ower t’ yak-stoup,[1] an’ sleely cooms seekin’ his may;
+The trod by the river is green as a sliver,[2]
+    For the Flowers o’ the Forest have all stown away.
+
+At Marti’mas hirin’s, nae ribbins, nae tirin’s,
+    When t’ godspenny’s[3] addled, an’ t’ time’s coom for play;
+Nae Cheap-Jacks, nae dancin’, wi’ t’ teamster’ clogs prancin ,
+    The Flowers o’ the Forest are all flown a way.
+
+When at neet church is lowsin’, an’ t’ owd ullet is rousin’
+    Hissel i’ our laithe,[4] wheer he’s slummered all t’ day,
+Wae’s t’ heart! but we misses our lads’ saftest kisses,
+    Now the Flowers o’ the Forest are gone reet away.
+
+Ploo-lads frae Pannal have crossed ower the Channel,
+    Shipperds frae Fewston have taen the King’s pay,
+Thackrays frae Dacre have sold ivery acre;
+    Thou’ll finnd ne’er a delver[5] frae Haverah to Bray.
+
+When t’ north wind is howlin’, an’ t’ west wind is yowlin’,
+    It’s for t’ farm lads at sea that us lasses mun pray;
+Tassey-Will o’ t’ new biggin, keepin’ watch i’ his riggin ,
+    Lile Jock i’ his fo’c’sle, torpedoed i’ t’ bay.
+
+Mony a lass now is weepin’ for her marrow that’s sleepin’,
+    Wi’ nae bield for his corp but the cowd Flanthers clay;
+He’ll ne’er lift his limmers,[6] he’ll ne’er wean his gimmers[7]:
+    Ay, there’s Flowers o’ the Forest are withered away.
+
+ [1] Oak-post.
+
+ [2] Branch of a leafing tree.
+
+ [3] Earnest money.
+
+ [4] Barn.
+
+ [5] Quarryman.
+
+ [6] Wagon-shafts.
+
+ [7] Ewe lambs.
+
+
+
+
+The Miller by the Shore
+an East Coast Chanty
+
+
+The miller by the shore am I,
+    A man o’ despert sense;
+I’ve fotty different soorts o’ ways
+    O’ addlin’ honest pence.
+Good wheat and wuts and barley-corns
+    My mill grinds all t’ day lang ;
+Frae faave ’o t’ morn while seven o’ t’ neet
+    My days are varra thrang.
+
+Chorus
+
+I mill a bit, I till a bit,
+    I dee all maks ’o jobs,
+Frae followin’ ploos and hollowin’ coos
+    To mendin’ chairs and squabs.[1]
+Oh! folks they laugh and girn at me,
+    I niver tak it ill;
+If I’s the Jack ’o ivery trade,
+    They all bring grist to t’ mill.
+
+I tend my hunderd yakker farm,
+    An’ milk my Kyloe kye.
+I’ve Lincoln yowes an’ Leicester tups
+    An’ twenty head ’o wye.[2]
+I’ve stirks to tak to Scarbro’ mart,
+    I’ve meers for farmers’ gigs;
+And oh! I wish that you could see
+    My laatle sookin’ pigs.
+
+I mill a bit. ...
+
+When summer days graws lang an’ breet,
+    Oot cooms my “Noah’s Arks,”
+Wheer city folk undriss theirsels
+    An’ don my bathin’ sarks.[3]
+An’ when they git on land agean,
+    I rub’ em smooth as silk;
+Then bring’ em oot, to fill their weeams,
+    My parkin ceakes an’ milk.
+
+I mill a bit. ...
+
+I pike[4] stray timmer on the shore,
+    An’ cuvins[5] on the scar;
+I know wheer crabs ’ll hugger up,[6]
+    I know wheer t’ lobsters are.
+I’ve cobles fishin’ oot i’ t’ bay,
+    For whitings, dabs and cods,
+I’ve herrin’ trawls and salmon nets,
+    I’ve hooks and lines and rods.
+
+I mill a bit. ...
+
+On darksome neets, back-end ’o t’ yeer,
+    I like another sport;
+I row my boat wheer t’ lugger lies,
+    Coom frae some foreign port;
+A guinea in a coastguard’s poke
+    Will mak him steck his een ;
+So he says nowt when I coom yam
+    Wi’ scent and saccharine.
+
+I mill a bit. ...
+
+ [1] Settles.
+
+ [2] Heifers.
+
+ [3] Shirts.
+
+ [4] Pick up.
+
+ [5] Periwinkles.
+
+ [6] Crowd together.
+
+
+
+
+The Bride’s Homecoming
+
+
+        A weddin’, a woo,
+        A clog an’ a shoe,
+A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!
+            _A Yorkshire Wedding-Rhyme_.
+
+Thoo mun hod on tight, my darlin’,
+    We’ve mony a beck to cross;
+Twix’ thy father’s hoose an’ mine, love,
+    There’s a vast o’ slacks an’ moss.
+But t’ awd mare, shoo weant whemmle[1]
+    Though there’s twee on her back astride;
+Shoo’s as prood as me, is Snowball,
+    Noo I’s fetchin’ heame my bride.
+        A weddin’, a woo,
+        A clog an’ a shoe,
+A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!
+
+Gow! but I feel sae leetsome,
+    Sin I’ve lived to see this day;
+My heart is like a blackbod’s
+    Efter a shoor i’ May.
+I’ t’ sky aboon nea lairock
+    Has sae mich reet to sing
+As I have, noo I’ve wedded
+    T’ lile lass o’ Fulsa Ing.
+        A weddin’, a woo,
+        A clog an’ a shoe,
+A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!
+
+Does ta hear yon watter bubblin’,
+    Deep doon i’ t’ moorland streams?
+It soonds like childer’ voices
+    When they’re laughin’ i’ their dreams.
+An’ look at yon lang-tailed pyots,[2]
+    There s three on ’em, I’ll uphod!
+Folks say that three’s for a weddin’,
+    Ay, a pyot’s a canny bod.
+        A weddin’, a woo,
+        A clog an’ a shoe,
+A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!
+
+I love to feel thee clingin’
+    Wi’ thy hands aroond my breast;
+Thy bosom’s leetly heavin’,
+    Like a ship on t’ saut waves’ crest.
+An’ thy breath is sweet as t’ breezes,
+    That cooms ower t’ soothern hills,
+When t’ violet blaws i’ t’ springtime
+    Wi’ t’ yollow daffydills.
+        A weddin’, a woo,
+        A clog an’ a shoe,
+A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!
+
+Is ta gittin’ tired, my honey,
+    We’ll be heame i’ hafe an hour;
+Thoo’ll see our hoose an’ staggarth,
+    Wi’ t’ birk-trees bendin’ ower.
+There’s a lillilow[3] i’ our cham’er
+    To welcome my viewly bride ;
+An’ sean we’ll be theer oorsels, lass,
+    Liggin’ cosy side by side.
+        A weddin’, a woo,
+        A clog an’ a shoe,
+A pot full o’ porridge; away we go!
+
+ [1] Stumble.
+
+ [2] Magpies.
+
+ [3] Light.
+
+
+
+
+The Artist
+
+
+Lang-haired gauvies[1] coom my way, drawin’ t’ owd abbey an’ brig,
+    All their crack is o’ Art-staities an’ picturs an’ paints;
+Want to put me on their canvas, donned i’ my farmer’s rig,
+    Tell me I’m pairt o’ t’ scenery, stained-glass windeys an’ saints.
+
+I reckon I’m artist an’ all, though I niver gave it a thowt;
+    Breeder o’ stock is my trade, Mike Pullan o’ t’ Abbey Close.
+What sud a farmer want wi’ picturs that brass has bowt?
+    All his art is i’ t’ mistal, wheer t’ heifers are ranged i’ rows.
+
+Look at yon pedigree bull, wi’ an eye as breet as a star,
+    An’ a coat that shines like velvet, when it catches t’ glent o’ t’
+    sun;
+Hark to him bealin’ for t’ cows, wi’ a voice like t’ thunner on t’
+scar,
+    Watch them sinews i’ t’ neck, ripplin’ wi’ mischief an’ fun.
+
+Three generations o’ men have lived their lives for yon bull,
+    Tewed at his keep all t’ day, dreamed o’ his sleekness all t’ neet;
+Moulded the bugth o’ his buttocks, fashioned the breadth o’ his skull—
+    Ivery one on ’em artists, sculptors o’ butcher’s meat.
+
+What are your Rubens and Vandykes anent the craft that is Breed?
+    Anent the art that is Life, what’s figures o’ bronze or stone?
+Us farmers ’ll mould you models, better nor statties that’s deead—
+    Strength that is wick i’ the flesh, Beauty that’s bred i’ the bone.
+
+Bailiff’s doughter at t’ Hollins, shoo’s Breed, an’ shoo’s Life, an
+shoo’s Art,
+    Bred frae a Westmorland statesman out o’ a Craven lass;
+Carries hersen like a queen when shoo drives to markit i’ t’ cart:
+    Noan o’ yon scraumy-legged[2] painters sal iver git howd o’ her
+    brass.
+
+Picturs is reight enough for fowks cluttered up i’ Leeds,
+    Fowks that have ne’er hannled beasts, can’t tell a tup frae a yowe
+    ;
+But the art for coontry lads is the art that breathes an’ feeds,
+    An’ t’ finest gallery i’ t’ worrld is a Yorkshire cattle-show.
+
+ [1] Simpletons.
+
+ [2] Spindle-legged.
+
+
+
+
+Marra to Bonney
+
+
+What would you do wi’ a doughter—
+    Pray wi’ her, bensil[1] her, flout her?—
+Say, what would you do wi’ a daughter
+    That’s marra to Bonney[2] hissen?
+
+I prayed wi’ her first, of a Sunday,
+    When chapil was lowsin’ for t’ neet;
+An’ I laid all her cockaloft marlocks[3]
+    ’Fore th’ Almighty’s mercy-seat.
+When I looked for her tears o’ repentance,
+    I jaloused[4] that I saw her laugh;
+An’ she said that t’ Powers o’ Justice
+    Would scatter my words like chaff.
+
+Then I bensilled her hard in her cham’er,
+    As I bensils owd Neddy i’ t’ cart.
+If prayers willent teach thee, my dolly,
+    Happen whip-stock will mak thy tears start.
+But she stood there as chuff as a mawmet,[5]
+    Not one chunt’rin[6] word did she say:
+But she hoped that t’ blooid o’ t’ martyrs
+    Would waish all my sins away.
+
+Then I thought, mebbe floutin’ will mend her;
+    So I watched while she cam out o’ t’ mill,
+And afore all yon Wyke lads an’ lasses
+    I fleered at her reight up our hill.
+She winced when she heeard all their girnin’,
+    Then she whispered, a sob i’ her throat:
+“I reckon I’ll noan think o’ weddin’
+    While women are given their vote.”
+
+What would you do wi’ a doughter—
+    Pray wi’ her, bensil her, flout her?—
+Say, what would you do wi’ a daughter
+    That’s marra to Bonney hissen?
+
+ [1] Beat.
+
+ [2] A match for Bonaparte.
+
+ [3] Conceited tricks.
+
+ [4] Suspected.
+
+ [5] As proud as an idol.
+
+ [6] Grumbling.
+
+
+
+
+Mary Mecca
+
+
+Mary Mecca,[1] Mary Mecca,
+    I’m fain to see thee here,
+A Devon lass to fill my glass
+    O’ home-brewed Yorkshire beer.
+I awlus said that foreigners
+    Sud niver mel on me;
+But sike a viewly face as thine
+    I’d travel far to see.
+
+Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
+    I’m sad to see thee here,
+Wheer t’ wind blaws hask[2] frae Norway
+    I’ t’ spring-time o’ the year.
+I’d liever finnd thee sittin’,
+    Wi’ a bowl o’ cruds an’ cream,
+Wheer t’ foxglove bells ring through the dells,
+    Anent a Dartmoor stream.
+
+Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
+    The way thou snods thy hair,
+It maks my heart go dancin’
+    Like winnlestraws[3] i’ t’ air.
+One neet I heard thee singin’,
+    As I cam home frae toon;
+’Twas sweet as curlews makkin’ love
+    Agean a risin’ moon.
+
+Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
+    I dream o’ thy gray een;
+I think on all I’ve wasted,
+    An’ what I might hae been.
+I’m nowt but muck off t’ midden,
+    So all I axe is this:
+Just blaw the froth from off my yal[4];
+    ’Twill seem most like a kiss.
+
+ [1] Metcalfe.
+
+ [2] Keenly.
+
+ [3] Whisps of grass or straw.
+
+ [4] Ale.
+
+
+
+
+The Local Preacher
+
+
+Ay, I’m a ranter, so at least fowks say;
+    Happen they’d tell t’ same tale o’ t’ postle Paul.
+I’ve ranted fifty yeer, coom first o’ May,
+    An’ niver changed my gospil through ’em all.
+
+There’s nowt like t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb an’ t’ Fire o’ Hell
+    To bring a hardened taistril[1] to his knees;
+If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell
+    ’Em straight, I’ve got no cure for their disease.
+
+I willent thole this New Theology
+    That blends up Hell wi’ Heaven, sinners wi’ saints
+For black was black when I turned Methody,
+    An’ white was white, i’ souls as weel as paints.
+
+That’s awlus t’ warp an’ t’ weft o’ my discourse,
+    An’ awlus will be, lang as I can teach;
+If fowks won’t harken tul it, then, of course,
+    They go to church and hear t’ owd parson preach.
+
+His sarmon’s like his baccy, sweet an’ mild;
+    Fowk’s ommost hauf asleep at t’ second word.
+By t’ Mass! they’re wick as lops,[2] ay, man an’ child,
+    When I stan’ up an’ wrastle wi’ the Lord.
+
+Nay, I’m not blamin’ parson, I’ll awant[3];
+    Preachin’s his trade, same way as millin’s mine.
+I’ trade you’ve got to gie fowks what they want,
+    An’ that is mostly sawcum[4] meshed reet fine.
+
+Tak squire theer; he don’t want no talk o’ Hell,
+    He likes to hark to t’ parable o’ t’ teares ;
+He reckons church is wheat that’s gooid to sell,
+    But chapil’s nobbut kexes,[5] thorns, an’ brears.
+
+Squire’s lasses, they can’t do wi’ t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb
+    They’re all for t’ blooid o’ t’ foxes, like our Bob.
+The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn
+    Church fowks wid out me mellin’ on[6] His job.
+
+But gie me chapil lasses gone astray,
+    Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet,
+An’ I’ll raise Cain afore I go away,
+    If I don’t gie ’em t’ glent o’ t’ Gospil leet.
+
+I’ll mak ’em sit on t’ penitential stooils,
+    An’ roar as loud as t’ buzzer down at t’ mill;
+I’ll mak ’em own that they’ve bin despert fooils,
+    Wi’ all their pride o’ life a bitter pill.
+
+I’ve mony texts, but all to one point keep,
+    Same as all t’ becks flow down to one saut sea:
+Damnation an’ salvation, goats an’ sheep—
+    That’s t’ Bible gospil that thou’ll get thro’ me.
+
+ [1] Reprobate.
+
+ [2] Lively as fleas.
+
+ [3] Warrrant.
+
+ [4] Sawdust.
+
+ [5] Dried stems of weeds.
+
+ [6] Meddling with.
+
+
+
+
+The Courting Gate
+
+
+There’s dew upon the meadows,
+    An’ bats are wheelin’ high;
+The sun has set an hour sin’,
+    An’ evenin’ leet’s i’ t’ sky.
+Swalows i’ t’ thack are sleepin ,
+    Neet-hawks are swift on t’ wing,
+An’ grey moths gethers honey
+    Amang the purple ling .
+        O coom an’ meet me, Mally,
+        O coom an’ greet me, Mally,
+    Meet me, greet me, at the courtin’ gate.
+
+The fire-leet casts thy shadow
+    Owerthwart the kitchen wall;
+It’s dancin’ up an’ doon, lass,
+    My heart does dance an’ all.
+Three times I’ve gien oor love-call
+    To bring my bird to t’ nest.
+When wilt a coom, my throstle,
+    An’ shelter on my breast?
+        O coom an’ meet me, Mally,
+        O coom an’ greet me, Mally,
+    Meet me, greet me, at the courtin’ gate.
+
+I’ve wrowt all t’ day at t’ harvist,
+    But ivery hour seemed sweet,
+Acause I thowt I’d haud thee
+    Clasped i’ my airms to-neet.
+Black Bess she raked aside me
+    An’ leuked at me an’ smiled;
+I telled her I loved Mally,
+    It made her despert wild.
+        O coom an’ meet me, Mally,
+        O coom an’ greet me, Mally,
+    Meet me, greet me, at the courtin’ gate.
+
+Thy shadow’s gone frae t’ kitchen,
+    T’ hoose-door is oppened wide.
+It’s she, my viewly Mally,
+    The lass I’ll mak my bride.
+White lilies in her garden,
+    Fling oot your scent i’ t’ air,
+An’ mingle breath wi’ t’ roses
+    I’ve gethered for her hair.
+        O let me haud thee, Mally,
+        O let me faud thee, Mally,
+    Haud thee, faud thee, at the courtin’ gate.
+
+
+
+
+Fieldfares
+
+
+Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin’ ’mang the bent,
+Wheer the sun is shinin’ through yon cloud’s wide rent,
+        Welcoom back to t’ moorlands,
+        Frae Norway’s fells an’ shorelands,
+Welcoom back to Whardill,[1] now October’s ommost spent.
+
+Noisy, chackin’ fieldfares, weel I ken your cry,
+When i’ flocks you’re sweepin’ ower the hills sae high:
+        Oft on trees you gethers,
+        Preenin’ out your feathers,
+An’ I’m fain to see your coats as blue as t’ summer sky.
+
+Curlews, larks an’ tewits,[2] all have gone frae t’ moors,
+Frost has nipped i’ t’ garden all my bonny floors;
+        Roses, lilies, pansies,
+        Stocks an’ yallow tansies
+Fade away, an’ soon the leaves ’ll clutter[3] doon i’ shoors.
+
+Here i’ bed I’m liggin’, liggin’ day by day
+Hay-cart whemmled ower,[4] and underneath I lay;
+        I was nobbut seven,
+        Soon I’ll be eleven;
+Fower times have I seen you fieldfares coom an’ flee away.
+
+You’ll be gone when t’ swallow bigs his nest o’ loam,
+April winds ’ll blaw you far ower t’ saut sea foam;
+        You’ll not wait while May-time,
+        Summer dews an’ hay-time;
+Lang afore our gerse is mawn your mates ’ll call you home.
+
+Fieldfares, liltin’[5] fieldfares, you’ll noan sing to me.
+Why sud you bide silent while you’ve crossed the sea?
+        Are you brokken-hearted,
+        Sin frae home you’ve parted,
+Leavin’ far frae Yorkshire moors your nests i’ t’ tall fir tree?
+
+Storm-cock sings at new-yeer, swingin’ on yon esh,
+Sings his loudest song when t’ winds do beat an’ lesh;
+        Robins, throstles follow,
+        An’ when cooms the swalloww,
+All the birds ’ll chirm to see our woodlands green an’ nesh.
+
+Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, I’ll be gone ’fore you;
+        I’m sae weak an’ dowly, hands are thin an’ blue.
+        Pain is growin’ stranger,
+As the neets get langer.
+Will you miss my face at whiles, when t’ owd yeer’s changed to t’ new?
+
+ [1] Wharfdale.
+
+ [2] Peewits.
+
+ [3] Huddle.
+
+ [4] Upset.
+
+ [5] Light-hearted.
+
+
+
+
+A Song of the Yorkshire Dales
+
+
+A song I sing o’ t’ Yorkshire dales,
+    That Winnd frae t’ moors to t’ sea;
+Frae t’ breast o’ t’ fells, wheer t’ cloud-rack sails,
+    Their becks flow merrily.
+Their banks are breet wi’ moss an’ broom,
+    An’ sweet is t’ scent o’ t’ thyme;
+You can hark to t’ bees’ saft, dreamy soom[1]
+    I’ t’ foxglove bells an’ t’ lime.
+
+Chorus
+
+O! Swawdill’s good for horses, an’ Wensladill for cheese,
+    An’ Airedill fowk are busy as a bee;
+            But wheersoe’er I wander,
+            My owd heart aye grows fonder
+O Whardill, wheer I’ll lig me down an’ dee.
+
+Reet bonny are our dales i’ March,
+    When t’ curlews tak to t’ moors,
+There’s ruddy buds on ivery larch,
+    Primroses don their floors.
+But bonnier yet when t’ August sun
+    Leets up yon plats o’ ling;
+An’ gert white fishes lowp an’ scun,[2]
+    Wheer t’ weirs ower t’ watter hing.
+
+O! Swawdillls good...
+
+By ivery beck an abbey sleeps,
+    An’ t’ ullet is t’ owd prior.
+A jackdaw thruf each windey peeps,
+    An’ bigs his nest i’ t’ choir.
+In ivery dale a castle stands—
+    Sing, Clifford, Percy, Scrope!—
+They threaped amang theirsels for t’ lands,
+    But fowt for t’ King or t’ Pope.
+
+O! Swawdill’s good...
+
+O! Eastward ho! is t’ song o’ t’ gales,
+    As they sweep ower fell an’ lea;
+And Eastward ho! is t’ song o’ t’ dales,
+    That winnd frae t’ moors to t’ sea.
+Coom winter frost, coom summer druft,
+    Their watters munnot bide;
+An’ t’ rain that’s fall’n when bould winds soughed
+    Sal iver seawards glide.
+
+O! Swawdill’ s good...
+
+ [1] Hum.
+
+ [2] Leap and dart away.
+
+
+
+
+The Flower of Wensleydale
+
+
+She leaned o’er her latticed casement,
+    The Flower of Wensleydale;
+’Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,
+    Through the mist the stars burnt pale.
+
+In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,
+    Plucked in her garden at noon;
+And over them she had whispered thrice
+    The spell of a mystic rune.
+
+For many had come a-wooing
+    The maid with the sloe-blue eyes;
+Fain would she learn of St Agnes
+    To whom should fall the prize.
+
+They said she must drop a sage-leaf
+    At each stroke of the midnight hour;
+Then should the knight of her father’s choice
+Obey the summons of her voice,
+    And appear ’neath her oriel’d bowwer.
+
+To the holy virgin-martyr
+    She lifted her hands in prayer;
+Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep
+    In the chestnut branches bare.
+
+At last on the frosty silence
+    There rang out the midnight chime;
+And the hills gave back in echoes
+    The knell of the dying time.
+
+She held her breath as she counted
+    The beats of the chapel bell;
+At every stroke of the hammer
+    A sage-leaf fluttered and fell,
+    Slowly fluttered and fell.
+
+Her heart stood still a moment,
+    As the last leaf touched the ground;
+And her hand went swift to her maiden breast,
+    For she heard a far-off sound;
+
+’Twas the sound of a horseman spurring
+    His steed through the woodland glade;
+And ever the sound drew nearer,
+And the footfalls echoed clearer,
+    Till before her bower they stayed.
+
+She strained her eyes to discover,
+    By the light of a ghostly moon,
+Who was the knight had heard and obeyed
+    The hest of the mystic rune.
+
+But naught could she see from her casement,
+    Save a man on a coal-black steed;
+For his mantle was muffled about him,
+    His blazon she could not read.
+
+She crossed herself and she whispered—
+    Her voice was faint but clear—
+“Oh! Who art thou that darest ride,
+Through the aspen glade, by the river’s side,
+    My chamber window near?
+
+“Say, art thou the lord of Bainbridge,
+    Or Gervase of Bolton Hall,
+That comest so late on St Agnes Eve
+    Within my manor wall?”
+
+“I am not the lord of Bainbridge,
+    Nor Gervase of Bolton Hall,
+But I marked the light in thy casement,
+    And I saw the sage-leaves fall,
+    Flutter awhile and fall.”
+
+“Camest thou over the moorlands,
+    Or camest thou through the dale?
+Speak no guile to a witless maid,
+    But tell me a soothfast tale.”
+
+“I came not over the moorlands,
+    Nor along the dale did ride;
+But thou seeest thy plighted lover,
+    That has come to claim his bride.”
+
+“Say, art thou knight or yeoman,
+    Of noble or simple birth?
+Fain would I know thy lineage,
+    Thy prowess and thy worth.”
+
+“Nor knight nor lowly yeoman,
+    But a mighty king am I;
+Bold vassals do my bidding,
+    And on mine errands hie.
+
+“They come to court and castle,
+    They climb the palace stairs;
+Nor pope nor king may entrance bar
+    To him my livery wears.”
+
+“But why should a king so mighty
+    Pay court to a simple maid?
+My father’s a knight of low degree,
+No princely realm he holds in fee,
+No proud-foot damsels wait on me:
+    Thy steps have surely strayed.”
+
+“No step of mine hath wandered
+    From the goal of my desires;
+’Tis on thee my hopes are centred,
+    ’Tis to thee my heart aspires.
+
+“I love thee for thy beauty,
+    I love thee for thy grace,
+I love thee for the dancing lights
+    That gleam in thy moon-lit face:
+And these I deem a peerless dower
+    To win a king’s embrace.”
+
+“One boon, O royal lover,
+    I ask on St Agnes Day;
+I fain would gaze on thy visage fair
+    Ere with thee I steal away.
+
+“Unmuffle thou the mantle
+    That hides thee like a pall;
+And let the purple trappings
+    From off thy shoulders fall.”
+
+Slowly he loosed the mantle,
+    And showed his face beneath.
+The lights went out in the maiden’s eyes;
+One swooning word she breathed to the skies:
+    The gaunt hills echoed “Death.”
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of the Ridings by F. W. Moorman
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