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diff --git a/old/3232.txt b/old/3232.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..45565c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/3232.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2469 @@ +Project Gutenberg Etext Songs of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was produced by Dave Fawthrop. + + + + + +Songs of the Ridings + +by F. W. Moorman + + + + +Contents: + +Dedication +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 + + + +I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME TO THE YORKSHIRE MEMBERS OF THE WORKERS' +EDUCATIONAL ASSOCITION + + + +Preface + +About 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 the 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 'Athenaeum' 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 + + + + + + + + +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 Homecomming + + +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. + + + + +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! Swawdills 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. + + + + +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 + + + + +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 Project Gutenberg Etext Songs of the Ridings, by F. W. Moorman + |