An' cheeks like a summers cherry,
An' lips fair assin'(3) for kisses,
An' een so black an' so merry,
Shoo taks her knittin' to t' meadows,
An' sits in a shady newk,
An' knits while shoo sighs an' watches
Wi' a dreamy, lingerin' lewk.
Thus knittin', sighin' an' watchin',
Shoo caars(4) aat on t' soft meadow grass,
Listenin' to t' murmurin' brooklet,
An' waitin' for t' sweethear't to pass;
Shoo drops her wark i' her appron,
An' glints aat on t' settin' sun,
An' wonders if he goes a-courtin'
When his long day's wark is done.
When shoo hears t' chap's fooitsteps comin',
Shoo rises wi' modest grace;
Ay, Mag, thou sly, lovin' lassie,
For shame o' thy bashful face!
Shoo frames(5) to be goin' home'ards,
As he lilts ower t' stile,
Bud when he comes anent(6) herr,
Shoo gies him sich a smile.
Then he places his arm araand her,
An' shoo creeps cloise to his side,
An' leyns her heead on his waiscoit,
An' walks wi' an air o' pride.
Bud oh! you sud see her glances,
An' oh! you sud hear 'em kiss,
When they pairt thro' one another!
If shoo isn't coortin', who is?
1. Instead. 2. Smoothed out. 3. Asking.
4. Cowers, lies. 5. Makes pretence. 6. Beside.
Parson Drew Thro' Pudsey (1st Ed)
or
T' First o' t' Sooart (2nd Ed)
John Hartley
From pp 135, 136, 75, 76 and 77 of second edition.
I heeard a funny tale last neet,
I couldn't howd frae laughin' ;
'Twere at t' Bull's Head we chonced to meet,
An' spent an haar i' chaffin'.
Some sang a song, some cracked a joke,
An' all seemed full o' larkin' ;
An' t' raam were blue wi' bacca smoke,
An' ivery ee 'd a spark in.
Long Joe at comes thro' t' Jumples Clough
Were gettin' rayther mazy,
An' Warkus Ned had supped enough
To turn their Betty crazy,
An' Bob at lives at t' Bogeggs farm,
Wi' Nan thro' t' Buttress Bottom,
Were treatin' her to summat warm-
It's just his way. Odd drot 'em!
An' Jack o' t' Slade were theer as weel,
An' Joe o' Abe's thro' Waerley,
An' Lijah off o' t' Lavver Hill
Were passin' th' ale raand rarely.
Thro' raand an' square they seemed to meet
To hear or tell a story,
But t' gem o' all I heeard last neet
Were one by Doad o' t' Glory.
He bet his booits at it were true,
An' all seemed to believe him;
Though if he lost he needn't rue,
But 't wodn't done to grieve him.
His uncle lived it Pudsey taan,
An' practised local praichin';
An' if he 're lucky, he were baan
To start a schooil for taichin'.
But he were takken vary ill,
He felt his time were comin';
They say he browt it on hissel
Wi' studyin' his summin.
He called his wife an' neighbours in
To hear his deein' sarmon,
An' telled 'em if they lived i' sin
Their lot 'd be a warm 'un.
Then, turnin' raand unto his wife,
Said, "Mal, tha knaws, owd craytur,
If I'd been blest wi' longer life
I might hae left things straighter.
Joe Sooithill owes me eighteen pence;
I lent it him last love-feast."
Says Mall, "He hasn't lost his sense,
Thank God for that at least."
"An' Ben o' t' top o' t' bank, tha knows,
We owe him one paand ten."
"Just hark," says Mally, "theer he goes,
He's ramellin' agean."
"Don't tak a bit o' notice, folk;
You see, poor thing, he's ravin'.
It cuts me up to hear sich talk;
He's spent his life i' savin'."
"An', Mally lass," he said agean,
"Tak heed o' my direction,
T' schooil owes me hauf a craan, I mean
My share o' t' last collection.
Tha'll see to that an' have what's fair,
When my poor life is past."
Says Mally, "Listen, I declare,
He's sensible at last."
He shut his een and sank to rest,
Death seldom claimed a better;
They put him by, bud what were t' best,
He sent 'em back a letter,
To tell' em all haa he'd goan on,
An' haa he gate to enter,
An' gav 'em rules to act upon
If iver they sud ventur.
Saint Peter stood wi' keys i' hand,
Says he, "What do ye want, sir,
If to go in, you understand,
Unknown to me, you can't, sir.
Pray what's your name? Where are ye thro'(3)?
Just make your business clear?",
Says he, "They call me 'Parson Drew,'
I've come thro' Pudsey here."
"Ye've come thro' Pudsey, do ye say?
Don't try sich jokes on me, sir;
I've kept these doors too long a day,
I can't be fooled by thee, sir."
Says Drew; "I wodn't tell a lie
For t' sake o' all there's in it,
If ye've a map o' England by,
I'll show you in a minute."
So Peter gate a time-table,
They gloor'd(4) ower t' map together,
An' Drew did all at he were able,
But couldn't find it either.
At last says he, "There's Leeds Taan Hall,
An' there stands Bradford's Mission;
It's just between them two--that's all,
Your map's an old edition.
"Bud theer it is--I'll lay a craan;--
An' if ye've niver knawn it,
Ye've miss'd a bonny Yorkshire taan,
Though monny be at scorn it."
He oppen'd t' gate; says he, "It's time
Somebody coom--I'll trust thee;--
Tha'll find inside no friends o' thine,
Tha'rt first at's coom thro' Pudsey."
1. Makes pretence. 2. Beside.
3. From. 4. Stared.
Pateley Reaces 1874
Anonymous
From The Nidderdill Olminao, 1875,
edited by "Nattie Nidds" (Pateley Bridge).
Attention all, baith great an' small,
An' doan't screw up your feaces;
While I rehearse i' simple verse,
A count o' Pateley Reaces.
Fra all ower moors they com by scores
Girt skelpin'(1) lads an' lasses;
An' cats an' dogs, an' coos an' hogs,
An' horses, mules an' asses.
Awd foaks were thar, fra near an' far,
At couldn't fairly hopple;
An' laffin' brats, as wild as cats,
Ower heeads an' heels did topple.
The Darley lads arrived i' squads,
Wi' smiles all ower their feaces;
An' Hartwith youths, wi' screwed-up mooths,
In wonder watched the reaces.
Fra Menwith Hill, and Folly Gill,
Thorngat, an' Deacon Paster,
Fra Thruscross Green, an' t' Heets Were seen
Croods coomin' thick an' faster.
'Tween Bardin Brigg and Threshfield Rig
Awd Wharfedeale gat a thinnin';
An' Ger'ston plods(2) laid heavy odds
On Creaven Lass for winnin'.
Sich lots were seen o' Hebdin Green,
Ready sean on i' t' mornin',
While Aptrick chaps, i' carts and traps,
Were off to Pateley spornin'.(3)
All Greenho Hill, past Coddstone's kill,(4)
Com toltherin'(5) an' singin',
Harcastle coves, like sheep i' droves,
Awd Palmer Simp were bringin'.
Baith short an' tall, past Gowthit Hall,
Tup dealers kept on steerin',
For ne'er before, roond Middles Moor,
Had there been sich a clearin'.
All kinds and sorts o' games an' sports,
Had Pateley chaps provided,
An' weel did t' few their business do
At ower 'em all persided.
'T'wad tak a swell a munth to tell
All t' ins an' t' oots o' t' reaces,
Hoo far they ran, which horses wan,
An' which were back'd for pleaces.
Awd Billy Broon lost hauf a croon
Wi' Taty-Hawker backin',
For Green Crag flew, ower t' hurdles true,
An' wan t' match like a stockin'.
An' Creaven Lass won lots o' brass,
Besides delightin' t' Brockils,
An' Eva danc'd, an' rear'd and pranc'd;
An gif(6) she stood o' cockles.
But t' donkey reace were star o' t' pleace,
For awd an' young observers;
'Twad meade a nun fra t' convent run
An' ne'er again be nervous.
Tom Hemp fra t' Stean cried oot, "Weel dean,"
An' t' wife began o' chaffin';
Whal Kirby Jack stack up his back,
An' nearly brast wi' laffin'.
Sly Wilsill Bin, fra een to chin,
Were plaister'd up wi' toffy,
An' lang-leg Jane, he browt frae t' Plain,
Full bent on winnin' t' coffee.
Young pronsy(7) flirts, i' drabbl'd skirts,
Like painted peeacocks stritches(8);
While girt chignons like milkin'-cans
On their top-garrits perches.
Fat Sal fra' t' Knott scarce gat to t' spot,
Afore she lost her bustle,
Which sad mishap quite spoil'd her shap,
An' meade her itch an' hustle.
Lile pug-nosed Nell, fra Kettlewell,
Com in her Dolly Vardin,
All frill'd an' starch'd she proodly march'd
Wi' squintin' Joe fra Bardin.
Tha're cuffs an' falls, tunics an' shawls,
An' fancy pollaneeses,
All sham displays, ower tatter'd stays,
An' hard-worn ragg'd chemises.
Tha're mushroom fops, fra' fields an' shops,
Fine cigarettes were sookin',
An' lots o' youths, wi' beardless mooths,
All kinds o' pipes were smookin'.
An' when at last the sports were past,
All heamward turn'd their feaces;
To ne'er relent at e'er they spent
A day wi' Pateley Reaces.
1. Huge 2. Grassington labourers.
3. Spurring. 4. Kiln. 5. Hobbling.
6. If 7. Over-dressed. 8. Strut about.
Play Cricket (1909)
Ben Turner
Whativer task you tackle, lads,
Whativer job you do,
I' all your ways,
I' all your days,
Be honest through an' through:
Play cricket.
If claads oppress you wi' their gloom,
An' t' sun seems lost to view,
Don't fret an' whine,
Ask t' sun to shine,
An' don't o' livin' rue:
Play cricket.
If you're i' debt, don't growl an' grunt,
An' wish' at others had
T' same want o' luck;
But show more pluck,
An' ne'er mak others sad:
Play cricket.
If in your days there's chonce to do
Good deeds, then reight an' fair,
Don't hesitate,
An' wait too late,
An' say you'n(1) done your share:
Play cricket.
We've all a row to hoe, that's true,
Let's do it best we can;
It's nobbut once
We have the chonce
To play on earth the man:
Play cricket.
1. You have.
The File-cutter's Lament to Liberty (1910)
E. Downing
Nay, I'm moithered,(1) fairly maddled,(2)
What's a "nicker-peck"(3) to do?
My owd brain's a egg that's addled,
Tryin' to see this matter through.
Here's a strappin' young inspector--
Dacent lad he is, an' all--
Says all things mun be correct, or
I shall have to climb the pole.
Says as all my bonny pigeons
As I keep wi' me i' t' shop,
Mun be ta'en to other regions;
Here the law wain't ler 'em stop.
Says as how my little terrier
Mun foind kennellin' elsewheer.
I expect awst(4) have to bury 'er;
Shoo'll rest nowheer else bur(5) here.
Says as I mun wear a appron
Throo my shoulder to my knee;
An' (naa, listen! this puts t' capper on)
Says how cleanly it mun be.
Each ten men mun have a basin,
Fastened, mark you, fixed and sure,
For to wesh ther hands and face in;
Not to throw it aat o' door.
There's to be two ventilators,
In good order and repair;
Us at's short o' beef an' taters,
Has to fatten on fresh air.
Each shop floor mun be substantial-
Concrete, pavement, wood, or brick-
So that water from the branch'll
Keep the dust from lyin' thick.
An' for iv'ry bloomin' stiddie(6)
There's so many cubic feet,
We'st(7) ha' room to play at hiddie(8)
Us at isn't aat i' t' street.
Eh, I can't tell hauf o' t' tottle(9)
Of these Regulations steep;
I expect a suckin'-bottle
Will be t' next we have to keep.
Eh! I know, mun! who knows better?
It's for t' good of all, is this.
Iv'rybody's teed to t' letter,
'Cause o' t' few at's done amiss.
Eytin' leead-dust brings leead-colic,
Sure as mornin' brings the day.
Does te think at iver I'll lick
Thumb and fingers' dirt away?
Well, good-bye, my good owd beauty--
Liberty, naa left to few!
Since the common-weal's my duty,
Dear owd Liberty--adieu!
1. Perplexed. 2. Bewildered. 3. File-cutter.
4. I shall. 5. But. 6. Stithy
7. We shall. 8. Hide and seek. 9. Total.
A Kuss (1912)
John Malham-Dembleby
Ye may bring me gowd bi t' bowlful,
Gie me lands bi t' mile,
Fling me dewy roses,
Stoor(1) set on my smile.
Ye may caar(2) ye daan afoor me,
Castles for me build,
Twine me laurel garlands,
Let sweet song be trilled.
Ye may let my meyt be honey,
Let my sup be wine,
Gie me haands an' hosses,
Gie me sheep an' kine.
Yit one flaid(3) kuss fra her would gie
Sweeter bliss to me
Nor owt at ye could finnd to name,
Late(4) ye through sea tul sea.
I've seen her hair gleam gowden
In t' Kersmas yollow sun,
An' ivery inch o' graand she treeads
Belang her sure it mun.
Her smile is sweet as roses,
An' sweeter far to me,
An' praad she hods her heead up,
As lass o' heigh degree.
Bonnie are green laurel leaves,
I'd sooiner my braa feel
T' laughin' lips o' t' lass I love,
Though bays be varry weel.
I'm varry fond o' singin',
What bonnier could be
Nor my fair lass hersen agate(5)
A-singin' love to me?
It's reight to live on spice an' sich,
An' sup a warmin' glass,
But sweet-stuff's walsh,(6) an' wine is cowd,
Aside my lovely lass.
Tak ye your haands an' hosses,
Tak ye your sheep an' kine;
To finnd my lass ower t' hills I'll ride,
She sal be iver mine.
1. Value. 2. Cower. 3. Trembling.
4. Search. 5. Busy. 6. Insipid.
Huntin' Song
Richard Blakeborough
It's neet an' naa we're here, lads,
We're in for gooid cheer, lads;
Yorkshiremen we all on us are,
Yorkshiremen for better or war(1);
We're tykes an' we're ghast(2) uns,
We're paid uns an' fast uns,
Awther for better or awther for war!
All t' lot
Then shaat till ye've gor hooast,(3) lads,
Sing, Yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads,
Wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads,
Wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans,(4) lads."
There's some at nooan are here, lads,
Forger em we sal ne'er, lads;
Yorkshiremen they all on 'em war,
Yorkshiremen yit all on 'em are.
There's thrang(5) uns an' looan(6) uns,
There's wick uns an' gooan uns,
They're all reight somewheer, an' we 'st be no war!
All t' lot
Then shaat till ye've gor hooast, lads,
Sing, "Yorkshiremen, wer tooast, lads,
Wer king, wer heeath, wer haands, lads,
Wer hooam, wer hearth, wer baans, lads."
1. Worse. 2. Spirited. 3. Got hoarse.
4. Children. 5. Busy. 6. Lonely
Spring (1914)
F. J. Newboult
Owd Winter gat notice to quit,
'Cause he'd made sich a pigsty o' t' place,
An' Summer leuked raand when he'd flit,
An' she says, I"t's a daanreyt disgrace!
Sich-like ways!
I niver did see sich a haase to come intul
i' all my born days!
But Spring says, "It's my job, is this,
I'll sooin put things streyt, niver fear.
Ye go off to t' Spaws a bit, Miss,
An' leave me to fettle up here!"
An' sitha!
Shoo's donned a owd appron, an' tucked up her sleaves,
an' set to, with a witha!
Tha can tell, when t' hail pelts tha like mad,
At them floors bides a bit of a scrub;
Tha knaws t' flegstuns mun ha' been bad,
When she teems(1) aat all t' wotter i' t' tub.
Mind thy eyes!
When shoo gets hod o' t' long brush an' sweeps aat them chamers,
I'll tell tha, t' dust flies!
Whol shoo's threng(2) tha'll be best aat o' t' gate(3):
Shoo'll care nowt for soft tawk an' kisses.
To tell her thy mind, tha mun wait
Whol shoo's getten things ready for t' missis.
When shoo's done,
Shoo'll doff her owd appron, an' slip aat i' t' garden,
an' call tha to come.
Aye, Summer is t' roses' awn queen,
An' shoo sits i' her state, grandly dressed;
But Spring's twice as bonny agean,
When shoo's donned hersen up i' her best
Gaan o' green,
An' stands all i' a glow,- wi' a smile on her lips
an' a leet i' her een.
To t' tips of her fingers shoo's wick.(4)
Tha can see t' pulses beat i' her braa.
Tha can feel her soft breath comin' quick,
An' it thrills tha-tha duzn't knaw haa.
When ye part,
Them daffydaandillies shoo's kissed an' then gi'en
tha--they'll bloom i' thy heart!
1. Pours. 2. Busy. 3 Way. 4. Alive.
Heam, Sweet Heam (1914)
A. C. Watson
When oft at neet I wanders heame
To cosy cot an' busy deame,
My hardest day's wark seems but leet,
When I can get back heame at neet,
My wife an' bairns to sit besaade,
Aroond my awn bit firesaade.
What comfort there's i' steep(1) for me,
A laatle prattler on my knee!
What tales I have to listen tea!
But just at fost there's sike to-dea
As niver was. Each laatle dot
Can fain agree for t' fav'rite spot.
Sike problems they can set for me
'T wad puzzle waaser heeads mebbe.
An' questions hawf a scoor they ask,
To answer' em wad prove a task;
For laatle thowts stray far away
To things mysterious, oot o' t' way.
An' then sike toffer(2) they torn oot,
An' pratty lips begin to poot,
If iverything's nut stowed away
To cumulate frae day to day.
Sike treasures they could niver spare,
But gether mair an' mair an' mair
In ivery pocket. I've nea doot
They've things they think the wo'ld aboot.
An' when their bed-taame's drawin' nigh,
Wi' heavy heead an' sleepy eye,
It's vary laatle din they mak,
But slyly try a nap to tak.
An' when on t' lats(3) they've gone aboon,
I fills my pipe an' sattles do on
To have a comfortable smewk.
An' then at t' news I has a lewk;
Or hods a bit o' talk wi' t' wife,
The praade an' comfort o' my life.
Cawd winds may blaw, an' snaw-flakes flee,
An' neets may be beath lang an' dree,
Or it may rain an' rain agean,
Sea lang as I've my day's wark dean,
I wadn't swap my humble heame
For bigger hoose or finer neame.
If all could as contented be,
There'd be mair joy an' less mis'ry.
1. In store. 2. Odds and ends. 3. Laths.
Then an' Nae
E. A. Lodge
Privately printed by Mr. E. A. Lodge in a volume entitled
Odds an' Ends (n. d.).
When I were but a striplin'
An' bare a scoor year owd,
I thowt I'd gotten brains enew
To fill all t' yeds(1) i' t' fowd.
I used to roor wi' laffin'
At t' sharpness o' my wit,
An' a joke I made one Kersmiss
Threw my nuncle in a fit.
I used to think my mother
Were a hundred year behund;
An' my father--well, my father
Nobbut fourteen aence to t' pund.
An' I often turned it ovver,
But I ne'er could fairly see
Yaeiver(2) sich owd cronies
Could hae bred a chap like me.
An' whene'er they went to t' market,
I put my fillin's in;
Whol my father used to stop me
Wi' "Prithee, hold thy din.
"Does ta think we're nobbut childer,
Wi' as little sense as thee?
When thy advice is wanted,
We'st axe thee, does ta see."
But they gate it, wilta, shalta,
An' I did my levil best
To change their flee-blown notions,
Whol their yeds were laid to t' west.
This happened thirty year sin;
Nae I've childer o' my own,
At's gotten t' cheek to tell me
At I'm a bit flee-blown.
1. Heads. 2. However.
Owd England
From Tykes Abrooad (W. Nicholson, Wakefield, 1911).
Walter Hampson.
Tha'rt welcome, thrice welcome, Owd England;
It maks my een sparkle wi' glee,
An' does mi heart gooid to behold thee,
For I know tha's a welcome for me.
Let others recaant all thi failin's,
Let traitors upbraid as they will,
I know at thy virtues are many,
An' my heart's beeatin' true to thee still.
There's a gladness i' t' sky at bends ower thee,
There's a sweetness i' t' green o' thy grass,
There's a glory i' t' waves at embrace thee,
An' thy beauty there's naan can surpass.
Thy childer enrich iv'ry valley,
An' add beauty to iv'ry glen,
For tha's mothered a race o' fair women,
An' true-hearted, practical men.
There's one little spot up i' Yorkshire,
It's net mich to crack on at t' best,
But to me it's a kingdom most lovely,
An' it holds t' warmest place i' my breast.
Compared wi' that kingdom, all others
Are worthless as bubbles o' fooam,
For one thing my rovin' has towt me,
An' that is, there's no place like hooam.
I know there'll be one theer to greet me
At's proved faithful through many dark days,
An' little feet runnin' to meet me,
An' een at(1) howd love i' their gaze.
An' there's neighbours both hooamly an' kindly,
An' mates at are wor'thy to trust,
An' friends my adversity's tested,
At proved to be generous an' just.
An' net far away there's green valleys,
An' greeat craggy, towerin' hills,
An' breezes at mingle their sweetness
Wi' t' music o' sparklin' rills;
An' meadows all decked wi' wild-flaars,
An' hedges wi' blossom all white,
An' a blue sky wheer t' skylark is singin',
Just to mak known his joy an' delight.
Aye, England, Owd England! I love thee
Wi' a love at each day grows more strong;
In my heart tha sinks deeper an' deeper,
As year after year rolls along;
An' spite o' thy faults an' thy follies,
Whativer thy fortune may be,
I' storm or i' sunshine, i' weal or i' woe,
Tha'll allus be lovely to me.
May thy sons an' thy dowters live happy,
An' niver know t' woes o' distress;
May thy friends be for iver increeasin',
An' thy enemies each day grow less.
May tha niver let selfish ambition
Dishonour or tarnish thy swoord,
But use it alooan agean despots
Whether reignin' at hooam or abrooad.
1. That.
Love and Pie
J. A. Carill
From Woz'ls Humorous Sketches and Rhymes in the East
Yorkshire Dialect (n. d.).
Whin I gor hoired et Beacon Farm a year last Martinmas,
I fund we'd gor a vory bonny soort o' kitchen lass;
And so I tell'd her plooin' made me hungry--thot was why
I awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie.
And efther thot I thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin' large,
And so I ate it for her sake--theer wasn't onny charge;
Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why
She awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.
I wasn't mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin',
She had no chance o' goin' oot for armin' it and walkin'.
But thin I knawed I gor her love whin I could see t' pies;
I knawed her thowts o' me were big by bigness o' their size.
The pies and gell I thowt thot geed,(1) they hardlins could be beaten,
She knawed I'd awlus thowts on her by way t' pies were eaten;
Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why
She awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.
Noo just thoo wait a bit and see; I'm only thod-lad(2) noo,
I moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two;
And thin thoo'll see, or I'm a cauf, I'll mak 'em ring choch bell,
And carry off et Martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin' gell.
And whin thoo's buyin' coats and beats(3) wi' wages thot ye take,
It's I'll be buyin' boxes for t' laatle bits o' cake;
And whin I've gar a missus ther'll be no more askin' why
She awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie.
1. Good. 2. Third lad on the farm. 3. Boots.
I's Gotten t' Bliss (1914)
George H. Cowling
I's gotten t' bliss o' moonten-tops to-neet,
Thof I's i' bondage noo, an' blinnd an' deeaf.
Brethren, I's stoun(1)! an' fand it varry sweet,
Sea strike my neame off, if't be your belief
I's slidin' back.
Last neet, as I were shoggin'(2) on up t' street,
I acted t' thief.
Ye think I's hardened. Ay! I see ye lewvk.
I stell't,(3) it's true; bud, brethren, I'll repay.
I'll pay back ten-foad iverything I tewk,
An' folks may say whate'er they like to say.
It were a kiss,
An' t' lass has promised iv oar ingle-newk
To neame t' day.
1. Stolen. 2. Jogging 3. Stole.
A Natterin' Wife
George H. Cowling
The parson, the squire an' the divil
Are troubles at trouble this life,
Bud each on em's dacent an' civil
Compared wi' a natterin'(1) wife.
A wife at mun argie an' natter,
She maks a man's mortal life hell.
An' that's t' gospel-truth o' t' matter,
I knaws, 'cause I's got yan misel.
1. Nagging.
O! What do ye Wesh i' the Beck
George H. Cowling
"O! What do ye wesh i' the beck, awd wench?
Is it watter ye lack at heame?"
It's nobbut a murderer's shrood, young man,
A shrood for to cover his weam.(1)
"O! what do ye cut i' the slack, awd hag?
Is it fencin' ye lack for your beas'(2)?"
It's nobbut a murderer's coffin, sir,
A coffin to felt(3) his feace."
"O! what do ye greaye(4) at the crossroads, witch?
Is it roots ye lack for your swine?"
"It's nobbut a murderer's grave, fair sir,
A grave for to bury him fine."
"An' whea be-owes(5) coffin an' shrood, foul witch?
An' wheas is the grave i' the grass?"
"This spell I hae woven for thee, dear hairt,
Coom, kill me, an' bring it to pass."
1. Belly. 2. Beasts, cattle.. 3. Hide.
4. Dig 5. Owns,
Part II
Traditional Poems
Cleveland Lyke-wake Dirge(1)
This ya neet, this ya neet,
Ivvery neet an' all;
Fire an' fleet(2) an' can'le leet,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
When thoo frae hence away art passed(3)
Ivvery neet an' all;
To Whinny-moor thoo cooms at last,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
If ivver thoo gav owther hosen or shoon,
Ivvery neet an' all;
Clap thee doon an' put 'em on,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Bud if hosen or shoon thoo nivver gav nean,(4)
Ivvery neet an' all;
T' whinnies 'll prick thee sair to t' bean,(5)
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Frae Whinny-moor when(6) thoo mayst pass,
Ivvery neet an' all;
To t' Brig o' Dreead thoo'll coom at last,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
If ivver thoo gav o' thy siller an' gowd,
Ivvery neet an' all;
At t' Brig o' Dreead thoo'll finnd foothod,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Bud if siller an' gowd thoo nivver gav nean,
Ivvery neet an' all;
Thoo'll doan, doon tum'le towards Hell fleames,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Frae t' Brig o' Dreead when thoo mayst pass,
Ivvery neet an' all;
To t' fleames o' Hell thoo'll coom at last,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
If ivver thoo gav owther bite or sup,
Ivvery neet an' all;
T' fleames 'll nivver catch thee up,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
Bud if bite or sup thoo nivver gav nean,
Ivvery neet an' all;
T' fleames 'll bon(7) thee sair to t' bean,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.