Songs of the Ridings | Page 9

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.
2. Fleas 5. Cow-house.
3. 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