Songs of the Ridings | Page 9

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."
0. Poured, 2. Slave. 3. Moles.
0. Fleas 5. Cow-house.
0. 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.