Songs of the Ridings Part 3

The New Englishman

I've lived all my life i' Keighley, I'm a Yorks.h.i.+re 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 s.h.i.+re; But all t' consans o' t' nation, I left to t' parson an' t' squire.

Cla.s.s-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 d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l, lad, Wheer t' pit-fire's b.u.min' 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 Hoa.r.s.e.

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 c.o.c.ked 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' b.u.mmel-clocks(4) Thou's etten hauf a pund.