Part 11

When at neet church is lowsin’, an’ t’ owd ullet is rousin’ Hissel i’ our laithe, 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 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, he’ll ne’er wean his gimmers: Ay, there’s Flowers o’ the Forest are withered away.

Oak-post.

Branch of a leafing tree.

Earnest money.

Barn.

Quarryman.

Wagon-shafts.

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. 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. 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. 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 stray timmer on the shore, An’ cuvins on the scar; I know wheer crabs ’ll hugger up, 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. ...

Settles.

Heifers.

Shirts.

Pick up.

Periwinkles.