Part 2

In the creation of this poetry “of the people, by the people” dialect may well be called upon to play a part. Dialect is of the people, though in a varying degree in the different parts of the wide areas of the globe where the English language is spoken; it possesses, moreover, qualities, and is fraught with associations, which are of the utmost value to the poet and to which the standard speech can lay no claim. It may be that for some of the more elaborate kinds of poetry, such as the formal epic, dialect is useless; let it be reserved, therefore, for those kinds which appeal most directly to the hearts of the people. The poetry of the people includes the ballad and the verse tale, lyric in all its forms, and some kinds of satire; and for all these dialect is a fitting instrument. It possesses in the highest degree directness of utterance and racy vigour. How much of their force would the “Biglow Papers” of J. R. Lowell lose if they were transcribed from the Yankee dialect into standard English!

But the highest quality of dialect speech, and that which renders it pre-eminently fitted for poetic use, is its intimate association with all that lies nearest to the heart of the working man. It is the language of his hearth and home; many of the most cherished memories of his life are bound up with it; it is for him the language of freedom, whereas standard English is that of constraint. In other words, dialect is the working man’s poetic diction—a poetic diction as full of savour as that of the eighteenth-century poets was flat and insipid.

It is sometimes said that the use of dialect makes the appeal of poetry provincial instead of national or universal. This is only true when the dialect poet is a pedant and obscures his meaning by fantastic spellings. The Lowland Scots element in Auld Lang Syne has not prevented it from becoming the song of friendship of the Anglo-Saxon race all the world over. Moreover, the provincial note in poetry or prose is far from being a bad thing. In the Idylls of Theocritus it gave new life to Greek poetry in the third century before Christ, and it may render the same high service to English poetry to-day or to-morow. The rise of Provincial schools of literature, interpreting local life in local idiom, in all parts of the British Isles and in the Britain beyond the seas, is a goal worth striving for; such a literature, so far from impeding the progress of the literature in the standard tongue, would serve only to enrich it in spirit, substance and form.

Yorkshire Dialect Poems, 1673-1915 (Sedgwick and Jackson 1916)

Reminiscences.

J. Dover Wilson, Writing in the Athenæum under the pseudonym “Muezzin,” February, 1917. The quotation is from one of four articles, entitled “Prospects in English Literature,” to which the ideas set forth in this Preface owe much.

“York Plays”: The Building of the Ark.

A Dalesman’s Litany

From Hull, Halifax, and Hell, good Lord deliver us. A Yorkshire Proverb.

It’s hard when fowks can’t finnd their wark Wheer they’ve bin bred an’ born; When I were young I awlus thowt I’d bide ’mong t’ roots an’ corn. But I’ve bin forced to work i’ towns, So here’s my litany: Frae Hull, an’ Halifax, an’ Hell, Gooid Lord, deliver me!

When I were courtin’ Mary Ann, T’ owd squire, he says one day: “I’ve got no bield for wedded fowks; Choose, wilt ta wed or stay?” I couldn’t gie up t’ lass I loved, To t’ town we had to flee: Frae Hull, an’ Halifax, an’ Hell, Gooid Lord, deliver me!

I’ve wrowt i’ Leeds an’ Huthersfel’, An’ addled honest brass; I’ Bradforth, Keighley, Rotherham, I’ve kept my barns an’ lass. I’ve travelled all three Ridin’s round, And once I went to sea: Frae forges, mills, an’ coalin’ boats, Gooid Lord, deliver me!

I’ve walked at neet through Sheffield loans, ’T were same as bein’ i’ Hell: Furnaces thrast out tongues o’ fire, An’ roared like t’ wind on t’ fell. I’ve sammed up coals i’ Barnsley pits, Wi’ muck up to my knee: Frae Sheffield, Barnsley, Rotherham, Gooid Lord, deliver me!

I’ve seen grey fog creep ower Leeds Brig As thick as bastile soup; I’ve lived wheer fowks were stowed away Like rabbits in a coop. I’ve watched snow float down Bradforth Beck As black as ebiny: Frae Hunslet, Holbeck, Wibsey Slack, Gooid Lord, deliver me!

But now, when all wer childer’s fligged, To t’ coontry we’ve coom back. There’s fotty mile o’ heathery moor Twix’ us an’ t’ coal-pit slack. And when I sit ower t’ fire at neet, I laugh an’ shout wi’ glee: Frae Bradforth, Leeds, an Huthersfel’, Frae Hull, an’ Halifax, an’ Hell, T’ gooid Lord’s delivered me!

Shelter.

Earned.

Lanes.

Workhouse.

Fledged.

Cambodunum

Cambodunum is the name of a Roman station, situated on a farm at Slack, on the hills above Huddersfield.

Cambodunum, Cambodunum, how I love the sound o’ t’ name! Roman sowdiers belt a fort here, gave th’ owd place its lastin’ fame.

We’ve bin lords o’ Cambodunum for well-nigh eight hunderd yeer; Fowk say our fore-elders bowt it of a Roman charioteer.

Ay, I know we’re nobbut farmers, mowin’ gerse an’ tentin’ kye, But we’re proud of all we’ve stood for i’ yon ages that’s gone by;

Proud of all the slacks we’ve drained, an’ proud of all the walls we’ve belt, Proud to think we’ve bred our childer on the ground wheer Romans dwelt.

“Niver pairt wi’ Cambodunum,” that’s what father used to say; “If thou does, thou’ll coom to ruin, beg thy breead thro’ day 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.