Part 4

Cow-house.

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, an’ fine havver-bread. But toom’ is t’ seat at t’ table-head, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.

Look, conny 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 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 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.

Oven.

Empty.

Darling.

Waste.

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 i’ t’ mine, I’m wankle 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 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 as can be; Mebbe He reckons fowk’s asleep, Wi’ niver an eye to see. But I hae catched Him at his wark, For all He maks no din; He leaves a track o’ powder’d gowd To show where He has bin.

He’s got big lamps an’ laatle lamps, An’ lamps that twinkles red; Im capped to see Him dout ’em all Afore I’m back i’ bed. But He don’t laik about His wark, Or stop to hark to t’ birds; He minds His business, does the Lord, An’ wastes no gaumless words.

I grow more like Him ivery day, For all I walk so lame; An’, happen, there will coom a time I’ll beat Him at His game. Thrang as Throp’s wife, I’ll dout my lamps Afore He’s gotten so far; An’ then I’ll shout—“I’ve won my race, I’ve bet Him by a star.”

Blow.

Unsteady.

Strange, eerie.

Active.

The Milky Way.

Our Beck

I niver heerd its name; we call it just “Our beck.” Mebbe, there’s bigger streams down Ripon way; But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck! Thou’ll travel far for cleaner, ony day.