Part 5

Clear watter! Why, when t’ sun is up i’ t’ sky, I’ve seen yon flickerin’ shadows o’ lile trout Glidin’ ower t’ shingly boddom. Step thou nigh, An’ gloor at t’ minnows dartin’ in an’ out.

Our beck flows straight frae slacks o’ moorland peat, An’ gethers sweetness out o’ t’ ling an’ gorse; At first its voice sounds weantly saft an’ leet, But graws i’ strength wi’ lowpin ower yon force.

Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks— Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn; Dippers, that under t’ watter play sike pranks, An’ lang-nebbed curlews, swaimish as a fawn.

Soomtimes I’ve seen young otters leave their holes, An’ laik like kitlins ower the silver dew; An’ I’ve watched squirrels climmin’ up the boles O’ beech trees, lowpin’ leet frae beugh to beugh.

Fowers! Why, thou’d fill thy skep, lass, in an hour, Wi’ gowlands, paigles, blobs, an’ sike-like things; We’ve daffydills to deck a bridal bower, Pansies, wheer lady-cows can dry their wings.

Young childer often bathe, when t’weather’s fine, Up yonder, wheer t’ owd miller’s bigged his weir; I like to see their lish, nakt bodies shine, An’ watch ’em dive i’ t’ watter widoot fear.

Ay, yon’s our brig, bent like an archer’s bow, It’s t’ meetin’ place o’ folk frae near an’ far; Young ’uns coom theer wi’ lasses laughin’ low, Owd ’uns to talk o’ politics an’ t’ war.

It’s daft when chaps that sit i’ Parliament Weant tak advice frae lads that talk farm-twang; If t’ coontry goes to t’ dogs, it’s ’cause they’ve sent Ower mony city folk to mend what’s wrang.

They’ve taen our day-tale men to feight for t’ land, Then tell us we mun keep our staggarths full. What’s lasses, gauvies, greybeards stark i’ t’ hand, To strip wer kye, an’ ploo, an’ tew wi’ t’ shool?

But theer, I’ll nurse my threapin’ while it rains, An’ while my rheumatiz is bad to bide; I mun step heamwards now, through t’ yatts an’ lanes, Wheer t’ owd lass waits for me by t’ fireside.

Strangely.

Timid.

Basket.

Kingcups, cowslips, globe-flowers.

Ladybirds.

Smooth.

Day Labourers.

Stock Yards.

Simpletons.

Stiff.

Shovel.

Gates.

Lord George

These verses were written soon after the Old Age Pensions Bill came into operation.

I’d walk frae here to Skipton, Ten mile o’ clarty lanes, If I might see him face to face An’ thank him for his pains. He’s ta’en me out o’ t’ Bastile, He’s gi’en me life that’s free: Five shill’n a week for fuglin’ Death Is what Lord George gives me.

He gives me leet an’ firin’, An’ flour to bak i’ t’ yoon. I’ve tea to mesh for ivery meal An’ sup all t’ afternoon. I’ve nowt to do but thank him, An’ mak’ a cross wi’ t’ pen; Five shillin’ a week for nobbut that! Gow! he’s the jewel o’ men.

I niver mell on pol’tics, But I do love a lord; He spends his savin’s like a king, Wheer other fowks ’ll hoard. I know a vast o’ widdies That’s seen their seventieth year; Lord George, he addles brass for all, Though lots on ’t goes for beer.

If my owd man were livin’, He’d say as I spak true; He couldn’t thole them yallow Rads, But awlus voted blue. An’ parson’s wife, shoo telled me That we’ll sooin go to t’ poll; I hope shoo’s reight; I’ll vote for George, Wi’ all my heart an’ soul.