Part 7

The New Englishman

I’ve lived all my life i’ Keighley, I’m a Yorkshire 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 my country thowt mich to me.

I were proud o’ my lodge an’ my union, An’ proud o’ my town an’ my shire; But all t’ consans o’ t’ nation, I left to t’ parson an’ t’ squire.

Class-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 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, an’ boasted That t’ sun niver set on her flags, I thowt o’ wer back-to-back houses, Wer childer i’ spetches 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 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.

Until.

Starve.

Arrogant.

Patches.

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, 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 damn them rowpy bells O’ Kirkby Overblow.

An’ when I’ve set off poachin’ At back-end o’ the year, Wi’ ferret, bag an’ snickle, Church bells have catched my ear. “Thou’s takken t’ road to Hell, lad, Wheer t’ pit-fire’s bumin’ 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 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.