Songs of the Ridings Part 5

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: 'Tis our gowden weddin' day.

There sal coom no gaumless fleerer To break in upon our play.

Look, I've stecked(2) wer door and window Let me lap thee i' my arms; Hushed to-neet be ivery murmur, While my kiss thy pale face warms.

1. Empty. 2. Latched

The Hungry Forties

Thou wants my vote, young man wi' t' carpet-bags, Weel, sit thee down, an' hark what I've to say.

It's noan so varry oft wer kitchen flags Are mucked by real live lords down Yelland(1) way.

I've read thy speyks i' t' paper of a neet, Thou lets a vast o' words flow off thy tongue; Thou's gotten facts an' figures, plain as t' leet, An' argiments to slocken(2) owd an' young.

But what are facts an' figures 'side o' truths We've bowt wi' childer' tears an' brokken lives?

An' what are argiments o' c.o.c.kered youths To set agean yon groans o' caitiff(3) wives?

'Twere "hungry forties" when I were a lad, An' fowks were clemmed, an' weak i' t' airm an' brain; We lived on demick'd(4) taties, bread gone sad, An' wakkened up o' neets croodled(5) wi' pain.

When t' quartern loaf were raised to one and four, We'd watter-brewis, swedes stown out o' t' field; Farmers were t' landlords' jackals, an' us poor Tewed in Egyptian bondage unrepealed.

I mind them times when lads marched down our street Wi' penny loaves on pikes all steeped i' blooid; "It's breead or blooid," they cried. "We've nowt to eat; To h.e.l.l wi' all that taxes t' people's fooid."

There was a papist duke(6) that com aleng Wi' curry powders, an' he telled our boss That when fowk's bellies felt pination's teng,(7) For breead, yon stinkin' powders they mun soss.(8)

I went to wark when I were eight yeer owd; I tended galloways an' sammed up coils.

'Twere warm i' t' pit, aboon 't were despert cowd, An' clothes were n.o.bbut spetches,(9) darns an' hoils.

Thro' six to eight I worked, then two mile walk Across yon sumpy(10) fields to t' kitchen door.

I've often fainted, face as white as chalk, Then fall'n lang-length upon wer cobble-floor.

My mother addled seven and six a week, Slavin' all t' day at Akeroyd's weyvin'-shed: Fayther at t' grunstone wrowt, while he fell sick; Steel filin's gate intul his lungs, he said.

I come thee then no thank for all thy speyks, Thou might as weel have spared thisen thy pains; I see no call to laik at ducks an' drakes Wi' t' bitter truth that's burnt intul our brains.

"Corn laws be d.a.m.ned," said dad i' forty-eight; "Corn laws be d.a.m.ned," say I i' nineteen-five.

Tariff reform, choose, how, will have to wait Down Yelland way, so lang as I'm alive.

If thou an' thine sud tax us workers' fooid, An' thrust us back in our owd misery, May t' tears o' our deead childer thin thy blooid, An' t' curse o' t' "hungry forties" leet on thee.

1. Elland. 2. Satiate 3. Infirm 4 Diseased.

5. Bent double 6. Duke of Norfolk 7 Sting.

8. Sip. 9. Patches 10. Swampy.

The Flowers of Knaresborough Forest

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Jane Elliot (1727-1805).

O! day-time is weary, an' dark o' dusk dreary For t' la.s.ses i' t' mistal, or rakin' ower t' hay; When t' kye coom for strippin', or t' yowes for theirclippin', We think on our sowdiers now gone reet away.

The courtin'-gate's idle, nae lad flings his bridle Ower t' yak-stoup,(1) an' sleely cooms seekin' his may; The trod by the river is green as a sliver,(2) For the Flowers o' the Forest have all stown away.

At Marti'mas hirin's, nae ribbins, nae tirin's, When t' G.o.dspenny's(3) addled, an' t' time's coom for play; Nae Cheap-Jacks, nae dancin', wi' t' teamster' clogs prancin , The Flowers o' the Forest are all flown a way.

When at neet church is lowsin', an' t' owd ullet is rousin'

Hissel i' our laithe,(4) 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, s.h.i.+pperds frae Fewston have taen the King's pay, Thackrays frae Dacre have sold ivery acre; Thou'll finnd ne'er a delver(5) 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 la.s.ses mun pray; Ta.s.sey-Will o' t' new biggin, keepin' watch i' his riggin , Lile Jock i' his fo'c'sle, torpedoed i' t' bay.

Mony a la.s.s 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,(6) he'll ne'er wean his gimmers(7): Ay, there's Flowers o' the Forest are withered away.

1. Oak-post.2. Branch of a leafing tree.

3. Earnest money.4 Barn.

5. Quarryman 6. Wagon-shafts 7. Ewe lambs

THE MILLER BY THE Sh.o.r.e AN EAST COAST CHANTY

The miller by the sh.o.r.e 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.(1) 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.(2) 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.(3) 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. ...