Songs of the Ridings Part 6

I pike(4) stray timmer on the sh.o.r.e, An' cuvins(5) on the scar; I know wheer crabs 'll hugger up,(6) I know wheer t' lobsters are.

I've cobles fis.h.i.+n' oot i' t' bay, For whitings, dabs and cods, I've herrin' trawls and salmon nets, I've hooks and lines and rods.

I mill a bit. ...

On darksome neets, back-end 'o t' yeer, I like another sport; I row my boat wheer t' lugger lies, Coom frae some foreign port; A guinea in a coastguard's poke Will mak him steck his een ; So he says nowt when I coom yam Wi' scent and saccharine.

I mill a bit....

1. Settles.2. Heifers.3 .s.h.i.+rts.

4. Pick up 5 Periwinkles 6. Crowd together

The Bride's Homecomming

A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe, A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

A Yorks.h.i.+re Wedding-Rhyme.

Thoo mun hod on tight, my darlin', We've mony a beck to cross; Twix' thy father's hoose an' mine, love, There's a vast o' slacks an' moss.

But t' awd mare, shoo weant whemmle(1) Though there's twee on her back astride; Shoo's as prood as me, is s...o...b..ll, Noo I's fetchin' heame my bride.

A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe, A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Gow! but I feel sae leetsome, Sin I've lived to see this day; My heart is like a blackbod's Efter a shoor i' May.

I' t' sky aboon nea lairock Has sae mich reet to sing As I have, noo I've wedded T' lile la.s.s o' Fulsa Ing.

A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe, A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Does ta hear yon watter bubblin', Deep doon i' t' moorland streams?

It soonds like childer' voices When they're laughin' i' their dreams.

An' look at yon lang-tailed pyots,(2) There s three on 'em, I'll uphod!

Folks say that three's for a weddin', Ay, a pyot's a canny bod.

A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe, A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

I love to feel thee clingin'

Wi' thy hands aroond my breast; Thy bosom's leetly heavin', Like a s.h.i.+p on t' saut waves' crest.

An' thy breath is sweet as t' breezes, That cooms ower t' soothern hills, When t' violet blaws i' t' springtime Wi' t' yollow daffydills.

A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe, A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Is ta gittin' tired, my honey, We'll be heame i' hafe an hour; Thoo'll see our hoose an' staggarth, Wi' t' birk-trees bendin' ower.

There's a lillilow(3) i' our cham'er To welcome my viewly bride ; An' sean we'll be theer oorsels, la.s.s, Liggin' cosy side by side.

A weddin', a woo, A clog an' a shoe, A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

1 Stumble.2 Magpies. 3. Light

The Artist

Lang-haired gauvies(1) coom my way, drawin' t' owd abbey an' brig, All their crack is o' Art-staities an' picturs an' paints; Want to put me on their canvas, donned i' my farmer's rig, Tell me I'm pairt o' t' scenery, stained-gla.s.s windeys an' saints.

I reckon I'm artist an' all, though I niver gave it a thowt; Breeder o' stock is my trade, Mike Pullan o' t' Abbey Close.

What sud a farmer want wi' picturs that bra.s.s has bowt?

All his art is i' t' mistal, wheer t' heifers are ranged i' rows.

Look at yon pedigree bull, wi' an eye as breet as a star, An' a coat that s.h.i.+nes like velvet, when it catches t' glent o' t' sun; Hark to him bealin' for t' cows, wi' a voice like t' thunner on t' scar, Watch them sinews i' t' neck, ripplin' wi' mischief an' fun.

Three generations o' men have lived their lives for yon bull, Tewed at his keep all t' day, dreamed o' his sleekness all t' neet; Moulded the bugth o' his b.u.t.tocks, fas.h.i.+oned the breadth o' his skull-- Ivery one on 'em artists, sculptors o' butcher's meat.

What are your Rubens and Vand.y.k.es anent the craft that is Breed?

Anent the art that is Life, what's figures o' bronze or stone?

Us farmers 'll mould you models, better nor statties that's deead-- Strength that is wick i' the flesh, Beauty that's bred i' the bone.

Bailiff's doughter at t' Hollins, shoo's Breed, an' shoo's Life, an shoo's Art, Bred frae a Westmorland statesman out o' a Craven la.s.s; Carries hersen like a queen when shoo drives to markit i' t' cart: Noan o' yon scraumy-legged(2) painters sal iver git howd o' her bra.s.s

Picturs is reight enough for fowks cluttered up i' Leeds, Fowks that have ne'er hannled beasts, can't tell a tup frae a yowe ; But the art for c.o.o.ntry lads is the art that breathes an' feeds, An' t' finest gallery i' t' worrld is a Yorks.h.i.+re cattle-show.

1. Simpletons. 2. Spindle-legged

MARRA TO BONNEY

What would you do wi' a doughter-- Pray wi' her, bensil(1) her, flout her?-- Say, what would you do wi' a daughter That's marra to Bonney(2) hissen?

I prayed wi' her first, of a Sunday, When chapil was lowsin' for t' neet; An' I laid all her c.o.c.kaloft marlocks(3) 'Fore th' Almighty's mercy-seat.

When I looked for her tears o' repentance, I jaloused(4) that I saw her laugh; An' she said that t' Powers o' Justice Would scatter my words like chaff.

Then I bensilled her hard in her cham'er, As I bensils owd Neddy i' t' cart.

If prayers willent teach thee, my dolly, Happen whip-stock will mak thy tears start.

But she stood there as chuff as a mawmet,(5) Not one chunt'rin(6) word did she say: But she hoped that t' blooid o' t' martyrs Would waish all my sins away.

Then I thought, mebbe floutin' will mend her; So I watched while she cam out o' t' mill, And afore all yon Wyke lads an' la.s.ses I fleered at her reight up our hill.

She winced when she heeard all their girnin', Then she whispered, a sob i' her throat: "I reckon I'll noan think o' weddin'

While women are given their vote."

What would you do wi' a doughter-- Pray wi' her, bensil her, flout her?-- Say, what would you do wi' a daughter That's marra to Bonney hissen?