Ye Olde Yorkshire

In this installment we travel to ye olde Yorkshire.  Here is a selection of poems and lyrics in the Yorkshire dialect, accompanied by antique illustrations of Yorkshire. The poems come from “Yorkshire Dialect Poems” edited by F.W. Moorman (no date given, it appears to be circa 1911, with many poems dating earlier). All illustrations come from “Yorkshire Painted and Described” by Gordon Home (also undated, appears late 19th or early 20th century).  I hope very much that you enjoy.

– Carolyn

(originally published in Celtic Guide's November 2013 issue)

An Autumn Day at Guisborough

  A Natterin' Wife

   by  George H. Cowling

     The parson, the squire an' the divil
        Are troubles at trouble this life,

     Bud each on em's dacent an' civil
        Compared wi' a natterin' wife.

     A wife at mun argie an' natter,
        She maks a man's mortal life hell.

     An' that's t' gospel-truth o' t' matter,
        I knaws, 'cause I's got yan misel.

      Heam, Sweet Heam

    by A. C. Watson, 1914

     When oft at neet I wanders heame
     To cosy cot an' busy deame,

     My hardest day's wark seems but leet,
     When I can get back heame at neet,

     My wife an' bairns to sit besaade,
     Aroond my awn bit firesaade.

     What comfort there's i' steep(1) for me,
     A laatle prattler on my knee!

     What tales I have to listen tea!
     But just at fost there's sike to-dea

     As niver was. Each laatle dot
     Can fain agree for t' fav'rite spot.

     Sike problems they can set for me
     'T wad puzzle waaser heeads mebbe.

     An' questions hawf a scoor they ask,
     To answer' em wad prove a task;

     For laatle thowts stray far away
     To things mysterious, oot o' t' way.

     An' then sike toffer(2) they torn oot,
     An' pratty lips begin to poot,

     If iverything's nut stowed away
     To cumulate frae day to day.

     Sike treasures they could niver spare,
     But gether mair an' mair an' mair

     In ivery pocket. I've nea doot
     They've things they think the wo'ld aboot.

     An' when their bed-taame's drawin' nigh,
     Wi' heavy heead an' sleepy eye,

     It's vary laatle din they mak,
     But slyly try a nap to tak.

     An' when on t' lats(3) they've gone aboon,
     I fills my pipe an' sattles do on

     To have a comfortable smewk.
     An' then at t' news I has a lewk;

     Or hods a bit o' talk wi' t' wife,
     The praade an' comfort o' my life.

     Cawd winds may blaw, an' snaw-flakes flee,
     An' neets may be beath lang an' dree,

     Or it may rain an' rain agean,
     Sea lang as I've my day's wark dean,

     I wadn't swap my humble heame
     For bigger hoose or finer neame.

     If all could as contented be,
     There'd be mair joy an' less mis'ry.

1.      In store.  2. Odds and ends. 3. Laths.

The Red Roofs of Whitby

Elphi Bandy-legs

     Elphi bandy-legs,
        Bent, an' wide apart,

     Nea yan i' this deale
        Awns a kinder heart.

     Elphi, great-heead,
        Greatest iver seen,

     Nea yan i' this deale
        Awns a breeter een.

     Elphi, little chap,
        Thof he war so small,

     War big wi' deeds o' kindness,
        Drink tiv him yan an' all.

     Him at fails to drain dry,
        Be it mug or glass,

     Binnot woth a pescod,
        Nor a buss frae bonny lass.

     Written in an old cook-book 
and signed "J. L. 1699"

The West Front of the Church Of Byland Abbey

Love and Pie

    By  J. A. Carill

     Whin I gor hoired et Beacon Farm a year last Martinmas,
     I fund we'd gor a vory bonny soort o' kitchen lass;
     And so I tell'd her plooin' made me hungry—thot was why
     I awlus was a laatle sthrong on pudden and on pie.
     And efther thot I thowt the pie was, mebbe, middlin' large,
     And so I ate it for her sake—theer wasn't onny charge;
     Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why
     She awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.

     I wasn't mich of use, ye knaw, et this here fancy talkin',
     She had no chance o' goin' oot for armin' it and walkin'.
     But thin I knawed I gor her love whin I could see t' pies;
     I knawed her thowts o' me were big by bigness o' their size.
     The pies and gell I thowt thot geed,(1) they hardlins could be beaten,
     She knawed I'd awlus thowts on her by way t' pies were eaten;
     Until it seems t' missus asked her rayther sharply why
     She awlus used t' biggest dish for pudden and for pie.

     Noo just thoo wait a bit and see; I'm only thod-lad(2) noo,
     I moight be wagoner or hoind within a year or two;
     And thin thoo'll see, or I'm a cauf, I'll mak 'em ring choch bell,
     And carry off et Martinmas yon prize-pie-makkin' gell.
     And whin thoo's buyin' coats and beats(3) wi' wages thot ye take,
     It's I'll be buyin' boxes for t' laatle bits o' cake;
     And whin I've gar a missus ther'll be no more askin' why
     She awlus gers oor biggest dish for pudden and for pie.

1. Good.  2. Third lad on the farm.  3. Boots.

Coxwold Village

   Owd England

   By Walter Hampson.

     Tha'rt welcome, thrice welcome, Owd England;
        It maks my een sparkle wi' glee,
     An' does mi heart gooid to behold thee,
        For I know tha's a welcome for me.
     Let others recaant all thi failin's,
        Let traitors upbraid as they will,
     I know at thy virtues are many,
        An' my heart's beeatin' true to thee still.

     There's a gladness i' t' sky at bends ower thee,
        There's a sweetness i' t' green o' thy grass,
     There's a glory i' t' waves at embrace thee,
        An' thy beauty there's naan can surpass.
     Thy childer enrich iv'ry valley,
        An' add beauty to iv'ry glen,
     For tha's mothered a race o' fair women,
        An' true-hearted, practical men.

There's one little spot up i' Yorkshire,
         It's net mich to crack on at t' best,
     But to me it's a kingdom most lovely,
        An' it holds t' warmest place i' my breast.
     Compared wi' that kingdom, all others
        Are worthless as bubbles o' fooam,
     For one thing my rovin' has towt me,
        An' that is, there's no place like hooam.

The Market-place, Beverley

    
       I know there'll be one theer to greet me
        At's proved faithful through many dark days,
     An' little feet runnin' to meet me,
        An' een at howd love i' their gaze.
     An' there's neighbours both hooamly an' kindly,
        An' mates at are wor'thy to trust,
     An' friends my adversity's tested,
        At proved to be generous an' just.

     An' net far away there's green valleys,
        An' greeat craggy, towerin' hills,
     An' breezes at mingle their sweetness
        Wi' t' music o' sparklin' rills;
     An' meadows all decked wi' wild-flaars,
        An' hedges wi' blossom all white,
     An' a blue sky wheer t' skylark is singin',
        Just to mak known his joy an' delight

     Aye, England, Owd England! I love thee
        Wi' a love at each day grows more strong;
     In my heart tha sinks deeper an' deeper,
        As year after year rolls along;
     An' spite o' thy faults an' thy follies,
        Whativer thy fortune may be,
     I' storm or i' sunshine, i' weal or i' woe,
        Tha'll allus be lovely to me.

     May thy sons an' thy dowters live happy,
        An' niver know t' woes o' distress;
     May thy friends be for iver increeasin',
        An' thy enemies each day grow less.
     May tha niver let selfish ambition
        Dishonour or tarnish thy swoord,
     But use it alooan agean despots
        Whether reignin' at hooam or abrooad.

Robin Hood's Bay

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