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)
– 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.
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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