Chapter 2

Cambodunum, Cambodunum, how I love the sound o’ t’ name! Roman sowdiers belt a fort here, gave th’ owd place its lastin’ fame.

We’ve bin lords o’ Cambodunum for well-nigh eight hunderd yeer; Fowk say our fore-elders bowt it of a Roman charioteer.

Ay, I know we’re nobbut farmers, mowin’ gerse an’ tentin’ kye, But we’re proud of all we’ve stood for i’ yon ages that’s gone by;

Proud of all the slacks we’ve drained, an’ proud of all the walls we’ve belt, Proud to think we’ve bred our childer on the ground wheer Romans dwelt.

“Niver pairt wi’ Cambodunum,” that’s what father used to say; “If thou does, thou’ll coom to ruin, beg thy breead thro’ day to day.”

I’ll noan pairt wi’ Cambodunum, though its roof lets in the rains, An’ its walls wi’ age are totterin’; Cambodunum’s i’ my veins.

Ivery stone about the buildin’ has bin dressed by Roman hands, An’ red blooid o’ Roman sowdiers has bin temmed[1] out on its lands.

Often, when I ploo i’ springtime, I leet on their buried hoard— Coins an’ pottery, combs an’ glasses; once I fan’ a rusty sword.

Whisht! I’ll tell thee what I saw here of a moon-lit winter neet— Ghosts o’ Romans i’ their war-gear, wheelin’ slow wi’ silent feet;

Pale their faces, proud their bearin’, an’ a strange gloor i’ their een, As they marched past an’ saluted, while th’ east wind blew snell an’ keen.

Dalewards, dalewards, iver dalewards, th’ hill-fowk wander yeer by yeer, An’ they toss their heeads an’ flout me, when they see me bidin’ here.

I’ve one answer to their fleerin’: “I’ll noan be a fact’ry slave, Breathin’ poison i’ yon wark-shops, diggin’ ivery day my grave.”

“You may addle brass i’ plenty, you’ll noan addle peace o’ mind; That sal bide amang us farmers on th’ owd hills you’ve left behind.”

See that place down theer i’ t’ valley, wheer yon chimleys spit out smoke? Huthersfield is what they call it, wheer fowk live like pigs i’ t’ poke;

Wheer men grind their hearts to guineas, an’ their mills are awlus thrang, Turnin’ neet-time into day-time, niver stoppin’ th’ whole yeer lang.

Cambodunum up on th’ hill-tops, Huthersfield down i’ yon dale; One’s a place for free-born Britons, t’other’s ommost like a jail.

Here we live i’ t’ leet an’ sunshine, free as larks i’ t’ sky aboon; Theer men tew[2] like mowdiwarps[3] that grub up muck by t’ glent o’ t’ moon.

See yon motor whizzin’ past us, ower th’ owd brig that spans our beck; That’s what fowk call modern progress, march o’ human intelleck.

Modern progress, modern ruin! March o’ int’leck, march o’ fooils! All that cooms o’ larnin’ childer i’ their colleges an’ schooils.

Eddication! Sanitation!!— teeming brass reight down a sink; Eddication’s nowt but muckment, sanitation’s just a stink.

Childer mun have books an’ picturs, bowt at t’ most expensive shops, Teliscowps to go star-gazin’, michaelscowps to look at lops.[4]

Farmers munnot put their midden straight afoor their kitchen door; Once a week they’re set spring-cleanin’, fettlin’ up their shippen[5] floor.

Women-fowk have taen to knackin’,[6] wilent speyk their mother-tongue, Try to talk like chaps i’ t’ powpit, chicken-chisted, wake i’ t’ lung.

Some fowk say I’m too owd-feshioned; mebbe, they are tellin’ true: When you’ve lived wi’ ghosts o’ Romans, you’ve no call for owt that’s new.

Weel I know I san’t win t’ vict’ry: son’s agean me, dowters, wife; Yit I’ll hold my ground bout flinchin’, feight so long as I have life.

An’ if t’ wick uns are agean me, I sal feight for them that’s deead— Roman sowdiers i’ their trenches, lapped i’ mail thro’ foot to heead.

Here I stand for Cambodunum, eagle’s nest on t’ Pennine hills, Wagin’ war wi’ modern notions, carin’ nowt for forges, mills.

Deeath alone sal call surrender, stealin’ on me wi’ his hosts, And when Deeath has won his battle, I’ll go seek my Roman ghosts.

Then I’ll hear their shout o’ welcome “Here cooms Bob ’o Dick ’o Joe’s, Bred an’ born at Cambodunum, held th’owd fort agean his foes;

“Fowt for ancient ways an’ customs, ne’er to feshion bent his knee; Oppen t’ ranks, lads, let him enter; he’s a Roman same as we.”

[1] Poured.

[2] Slave.

[3] Moles.

[4] Fleas.

[5] Cow-house.

[6] Affected pronunciation.

Telling the Bees

On many Yorkshire farms it was—perhaps still is—the custom to tell the bees when a death had taken place in the family. The hive had to be put into mourning, and when the arval, or funeral feast, was held, after the return from the grave, small portions of everything eaten or drunk had to be given to the bees in a saucer. Failure to do this meant either the death or departure of the bees.

Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low ; Cauld i’ his grave ligs your maister dear, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low. Nea mair he’ll ride to t’ soond o’ t’ horn, Nea mair he’ll fettle his sickle for t’ corn. Nea mair he’ll coom to your skep of a morn, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.

Muther sits cryin’ i’ t’ ingle nook, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low ; Parson’s anent her wi’ t’ Holy Book, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low. T’ mourners are coom, an’ t’ arval is spread, Cakes fresh frae t’ yoon,[1] an’ fine havver-bread. But toom’[2] is t’ seat at t’ table-head, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.

Look, conny[3] bees, I’s winndin’ black crape, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low ; Slowly an’ sadly your skep I mun drape, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low. Else you will sicken an’ dwine[4] reet away, Heart-brokken bees, now your maister is clay ; Or, mebbe, you’l leave us wi’ t’ dawn o’ t’ day, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.

Sitha ! I bring you your share o’ our feast, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low; Cakes an’ yal[5] an’ wine you mun taste, Bees, bees, murmurin’ low. Gie some to t’ queen on her gowlden throne, There’s foison to feed both worker an’ drone ; Oh ! dean’t let us fend for oursels alone ; Bees, bees, murmurin’ low.

[1] Oven.

[2] Empty.

[3] Darling.

[4] Waste.

[5] Ale.

The Two Lamplighters

I niver thowt when I grew owd I’d tak to leetin’ lamps; I sud have said, I’d rayther pad My hoof on t’ road wi’ tramps. But sin I gate that skelp[1] i’ t’ mine, I’m wankle[2] i’ my heead; So gaffer said, I’d give ower wark An’ leet town lamps atsteead.

At first, when I were liggin’ snug I’ bed, warm as a bee, ’T were hard to rise and get agate As sooin as t’ clock strake three. An’ I were flaid to hear my steps Echoin’ on ivery wall; An’ flaider yet when down by t’ church Ullets would skreek and call.

But now I’m flaid o’ nowt; I love All unkerd[3] sounds o’ t’ neet, Frae childer talkin’ i’ their dreams To t’ tramp o’ p’licemen’ feet. But most of all I love to hark To t’ song o’ t’ birds at dawn; They wakken up afore it gloams, When t’ dew ligs thick on t’ lawn.

If I feel lonesome, up I look To t’ sky aboon my heead; An’ theer’s yon stars all glestrin’ breet, Like daisies in a mead. But sometimes, when I’m glowerin’ up, I see the Lord hissen; He’s doutin’ all yon lamps o’ Heaven That shines on mortal men.

He lowps alang frae star to star, As cobby[4] as can be; Mebbe He reckons fowk’s asleep, Wi’ niver an eye to see. But I hae catched Him at his wark, For all He maks no din; He leaves a track o’ powder’d gowd[5] To show where He has bin.

He’s got big lamps an’ laatle lamps, An’ lamps that twinkles red; Im capped to see Him dout ’em all Afore I’m back i’ bed. But He don’t laik about His wark, Or stop to hark to t’ birds; He minds His business, does the Lord, An’ wastes no gaumless words.

I grow more like Him ivery day, For all I walk so lame; An’, happen, there will coom a time I’ll beat Him at His game. Thrang as Throp’s wife, I’ll dout my lamps Afore He’s gotten so far; An’ then I’ll shout—“I’ve won my race, I’ve bet Him by a star.”

[1] Blow.

[2] Unsteady.

[3] Strange, eerie.

[4] Active.

[5] The Milky Way.

Our Beck

I niver heerd its name; we call it just “Our beck.” Mebbe, there’s bigger streams down Ripon way; But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck! Thou’ll travel far for cleaner, ony day.

Clear watter! Why, when t’ sun is up i’ t’ sky, I’ve seen yon flickerin’ shadows o’ lile trout Glidin’ ower t’ shingly boddom. Step thou nigh, An’ gloor at t’ minnows dartin’ in an’ out.

Our beck flows straight frae slacks o’ moorland peat, An’ gethers sweetness out o’ t’ ling an’ gorse; At first its voice sounds weantly[1] saft an’ leet, But graws i’ strength wi’ lowpin ower yon force.

Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks— Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn; Dippers, that under t’ watter play sike pranks, An’ lang-nebbed curlews, swaimish[2] as a fawn.

Soomtimes I’ve seen young otters leave their holes, An’ laik like kitlins ower the silver dew; An’ I’ve watched squirrels climmin’ up the boles O’ beech trees, lowpin’ leet frae beugh to beugh.

Fowers! Why, thou’d fill thy skep,[3] lass, in an hour, Wi’ gowlands, paigles, blobs,[4] an’ sike-like things; We’ve daffydills to deck a bridal bower, Pansies, wheer lady-cows[5] can dry their wings.

Young childer often bathe, when t’weather’s fine, Up yonder, wheer t’ owd miller’s bigged his weir; I like to see their lish,[6] nakt bodies shine, An’ watch ’em dive i’ t’ watter widoot fear.

Ay, yon’s our brig, bent like an archer’s bow, It’s t’ meetin’ place o’ folk frae near an’ far; Young ’uns coom theer wi’ lasses laughin’ low, Owd ’uns to talk o’ politics an’ t’ war.

It’s daft when chaps that sit i’ Parliament Weant tak advice frae lads that talk farm-twang; If t’ coontry goes to t’ dogs, it’s ’cause they’ve sent Ower mony city folk to mend what’s wrang.

They’ve taen our day-tale men[7] to feight for t’ land, Then tell us we mun keep our staggarths[8] full. What’s lasses, gauvies,[9] greybeards stark[10] i’ t’ hand, To strip wer kye, an’ ploo, an’ tew wi’ t’ shool?[11]

But theer, I’ll nurse my threapin’ while it rains, An’ while my rheumatiz is bad to bide; I mun step heamwards now, through t’ yatts[12] an’ lanes, Wheer t’ owd lass waits for me by t’ fireside.

[1] Strangely.

[2] Timid.

[3] Basket.

[4] Kingcups, cowslips, globe-flowers.

[5] Ladybirds.

[6] Smooth.

[7] Day Labourers.

[8] Stock Yards.

[9] Simpletons.

[10] Stiff.

[11] Shovel.

[12] Gates.

Lord George

These verses were written soon after the Old Age Pensions Bill came into operation.

I’d walk frae here to Skipton, Ten mile o’ clarty[1] lanes, If I might see him face to face An’ thank him for his pains. He’s ta’en me out o’ t’ Bastile,[2] He’s gi’en me life that’s free: Five shill’n a week for fuglin’[3] Death Is what Lord George gives me.

He gives me leet an’ firin’, An’ flour to bak i’ t’ yoon.[4] I’ve tea to mesh for ivery meal An’ sup all t’ afternoon. I’ve nowt to do but thank him, An’ mak’ a cross wi’ t’ pen; Five shillin’ a week for nobbut that! Gow! he’s the jewel o’ men.

I niver mell on pol’tics, But I do love a lord; He spends his savin’s like a king, Wheer other fowks ’ll hoard. I know a vast o’ widdies That’s seen their seventieth year; Lord George, he addles brass for all, Though lots on ’t goes for beer.

If my owd man were livin’, He’d say as I spak true; He couldn’t thole them yallow Rads, But awlus voted blue. An’ parson’s wife, shoo telled me That we’ll sooin go to t’ poll; I hope shoo’s reight; I’ll vote for George, Wi’ all my heart an’ soul.

I don’t know wheer he springs frae, Happen it’s down Leeds way; But ivery neet an’ mornin’ For his lang life I pray. He’s ta’en me out o’ t’ Bastile, He’s gi’en me life that’s free: Five shill’n a week for fuglin’ Death Is what Lord George gives me.

[1] Muddy.

[2] Workhouse.

[3] Cheating.

[4] Oven.

Jenny Storm

Young Jenny, she walked ower t’ ribbed sea-sand, (T’ lairocks sing sae sweetly, O!) Wheer she met a fisher-lad, net i’ t’ hand, As t’ tide cam hoamin’[1] in.

“Jenny, thy farm is twee mile away; (T’ wing-mouse flits sae featly, O!) Say, what is thou latin’[2] at dusk ’o day, When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”

“I’s latin’ waif an’ straif[3] by the feam, (O! esh an’ yak are good for bield) I’s latin’ timmer to big me a heam, As t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”

“What for is thou latin’ waif an’ straif? (T’ summer-gauze[4] floats ower hedge an’ field) What for is thou biggin’ a heam an’ a hafe,[5] When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in?”

“To-morn is t’ day when I sal be wed, (T’ bride-wain’s plenished wi’ serge an’ silk) Jock’s anchored his boat i’ t’ lang road-stead, An’ t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.

To-morn we gan to t’ kirk on t’ brow, (Nesh satin shoon as white as milk) Fisher-folk wi’ me, an’ ploo-lads enow, When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”

“Frae thy jilted lad what gift mun thou get? (T’ lairocks sing sae sweetly, O!)) Twee lucky-steanes, or fine ear-rings o’ jet, When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in?”

“I’ll tak nayther rings nor steanes frae thee, (T’ wing-mouse flits sae featly, O!) But yon token I gave thee gie back to me, Noo t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”

“Thy token is safe i’ t’ Boggle Nook (T’ sea-mew plains when t’ sun clims doon) Thou can finnd it thisel, if thou’ll gan an’ look, When t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.”

Young Jenny, she tripped ower t’ yallow strand, (White ullets[6] dance i’ t’ glent o’ t’ moon) Her step was ower leet to dimple t’ sand, As t’ tide cam hoamin’ in.

I’ t’ Boggle Nook lay t’ lad she sud wed; T’ neet-hags skreek sae dowly, O!) Foul sea-weed cluthered[7] aboon his head, An’ t’ mouth she had kissed wi’ blood was red, As t’ tide cam hoamin’ in.

Nea tear she shed, nea word she spak, (T’ witches gloor sae foully, O!) But an awfish[8] laugh flew ower t’ sea-wrack,[9] As t’ tide cam hoamin’ in.

They carried them heam by t’ leet o’ t’ moon, (T’ neet-hags skreek sae dowly, O!) Him to his grave on t’ brow aboon, Her to yon mad-house i’ Scarbro’ toon, Wheer t’ tide cooms hoamin’ in.

[1] Murmuring.

[2] Searching for.

[3] Flotsam and jetsam.

[4] Gossamer.

[5] Shelter.

[6] Owls.

[7] Tangled.

[8] Eldritch / hideous.

[9] Drifts of sea-weed.

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[1] 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[2] 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,[3] an’ boasted That t’ sun niver set on her flags, I thowt o’ wer back-to-back houses, Wer childer i’ spetches[4] 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[5] 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.

[1] Until.

[2] Starve.

[3] Arrogant.

[4] Patches.

[5] 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,[1] 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[2] bells O’ Kirkby Overblow.

An’ when I’ve set off poachin’ At back-end o’ the year, Wi’ ferret, bag an’ snickle,[3] 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[4] 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.

[1] Unwieldy, grumbling rascals.

[2] Hoarse.

[3] Snare.

[4] Meddle with.

The Gardener and the Robin

Why! Bobbie, so thou’s coom agean! I’m fain to see thee here; It’s lang sin I’ve set een on thee, It’s ommost hauf a yeer. What’s that thou says? Thou’s taen a wife An’ raised a family. It seems thou’s gien ’em all the slip Now back-end’s drawin’ nigh.

I mun forgi’e thee; we’re owd friends, An’ fratchin’s not for us; Blackbirds an’ spinks[1] I can’t abide, At doves an’ crows I cuss. But thou’ll noan steal my strawberries, Or nip my buds o’ plum; Most feather-fowl I drive away, But thou can awlus coom.

Ay, that’s thy place, at top o’ t’ clod, Thy heead cocked o’ one side, Lookin’ as far-learnt as a judge. Is that a worrm thou’s spied? By t’ Megs! he’s well-nigh six inch lang, An’ reed as t’ gate i’ t’ park; If thou don’t mesh him up a bit, He’ll gie thee belly-wark.

My missus awlus lets me know I’m noan so despert thin; If I ate sausages as thou Eats worrms, I’d brust my skin! Howd on! leave soom for t’ mowdiwarps[2] That scrats down under t’ grund ; Of worrms, an’ mawks,[3] an’ bummel-clocks[4] Thou’s etten hauf a pund.

So now thou’ll clear thy pipes an’ sing: Grace after meat, I s’pose. Thou looks as holy as t’ owd saint I’ church wi’ t’ brokken nose. Thou’s plannin’ marlocks[5] all the time, Donned i’ thy sowdier coat; An’ what we tak for hymns o’ praise Is just thy fratchin’ note.

I’ve seen thee feightin’ theer on t’ lawn, Beneath yon laurel tree; Thy neb was reed wi’ blooid, thou looked As chuffy[6] as could be. Thou’s got no mense nor morals, Bob, But weel I know thy charm. Ay, thou can stand upon my spade. I’ll niver do thee harm.

[1] Chaffinches.

[2] Moles.

[3] Maggots.

[4] Beetles.

[5] Tricks.

[6] Haughty.

Lile Doad

The Lord’s bin hard on me, Sir, He’s stown my barn away. O dowly, dowly was that neet He stole lile Doad away!

’Twas Whissuntide we wedded, Next Easter he was born, Just as t’ last star i’ t’ April sky Had faded into t’ morn. Throstles were singin, canty,[1] For they’d their young i’ t’ nest; But birds don’t know a mother’s love That howds her barn to t’ breast.

When wark was ower i’ summer, I nussed him on my knees; An’ Mike browt home at lowsin’-time Wild rasps an’ strawberries. We used to sit on t’ door-sill I’ t’ leet o’ t’ harvist-moon, While our lile Doad would clench his fists An’ suck his toes an’ croon.

But when t’ mell-sheaf[2] was gotten, An’ back-end days set in, Wi’ frost at neet an’ roke[3] by day, His face gate pinched an’ thin. We niver knew what ailed him, He faded like a floor, He faded same as skies’ll fade When t’ sun dips into t’ moor.

Church bells on Kersmas mornin’ Rang out so merrily, But cowd an’ dreesome were our hearts: We knew lile Doad must dee. He lay so still in his creddle, An’ slowly he dwined away, While[4] I laid two pennies on his een On Holy Innocents’ Day.

The Lord’s bin hard on me, Sir, He’s stown my barn away. O, dowly, dowly was that neet He stole lile Doad away!

[1] Briskly.

[2] The last sheaf of the harvest.

[3] Mist.

[4] Until.

His Last Sail

GRANDFATHER

T’ watter is blue i’ t’ offin’, An’ blue is t’ sky aboon; Swallows are settin’ sou’ard, An’ wanin’ is t’ harvist moon. Ower lang I’ve bin cowerin’ idle I’ my neuk by t’ fire-side; I’ll away yance mair i’ my coble, I’ll away wi’ t’ ebbin’ tide.

MALLY

Nay, Gransir, thoo moant gan sailin’, Thoo mun bide at yam to-neet; At eighty-two thoo sudn’t think O’ t’ Whitby fishin’ fleet. North cone’s up on t’ flagstaff, There’s a cap-full o’ wind i’ t’ bay; T’ waves wap loud on t’ harbour bar, Thoo can hardlins fish to-day.

GRANDFATHER

It’s leansome here i’ t’ hoose, lass, When t’ fisher-folk’s at sea, Watchin’ yon eldin[1] set i’ t’ fire Bleeze up, dwine doon, an’ dee. An’ t’ sea-gulls they coom flyin’ Aboon our red roof-tiles; They call me doon the chimley, An’ laugh at other whiles.

“There’s mack’rel oot at sea, lad,” Is what I hear ’em say; “Their silver scales are glestrin’ breet, Look oot across the bay; But mack’rel’s not for thee, lad, For thoo’s ower weak to sail.” My een wi’ saut tears daggle[2] When I hear their mockin’ tale.

MALLY

Dean’t mind their awfish[3] skreekin’, They ’tice folk to their death; Then ride aboon yon billows An’ gloor at them beneath. They gloor at eenless corpses Slow driftin’ wi’ the tide, Deep doon amang the weedy wrack, Wheer t’ scaly fishes glide.

GRANDFATHER

I’d fain lig wi’ my kinsfolk, Fore-elders, brothers, sons, Wheer t’ star-fish shine like twinklin’ leets, An’ t’ spring-tide watter runs. T’ kirkyard’s good for farm-folk, That ploo an’ milk their kye, But I could sleep maist soondly Wheer t’ ships gan sailin’ by.

T’ grave is whisht[4] an’ foulsome, But clean is t’ saut sea-bed; Thoo can hark to t’ billows dancin’ To t’ tune o’ t’ tide owerhead. Yon wreaths o’ floors i’ t’ kirkyard Sean wither an’ fade away, But t’ sea-tang wreaths round a droon’d man’s head Will bide while Judgment Day.