Frederic William Moorman

From Hull, Halifax, and Hell, good Lord deliver us. A Yorkshire Proverb. It's hard when fowks can't finnd their wark

A song I sing o' t' Yorkshire dales, That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea; Frae t' breast o' t' fells, wheer t' cloud-rack sails,

Cambodunum is the name of a Roman station, situated on a farm at Slack, on the hills above Huddersfield. Cambodunum, Cambodunum, how I love the sound o' t' name!

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent, Wheer the sun is shinin' through yon cloud's wide rent, Welcoom back to t' moorlands,

GRANDFATHER T' watter is blue i' t' offin', An' blue is t' sky aboon;

The Lord's bin hard on me, Sir, He's stown my barn away. O dowly, dowly was that neet

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,

What would you do wi' a doughter-- Pray wi' her, bensil(1) her, flout her?-- Say, what would you do wi' a daughter

Mary Mecca,(1) Mary Mecca, I'm fain to see thee here, A Devon lass to fill my glass

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer: That's what I sal awlus say. Draw thy chair a little nearer,

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!

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;

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,

Draw back my curtains, Mary, An' oppen t' windey wide; Ay, ay, I know I'm deein',

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

There's dew upon the meadows, An' bats are wheelin' high; The sun has set an hour sin',

She leaned o'er her latticed casement, The Flower of Wensleydale; 'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Jane Elliot (1727-1805).

Why! Bobbie, so thou's coom agean! I'm fain to see thee here; It's lang sin I've set een on thee,

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

Ay, I'm a ranter, so at least fowks say; Happen they'd tell t' same tale o' t' postle Paul. I've ranted fifty yeer, coom first o' May,

The miller by the shore am I, A man o' despert sense; I've fotty different soorts o' ways

I've lived all my life i' Keighley, I'm a Yorkshire artisan; An' when I were just turned seventy

I niver thowt when I grew owd I'd tak to leetin' lamps; I sud have said, I'd rayther pad