Ethel's favourite... Footprints

One night, a woman had a dream.

She dreamed she was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Across the sky flashed scenes from her life.

For each scene she noticed two sets of footprints in the sand.
On belonged to her, the other to the Lord.

When the last scene of her life flashed before her,
she looked back at the footprints in the sand.

She noticed that many times along the path of his life
there was only one set of footprints.

She also noticed that it happened at the very lowest
and saddest times of her life.

This bothered her so, and she questioned the Lord:
"Lord, you said that once I decided to follow you,
that I you would walk with me all the way.
But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times of my life,
there is only one set of footprints.
I don't understand why, when I wanted you most, you would leave me."

The Lord replied:
"My daughter, I love you and would never leave you.
During your times of trial and suffering,
when you see only one set of footprints,
it was there that I carried you."

  
Ethel, at 100 years of age, sat on a bench commissioned in celebration of her birthday and bought by her family and many friends.

T'Messiah

Ted Buckley wer a smart lookin chap, yer naw,
When ee donned issen up a courtin ta goa.
E courted a lass a little bit soft, 
Bu'rree warn't much better, cos ee went middlin oft.

E went fower times a week, an sometimes moor,

E got there in good time, but he din't know when ter goa.

But ther once come a neet when he were rather la,
T'poor lass din't know whether ee'd got lost er wat.

It were't Sunda afoor Christmas, ah well remember t'day,
Cos early snow ad fallen an reight thick it lay.
Nine o'clock struck an ther wer no sight a Ted
But she's noan 'ev expected him, if shoo'd been reight i'er 'ed.

Owivver shoo edn't much longer ta wait
Afoor sh'erd somda rettlin' at t'gate.

In a jiffy t'doar oppened an Ted walked straight in
Sher looked as farl as sher could, burr'ed same old grin.

"It's a rough neet," He said as ee sat dahn i't chair.
"Ther's bin many a war," shoo said wi a sneer.

"Ther's naw need ter blame it all o't snow.
Wheer tha bin callin, that's wharr Ah'd like ter know!"

He said, "Thah think Ah've bin ter t'pub suppin ale,
But tha'll change thi tune when Ah tells yer mi tale."

Ah've bin tert chepil t'arken to t'choir,
Ther've bin givin selections through 'Andel's Messiah.
T'new parson were theer burree dint speak long,
Cos ee wanted t'arken to this service o'song.

Ah can't remember each item just as it went,
But Ah'll try t'explain what Ah thowt it meant.

Ther sang o' some sheep as ad gotten astray
An bi what Ah understand ther'd all gone a different way.
Ah don't naw ah many or ah much ther cost,
But that dunt matter - main thing is, ther wer lost.

Then a young man gorrup an sung bi issen
Whether ther wer 'is sheeep at were lost, Ah sure ah can't tell.
Cos he sed ivvery mahntain an 'ill bi med low,
An Ah thowt - aye-up - ther bahn ter find t'sheep, choos weer ther goa.

Then a young lass gorrup an in a reight clear voice
Shoo said the'd no need ter sorrow, but greatly rejoice.
It wer a stiff piece - Ahm shoor it wer 'ard wark,
But shoo sang it as easy as if shoo wer a lark.

Ah axed oo sher wer, so's Ah could eer er again some day,
(Shoo's leadin serpranna an ther call er Miss Ray)
Then up jumped a chap - ee, an e wer cross,
Ah wondered if ther'd ta'en is sheep fer't them that wer lost!

E said ther'd imagined a vain thing an, ee, an e wer in a rage,
An t'organist banged as if e wer in for a wage!
T'audience wer fair suited - yer could tell bi ther face,
When 'id finished 'is piece an sat dahn in 'is place.

T'other singers were that mad at 'im bein sa clever,
Ther gorrup an sang it'd rain fer ivver an ivver.
So ah med fer t'doar as fast as Ah could,
Ah thowt Ah mun be off if ther's bahn ter be a flood."

So when e'd finished tellin 'er abaht t'Messiah,
E sed, "Nah then - attah satisfied, Sofia?"
Shoo sed, "EE, Ted, that sahnded fair grand."
An shoo'd go see it ersen next time it kem rahnd.

Th'Inkeeper's Story

Breakfast? Nay lass, Ah'm not 'ungry.
Ah nivver thowt abaht owt ter eat.
An Ah'm as breet as a button this morning,
When Ah thowt Ah'd bi deed on mi feet.

Last neet! Ther'll nivver be owt like it
If Ah live ter bi 'undred an ten.
Ah've bin changed owerneet somehow, Mary,
An Ah'm capped how it 'appened an when.

Yer'll recall that young couple through Nazareth?
We'd noweer ter put em in t'inn.
Well Ah fun 'em a place dahn in t'cowshed
But t'weather wer awfully thin.

So when Ah'd gor all't visitors settled,
An you wer asleep in yer bed,
Ah loisened owd Jess through 'er kennel
An wended mi way dahn ter t'shed.

It wer clearer than dayleet in t'farmyard
Almost midneet it wer - t'moon at full.
Not a glimmer from t'houses in't village,
An snow covered t'ground soft as wool.

They'd ed nowt ter eat, ter mi knowledge,
So ah took 'em a bite an a sup,
An some oil in case t'lamp wanted trimmin,
An swaddlin ter lap t'bairn up.

Then Ah fended ter t'cows an ter Jenny,
...Ah've nivver know t'cattle ser calm...
The Ah browt some clean straw dahn fer t'manger,
Just ter mek sure t'bairn wer warm.

Ah don't think they noticed mi scare like,
As Ah roamed abaht sidin't place through,
They were ta'en up wi looking at t'bairn
An 'is mother 'as same name as you!

Such a bonny wee bairn he is, Mary,
Poor thing almost lost among't straw.
But Ah couldn't disturb 'em much longer,
So Ah left 'em an stood aht in t'snow.

A still neet it wer, strange an quiet,
As Ah leaned up agen doar jamb.
Then Ah fancied Ah heard t'sound o' music
As though t'star wer singin a psalm.

At fust, well, Ah thowt Ah wer dreamin!
But they heard it on t'illtop an all.
An Ah seed 'em come running daht t'illside
An mekkin ther way dahn ter t'stall.

It wer Reuben an Shep an young Jimmy,
They'd bin up at t'top, tendin t'sheep.
Ther wer telled ter com dahn inter t'village
Weer ther'd find t'little bairn asleep.

Nah't strangest of all wer owd Rueben,
Leavin t'lambs nobbut yesterday born,
But all e would day when Ah asked 'im
Wer "T'Lord'll tak care on i's own."

Well, sommat wer drawin mi, Mary.
So Ah went in wi Reub an 'is men.
Wi stood a bit just lookin at t'bairn,
But Ah 'ardly know what 'appened then!

Wi went dahn on ahr knees, ther in t'stable,
While t'mother took t'bairn on 'er knees,
An she crooned a soft lullaby ower it,
While we knelt Reuben, Shep, Jim an me.

Nah, God's bairns, all on 'ems lovely,
Why ahr own wer a bonny wee thing,
An wi play wi 'em, nurse 'em an love 'em,
Yet we knelt ther like wi would to a king.

So that's why Ah'm noan varry 'ungry,
Ah's like ter walk t'ills all day long,
But we've t'visitors' meals ter see ter,
Varry soon we'll both on us bi throng!

But fust, walk wi mi ter t'cowshed,
Cos Ah've a feelin at someday, when we're owd,
We'll bi glad we looked after that bairn ther,
An fun it a place out o't cowd.

Ah'm Heavy on Cloas

Ah'v rivven mi britches!
Mi Mam'll play 'eck...
Ah wer just climin't gate
when ah copped 'em o't sneck.

Summat snagged on mi jumper
when Ah crawled i' mi den
nah't wool under't armoiles
'as unravelled itsen.

Ah've torn mi best coit,
an if that warn't enough,
Ah'v loisened all't stitches
arahnd mi shirt cuff.

Ah've lost a new glove -
nah ah'v only got one.
An ah put mi thumb through mi sock
when Ah were pullin it on!

Mi Mam's allus naggin'
but shoo didn't arf shrike
when Ah used mi shirt flap
fer cleanin' mi bike.

Ther's a split in mi booit -
it shows all mi toas.
No, ther's no doubt abaht it,
Ah'm 'eavy on cloas.

To Catch An 'Erring

'Ther's nowt so queer as Yorkshire Folk!'
is an adage as old as time.
So I 'ope yer find amusin'
this true tale Ah tell as rhyme...

Mi Grandad loved 'is garden -
ther wer nowt 'e couldn't grow.
An' ivvery year, when summer cem,
'e always stole the show.

'Is pals wer not malicious,
they just meant ter pull 'is leg,
An so devised a little scheme
ter tek 'im dahn a peg.

They said they'd got some "special seeds"
tha nowbody could grow...
Mi Grandad sed 'ed heard o them,
t'germination rate wer slow.

Convinced that they would grow fer 'im
'e gave a knowin' wink.
If nothin' showed within a month
'ed buy 'em all a drink!

The seeds 'e fed on nitrates, potash,
an' the days went by...
But nothin' cem. Per'aps a mulch
o'fish bits he'd try.

So Gran'ma went shoppin' ter't
fishmongers t'next day.
Two cronies wives wer gossipin'
as shoo passed she heard one say:

Her husband 'ad confided
that the seeds would niiver grow.
For all Grandad 'ad planted was
sum dried up 'errin roe!

At first Gran'ma wer furious,
but then shoo hatched a plan:
in cunning, female, devious ways
shoo wud protect 'er man.

Shoo rose befoar the crack o'dawn
an' down the garden sped.
Shoo 'ad the job completed befoar
Grandad left 'is bed.

The month was up! An 'e 'ad failed.
They'd all bi rahn ter cheer.
What hurt 'im most of all, of course,
wer payin' fo the beer!

At openin' time the men cem rahnd
ter claim their jars of ale.
They'd all swarmed dahn the garden path
while Grandad turned quite pale...

They stopped in blank amazement
at the sight that met their eyes...
For row on row of silver fish
stood pointed ter the skies!

The men collapsed in merriment -
they'd 'ad their bit o' fun.
An as they went, Gran'ma was pleased
that justice 'ad bin done!

Black Leaded Grate

Ah sat t'other neet in front or t'gas fire,
Medditatin' on it's trim, neat glow.
An' likenin' it ta t'black leaded grate
Wi used ta gather rahnd long ago.

Na flickin' it's iron face wi a duster,
Na regulatin' it's fickle flames wi a knob,
It needed grit, spit an' elbow grease
ta put a shine on that 'ard worked hob.

An then wer't ashes ter riddle, flue's ta rake owt
afore't fire could bi reset.
While ivvery week it wer takken ta bits
an geean a Friday mornin's sweat.

Wi jaded joy ya put match ta t'paper, t'stides, an'
big shiny lumps a coal.
Hacked from't pit at' bottom at' street, chucked a ton
at a time in'ta t'coal-ole.

Naa when it gets dark afore teatime, an neats seem
twenty-four hours long,
When't wind rattles rain agean winder pain, an' whistles
a wild wierd wintry song...

Though life's easiest bah't t'black leaded grate,
wi it's soot an' belchin' smoke,
I miss tracin' t'pictures in it's primature hearth
an' hevin' a reight good poke!

Ode Ter T'stove

By Lily Duncan-Birkhead

Aar Ida's hed a Yorkist stove -
30 years a more,
It's bin 'er special pride an joy
since t'day it cem thru't doar.

Together they reached culinary heights
no-one could surpass,
T'stars of any kitchen - this Yorkist stove
an' Yorkshire lass.

T'delights of 'ome cookin -
she shares owt wi a generous hand.
Crusty bread, sponges, apple pies -
they mek t'tastiest food in t'land!

Tho' wi good owd Yorkshire puddin'
they do o'course excel -
They 'av their "exotic dishes"
an secret recipes as well.

A dainty dish fo't invalid,
A banquet served wi wine -
Their table tempt t'most finicky
while't biggest gourmet wouldn't pine.

But time, alas, has taken it's toll,
Wi't "screwmatics" she's naa beset -
While't owd stove he's got just abaht
ivvery thing owd stoves can get!

Still, they struggle on together -
though 'er gifted hands a not sa quick,
And t'owd stove can't work at all,
wi owt it propped up wi a stick!

That's why she meks na promises -
"It depends," is all she'll say -
But when t'winds in reight direction, they'll bake
an then gi' it all away.

They find comfort in a coal fire -
it's warmth soothes their aches an' pains.
While memories sit in it's shadows,
an' pictures glow in it's flames.

But t'owd stove's under sentence naa -
well, it's all wore owt ...an' that...
Sa it's daft ter brek yer 'eart  -
it's not like a dog or a cat!

But wimmin can be funny...
the'll bi no hoddin' back t'tears on't day
they fling it on a dust cart
an' tek aar Ida's stove away.

A Nun's Prayer

Lord, Thou knowest better than Ah know miself,
That Ah'm growin' older an will some day be old.
Keep me from that fatal 'abbit o thinkin' Ah must say summit
on ivvery subject an on ivvery occasion.

Release mi from cravin ter straighten aht ivverybody's affairs.
Mek mi thoughful, but not moody, like.
'Elpful but not bossy.

Wi mi vast store o' wisdom, it seems a pitty
not ter use it all...
but Thou knowest Ah want a few friends at't end.

Keep mi mind free o' recital of endless details;
give mi wings ter get ter't point!

Seal mi lips on mi aches an' pains.
Thou knowest they're increasin',
an love o' reheasin' 'em is becomin' sweeter as t'years gu by.

Ah daren't ask fer't grace enough ter enjoy 'tales o' other's pains...
Bur'elp mi endure 'em wi patience.

Ah daren't ask fer improved memory, but fer
'umility an' a lessin' cockiveness
when mi memory seems ter clash wi that of others.

Teach mi t'glorious lesson that, occasionally,
Ah might bi mistaken...

Keep mi reasonably sweet.
Ah dunt want ter be a saint - but a sour old
lass is one o'crownin' works o't devil.

Gi'mi't ability ter see good things in unexpected places.
An talents in unexpected people.
An give mi, O Lord,
a bit o' grace ter tell 'em so.

Ahmen.

Ah love ter live!

To-day, dear Lord, Ah'm 80 and ther's much Ah haven't done.
Ah hope, dear Lord, you'll let mi live until Ah'm 81.

But then, if Ah 'aven't finished all Ah want to do,
Would you please let me stay a while until Ah'm 82?

So many places Ah want ter go, so much Ah want ter see,
Do you think that you could manage ter mek it 83?

The world is changin' varry fast - ther's surely much in store -
Ah'd like varry much ter live until Ah'm 84.

An if by then Ah'm still alive...
Ah'd like ter stay til 85!

More planes will be up in't air bi then, so Ah'd really like ter stick
An see what 'appens ter the world when Ah turn 86.

Ah knaw, dear Lord, it's much ter ask (an' it must bi nice in 'eavan)
But I'd really like ter stay until Ah'm 87.

Ah know bi then Ah won't bi fast - an many a time will be late -
But it'd be so pleasant ter be arahnd at 88.

Ah'll 'av seen so many things bi then, an' 'ad a wonderful time,
So Ah'm sure that Ah'll bi willing ter leave at 89 ...maybe!

Just one more thing Ah'd like ter say, dear Lord, I thank yer kindly -
But if it's alreight with you, Ah'd love ter live past 90!

Ah'm verry well, thank you!

Ther's nothin the matter wi me,
Ah'm as healthy as can be!

Ah 'av arthritis in both mi knees,
An when Ah talk, Ah talk wi a wheeze.

Mi pulse is weak, mi blood is think,
But Ah'm awfully well fer't shape Ah'm in.

Arch supports Ah 'av fer mi feet,
Or Ah wouldn't be able ter be aht on't street.
Sleep is denied me neight after neight,
Bur ivvery mornin' Ah feind Ah'm alreight.

Mi memory is failing, mi 'eads in a spin,
But Ah'm awfully well fer't shape Ah'm in.

The moral o'this - as mi tale Ah unfold -
Fer you an me who are gettin' old -
It's better ter say: "Oh, Ah'm fine!" wi' a grin,
Than ter let folks know't shape we're in.

How do I know that mi youth is all spent?
Well, mi 'gerrup an go' has gorrup an' went!
But Ah really don't mind, when I think wi a grin,
Of all them grand places my 'gorrup' 'as bin.

Old age is golden - Ah'v 'eard it said.
But sometime Ah wonder as Ah ger inter bed,
Wi mi ears in a draw, an' a mi teeth in a cup,
Mi specs on't table until Ah gerrup...

E're sleep overtakes me Ah say ter myself,
Is there anything else Ah can lay on't shelf?

When Ah wer young, mi slippers wer red,
Ah could kick mi 'eels reight ovver mi 'ead.
When Ah gor'older mi slippers were blue...
But Ah could still dance the whole neight through.

Now Ah'm old an mi slippers are black,
Ah walk ter't shops and puff mi way back!
Ah gerrup each mornin' an' dust off mi wits
An pick up the papers an' read the 'obits'.

If mi name is still missin, Ah know Ah'm not dead.
So Ah 'av mi breakfast ...an go back ter bed!

Ah think Ah should post this

Just a line ter say that Ah'm livin.
That Ah'm not amongst the dead.
Though Ah'm gettin' more forgetful,
An mixed up in mi 'ead.

Ah'v got use ter mi arthritis,
Ter mi dentures Ah'm resigned.
Ah can manage mi bi-focals,
But, Oh God, Ah miss mi mind!

Sometimes Ah can't remember,
When Ah'm standin' by the stair,
If Ah should gu'up fer somethin'
Or if Ah'v come down from there.

An before't lader so often
Mi mind is full o' doubt,
Nah did Ah put some foid away
Or come ter ger it aht?

An sometimes when it's night time,
Wi mi hair net on mi 'ead,
Ah hardly know if Ah'm retirin'
Or just gerrin aht er bed!

If it's not my turn ter write, dear,
Ah 'ope yer won't get sore.
Ah think Ah may 'av written
An Ah don't want ter be a bore.

So remember, Ah do love you.
An Ah wish that you were near.
But nah it's time ter post this
An ter say goodbye, my dear.

At last, Ah stood beside't post box,
An mi face it sure got red...
When Ah should 'av posted this ter yer,
Ah opened it instead!

Harvest Festival

Sam Hardy wer a Blacksmith, an a Chapel man an' all,
He had a bit a gardin, backin on ter t'Smithy wall.
An if yer stopped fer t'time o'day, or watched 'im settin hawwers,
Yer'd ev e'hear im on abaht his vegetable marrers.

Na Sam could grow a marrer, wi mun gi t'owd man 'is due,
Ee would nurse it like a bairn, from t'day that it wer sew.
But when 'e took t'first prize for it at t'Agricultural show
'Is head swelled like 'is marrers, yer could a'most watch it grow.

Na, it wer t'Harvest Festival, abaht which Ah'm relating,
A t'ned afore a dew of us wer busy decorating,
When up cum Sam, all puffed wi pride, an 30 pun a marrer,
"It wer ower big ter lug," ee says "So Ah've b'rowt it in mi barrer."

Ee trailed it inter t'Chapel, then 'is face went black as sin,
For there in't front aht t'table stood what looked like his marrer's twin.
"Who owns this thing?" says he, "Matthias Brown, Ah'd say,
"'E'll nivver grow a marrer if he tries 'till Judgement Day!"

He put it under t'pulpit, an in place he puts 'is own,
He stuck it up in t'middle twixt a pork pie an' a brawn,
A jar o' pickled onions an a quarter pun o' tea
An there it stood 'til Sunday for ivvery one ter see.

Na Munda neight we t'sale o' fruit, an Sam wer t'auch-ineer
An weer folk got ther money from, it fair capped me ter see.
Why, 18 pence a piece wer bid for t'eggs from ahr Jinnie
An a bunch o' grapes from t'parson's wife went up ter half a guinea.

Sam selled the pickled cabbage and he selled the Hazel pears,
The balsams and the damsons, it were t'best we'd done fer years!
"An nah then, Mr Smith," says he, "Just reach thi arms full stretch,
"Hand up that 1st prize marrer, an we'll see what it'll fetch.

"Now here", he says, "We've summat, why it must be worth a quid,
"But don't all shout at once, friends, ah'd like ter hear yer bid.
Yer've not seen owt like this before, in anybody's garden."
When pipped up little Tommy Briggs "Ah'll bid yer four pence fardin."

However, t'price got better, an I bid half a crown,
An it went up ter half a sovereign afore Sammy knocked in dahn.
"An now," he said, "They tell there's another somewhere around
But it weren't worth pullin, friends, it should ah stopped in t'ground."

"It calls itself a marrer, but Ah wouldn't vouch fer that
It's a yeller streaked cucumber, an it's run a bit ter fat.
Ah'm just not sure who owns it, but he has a lot ter larn."
"But surely, Sam," says t'steward, "Tha owt ter know, it's thine!"

"Ah swapped 'em rahnd this mornin, Ah thowt ivverybody knew.
Ah'll 'ev to beg yer pardon if Ah misremembered you.
Awivver, give us t'same a Matt's and yer can tek it hame.
It'll last yer all winter if yer mek it inter jam!"

An so Sam learnt 'is lesson, it wer one 'e should ev known:
Don't miscall a marrer when it's a marrer to thi own!
An summat else of which t'owd man were well an truely cured -
If yer want t'best of a bargain, nivver trust t'festival steward!

Some'dy Small

The housework's done and everythin shinin,
I think I'll have a half-hours reclinin,
But there's a knock at t'doar and some'dy small
Is waiting ter tumble into the hall.

Two laughing eyes, an infectious grin,
"Come on, Gran'ma, let mi in!"
"You can't come in, because Ahm aht!"
"Don't be silly, Gran'ma!" is the shaout.

So I oppen t'doar an over the step
Comes one small bundle, brimmin wi pep,
"Hav yer gor any biscuits for me today?"
"Non at all, darling." I hasten to say.

So off she goes, ter t'biscuit tin,
Lifts off t'lid and peeps within.
"Grandma, you hav! Can I hav two?"
"Of course, ma petal, there's plenty for you!"

Ther's crumbs on t'floar, an beakers o pop,
(Excuse me a moment while Ah get mi mop)
Ther's a mess on t'table, 'andmarks on t'doar,
Just look around - Ah'm tidy n'more!

Then she gives me a kiss, an hugs mi so tight,
An waves an waves until she's aht a sight.
So I clean up the 'ouse, Ah'm tidy once more,
But please, God, keep her knockin at my front doar.

Frustration

Oh, Ah'm so sick o' the sink!
It's a monster I just can't abide.
It's won't go away, it's there ivvery day,
An' Ah'm stuck there like a stamp ter the side.

An' when we go out for the day,
Ah come back all happy an' gay!
Then they yell fer tea, an' go an sit dahn,
so it's me ter't sink, an can't ger away.

Ah dream of the Himalayas,
Picture the sun on the rocks,
Then Ah go ter the foot of the stairs
An the avalanche fails - it's all socks!

Ah think Ah'll watch the TV -
Emmerdale Farm, so Ah think -
But just fer a change, what do Ah see?
A new powder fer cleanin' t'sink!

At Christmas wi eat an' wi drink,
Ah'v got a big smile on mi face,
'Till Ah see t'sink, full ter the brink,
Wi'v used ivvery pot in the place!

Ours is white - like that mint wi thi 'ole -
In it sits my washin' up bowl.
It's a beautiful blue, when it's not full o' spuds,
Or Ah'm up ter mi elbow in suds!

One day when Ah fade away,
If Ah go up ter them pearly gates,
Ah just 'ope an' pray that Peter will say:
"Up 'ere wi use paper plates!"

Afore't Weddin

A weddin's a weddin, but nivver heed that
"It's not goin' to be a big do!"
Just nearest relations on 'is side an ahrs;
beyond that, not one mother's son.

It's us as pay's t'piper, and we're calling't tune
and that's what Ah'll stick to fer one.

...but wi might stretch a point for mi Aunt Alice Ann,
an' even mi cousin, John Spink.
An if there's fowks think as it's cos they've some brass,
well, all I can say is: "Let 'em think!"

Still, it's noa fair use askin' fer gossip an' talk,
ther's enough o' that knockin abaht!
So we'll ask mi Aunt Ada an' their Mary Jane,
cos it's very well known that they've nowt.

But there's mi Aunt Martha - yer knaws what shoos like!
Why, it's fifty ter one yer c'n bet,
if we asked mi Aunt Ada an' din't ask 'er
there'd bi murder done t'next time they met.

An if Mary Jane comes, mi Aunt Martha'll expect
ter bring all 'er tribe, ivvery one!
An' there's T'Lord knaws ahh many as much reight as them -
Ah doan't knaw what's ter be done.

One leads to another, they're still mountin' up;
Ah doan't knaw whativer to do.
We heven't put one dahn on t'other side yet
an wi'v gotten ter seventy-two!

We'll hev ter start reight at t'beginnin' agean,
wi'v letten it all go ter far.
If this here's a weddin, t'next weddin we hev,
Ahs'll tell 'em ter stop as they are!

Bah't Willie's Hat

By Lily Duncan-Birkhead

Wi allus draw raffle tickets
from Willie Wainwright's hat -
It's a tradition at t'luncheon club,
Ivvery body knows that.

A natty check, wi a cheeky feather,
Sort a rakish an' debonair,
Though t'rouhned t'brim, alas, like Willie,
It's showing signs a wear.

T'tickets wa sold, prizes set owt,
Eager-faced rouhned t'table folk sat.
T'counterfoils wa ready, neatly folded -
all we wanted wer Willie's 'at.

"T'sun wer shinin," Willie tried to explain,
'Is eyes downcast at 'is sin.
The wa gasps o' horror - tha wer no 'at -
Willie 'adn't browt it wi 'im!

The wa now for it but ter improvise -
an' sumbody cem up wi' a tin.
Fowk, still in shock, watched in silence -
t'tickets dropped reluctantly in.

Willie's sister, Florrie, wa reight put owt,
she took it reight bad did t'lass.
"Drawin' tickets from a tin," she sniffed,
"Things hev come ter a pretty pass!"

Wi owt more ta do t'tickets wer drawn,
an' soon all t'prizes wa won.
But non a prize winners managed a smile -
In fact, they all looked quite glum.

T'prizes wer grand, but no-one wa chuffed -
t'party spirit had fallen flat.
All becos t'tickets wer drawn from a tin -
instead a Willie's 'at.

"Naa look what tha's done!" Florrie exclaimed -
"Tha's spoilt ivveryone's pleasure!"
Willie's face wa showin' t'strain,
As 'e got Florrie's tounge in full measure.

"On such a nice day," Willie defended 'imself,
"Comin' 'atless is surely no crime?"
"Wi want non a thi excuses," said Florrie wi scorn,
"Tha's bin owt voted this time -

"Tha dun't hev ta wear it, but bring it tha must!
Wi aar unanimous on that.
Sa if tha can't cum thi sen, arr Willie -
remember ta SEND THI 'AT!"

How ter treat the wife

Allus give yer wife a kiss
when yer go aht and when yer come in.
Clean all 'er boots 
an all't winders.

Swill t'doorston, and ger up an hour sooner 
on a Frida morning and do't blackleadin fer 'er.
Rub er't furniture dahn wi furniture cream
once a week, an alus mangle er cloas.

Carry er't ashes aht an doan't leave
er wi'aht a skuttle an coil in't house.
Help er sheck t'rugs, an when shu's weshin
don't leave er t'iron sheets an t'blankets wi ersen.

Do t'shoppin for 'er.
Especially for t'heavy things.

An doan't consider it beneath thi dignity
to wesh up an siden t'pots away 
wheniver ser wants ter sit dahn an read abit.

Alus leave t'easiest chair fer't wife ter sit on,
An slip 'er a bit of a shawl rahnd her shoulders
if shu seems a bit cold.

Give 'er all t'cream off at t'milk.
Eat all 'er crusts for 'er an cut er a bit o't
tenderest when yer carvin t'Sunda joint.

Nivver let t'wife whitewash balks.
Or mek t'beds.
Set t'oven agate for 'er.
An allus knead 'er dough.

Bring 'om yer brass.
Don't go aht of a neight.
Don't drink.

Don't smoke.

Don't swear.

Don't look fahl.

Don't sit dahn until sher gives yer leave 
- an if yer do - 
sit dahn until shu tells yer t'ger up.

An if that doesn't satisfy 'er...
Ask 'er if there's owt else sher wants.
An choose whativer sher wants...
Let er ev it.

An if that doesn't satisfy 'er.  Shooit er.

T'owd Widder Waites

T''owd Widder Waites sat up i'bed
A sorry lookin' bein',
An to 'er onnly son shoo said:
"John Bill, Ah think Ah'm deein.

"Who's bahn ter wesh an cook fer theee.
Ter mend thi socks an clo'es?
Oo can ther bee i'stead o' me?"
Shoo shobbed an blew 'er nose.

"Tha'll 'ev ter go an find thissen
A wife ter tak mi place.
A good, 'ard warkin, solid lass,
An then Ah'll go wi good grace."

"Nay, Mother, NAY!" said young John Bill,
"Tha mussent go an dee.
Ther in't a lass this side o'mill
Can cook as good as thee!"

"It's no use talkin," shoo replied,
"Tha naws Ah'm noan sa clivver.
Tha needs another bi thi side,
Wi noan of us live forivver."

Nah t'lad were sweet on Sally Kay,
A dizzy little dolly,
Wi big blue eyes an 'air like straw,
An brainless as a brolly!

Well, when e took 'er 'ome t'next day
Ter show 'er to 'is mother.
T'owd lass recovered reight away
Wi'aht a bit o'bother.

"Good Lord!" shoo cried till t'rafters shook,
Wi t'force of 'er thanksgivin,
"Be off nah, Sally! Tak thee 'ook!
Ah'd better go on livin!"

T'Prop Notches

One wesh day last summer
To t'carpenter's shop
Our Kate sent 'er 'usband
Ter buy a new prop

T'boss carpenter cut him
A varry nice job
An charged 'im no more 
Than a couple o bob

As Fred hugged it sideways
Across yond shop floor
He fair 'ad a struggle
Ter ger outta t'door

"NAY, t'other road round!"
T'boss carpenter cried,
As t'village policeman 
Were passin outside

Then out like a lancer
Went Fred wi 'is prop
An what were 'is target?
What else but yond cop!

"Ah'm sorry!" said Fred,
As e saw t'bobby drop,
"Ah'm in rather an 'urry,
Ah'v no time ter stop.

"Fer two a three minutes,
Until Ah'm off t'scene
Here's hoping thi helmet
Stops ovver thi aeen."

An off e skidaddled,
But somehow bi then
He'd gotten his clothes prop
Turned sideways agen

A reight skittle alley
He made o t'main street
Each Tom, Dick n Harry
Were soon off 'is feet

Except fer Sam Bailey,
Who havin taken t'trouble
Ter tee a loose bootlace,
Wer bent ammost double

Sam didn't escape altogether, at that,
For as t'prop
Passed over 'im,
Off went 'is hat!

At last home Fred landed
A bit short o putt
When t'missus addressed 'im
"Tha's ta'en long enough!"

Then, lookin' it ovver,
"An trust thee to fotch..."
Said Kate, "A new clothes prop
Wi art any notch!"

"That's easily remedied, 
Leave it to me, I'll fix it..."
Said Fred, "In a jiffy,
Tha'll see!"

An standin' t'new clothes prop
Agen his back wall
He went for a saw,
'Is long ladder an all.

On t'first run o t'ladder 
He'd hardly set fooit,
When Kate cried: "NAY, bone head!
That's no way to do it!

"Tha's allus been lackin
In simple good sense,
I nivver knew nob'dy
So dateless an dense!"

Then on her instructions
He went off inside
To t'back bedroom winder,
An opened it wide

An down on t'back flagstones
Kate steadied yond prop
As Fred, up aboon,
Put a notch in at t'top!

Mi Mam's New Rug

Yer mo'ant put yer coit dahn,
It'll go wi a tug!
Mi Mam's cuttin listins,
Cos she's broddin a rug.

She's gotten her canvas
All ready on t'frame,
An mi Fatha's owd britches
Aren't awt lookin lame.

There's mi Aunt Sally's frock,
An mi Uncle Tom's vest,
An my short blue coit
At once wor mi best.

Ther's all sorts o' colours
An all sorts o' stuff
But, lookin at that pile,
There weant be enough.

Mi Mam knows were they're all
bahn ter bi put,
Wi'v all bin gean scissors
an orders ter cut!

Wi'v lumps on us fingers
wi cuttin them strips
If shoo esnt gor enough,
We'll ev all ed us chips.

Na, shoo's got broddin,
an pullin' em through - 
All rahnd aatside es
ter bi navy blue.

When shoo gets ter t'middle
(that's t'coloured part)
Shoo gives me t'job 
o sortin em aht.

It's gotten ter t'weekend
and t'rugs lukkin grand!
It's all working aht,
just as shoo'd planned.

Ther's a diamond in t'middle -
a lovely rich green -
It's ahr Mary's frock
(But Ah duan't think she's seen!)

It'll be ready fer Christmas,
Shoo'll see at it's done.
...but am sure she'll nivver shek it,
It must weigh a ton!

But it's a lovely new rug,
all med wi owd stuff -
when yer pot yer bare feet on it,
It feels just like fluff.

It's neat an it's pretty, 
By Gum, Mam's no mug!
Shoo know's what shoo's doing
when shoo's broddin a rug.

Photo by Black Country Living Museum

How t'first Yorkshire Puddin wer made

Hi Waiter! Excuse me a minute,
Nah listen I'm not findin fault, but dear me,
The taties are lovely ...the beef is alreight...
But what sort o' puddin is this?

It's what?! Yorkshire Puddin? Nah come come come
It's what?! Yorkshire Puddin yer say?
Oh, it's puddin Ah grant yer (some sort o' puddin)
But not YORKSHIRE puddin, nay nay!

The real Yorkshire puddin is a poem in batter,
To make one's an art, not a trade.
Listen to me for Ahm goin to tell yer
How t'first Yorkshire puddin were made.

A young angel on furlough from Heavan
Came flyin above Ilkley Moor,
An th'angel, poor thing, got cramp in her wing,
An cam down at t'owd woman's doar.

Th'owd woman smiled an said "Ee, it's an angel!
Well, Ahm surprised to see thee!
Ah've not seen an angel before, but th'art welcome,
Ah'll mek thee a nice cup an tea!"

Th'angel said, "Ee, thank yer kindly, Ah will."
So they 'ad two o' three cups o' tea,
Three o' four Sally Luns, an' a couple o' buns.
(Angels eat varry lightly, yer see!)

Then th'owd woman looked at the clock an said
"By gum, he's due 'ome from t'mill is my Dan.
You ger on wi yer tea, lass, but yer must excuse me,
Ah must mek t'puddin nah fer t'owd man.

The th'angel jumped up an said:
"Give mi a bowl, flour, watter, eggs, salt an all,
An Ah'll show thee how wi mek puddins in Heaven
For Thomas an Peter an Paul."

Th'owd woman gave her all o' t'things
An th'angel guest pushed back her wings an said "Hush!"
Then she tenderly tickled t'mixture wi t'spoon,
Like an artist would paint wi a brush.

She mixed up that puddin wi Heavenly magic.
She played wi her spoon on that dough...
Like Paderowski would play t'piano,
Or Kriesler would twiddle his bow.

An th'owd woman whispered, "Ah reckon, dear Angel,
T'clouds that Ah see in t'sky,
So fleecy an foamy, it's batter for puddins
For th'angels' dinner on high!

"It's mixed wi t'rain, an it's stirred wi t'rainbow,
An baked in the beautiful sun."
An th'angel kept stirrin, an smiled as she answered:
"An when a star drops, then it's done.

"But jokin apart..." said th'angel,
"The secret o'puddins, made here or above,
Is not in the flour and the watter, but when mixin it,
See that yer mix it wi love."

An when it wer done, she popped it in th'oven
An said ter th'owd woman: "Goodbye!"
Then off she flew, leavin t'first Yorkshire Puddin
That ivver wer made, and that's why:

It melts in yer mouth like snow in the glove,
As light as a maiden's first kiss,
As soft as the fluff on the breast of a dove,
NOT elephant's leather, like THIS!

A Neet When Tha's Nowt To Do

Why, lad, Ah'm sewer tha'rt ommost done,
This ovvertime is killin;
'Twor allus soa sin th'world begun
They put o' them at's willin.

Tha's ne'er a neet ter call thi own -
Tha starts furst thing o' Mundy,
An works thi fingers fair ter t'booan
Booath day an need wol Sundy.

Aw know tha addles extra pay -
We couldn't weel do baghy it,
But if tha'rt browt hooam sick some day,
We'st ha to do withaat it.

Aw seldom get to see thi face,
Exceptin when tha'rt aitin;
Neet after neet aw caar ith'place
Wol Ah'm fair sick o' waitin.

An when that comes, tha'rt off to bed,
Befoor aw've chance o' spaikin,
An th'childer luk, Aw've ofttimes sed,
Like Orphans when they're laikin.

Come hooam at six o'clock to-morn,
An let wark go ter hummer!
Thi face is growin white an worn:-
Tha'll nivver last all summer.

...Besides, ther's lots o' little jobs
At tha can tak a hand in...
That kist o'drawers has lost two nobs
An th'table leg wants mendin.

Ther's th' fixin up oth' winderblind,
An th' chaymer want whiteweshin,
Th' wall's fill wi marks o'ivvery kind -
(Yond lads desarve a threshin)

Aw can't shake th' carpet bi misen,
Nor lig it square an straightly:-
Th' childer mud help me nah an then,
But they ne're do nowt reightly.

That bed o' awrs wants shekin up,
All th' flocks has stuck together -
Tha knows they all want braikin up,
Or they'll get tough as leather.

An th' coilhoil wants a coit o'lime,
Then it'll smell much sweeter,
An th' celler should be done this time,
It makes it soa much leeter.

Ther's lots o' little things beside:-
All th childer's clogs want spetchin,
Jack's hurt his toa, tha'll mek em wide,
Wi varry little stretchin.

Besides, tha raillee wants a rest,
For a neet or maybe two,
An tha can fix theas trifles best,
Some neet when tha's nowt to do!

Awn not like some at cannot feel for other,
Ah assure thi:
Tha's tewd until tha'rt owt but weel,
An nowt but rest can cure thi.

Soa come hoam soon an spend a neet,
Wi me an Jack an Freddy,
They'll think it's ivver such a treat
An Aw'll have th' whitewesh ready.

Happy 100th Birthday, Ethel!

Heart Radio Yorkshire popped in for a visit, just as Ethel had opened her card from Her majesty the Queen and
telegram from Secretary of State Iain Duncan-Smith.

Later that afternoon, Rothwell's Jubilee Choir arrived and sang  a full concert for all those living at the same home as Ethel - it was wonderful!

As was a large gathering of Ethel's friends and family from London, Scotland and everywhere in between to wish her well.

-

Sunday School Anniversary Trip

Ah'd rather spend t'day milkin' t'cows bi hand
Or eve tharsends a sheep ter dip
Than trail ter Scarbro ivvery year
On t'anniversary trip.

Why doan't ther go ter secret locations
Ter sponts noon o' t'travellers know
Cos t'only mystery on this day aht
Is why eny one wants ter go!

Ah see ter t'stock afore it's leet
Cos we're picked up at day break
Missus'll say "You've ter enjoy yersen
If only fer t'grand bairns sake."

Ah can hardly beliee it's Satterda
Wi all t'lads i ther Sunda best
An that tell-tale wiff o' moth balls
They should be banned till t'day o' rest!

All t'bairns are excited an noisy,
But it's summat us own uns endure.
Then more shouts o' joy when t'sea comes in view -
Like they'd nivver seen watter afore.

T'first jobs ter mek a circle
Wi our deck chairs up on t'beach,
We all like ter sit together
Where t'high tide just can't reach.

T'next job's ter ger a paper -
See what's happ'nin all abaht.
It isn't in mi nature
Ter sit dahn doin nowt.

When t'grand bairns want me ter join em,
Ter t'waves they all beat a path.
But t'only time my socks cum off
Is when I ger inter t'bath.

T'kids alus end up gatherin shells
Ter tek home in ther buckets,
But t'missus says "You'll lose em oot - 
Best put em in Grandad's pockets!"

Dinner's a picnic o' cakes and t'like,
Which t'missus lets kids arrange.
She sez eatin sandwiches outside
Meks such a pleasant change.

Bor I eat sandwiches ivvery day
So fer mee it's no-an ser grand - 
Only change Ah notice is
Each mouthfuls full a sand!

After dinner it's shoppin time
Cos t'missus wants a skert.
But after wastin all afternoon 
A skert she didn't get.

Next week she'll goa ter t'local shop -
Which only hav one or two -
Bot t'size and t'shade will be just reight
Either one of em will do!

All day such rubbish as candy floss
As past through t'children's lips
But when it gets ter awt past four
They're natterin for fish n chips.

Me an t'missus ed eat em fret t'paper
But wi t'bairns it's such a faff
So once a year, on t'Scarbro trip,
We sit dahn in a caff.

When Ah see what the charge for a cup n tea
Ah dare not waste a drop!
Ah cum yer can buy a quarter pound
For t'same price in t'local shop?

Wit final bill am nearly stuck dumb,
Ter t'wife I manage to utter:
"Ah reckon they've charged a pund a piece
For t'slices er bread an butter!"

Ah thowt Ah mustn't grumble on holiday -
High charges weren't be unique.
Just be thankful we're only there a few minutes,
An not stoppin there all week!

After tea it gets a bit cooler,
An t'shops start ter close as well.
Judgin bi t'stuff ahr lots bought
There's probably nowt left ter sell.

At seven we all stagger back ter t'coach,
Weight dahn wi balls n bats,
Buckets, spades an assorted stuffed toys,
An t'kids wearin cowboy hats.

After all t'sea an goodies an pop,
T'young bairns are asleep fairly quick.
But, alas, t'exception wer some greedy kids
Who said that they felt sick.

When t'bus dropped us off at 'ome,
An t'goodbyes ev been said,
Ah'v two hours work, scratchin rahnd in t'dark
Afore I can go ter bed.

They bought a stick a peppermint rock
For them that couldn't come.
An next year, wi a bit o' luck
Ah might be one of 'em!




Old Scarborough - photo from theguardian.com