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!