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.