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!"