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!