When I was a lad, at home in
the North,
I was told that I lived with
great bounty,
In the best place that there
was:
Yes it were Yorkshire
– God’s very own county.
We’d grand hills & dales
to go walking,
With so many sheep you’d be
amazed,
Which drove the great wool
industry,
With its mills wherever you
gazed.
At home, things were quite
rough though:
Our house was subject to
flooding.
We’d no access to sand-bags,
So were forced to use lengths
of black pudding.
The food were boring &
monotonous,
I’m really sorry to gripe.
For, although I’m quite fond
of a pork pie,
You can only eat so much
onions & tripe.
The tea was made strong &
very sweet
To bolster our old working
men.
You could stand your spoon up
in it -
You had to be right sturdy
back then.
You’d be woken by the
sparrows,
Coughing first thing in the
dawn,
And, to the strains of a
Hovis advert,
You’d set forth to your work
in the morn.
You’d work in the spinning
mills,
The factory, or one of the
pits,
And think of yourself as
quite lucky
If you didn’t suffer from
nits.
And rickets & diphtheria
were all of the rage;
Keeping pigeons or whippets
the usual thing.
We kept our coal in the
bath-tub,
And in the lavvy, you had to
know how to sing.
The women were fierce &
big-chested,
And Tetley’s ale was always
the best,
Rugby League was the sport
among men,
And brass bands played
without any rest.
The toil was rough and it was
hard,
But you took what work you
could find.
My father was broken down
daily
By his labours in the Treacle
Mine.
But among the chimneys and
the grime,
We still thanked God for our
lot,
For we could still have a
bath monthly -
Aye – whether we needed it or
not!
But then the industries all
closed down,
And took all the amusement
away.
The North were classed as
“Special Needs”,
And down South I was forced
to stray.
So I came down here to see
what were brewing,
To work, to live & to
marry.
Thirty years I’ve managed to
survive,
But I’ve not been as
happy as Larry.
For the hills are all
piddling & gentle,
And the beer is always served
flat.
There’s no proper cricket
teams,
And I can’t say any fairer
than that.
But I think I’ve given the
South a fair trial now:
For thirty years I’ve been right
plucky,
But I’ve missed the doom
& the gloom
I just didn’t realise: I were
that lucky!
So one of these days, I’ll
just get up & go,
My image will soon fade from
your view.
I’ll bugger off back North
again,
And be no longer here to
bother you.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013
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