Ee - it's Grim Down South

Ee – It’s Grim Down South (or how a Yorkshire-man laments his homeland) 

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 2021