T' Farmeress To Her Son On Active Service

.                                                                Hope Alone,
                                                                Driftdale Head.
My dear Son,
I'se writin' to thee in t' owd kitchen thoo knaws well;
I can see aboon geraniums, childer climbin' Hackle Fell
Wi' toboggans. Folk are skatin'; t' ice is safe on Pockley Pool
An' girt clouds beyond Yew Barrow at sun-up wur beautiful.
Ivery birk alongside t' river seemed a sugar-coated tree;
T' weepin' ash aback our greenhouse is as bonnie as can be.
It's a terrible hard winter. Bert an' Willie noo have gone,
But lame Joseph an' his nephew help me still to carry on;
An' considering things are tidy; thoo knaws 'at I hate like sin.
Byres an' garth an' pigsties cluttered; nettles, ragworts, thistles, whin.
Thoo wilt finnd 'at thi owd Muther's kept things gradely, "not been slack",
So our farm is in grand fettle, 'gainst t' rare days when thoo cooms back;
An' ther's brass in t' Bank at Richmond, ivery penny in War Loan.
Geese an' turkeys, ducks, they sold well, an' that bonnie heifer roan
Promises to be a beauty, t' finest milker in our herd.
Heer's a capper! I can see thee slap thi knee, "Upon my word!"
We've been given bran' new cleugh-gates an' our varra ancient mill
Has been what's called "re-conditioned" an' is turnin' wiv a will,
Makin' sich a clever music. Ay! t' owd mill is doing its bit.
Thoo'll have bread when thoo returns. Lad, made fra' our ain steean-ground wheat.
T' pipe in t' washhouse kitchen's brussen, an' four tiles is coom off t' byre,
T' wind is bristlin'. Aa! I'se thankful for a stout hoose an' a fire;
An' ther's nowt I'd ask t' Almighty save just ony this yan thing
Gie our country peace wi' honour, an' my lad wi' t' comin' spring.
Niver doubt but we'll be happy in them years 'at lie ahead,
As we wur when yance I tucked thee, my lile chuckie, safe abed.
We are in the canny keepin' of a Lord who's varra thrang
Guardin' widows an' their childer, rightin' things 'at have gone wrang.
Mary Carr won t' prize at Whist Drive; ay, sure, she's been varra good,
Coom across this bitter mornin', broke up t' ice an' chopped up t' wood.
T' postman's here; Noo quiet, Towser! Beauty, doon. Lord! What a pother!
Two fra' thee, Lad! I'se contented. Bless thee!
                                                                  From thi luvin' Muther.