It's hard when fowks can't finnd their wark
Wheer they've bin bred an' born;
When I were young I awlus thowt
I'd bide 'mong t' roots an' corn.
But I've bin forced to work i' towns,
So here's my litany:
Frae Hull, an' Halifax, an' Hell,
Gooid Lord, deliver me!
When I were courtin' Mary Ann,
T' owd squire, he says one day:
"I've got no bield for wedded fowks;
Choose, wilt ta wed or stay?"
I couldn't gie up t' lass I loved,
To t' town we had to flee:
Frae Hull, an' Halifax, an' Hell,
Gooid Lord, deliver me!
I've wrowt i' Leeds an' Huthersfel',
An' addled honest brass;
I' Bradforth, Keighley, Rotherham,
I've kept my bairns an' lass.
I've travelled all three Ridin's round,
And once I went to sea:
Frae forges, mills, an' coalin' boats,
Gooid Lord, deliver me!
I've walked at neet through Sheffield loans,
'T were same as bein' i' Hell:
Furnaces thrast out tongues o' fire,
An' roared like t' wind on t' fell.
I've sammed up coals i' Barnsley pits,
Wi' muck up to my knee:
Frae Sheffield, Barnsley, Rotherham,
Gooid Lord, deliver me!
I've seen grey fog creep ower Leeds Brig
As thick as bastile soup;
I've lived wheer fowks were stowed away
Like rabbits in a coop.
I've watched snow float down Bradforth Beck
As black as ebiny:
Frae Hunslet, Holbeck, Wibsey Slack,
Gooid Lord, deliver me!
But now, when all wer childer's fligged,
To t' coontry we've coom back.
There's fotty mile o' heathery moor
Twix' us an' t' coal-pit slack.
And when I sit ower t' fire at neet,
I laugh an' shout wi' glee:
Frae Bradforth, Leeds, an Huthersfel',
Frae Hull, an' Halifax, an' Hell,
T' gooid Lord's delivered me!
Notes
From Hull, Halifax, and Hell, good Lord deliver us. --- A Yorkshire Proverb
Bield --- shelter. In this case lodgings for the farm worker
Addled --- made or earned
Wrowt --- worked
Bastile --- A nick-name given to the workhouse. cf Bastille - French Prison
Fligged --- flitted or moved away
Glossary by Jim Saville
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
-
This is a plaint by a Yorkshire countryman of how he was forced to leave his farm-labourers cottage when he married and all the subsequent jobs he had in order to raise a family. It ends with him returning to his beloved countryside when his children have grown and moved on.
There is much debate whether Moorman wrote it himself or simply collected and transcribed it from some old dalesman. His version is, however, the first published one.
Since then it has been recited, sung and recorded by many performance artists (including me) both within the Broad Acres and farther afield.
Adding your comment:
