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Songs of the Ridings

Chapter 10: The New Englishman
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About This Book

The collection contains twenty-five dialect poems, mainly dramatic monologues and character sketches that portray Yorkshire peasants, artisans, and farmers. Using local speech and rural scenes—farm work, hearthside gatherings, lamplighters, and seasonal customs—the verses evoke community life, regional pride, and anxieties about education and social change. The poems aim to make poetry accessible to working people by preserving local voice and rendering individual psychology through plain, dramatic address, showing both affectionate observation and critical reflection.

The New Englishman

I’ve lived all my life i’ Keighley,
    I’m a Yorkshire artisan;
An’ when I were just turned seventy
    I became an Englishman.

Nat’ralised German! nay, deng it!
    I’m British-born, same as thee!
But I niver thowt mich to my country,
    While
[1] my country thowt mich to me.

I were proud o’ my lodge an’ my union,
    An’ proud o’ my town an’ my shire;
But all t’ consans o’ t’ nation,
    I left to t’ parson an’ t’ squire.

Class-war were t’ faith that I Iived for,
    I call’d all capit’lists sharks;
An’ “T’ workin’ man has no country,”
    Were my Gospel accordin’ to Marx.

When I’d lossen my job back i’ t’ eighties,
    An were laikin’ for well-nigh two year,
Who said that an out-o’-wark fettler
    Were costin’ his country dear?

Owd England cared nowt about me,
    I could clem[2] wi’ my barns an’ my wife;
Shoo were ower thrang wi’ buildin’ up t’ empire
    To build up a brokken life.

“Ivery man for hissen,” shoo said,
    “An’ t’ dule can catch what he can;
Labour’s cheap an’ trade’s worth more
    Nor t’ life of a workin’ man.”

When t’ country were chuff,[3] an’ boasted
    That t’ sun niver set on her flags,
I thowt o’ wer back-to-back houses,
    Wer childer i’ spetches[4] an’ rags,

When t’ country drave by i’ her carriage,
    Wi’ flunkies afore an’ behind,
I left her to bettermy bodies,
    An’ I gav her a taste o’ my mind.

But when shoo were liggin’ i’ t’ gutter,
    Wi’ a milit’rist mob at her throit,
“Hands off her!” I cried, “shoo’s my mother:”
    An’ I doffed my cap an’ my coit.

I’d gien ower wark at seventy,
    But I gat agate once more;
“I’ll live for my country, not on her”
    Were my words on t’ fettlers’ floor.

Shoo’s putten her trust i’ us workers,
    We’ll save her, niver fear;
Feight for her, live for her, dee for her,
    Her childer that loves her dear.

Eight o’ my grandsons has fallen,
    My youngest lad’s crippled i’ t’ arm;
But I’ll give her choose-what[5] shoo axes,
    Afore I’ll see her tak harm.

T’ war is a curse an’ a blessin’,
    If fowks could understan’;
It’s brokken my home an’ my childer,
    But it’s made me an Englishman.

[1] Until.

[2] Starve.

[3] Arrogant.

[4] Patches.

[5] Whatever.