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Songs of the Ridings

Chapter 23: The Local Preacher
By F. W. Moorman
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Poetry

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 Local Preacher

Ay, I’m a ranter, so at least fowks say;
    Happen they’d tell t’ same tale o’ t’ postle Paul.
I’ve ranted fifty yeer, coom first o’ May,
    An’ niver changed my gospil through ’em all.

There’s nowt like t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb an’ t’ Fire o’ Hell
    To bring a hardened taistril[1] to his knees;
If fowks want more nor that, then thou can tell
    ’Em straight, I’ve got no cure for their disease.

I willent thole this New Theology
    That blends up Hell wi’ Heaven, sinners wi’ saints
For black was black when I turned Methody,
    An’ white was white, i’ souls as weel as paints.

That’s awlus t’ warp an’ t’ weft o’ my discourse,
    An’ awlus will be, lang as I can teach;
If fowks won’t harken tul it, then, of course,
    They go to church and hear t’ owd parson preach.

His sarmon’s like his baccy, sweet an’ mild;
    Fowk’s ommost hauf asleep at t’ second word.
By t’ Mass! they’re wick as lops,[2] ay, man an’ child,
    When I stan’ up an’ wrastle wi’ the Lord.

Nay, I’m not blamin’ parson, I’ll awant[3];
    Preachin’s his trade, same way as millin’s mine.
I’ trade you’ve got to gie fowks what they want,
    An’ that is mostly sawcum[4] meshed reet fine.

Tak squire theer; he don’t want no talk o’ Hell,
    He likes to hark to t’ parable o’ t’ teares ;
He reckons church is wheat that’s gooid to sell,
    But chapil’s nobbut kexes,[5] thorns, an’ brears.

Squire’s lasses, they can’t do wi’ t’ Blooid o’ t’ Lamb
    They’re all for t’ blooid o’ t’ foxes, like our Bob.
The Lord Hissen will have to save or damn
    Church fowks wid out me mellin’ on[6] His job.

But gie me chapil lasses gone astray,
    Or lads that cooms home druffen of a neet,
An’ I’ll raise Cain afore I go away,
    If I don’t gie ’em t’ glent o’ t’ Gospil leet.

I’ll mak ’em sit on t’ penitential stooils,
    An’ roar as loud as t’ buzzer down at t’ mill;
I’ll mak ’em own that they’ve bin despert fooils,
    Wi’ all their pride o’ life a bitter pill.

I’ve mony texts, but all to one point keep,
    Same as all t’ becks flow down to one saut sea:
Damnation an’ salvation, goats an’ sheep—
    That’s t’ Bible gospil that thou’ll get thro’ me.

[1] Reprobate.

[2] Lively as fleas.

[3] Warrrant.

[4] Sawdust.

[5] Dried stems of weeds.

[6] Meddling with.