The Bride's Homecomming

A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
            A pot full o' porridge; away we go!
                A Yorkshire Wedding-Rhyme.


Thoo mun hod on tight, my darlin',
    We've mony a beck to cross;
Twix' thy father's hoose an' mine, love,
    There's a vast o' slacks an' moss.
But t' awd mare, shoo weant whemmle(1)
    Though there's twee on her back astride;
Shoo's as prood as me, is Snowball,
    Noo I's fetchin' heame my bride.
            A weddin', a woo,
            A clog an' a shoe,
    A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Gow! but I feel sae leetsome,
    Sin I've lived to see this day;
My heart is like a blackbod's
    Efter a shoor i' May.
I' t' sky aboon nea lairock
    Has sae mich reet to sing
As I have, noo I've wedded
    T' lile lass o' Fulsa Ing.
            A weddin', a woo,
            A clog an' a shoe,
    A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Does ta hear yon watter bubblin',
    Deep doon i' t' moorland streams?
It soonds like childer' voices
    When they're laughin' i' their dreams.
An' look at yon lang-tailed pyots,(2)
    There s three on 'em, I'll uphod!
Folks say that three's for a weddin',
    Ay, a pyot's a canny bod.
            A weddin', a woo,
            A clog an' a shoe,
    A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

I love to feel thee clingin'
    Wi' thy hands aroond my breast;
Thy bosom's leetly heavin',
    Like a ship on t' saut waves' crest.
An' thy breath is sweet as t' breezes,
    That cooms ower t' soothern hills,
When t' violet blaws i' t' springtime
    Wi' t' yollow daffydills.
            A weddin', a woo,
            A clog an' a shoe,
    A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Is ta gittin' tired, my honey,
    We'll be heame i' hafe an hour;
Thoo'll see our hoose an' staggarth,
    Wi' t' birk-trees bendin' ower.
There's a lillilow(3) i' our cham'er
    To welcome my viewly bride ;
An' sean we'll be theer oorsels, lass,
    Liggin' cosy side by side.
            A weddin', a woo,
            A clog an' a shoe,
    A pot full o' porridge; away we go!

Frederic William Moorman

Frederic William Moorman was a British poet, academic, and folklorist, best known for his works on Yorkshire dialect and folklore. Born on September 8, 1872, he made significant contributions to the study of English literature and dialects. Moorman was also a professor at the University of Leeds. He passed away on his 47th birthday, September 8, 1919. His work continues to be influential in the fields of dialect studies and folklore.

Frederic William Moorman

The Hungry Forties

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

Telling The Bees

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

The Artist

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

Marra To Bonney

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

English

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The Courting Gate

There's dew upon the meadows,
    An' bats are wheelin' high;
The sun has set an hour sin',
    An' evenin' leet's i' t' sky.
Swalows i' t' thack are sleepin ,
    Neet-hawks are swift on t' wing,
An' grey moths gethers honey
    Amang the purple ling    .
            O coom an' meet me, Mally,
            O coom an' greet me, Mally,
    Meet me, greet me, at the courtin' gate.

The fire-leet casts thy shadow
    Owerthwart the kitchen wall;
It's dancin' up an' doon, lass,
    My heart does dance an' all.
Three times I've gien oor love-call
    To bring my bird to t' nest.
When wilt a coom, my throstle,
    An' shelter on my breast?
            O coom an' meet me, Mally,
            O coom an' greet me, Mally,
    Meet me, greet m...

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One Year Older

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
    That's what I sal awlus say.
Draw thy chair a little nearer,
    Put yon stockin's reight away.
Thou hast done enough i' thy time,
    Tewed i' t' house an' wrowt at loom;
Just for once thou mun sit idle,
    Feet on t' hear'stone, fingers toom.(1)

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
    So I promised when we wed.
Then thy een were glest'rin' clearer
    Nor the stars aboon us spread.
If they're dimmer now, they're tend'rer,
    An' yon wrinkles on thy face
Tell a lesson true as t' Bible,
    Speik o' charity an' grace.

One yeer owder, one yeer dearer:
    We've supped sorrow, tasted joy,
But our love has grown sincerer,
    Gethered strength nowt can destroy.
Love is like an oak i' t' forest,

Frederic William Moorman

The Gardener And The Robin

Why! Bobbie, so thou's coom agean!
    I'm fain to see thee here;
It's lang sin I've set een on thee,
    It's ommost hauf a yeer.
What's that thou says? Thou's taen a wife
    An' raised a family.
It seems thou's gien 'em all the slip
    Now back-end's drawin' nigh.

I mun forgi'e thee; we're owd friends,
    An' fratchin's not for us;
Blackbirds an' spinks(1) I can't abide,
    At doves an' crows I cuss.
But thou'll noan steal my strawberries,
    Or nip my buds o' plum;
Most feather-fowl I drive away,
    But thou can awlus coom.

Ay, that's thy place, at top o' t' clod,
    Thy heead cocked o' one side,
Lookin' as far-learnt as a judge.
    Is that a worrm thou's spied?
By t' Megs! he's well-nigh six inch lang,
    An' r...

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Our Beck

I niver heerd its name; we call it just "Our beck."
    Mebbe, there's bigger streams down Ripon way;
But if thou wants clean watter, by my neck!
    Thou'll travel far for cleaner, ony day.

Clear watter! Why, when t' sun is up i' t' sky,
    I've seen yon flickerin' shadows o' lile trout
Glidin' ower t' shingly boddom. Step thou nigh,
    An' gloor at t' minnows dartin' in an' out.

Our beck flows straight frae slacks o' moorland peat,
    An' gethers sweetness out o' t' ling an' gorse;
At first its voice sounds weantly(1) saft an' leet,
    But graws i' strength wi' lowpin ower yon force.

Then thou sud see the birds alang its banks--
    Grey heronsews, that coom to fish at dawn;
Dippers, that under t' watter play sike pranks,
    An' lang-nebbed...

Frederic William Moorman

Lile Doad

The Lord's bin hard on me, Sir,
    He's stown my barn away.
O dowly, dowly was that neet
    He stole lile Doad away!

'Twas Whissuntide we wedded,
    Next Easter he was born,
Just as t' last star i' t' April sky
    Had faded into t' morn.
Throstles were singin, canty,(1)
    For they'd their young i' t' nest;
But birds don't know a mother's love
    That howds her barn to t' breast.

When wark was ower i' summer,
    I nussed him on my knees;
An' Mike browt home at lowsin'-time
    Wild rasps an' strawberries.
We used to sit on t' door-sill
    I' t' leet o' t' harvist-moon,
While our lile Doad would clench his fists
    An' suck his toes an' croon.

But when t' mell-sheaf(2) was gotten,
    An' back-end days set in,...

Frederic William Moorman

Fair Janet

The Text.--Of seven or eight variants of this ballad, only three preserve the full form of the story. On the whole, the one here given--from Sharp's Ballad Book, as sung by an old woman in Perthshire--is the best, as the other two--from Herd's Scots Songs, and the Kinloch MSS.--are slightly contaminated by extraneous matter.

The Story is a simple ballad-tale of 'true-love twinned'; but the episode of the dancing forms a link with a number of German and Scandinavian ballads, in which compulsory dancing and horse-riding is made a test of the guilt of an accused maiden. In the Scotch ballad the horse-riding has shrunk almost to nothing, and the dancing is not compulsory. The resemblance is faint, and the barbarities of the Continental versions are happily wanting in our ballad.


FAIR JANET

...

Frank Sidgwick