The Miller By The Shore. An East Coast Chanty

The miller by the shore am I,
    A man o' despert sense;
I've fotty different soorts o' ways
    O' addlin' honest pence.
Good wheat and wuts and barley-corns
    My mill grinds all t' day lang ;
Frae faave 'o t' morn while seven o' t' neet
    My days are varra thrang.

Chorus
I mill a bit, I till a bit,
    I dee all maks 'o jobs,
Frae followin' ploos and hollowin' coos
    To mendin' chairs and squabs.(1)
Oh! folks they laugh and girn at me,
    I niver tak it ill;
If I's the Jack 'o ivery trade,
    They all bring grist to t' mill.

I tend my hunderd yakker farm,
    An' milk my Kyloe kye.
I've Lincoln yowes an' Leicester tups
    An' twenty head 'o wye.(2)
I've stirks to tak to Scarbro' mart,
    I've meers for farmers' gigs;
And oh! I wish that you could see
    My laatle sookin' pigs.

    I mill a bit. ...

When summer days graws lang an' breet,
    Oot cooms my "Noah's Arks,"
Wheer city folk undriss theirsels
    An' don my bathin' sarks.(3)
An' when they git on land agean,
    I rub' em smooth as silk;
Then bring' em oot, to fill their weeams,
    My parkin ceakes an' milk.

    I mill a bit. ...

I pike(4) stray timmer on the shore,
    An' cuvins(5) on the scar;
I know wheer crabs 'll hugger up,(6)
    I know wheer t' lobsters are.
I've cobles fishin' oot i' t' bay,
    For whitings, dabs and cods,
I've herrin' trawls and salmon nets,
    I've hooks and lines and rods.

    I mill a bit. ...

On darksome neets, back-end 'o t' yeer,
    I like another sport;
I row my boat wheer t' lugger lies,
    Coom frae some foreign port;
A guinea in a coastguard's poke
    Will mak him steck his een ;
So he says nowt when I coom yam
    Wi' scent and saccharine.

    I mill a bit.    ...

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 Local Preacher

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

Marra To Bonney

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

Telling The Bees

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

Our Beck

Frederic William Moorman, Simple Poetry

English

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His Last Sail

                GRANDFATHER
T' watter is blue i' t' offin',
    An' blue is t' sky aboon;
Swallows are settin' sou'ard,
    An' wanin' is t' harvist moon.
Ower lang I've bin cowerin' idle
    I' my neuk by t' fire-side;
I'll away yance mair i' my coble,
    I'll away wi' t' ebbin' tide.

                    MALLY
Nay, Gransir, thoo moant gan sailin',
    Thoo mun bide at yam to-neet;
At eighty-two thoo sudn't think
    O' t' Whitby fishin' fleet.
North cone's up on t' flagstaff,
    There's a cap-full o' wind i' t' bay;
T' waves wap loud on t' harbour bar,
    Thoo can hardlins fish to-day.

                GRANDFATHER
It's leansome here i' t' hoose, lass,
    When t' fisher-folk's at sea,
Watchin' yon eldin(1) set i' t' fire...

Frederic William Moorman

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

Fieldfares

Fieldfares, bonny fieldfares, feedin' 'mang the bent,
Wheer the sun is shinin' through yon cloud's wide rent,
            Welcoom back to t' moorlands,
            Frae Norway's fells an' shorelands,
Welcoom back to Whardill,(1) now October's ommost spent.

Noisy, chackin' fieldfares, weel I ken your cry,
When i' flocks you're sweepin' ower the hills sae high:
            Oft on trees you gethers,
            Preenin' out your feathers,
An' I'm fain to see your coats as blue as t' summer sky.

Curlews, larks an' tewits,(2) all have gone frae t' moors,
Frost has nipped i' t' garden all my bonny floors;
            Roses, lilies, pansies,
            Stocks an' yallow tansies
Fade away, an' soon the leaves 'll clutter(3) doon i'    shoors.

Here i' bed...

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...

Frederic William Moorman

A Song Of The Yorkshire Dales

A song I sing o' t' Yorkshire dales,
    That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea;
Frae t' breast o' t' fells, wheer t' cloud-rack sails,
    Their becks flow merrily.
Their banks are breet wi' moss an' broom,
    An' sweet is t' scent o' t' thyme;
You can hark to t' bees' saft, dreamy soom(1)
    I' t' foxglove bells an' t' lime.

                                Chorus
O! Swawdill's good for horses, an' Wensladill for cheese,
    An' Airedill fowk are busy as a bee;
            But wheersoe'er I wander,
            My owd heart aye grows fonder
O Whardill, wheer I'll lig me down an' dee.

Reet bonny are our dales i' March,
    When t' curlews tak to t' moors,
There's ruddy buds on ivery larch,
    Primroses don their floors.
But bonnier yet when...

Frederic William Moorman

The Two Lamplighters

I niver thowt when I grew owd
    I'd tak to leetin' lamps;
I sud have said, I'd rayther pad
    My hoof on t' road wi' tramps.
But sin I gate that skelp(1) i' t' mine,
    I'm wankle(2) i' my heead;
So gaffer said, I'd give ower wark
    An' leet town lamps atsteead.

At first, when I were liggin' snug
    I' bed, warm as a bee,
'T were hard to rise and get agate
    As sooin as t' clock strake three.
An' I were flaid to hear my steps
    Echoin' on ivery wall;
An' flaider yet when down by t' church
    Ullets would skreek and call.

But now I'm flaid o' nowt; I love
    All unkerd(3) sounds o' t' neet,
Frae childer talkin' i' their dreams
    To t' tramp o' p'licemen' feet.
But most of all I love to hark
    To t' song o' t...

Frederic William Moorman