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.

September 8, 1872

September 8, 1919

English

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A Dalesman's Litany

From Hull, Halifax, and Hell, good Lord deliver us.
        A Yorkshire Proverb.


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(1) 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(2) honest brass;
I' Bradforth, Keighley, Rotherh...

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

Cambodunum

Cambodunum is the name of a Roman station, situated on a farm at Slack, on the hills above Huddersfield.


Cambodunum, Cambodunum,
    how I love the sound o' t' name!
Roman sowdiers belt a fort here,
    gave th' owd place its lastin' fame.

We've bin lords o' Cambodunum
    for well-nigh eight hunderd yeer;
Fowk say our fore-elders
    bowt it of a Roman charioteer.

Ay, I know we're nobbut farmers,
    mowin' gerse an' tentin' kye,
But we're proud of all we've stood for
    i' yon ages that's gone by;

Proud of all the slacks we've drained,
    an' proud of all the walls we've belt,
Proud to think we've bred our childer
    on the ground wheer Romans dwelt.

"Niver pairt wi' Cambodunum,"
    that's what father used to...

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

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

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

Lord George

These verses were written soon after the Old Age Pensions Bill came into operation.


I'd walk frae here to Skipton,
    Ten mile o' clarty(1) lanes,
If I might see him face to face
    An' thank him for his pains.
He's ta'en me out o' t' Bastile,(2)
    He's gi'en me life that's free:
Five shill'n a week for fuglin'(3) Death
    Is what Lord George gives me.

He gives me leet an' firin',
    An' flour to bak i' t' yoon.(4)
I've tea to mesh for ivery meal
    An' sup all t' afternoon.
I've nowt to do but thank him,
    An' mak' a cross wi' t' pen;
Five shillin' a week for nobbut that!
    Gow! he's the jewel o' men.

I niver mell on pol'tics,
    But I do love a lord;
He spends his savin's like a king,
    Wheer other fo...

Frederic William Moorman

Marra To Bonney

What would you do wi' a doughter--
    Pray wi' her, bensil(1) her, flout her?--
Say, what would you do wi' a daughter
    That's marra to Bonney(2) hissen?

I prayed wi' her first, of a Sunday,
    When chapil was lowsin' for t' neet;
An' I laid all her cockaloft marlocks(3)
    'Fore th' Almighty's mercy-seat.
When I looked for her tears o' repentance,
    I jaloused(4) that I saw her laugh;
An' she said that t' Powers o' Justice
    Would scatter my words like chaff.

Then I bensilled her hard in her cham'er,
    As I bensils owd Neddy i' t' cart.
If prayers willent teach thee, my dolly,
    Happen whip-stock will mak thy tears start.
But she stood there as chuff as a mawmet,(5)
    Not one chunt'rin(6) word did she say:
But she hoped th...

Frederic William Moorman

Mary Mecca

Mary Mecca,(1) Mary Mecca,
    I'm fain to see thee here,
A Devon lass to fill my glass
    O' home-brewed Yorkshire beer.
I awlus said that foreigners
    Sud niver mel on me;
But sike a viewly face as thine
    I'd travel far to see.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
    I'm sad to see thee here,
Wheer t' wind blaws hask(2) frae Norway
    I' t' spring-time o' the year.
I'd liever finnd thee sittin',
    Wi' a bowl o' cruds an' cream,
Wheer t' foxglove bells ring through the dells,
    Anent a Dartmoor stream.

Mary Mecca, Mary Mecca,
    The way thou snods thy hair,
It maks my heart go dancin'
    Like winnlestraws(3) i' t' air.
One neet I heard thee singin',
    As I cam home frae toon;
'Twas sweet as curlews makkin' love

Frederic William Moorman

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

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

Telling The Bees

On many Yorkshire farms it was perhaps still is the custom to tell the bees when a death had taken place in the family. The hive had to be put into mourning, and when the arval, or funeral feast, was held, after the return from the grave, small portions of everything eaten or drunk had to be given to the bees in a saucer. Failure to do this meant either the death or departure of the bees.


Whisht! laatle bees, sad tidings I bear,
    Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Cauld i' his grave ligs your maister dear,
    Bees, bees, murmurin' low.
Nea mair he'll ride to t' soond o' t' horn,
Nea mair he'll fettle his sickle for t' corn.
Nea mair he'll coom to your skep of a morn,
    Bees, bees, murmurin' low.

Muther sits cryin' i' t' ingle nook,
    Bees, bees, murmurin' low;
Parson...

Frederic William Moorman

The Artist

Lang-haired gauvies(1) coom my way, drawin' t' owd abbey an' brig,
    All their crack is o' Art-staities an' picturs an' paints;
Want to put me on their canvas, donned i' my farmer's rig,
    Tell me I'm pairt o' t' scenery, stained-glass windeys an' saints.

I reckon I'm artist an' all, though I niver gave it a thowt;
    Breeder o' stock is my trade, Mike Pullan o' t' Abbey Close.
What sud a farmer want wi' picturs that brass has bowt?
    All his art is i' t' mistal, wheer t' heifers are ranged i' rows.

Look at yon pedigree bull, wi' an eye as breet as a star,
    An' a coat that shines like velvet, when it catches t' glent o' t' sun;
Hark to him bealin' for t' cows, wi' a voice like t' thunner on t' scar,
    Watch them sinews i' t' neck, ripplin' wi' mischief an' fun....

Frederic William Moorman

The Bells Of Kirkby Overblow

Draw back my curtains, Mary,
    An' oppen t' windey wide;
Ay, ay, I know I'm deein',
    While to-morn I'll hardlins bide.
But yit afore all's ovver,
    An' I lig cowd as snow,
I'll hear once more them owd church bells
                            O' Kirkby Overblow.

Mony a neet an' mornin'
    I've heerd yon church bells peal;
An' how I've threaped an' cursed 'em
    When I was strong an' weel!
Gert, skelpin', chunterin' taistrils,(1)
    All janglin' in a row!
Ay, mony a time I've cursed yon bells
                            O' Kirkby Overblow.

When you hear yon church bells ringin',
    You can't enjoy your sin;
T' bells clutches at your heart-strings
    I' t' ale-house ower your gin.
At pitch-an'-toss you're laikin',
...

Frederic William Moorman

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...

Frederic William Moorman

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...

Frederic William Moorman

The Flower Of Wensleydale

She leaned o'er her latticed casement,
    The Flower of Wensleydale;
'Twas St Agnes Eve at midnight,
    Through the mist the stars burnt pale.

In her hand she held twelve sage-leaves,
    Plucked in her garden at noon;
And over them she had whispered thrice
    The spell of a mystic rune.

For many had come a-wooing
    The maid with the sloe-blue eyes;
Fain would she learn of St Agnes
    To whom should fall the prize.

They said she must drop a sage-leaf
    At each stroke of the midnight hour;
Then should the knight of her father's choice
Obey the summons of her voice,
    And appear 'neath her oriel'd bowwer.

To the holy virgin-martyr
    She lifted her hands in prayer;
Then she watched the rooks that perched asleep

Frederic William Moorman

The Flowers of Knaresborough Forest

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
                    Jane Elliot (1727-1805).


O! day-time is weary, an' dark o' dusk dreary
    For t' lasses i' t' mistal, or rakin' ower t' hay;
When t' kye coom for strippin', or t' yowes for their    clippin',
    We think on our sowdiers now gone reet away.

The courtin'-gate's idle, nae lad flings his bridle
    Ower t' yak-stoup,(1) an' sleely cooms seekin' his may;
The trod by the river is green as a sliver,(2)
    For the Flowers o' the Forest have all stown away.

At Marti'mas hirin's, nae ribbins, nae tirin's,
    When t' godspenny's(3) addled, an' t' time's coom for play;
Nae Cheap-Jacks, nae dancin', wi' t' teamster' clogs prancin ,
    The Flowe...

Frederic William Moorman

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