Northumbrian verse. Pills for All Ills

 

By Donald Clegg

Don entered this verse in the Morpeth competition for dialect poetry - and won the cup for a second year along with other awards.

Don Clegg with his cup and other wards for Northumbrian dialect verse

 Aa went to the doctor’s on Monda, Aa thowt Aa was gettin’ the flu,

Aa was gannin’ cowld an’ hot, an’ coffin’ a lot. When Aa got there he says, ‘How de do’?

He says, ‘If yo’re ill Aa’ll give ye a pill’. So he did. Aa said ‘Thanks’. It was BLUE.

Aa went to the doctor’s on Tuesda. Aa hev a job gettin’ about,

It might be rheumatics or an ingrown toenail, or corns, or summat, or gout’,

When Aa got to the car it was rainin’, so Aa thowt Aa’d tek me umbrella.

Doc says, ‘By, ye look ill, Aa’d bettor give ye a pill’.  An’ he did. Aa said,’Thanks’. It was YELLA.

Aa went to the doctor’s on Wensda, Aa hed sic an ache in me arm.

It’s a mystery to me, but Aa think it must be, years ago, muckin’ oot on the farm,

It was the same canny doctor. He says, ‘Nuw just let’s hev a wee think’

Aa’ll give ye a pill, then ye’ll not feel ill.” So he did. Aa said, ‘Thanks’. It was PINK

Aa went to the doctor’s on Thorsda. Me heed was achin’ and sare

Aa’d been on the pop (didn’t know when to stop). Aa’ve nivvor felt like it afore,

The doc wasn’t that sympathetic. He asked, If Aa’d  been on the town,

Yo’re boond to feel ill, but Aa’ll give ye a pill.  An’ he did. Aa said, ‘Thanks’. It was BROWN.

Aa went to the doctor’s on Frida. Me wattor works aal of a twist

Aa’d not been to the loo for a day or two -Aa’d give owt to gan oot and git p.........d (put right).

‘By heck’! says the doc. ‘Ye must hev some kind o’block, it’s the warst Aa’ve seen aal this summer’.

‘But if yo’re feelin’ see ill, Aa’ll not give ye a pill, here’s a note for Jack Nixon, the plumber’.

Aa was back at the doctor’s on Satdy. He was theor as Aa went through the door

He says, ‘Hello, me good man, you divn’t look vary grand. Let me think - have I seen you before’?

‘Aa just think ye have’, was me sarky reply. ‘Aal this med’cin ye think such a boon’,

‘Aa’ve had that mony pills, Aa’m fed up to the gills, an’ rattle when Aa jump up and doon’.

But noo Aa’m aal sorted and fit as a lop. Ivvry mornin’ Aa gan for a run

Aa play footbaal, gan bikin’ an’ swimmin’ and such so Aam hevin’ nee end of gud fun,

So here’s to the doctors that keep us alive an’ save us from aal kinds of stress.

Cos Aa sometimes fear, Aa just wadn’t be here, if it warn’t for the NHS.

But as we get owlder and faalin’ apart, we suffer from aal sorts of ills

So in case wor good doctor’s not able to come, Aa’ve still got me box full of pills.

Donald Clegg (Aad Wattie)

F George Clark - 95th birthday tribute

 

George (with the walking stick I made him) age 96 and daughter Helen

Before a well earned retirement to Waihi Beach, George Clark was a Waikato hill country farmer all his life, taking on the challenge with his brother to finish off the development of steep hill country at Te Pahu near Hamilton started by his parents. He is the father of New Zealand's highly respected former Prime Minister Helen Clark.

George was a keen follower and supporter of our work at the Whatawhata Hill Country Research station.

The hills cleared of bush and scrub for productive sheep and beef production by the Clark family over the years .  The pristine Kaniwhaniwha stream flows through the property down from Mount Pirongia

Looking back up the hill – a tribute to F.G. Clark

By Clive Dalton

At 95 and looking back

Past contributions clear to see,

Great service to New Zealand

Is there on George’s CV.

George knew farming was an ideal job

For those with little brains,

Weak in head and strong of back

Would help to reach their aims.

George knew farming was important

As meat and wool were king,

And Muldoon produced incentives

More production for to bring.

He paid George a dollar a ewe

70 million was National’s boast,

But Te Pahu never saw such flocks

Many suspected they were ghosts.

One PM had been a farmer

And a decent bloke to boot,

Remember Keith Jacka Holyoake

George reckoned a decent coot.

George knew to dag and crutch were noble

And hard work held no fears,

Crook backs, stuffed hips and buggered knees

Could be cured by a few cold beers.

He spent each year with mission clear

To clear scrub from a Pirongia slope,

Today’s young men hide out in town

And live on dole and dope.

George battled possums all his life

A challenge long and weighty,

But his bigger pests were bureaucrats

Cos they were resistant to 1080.

He attended all MAF Field Days

To see the latest science map,

But by the time he got back home

He realised it was total crap.

George missed out on the medals

For services to the land,

Today’s ‘face-bookers’ in parliament

Would never shake a farmer’s hand.

New Zealand has changed since George’s day

With rabbits replaced by ‘purists’,

When John Key bailed out he convinced us all

We’d all get rich from tourists.

George has seen farmers’ image die

And be the Greenies targets,

Not one would know what farmers do

As food comes from supermarkets.

George reared the young Clarks on politics

Preaching MPs were weak-kneed charmers,

And his proof came from the highest source

Te Pahu Federated Farmers.

So lets honour George on this great day

From hill country steep and clean,

And give him our best wishes

Till he gets some from the Queen (God Bless Her).

The swimming pool near the bridge on Limeworks Loop road across the Kaniwhaniwha stream where the Clark family used to swim.

Northumbrian poetry - Meeting at the Mart

By Donald Clegg and Clive Dalton

Where livestock are sold at a market or 'mart' anywhere in the world, it's not just a venue for the trading of livestock.  A major function of the mart is for farmers to meet and discuss the problems of the day - even if they are not buying or selling stock themselves. 

Their reason (or excuse) for going to the mart is to 'check on the trade' - and to complain if prices are low, but make sure they are not heard to be too positive if they are high in case some great natural disaster is waiting to fall upon them! 

The mart is a legitimate opportunity to get off the farm, and is regularly viewed by farmers' wives and partners as a  'male creche', to leave the men folk while the ladies go shopping. The women know that the males will not have strayed far from the mart on their return.  If they are not at the mart, they are guaranteed to be in one of the local pubs!
 

 Lawrence Dagg (Hott farm, left) and Brian Anderson (Brieredge)
Photo by Helen Brown 2004

The above photo was snapped at the last sheep sales at Bellingham mart on 10th October 2004 and it stimulated the authors into a bit of Northumbrian dialect verse from memories of their past days working on North Tyne and Rede farms.

Jock

Noo Wattie, what’s yor fettle, Aa’m keepin’ weel mesell

Apart from pains an’ belly wark Aa’m sorvivin’, truth to tell.

What think ye of the stock in heor, thor’s sum Aa wadn’t touch,

Wi’ shot mooth an’ wi brocky fyace, five pund is ower much.

Wattie

Aye Jock thor bad, there is nee doot,  Aa’ve nivvor seen yowes warse.

Lean as craas wi’ pooky jaas an’ aal wi’ daggy arse.

In this pen heor, just tek a keek, thor’s not yen meks the grade.

Aa’m sorry if Aa upset folk, but Aa'll caal a spade a spade.

Jock

Whey nivvor heed man Wattie, yor entitled to yor say,

But howld a bit and think on, afore we gan away.

Hev a look and just stand back, an’ give yorsell a minute

Afore ye oppen up yor gob an’ plant yor big foot in it.

Te find fault and te criticise is often varry fine

But check thor lug marks an’ thor bust

An ye’ll see them yowes is mine!

The lambin'

Clive Dalton

Huw’s the lambin ganin Jack

Mine’s nowt grate see far,

Deed lambs, kebbed yowes and gay few twins

An the inbye’s a foot deep in glaur.

And that tup Aa got frae Lanark

Was just a gud lookin nowt,

His lambs gye-necked and undershot

An Aa paid enuff for him Aa thowt.

Thor’s nee decent growth on the in-bye haughs

And the Northern’s bagged feed’s ower deor,

Aa’m feared that the milk’ll gan off the yowes

We snaa forecast Aa heaor.

An the best o’ the hoggs are gay middlin te poor

Aa’ll flookeed with big pokey jaas,

Sair skittad an’all with dags right ower thor backs

An te the feel thor aall lean as craas.

An the lambin man’s dun a quick flit by the moon

Taen off wi the byre-man’s dowta,

She’s a canny lass an’all and just left the school

Wi  some brains in hor heed ye’d of thowta.

Me owld collie bitch just laid doon an’ deid

So am hevin te work the young pup,

Mind Aa keep him at hand on a gay short hemp rope

Till Norman’s bus has gone up.

Nuw Av ruined the nebs on me Simonside beuts

Burying yowes in holes of hard clay,

So Aa’ll need te catch Norman’s bus the morn’s morn

And a new pair‘ll tek a month’s pay.

But Aa knaa that Am gitten ower owld te farm

And Aa need te spend mare time in the hoose,

But te leave the farm to the eldest son

Am teld is the warst kind of child abuse!

END

 

Billy Bell, Redesdale Roadman, Border Bard 1862-1941

  

A book for anyone who loves Northumberland

William “Billy” Bell, Redesdale Roadman, Border Bard. His life, times and poetry

By Susanne Ellingham and Johnny Handle

Published by The Heritage Centre, Bellingham, NE48 2DF

Printed by Robson Print, Hexham, NE46 3PU

Print book Edition 2013

ISBN 978-0-9575426-0-0

The text content of this book is also available as an eBook ISBN 978-0-9575426-1-7

How to buy

Buy the limited edition print book for £8.99 at many local outlets e.g. Hexham Old Gaol, TiCs ; bookshops & the Heritage Centre, Bellingham,

website <www.bellingham-heritage.org.uk>  

Retailers: use <www.Northern-Heritage.co.uk> ISBN 978-0-9575426-0-0

Buy the ebook version to read on a Kindle (or on PCs/pads using the free Kindle app)

£2.50 Amazon ISBN 978-0-9575426-1-7 Look out for Johnny Handle’s new CD with some of Billy’s best loved poems and songs.

Coming soon: Billy Bell 2: the rest of the Redesdale Roadman’s poems (e-book)

William Bell enjoyed hearing his poetry recited and sung. Please feel free to perform any of his poems or set them to music. In return, please acknowledge Billy Bell of Byrness as the author.

© Copyright 2013 to other sections is held by the authors (Susanne Ellingham, Johnny Handle and Robert Craig’s estate)

Cover photographs to book

·       Byrness church memorial window: (courtesy of Revd Dr Susan Ramsaran)

·       Catcleugh Reservoir: (courtesy of Northumberland National Park Authority)

All profits shared by the Heritage Centre, Bellingham; The Border Library, Old Gaol, Hexham; Byrness & Horsley Parish and the Black House, Catcleugh.  Publication of this book was supported by the Northumberland National Park Authority

Background

Billy Bell (1862 - 1941), the roadman poet of Redesdale, North Northumberland, who died just over 70 years ago, lived just south of Carter Bar.  He had links over the border into Scotland as well as across Northumberland. Fred Terry (the famous Actor-Manager and great-uncle of Sir John Gielgud) called him ‘an undiscovered poet - a poet of the mountains.’ This selection of his poetry, mostly written a century ago, showcases the humour, wit and warmth of his writing about the area and its people.

Few people today have heard of Billy Bell. Only a few of his poems are known outside Redesdale - and several poems are now only attributed to Anon. This book has a selection of around a quarter of his poems. A second eBook, containing the rest of the archive, is planned.

 ‘Billy’ Bell wrote the majority of his poems just over a century ago. He was named the ‘Bard of Redesdale’ by local people and called “an undiscovered poet - a poet of the mountains” by Fred Terry, great-uncle of John Gielgud, and himself a famous actor- manager.

William Bell’s subjects mainly tend to be the natural and social world around him, the landscape and people. Those people included family, friends and neighbours as well as imaginary individuals and events. The main occupation on the open moorlands then was sheep farming. Widespread afforestation only started in the 1920s.

Catcleugh Reservoir was built during his watch. The church memorial plaque in Byrness gives the dates of construction as 1891 to 1904. Several of the poems refer to the people who built it and to the effect, which the dam had on the valley of the Rede.

William Bell was a true son of the Borderlands. His father’s family came from Northumberland and Cumberland while his mother came from southern Scotland. William himself was born just north of the Border and baptised just to the south.

Poem by Billy Bell - Redesdale roadman, Border bard

 Comment by Clive Dalton
This is my favourite poem by Billy Bell in the publication below:

Billy Bell, Redesdale Roadman, Border Bard, his  life, times and poetry
By Susan Ellingham and Johnny Handle.

Published by The Heritage Centre, Bellingham, NE48 2DF

Printed by Robson Print, Hexham, NE46 3PU

Print book Edition 2013

ISBN 978-0-9575426-0-0

This poem tells the story of two shepherds meeting on the top of Carter Bar - one of them from the Scottish side and the other from the English side.  The dialect words span both sides and would have been commonly used by Billy whose stretch of road he cared for went from the top of Carter Bar down to Rochester.

The conversation is typical of when farming folk meet, and especially shepherds.  As anyone who has worked with sheep will know, sheep are always keen to add to their long list of afflictions - so well described in the poem, along with some classical cattle ailments as well.

After Billy's version below, my 'Daft Laddie' book co-author Don Clegg (who was born and bred in the Rede valley), has translated Billy's poem into more of our old Northumbrian dialect, which may (or may not! ) improve the understanding of folk who know and love the Border hills of Northumberland.


May 1906
A CRACK BETWEEN TWO BORDER SHEPHERDS 
  By Billy Bell

Upon a morn in early May
A cauld and sleety shoory day
Twa herds wie faces lang and sad
Each rowed up in a weel worn pla'd 
Met on the stormy Cairter Fell
And sat them doon ahint a stell
Tae smoke their pipes and hae a blether 
Aboot the lambing time and weather 
And gie each other consolation
Amid sic awfa desolation.


The first that spak’ his name was Bookie
 He swore his verra tongue was yookie 
Tae hae a lang and friendly talk
And unto Amos thus he spak’.

This weather man is most infernal
It bleeds ma heart right tae its kernal
 There’s no a blade o’ gerse can growe 
Tae bring the milk tae ony yowe
Jist cauld and slaistery sleety shoors 
And frosty through the midnight oors 
There's no a blink o’ welcome sun 
And sic a cauldrife biting wun'
How's your things daeing man ava 
We've oft been happit up wie snaw.

Then Wollie Amos grew quite talky
 As he cut off a pipe o’ baccy
He drew his plaid oot ower his heid 
And says O verra bad indeed
Ma guid auld frien’ and neebor Bookie 
I’ll bet wie you a Jethert Cookie
And your chance man's as sma' tae win it
 As there'll be straggling curnies in it.

There's no a herd hed sic a time
In Coquet water Reed or Tyne
As aw hev hed this last fortnight
Od bliss us man aw'm nearly gite
What wie ae thing and another
Ma mind hes oft been in a swother 
Whether life was worth the leevin 
When its sae filled wie strife and grievin 
Nae fether gane than yester morn
Od man but aw could fairly sworn
Ma best pack yowe was lying awled 
Wie louping ill anither sprawled
Six bonnie lambs that weel aw cherished 
War lying lifeless cauld and perished

The gimmer wie the shed ram tippit
Twa rotten lambs tae me hed slippit
And yon nice hogg that weel ye worded 
Was reeling roond aboot and sturdied
Ma auld bitch Queen had gane and whelpit 
Ma young dog wie distemper yelpit
Od man ma life is waur than hell
Aw hae tae rin and bark masel'.

Ye maybe think that this is plenty 
But aw’m no dune sae neebor tent ye
 At denner time aw gaed the byre
A cow was smitten wie a clyre
Ower at the stye the pig was screaming
 Thinks aw the beast is mad a breeming
 But when aw lookit ower the door
Aw plainly saw ‘twas something wor’ 
It stood and snorkit blew and wheezled 
Thinks aw the beast is shairly measled 
Wie Castor Oil aw weel did doose her 
But naething seemed ava tae roose her 
This morning (here he shook his heid) 
The puir bit beast was lying deid.
And noo ma verra heart is breakin
Tae think aw've lost sae muckle bacon.

Lord bliss us man cried bookie Bill
 For thirty year a've climbed this hill 
And neebor them that's been a fore ye 
Ne'er telt me sic a mournful story

But ma auld cock lot me you tell
 There's mae hes trouble than yoursel’
 In this world we a’ get oor share
And faith there's some gets even mair. 
Ye mind yon guild show vow o’ mine 
The best in Coquet Reed or Tyne
Her that aw hed at Elliot's ram
Aw thought she hae a bonnie lamb
But man aw hae been sair mistean
Aw never frien' saw sic weean’
Nae bigger than a full grown stoat
And just as hairy as a goat
Ma auldest son (ye ken oor Willie)
 Says its been gotten wie a billy.

And man ye'll mind yon bonnie gimmer 
Ye saw when ye war' o’er a simmer 
The best sheep aw hed on ma hill
Od Sir but she hes paid me ill.
Then Bookie seized his lambing nibby
 And waved aloft its weel turned gibby
 And doon it cam’ on his sho' nebs
The clairty beast hes cussen kebs
And O ma heart has got a stoond
This morning she was lying drooned

Away ayont the Colliers pike
In a deep hole in Drumlie Syke.
And now a've naething left tae lick
 The sheep o’ Watty o’ the Nick.
The ither morn we'd sic a rowdy
The wife cried oot send for the howdy
 And rin yersel’ like ony negger
And hurry on the wee McGregor
Man wad’en ye hae thought the hizzie

‘Ood hed mair sence and us sae buisy 
However on ma job aw went
And soon wie rinning was fair spent
 But Fortune favours aye the brave
 Between the cradle and the grave.
Aw met oor mutual frien’ auld Robbie
 Wha munted on his mear sae nobby 
And doon the Jed did quickly gallop
 His legs and airms gan wallop wallop

Ye’re speiring what the youngster be
 Lord bliss ye man but there are three
 Twa bonnie lassies and a laddie
A’ to be rowed up in ma pladdie.

Says Amos frien’ we’ll hae tae gang
 Oor time is short oor journeys lang
 Aw'll see ye on the great occasion
 Ye’re comin' tae the valuation.

Withoot a doot cries oot brave Bookie
There's waur things than cauld roasted chookie
 And to cure care and mak’ us frisky
 Commend me tae a wee drap whiskey.

Then cam’ a great black sleety shoor
At which they baith looked grin and dour
 And each his plaid aboot aim rowes
And spanks away across the knowes.

(A howdy is a midwife) 


  

A Crack Between Two Border Shepherds  by Billy Bell  !906

Translation by Don Clegg into old Northumbrian 2013

Upon a morn in orly May, a cowld an’ sleety, shoory day

Twa herds wi’ faces lang and sad, each rowed up in a weel worn pla’d

Met on the stormy Carter Fell and sat them doon ahint a stell

Tae smoke thor pipes an’ hae a blether aboot the lambin’ time and weather

And gie each other consolation amid sic aaful desolation.

The forst that spak his name was Bookie.  He swore his varra tongue was yookie

Tae hae a lang an’ friendly talk, and unto Amos thus he spaak.

“This weather, man, is most infornal it bleeds me heart right to its kornel

There’s no’ a blade o’ gerse can grow tae bring the milk to ony yowe.

Just cauld and slaistery, sleety shoors and frosty through the midnight hoors

There’s no’ a blink of welcome sun – an’ sic a cauldrife, bitin’ wund.

“How’s yor things daein’ man, ava?  We’ve oft been happit up wi’ snaa.”

Then Wollie Amos grew quite taalky as he cut off a pipe o’ baccy

He drew his plaid oot ower his heid an’ says, “Oh, varra bad indeed

Me guid auld friend and neebor Bookie. Aa’ll bet wi’ you a Jethard cookie.

And yor chance man’s, as sma’ tae win it as there’ll be stragglin’ curnies in it.    (currants)

There’s no’ a herd’s hed sic a time in Coquet Wattor , Rede or Tyne

As Aa hev hed this last fortnight.  God bless us man, Aa’m nearly gite.

What wi’ ae thing and another me mind hes oft been in a swother

Whether life was worth the leevin’ when it’s sae filled wi’ strife and grievin’.

Nae forther gaen than yester morn, God man! Aa could fairly sworn!

Ma best pack yowe was lyin’ awled, wi’ loupin’ ill anither sprawled.                (on her back)

Six bonny lambs that weel Aa cherished war lyin’ lifeless, cauld and perished.

The gimmer wi’ the shed ram tippit, twa rotten lambs to me hed slippit

An’ yon nice hogg that weel ye worded was reelin’ roond aboot and sturdied.

Me owld bitch Queen hed gone and whelpit, me young dog wi’ distemper yelpit.

God man! Me life is warse than Hell, Aa hev to run an’ bark mesell.

“Ye mebbe think that this is plenty, but Aa’m no’ done, so neebor, tent ye.    (pay attention)

At dinner time Aa gaed the byre, a cow was smitten wi’ a clyre

Ower at the sty the pig was screamin’.  Thinks Aa, the beast is mad abreemin’.

But when Aa lookit ower the door Aa plainly saa ‘twas somethin’ war’.

It stood an’ snorkit, blew an’ wheezled thinks Aa, the beast is shairly measled.

Wi’ Castor Oil Aa weel did doose hor but naethin’ seemed ava tae roose hor.

This mornin’ (here he shook his heid) the puir bit beast was lyin’ deid.

And now me verry heart is breakin’ tae think Aa’ve lost sae muckle bacon.”

“Lord bliss us man!” cried Bookie Bill. “For thorty yeors Aa’ve climbed this hill

And, neebor, them that’s been afore ye, ne’er tellt me sic a mournful story.

But, me auld Cock, let me you tell, there’s mair hes trouble than yoursell

In this world we aall get our share, an’ faith! There’s some gets even mair.

Ye mind yon gud show yowe of mine, the best in Coquet Rede or Tyne,

Hor that Aa hed at Elliott’s ram, Aa thowt she’d hae a bonny lamb

But man! Aa hae been sair mistaen, Aa nivvor, friend, saa sic a weean

Nae biggor than a full grown stoat an’ just as hairy as a goat.

Me ouldest son,( ye ken oor Willie), says it’s been gotten wi’ a billy.

And man, ye’ll mind yon bonny gimmer ye saa when ye wor ower in Simmer

The best sheep Aa hed on me hill, God Sir! She hes paid me ill.”

Then Bookie seized his lambing nibby and waved aloft its weel turned gibby

An’ doon it cam on his shoe nebs. “The clairty beast hes cussen kebs!    (cursed, still born)

And, oh! me heart hes got a stoond, this mornin’ she was lyin’ droond

Away ayont the Colliers Pike in a deep hole in Drumlie Syke.

And now Aa’ve nothin’ left to lick the sheep o’ Wattie o’ The Nick.

The other morn we’d sic a rowdy the wife cried oot, “Send for the rowdy!   (midwife)

And run yoursell like ony neggar and hurry on the wee McGregor!”

Man! Wadn’t ye hae thought the hizzie would hae mair sense and us sae busy.

However, on me job Aa went and soon wi’ runnin’ was fair spent.

But Fortune favours aye the brave between the cradle and the grave.

Aa met oor mutual friend aad Robbie wha mounted on his mare sae nobby  (classy)

And doon the Jed did quickly gallop, his legs and airms ga’n wallop wallop.

Ye’re speirin’ what the youngster be?  Lord bless ye man, but there are three!  (enquiring)

Twa bonny lassies and a laddie a’ to be rowed up in me pladdie.”

Says Amos, “Friend, we’ll hev tae gan.  Oor time is short, oor journey lang.

Aa’ll see ye on the great occasion.  Yo’re comin’ to the valuation?”

“Withoot a doot”, cries oot brave Bookie. There’s warse things than cauld roasted chookie

And to cure care and mek us frisky, commend me to a wee drap whisky”

The came a great black, sleety shoor at which the’ baith looked grim an’ dour

And each his plaid aboot him rowes and spanks away across the knowes.

Northumberland verse by Donald Clegg

Strange but true
By Donald Clegg

2012

Aa was workin’ in the garden, Aa remember varry plain
‘Cos it was the only day this yeor when it hadn’t poured wi’ rain.
Aa cut the grass and forked the beds, howked weeds ‘til aal was tame,
Pruned bushes, sorted oot the shed…….and then the midgies came!

The little b…easties bit and itched ‘til Aa was nigh demented
It must be said they’ve got to be the worst flees God invented.
Aa’d dosed mesell wi’ Skin so Soft, like the Forestry recommended
But these midgies just lapped it up.  That wasn’t what Aa’d intended.

Aa rushed into the pottin’ shed where Aa knew Aa hed a spray
Guaranteed, the label said, to keep aal flees away.
Aa took off me specs and shut me eyes and give meself a borst
Nuw watch the little beggors run!  Aa should have done this forst!

But howt!  It didn’t seem to work. The’ just came back for mair
Me arms and face devoured --- Aa hed thousands in me hair.
Once more into the shed Aa went.  Aa thowt Aa’d bettor check
And there, up on the self same shelf, another tin – by heck!

The same size and same shape – the label kind of dorty
But sure enough, this was the stuff Aa’d used ---- WD Forty!
Me son just laughed and shooted, “Ye’ve got a shiny face!
Ye’d better watch if Aa strike a match, ye’ll shoot off into space!”

“Your beard’s aal blue, your arms are too, your clothes smell aaful fusty
But there’s one thing ye can be sure aboot, when it rains ye’ll not gan rusty!”


Should have gone to Spec Savers!

Robert Allen: The costly chimney cowl

Background by Clive Dalton

Graham Batey is the third generation of the Batey family of builders in Bellingham that traded under the name of 'Joseph G. Batey and Sons, Builders and Contractors'.

Graham was the last partner in the business along with his Uncle Arthur when he must have received an order from Robert Allen to fix a cowl on the chimney at Glebe house in Bellingham. Their bill head states 'Estimates Free' so presumably Robert had enjoyed that part of the deal!

Graham kindly sent me a copy of the Batey account for the job, and in reply, Robert's protest at the cost of it - in verse!

It's hilarious, and such a little treasure of a poem. It looks as if it was typed on Robert's old Remmington, badly in need of a new ribbon. The poem had no title but I have called it 'The Costly Cowl'. I hope Robert (my employer as a farm Daft Laddie) would approve.

THE ACCOUNT
The account below is made out to Mr R Allen, Esq., Glebe House, Bellingham, Hexham
Date 15 January 1979.



THE POEM
By Robert Allen

For Graham Batey of Lynn View,
Supplying of a poem or two.
With personal delivery to
His front door mat,
The sum of Nineteen pound is due,
Including VAT.

To such a sum my claim I stake,
So in your hand a pen now take.
And in the ledger quickly make
A counter entry;
You’ll find there has been no mistake,
It’s element’ry.

You think you’re over-charged a bit,
For simple shafts of poet’s wit?
We should not quarrel over it,
Nor cross our swords, -
You know inflation’s also hit
The price of words.

When Ossie Saint, the poor sowl,
Went up to fix that eight inch cowl,
He must have dropped his silver trowel
Right down the pot –
I think I’m charged for’t in this foul
Great bill I’ve got.

R.A. Jan 1979

P.S.
But when I reach life’s final curse,
And ride away in some grim hearse,
May big fools with a bigger purse
To your house come,
And offer for this little verse
Three times the sum!

COPY OR ORIGINAL


More Robert Allen
More of Robert's poems can be obtained on CD from the Northumbrian Language Society.
http://www.northumbriana.org.uk/langsoc/

Northumbrian poetry: "The Great Daft Laddies' Waal" by Donald Clegg

Don Clegg (on left) and Tom Batey -resting after

completion of the " Great Daft Laddies Waal"

THE 'GREAT DAFT LADDIES' WAAL

By Donald Clegg

There is a little cottage standin’ on a windy Highland brae,
The bonniest Butt and Ben inventeed, definitely, Aa wad say.
Way, way up a hillside in an Aberdeenshor glen,
It belangs to school-day friends, that stay theor noo and then.

It hes a country garden, tended both by Tom and Beth
And a view ‘cross to the Grampians to make ye haad yor breath.
But the braeside nuw is slumpin’, Tom thinks it’s gan’in te faal.
So Tom and me decideed, we wad hev to build a Waal.

A waal to keep the garden up! It wad be quite a feature.
Strang, stoot and gappy too – a heme for ivvery creature.
Bords, moosees, bugs and beetles, it meks nee odds at aal.
It’d be a boon for wildlife, wad the buildin’ of the Waal.

We stumped aboot aal day wi’ lots of scratchin’ 'o wor heeds,
Amang brambles, burrs and nettles, and plenty other weeds.
We measured and stuck sticks in – an’ then we changed wor minds.
Wor heeds was fairly abuzzin’ with the choice of grand designs.

At last we got it settled, and decided on a corve.
Not ower big or ower hee – just moderate wad sorve.
Part 'o the top might just be right to mek a viewin’ bench
So, full of hell, we started oot to dig the footin’s trench.

The soil was lowse and sandy and, tho’ the dust blew int’ wor eyes
We raked aboot and fund a bowldor – just the varry size
To get the buildin’ under way - and two/three mair anaal
‘Twad be a simple process, wad be the buildin’ of the Waal!

Sand and cement at 4 to 1 was saen browt into play
And bowldor followed muckle bowldor aal throughoot the day
We sweated, strained and laboured till the dyke began to grow
‘Till at last we reached the other end – as far as we meant to go.

Noo we’d done the footin’s, it was time to build the coursees,
So we pulled and pushed mair stones aboot, like two dementeed horsees.
Wi’ pinch bar and sledge hammor, we winkled bowldors oot
That hedn’t seen the light 'o day since Adam was aboot!

Tho’ bodies creaked and muscles groaned, we went on wi’ wor labours
Just stoppin’ yence or twice to a crack wi’ passin’ neebors.
Tea, coffee, sandwiches wor aall eaten in the shade,
Sittin’ in the wheelbarrow, or just leanin’ on the spade.

Some staenes wor easy worried oot, and quickly buildeed in
While some, nee mattor huw ye tried, ye simply couldn’t win!
But in spite of aal the akward yins, that seemed to be unwillin’
We soon got roond that problem, cos’ we used them for back-fillin’.

The day arrived for toppin’ oot, thor was a great debate.
“Where wad the initials gan? And what aboot the date?”
A flat stone from Northumberland was used to cap it aal
And we stood in admiration of wor grand, completed Waal.

It beats the one in China and Hadrian’s muckle dyke.
It beats that yin in Bykor, folks hev nivvor seen the like.
That yin in Borlin didn’t last for varry lang ataal
‘Cos it didn’t hev the craftsmen like the 'Great Daft Laddies’ Waal'.

It stands se strang and prood against the worst of Scottish weathor.
We think it’s got a canny chance of standin’ theor for ivvor.
So, if ye gan te Scotland and want somewheor to caal
Pop in to Aberdeenshor and see the 'Great Daft Laddies Waal'.

Falstone 2009

Profile of Tom Batey by Clive Dalton
Dr Tom Batey was born at Broomhill farm in West Woodburn where his parents farmed before moving 'doon country' to Gilchesters at Stamfordham in 1939. There Tom grew up and after his secondary schooling (where he met Don Clegg), he went on to Kings College, University of Durham in Newcastle upon Tyne where he did an agricultural degree specialising in soil chemistry.

While being the main stay on the home farm, Tom completed a Ph.D at Kings under Fred Hunter looking at the productivity of hill land in Northumberland. I can recall a memorable day with Tom up the Coquet 'howkin holes' on Blindburn, looking at the soil profiles and fencing some small plots to keep the yowes oot!

Tom spent the first part of his career working as a soil specialist for the UK Ministry of Agriculture 'doon sooth', initially in East Anglia then based at Reading. Then followed over 30 years teaching land use and soil management north of the Border at Aberdeen University. During this time he came to the deep sooth and had a short exchange at Lincoln College in New Zealand.

In his later career Tom acted as a soil consultant, specialising in assessing damage to the land following the installation of oil and gas pipelines. He loves 'sittin aroond a hole in the grund' spouting on about soils to anyone who will listen- including quite a few farmers in Australia! He and his wife Beth are in retirement in Aberdeenshire, where Tom recently bought himself a set of Northumbrian pipes! Now he can sit on his new waal and practise.



In 1988, Tom published an excellent book called 'Soil Husbandry - A practical guide to the use and management of soils'.
ISBN 0-951-3605-0-7.

Without question, it's the best book available if you want good, easy-to-read basic information on soils and their care, because of Tom's complete understanding of the role of science in practical farming.