Classic Poem

It's hard when folks can't find th'work
Weer they've been bred and born;
When I were young I allus thowt
I'd bide midst royits and corn.
But I've been forced to work in t'towns,
So here's my litany:
From Hull and Halifax and Hell,
Good Lord, deliver me.

When I were courting Mary Jane,
T'old squire he says, one day,
‘I've got na bield for wedded folk,
Choose will ta wed or stay.’
I could na give up t'lass I loved,
So to t'town we 'ad to flee:
From Hull and Halifax and Hell,
Good Lord, deliver me.

I've worked i' Leeds an' 'Uddersfield
And addled honest brass.
At Bradford, Keighley, Rotherham,
I've kept my bairns an' t'lass.
I've travelled all three Ridings round
And once I went to sea:
From forges, mills an' sailin' boats,
Good Lord, deliver me.

I've walked at neet through Sheffield loyns—
'Twere same as being i' hell—
Where furnaces thrust out tongues of fire
And reared like t'wind on t' fell.
I've sammed up coils i' Barnsley pits
Wi' muck up to my knee:
From Sheffield, Barnsley, Rotherham,
Good Lord, deliver me.

I've seen fog creep across Leeds brig
As thick as Bastille soup.
I've lived weer folks were stowed away
Like rabbits in a coop.
I've seen snow float down Bradford Beck
As black as ebony:
From Hunslet, Holbeck, Wibsey Slack,
Good Lord, deliver me.

Well now when all us childer's fligged,
To t'country we've come back.
There's fourty mile a heathery moor
'Twixt us an' t'coilpits' slack.
And as I sit by t'fire at neet,
Well, I laugh an' shout wi' glee:
From Hull and Halifax and Hell,
Good Lord, deliver me.