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~ An almost unschooled millworker who is careless of popularity or fame has been able to write poetry that has thrilled thousands of homely folk. poet of the open air. His songs are of the moors and the wind in the heather. In his prose sketches he writes of his wanderings in rain and shine on the wind-swept Pennines.”
W.R. Scott in “ John o’ London’s Weekly.”
“ Ammon Wrigley’s verse and prose have added a grace to the charm of the moorland scenery they paint, and to the appeal of beautiful bygone things killed by economic change.”
° 66 e e “Lancashire in Prose and Verse.’’
“Tf he never writes another line he will leave a legacy of simple prose and verse which is vital with his native wind swept moors.”
“ Daily Mail.”
To J. A.S.
AMMON WRIGLEY As a Prehistoric Man.
From a water colour by the late Sam Fitton, 1922.
SONGS OF THE PENNINE
A BOOK OF THE OPEN AIR
GEO. WHITTAKER & SONS PUBLISHERS STALYBRIDGE
Page Introduction - - - - - - vil Apology - - - - - - - 15 To the Reader - - - - - - 16 My Father and Mother - - - - - 18 On a Yorkshire Moor~ - - - - - 20 Saddleworth Church - - - - - 22 The Pennines - - - - - - 27 A Hunting Morn - - - - - - 28 The West Wind in Spring - - - - 29 A Merry Thrush - - - - - - 31 Friezlana Ale - - - - - - 32 O’er the Hills and Far Away - - - 35 In * Auld Lang Syne” - - - - - 37 Bill’s o’ Jack’s - - - ~ - - 39 April on the Mooredge - - - - - AI The Song of a Tramp - - - - - = 43 The Call of the Country - - - - Ad The Scouthead Road - - - - - 46 The Songthrush near a Town - - - AQ To a Moorland Lass - - - - - 51 To a Southern Friend - - - - - 52 The Hill Country - - - - - - 53 The Royal Tiger Inn - - - - - 55 The Watermill - - - - - - 56 The Green Road - - - - - - 6o A Flint Arrow-head - - - 62 Grouse Driving on Bill’s o’ Jack’s Moors - 64 Town and Country - - - - - 66 The Twelfth of August - - - - - 68 Roving o’er a Moorland - - - - 69
The Ruined Farmstead - - - - - 70
A Moorland Grave Mound - - - - 2 Flowers in an Oldham Alehouse~ - - - 75 Tunstead - - - - = = = 77 A Driving Shot in a Driving Wind - - 73 A Moorland Lad in Town - - - - 79 The Fields of Lurden - - - - - SI The Fairy Etcher - - - - - 83 The Brown Hare of Whitebrook Head - - 85 The Hills of Longdendale - - - - 7 The Homestead - - - - - - 88 The Men of the ‘ Churchside”’ - - - 2 A Good Day - - - - - - 98 “ Th’ Heaunds.are eaut agen” - - - 100 The Hill of Sleep - - - ~ - - IO! The Song Thrush - - - - - - 102 Parting - - - ~ - - - 107 The Heather Cock ~ - - - - 108 The Fool - - - - - - - 108 Youth and Age - - - - - - 109 By Ladhill Bridge - - - - - itr On Doldrum Hill in June - - - - A Moorland Inn - - - - - - 115 The Road to Ripponden - - - - «118 The Song of the “ Lightside” Valley - - 120 The “Shelf” Road - - - - - 122 The Wind of the Hills - - - - 124 A Summer’s Night on a Moor - - - 125 A Hunting Day - - - - - - 120 Spring in the North Country - - 129 We'll go again a-Roaming - - - - 130 All I Ask - - - - - - - 131 In Saddleworth - - - - - - 132 The War Memorial - - - - - 134 Hearing the Cuckoo - - - - - 135
A Greeting - - - - -
A Parson’s Pitchers - - - - - 138 My Way ~ - - - - - - I4I Exit - - - - - - - - I41 Whitebrook Head - - - - - - 142 An Old North Riding Road - - - - 143 Castleshaw and the Roman Fort - - - 144 In Wimberry ‘Time - - - - - 148 A Trout Stream - - - - - - 148 Saddleworthshire - - - - ~ - 149 I Love the Road - - - - - 150 A December Night - - - - - 150 August Days - - - ~ - - 150 Come Out, the Spring is Roaming - - 51 A Rare Old Inn - - - - - 152 The Hounds are Out at Lingards”~ - - - 153 A Song of Parting - - - - - 154 The Throstle’s Lament - - - - 155 A Doomed Oak - - - - - - 157 An Old Friarmere Hunting Day - - - 159 List of Subscribers - - - 163 ILLUSTRATIONS Page Ammon Wrigley Face Title Pennine Moors March Hill 16 A Pennine Clough Marsden Moors 32 A Pennine Stream Saddleworth Moors 64 A Pennine Hamlet Stonebreaks 80 A Pennine Village Dobcross 906 A Pennine Farm ‘“ North Britain’? 128 Fragment of Roman Pottery Castleshaw 147
A Parson’s Pitchers Friarmere 140
I BEGAN to write rhymes when I was about eight years of age. We were then living at Millcroft, a lovely hamlet of trees and gardens in the Castleshaw valley. A field’s breadth below there is a brook, that in my young days was famous for its trout, but now, it flows through the poor bare meadowlands, with hardly anything in its waters, bigger than a stickleback. How well I remember my first sight of that valley. It must have been in early June, for there were white trees the first I had ever seen, and my mother said it was hawthorn blossom. How I clung to her with fear, when we reached the weir at the top of Hull mill dam. It | is close to the path and flood waters were roaring and plunging into the deep pool below. I must have thought. that monsters were fighting under the heaving swirling masses of foam. I began to work as a halftime piecer for my father who was a Spinner at a nearby mill and there were times when we knew dire poverty. That was when work was so bad, that little could be earned. Sometimes, when he had worked a whole week and paid the wages of his piecers, he had about two shillings left for himself. Then I sat at the table with my brother to porridge, morning, noon and night, every day in the week. It is a healthy food, but have it set before you every meal time, from Monday morning till Saturday night, and you will begin to hate the very. sight of it. On dark Friday nights I always went with my mother down the dangerous brookside path to a grocer’s shop in the village. Many times we stood for an hour on the bare flag stones at the far end of the shop till we were stiff with cold. My mother kept missing her turn to be served. She would not go to the counter if there were another customer standing by
it for she had not enough money to pay for all we required. We ran pounds in debt but every penny was paid off when better days came. :
One of the blackest memories of my early years is of a Christmas time. About the middle of December there came the roughest storm of the year, with a high wind, and for weeks the lanes were full of snow, level with the wall tops. Huge drifts were piled over the hedges and against the walls and doors of the houses. Work had been very, bad at the mill for over a month and the wolf was at our door as people say when they are poverty stricken. We had no paraffin oil for our lamp and barely a barrowful of coal. If a neighbour woman had come into our house on that Christmas eve, she would have seen a father, mother and two little lads sitting in silence and gloom as they watched a few red cinders die down in the grate. We knew that in the neighbour houses there were great warm fires, merry- making, carol singing and happy children playing with their new toys. We knew too that there were Christmas puddings, cakes and many kinds of seasonable dainties on the tables. Our dinner on that freezing Christmas day was a plate of porridge and a spoonful of treacle. No one outside our house knew how poor we were at that time. We went through it in silence. When trade was fairly good, the spinning was better, and sometimes, my father earned a pound a week. My mother was a piecer and our three wages amounted to about thirty shillings. We were then living in clover and had a cup of tea at one meal every day. When my mother had brewed the home ale, my father sat at night in his great armchair, and sang old songs that I never hear to-day. His fine tenor voice often made our house ring to its ridge stones. There were three sets of carding machines and three self-acting mules at the mill and I think the carder had about a pound a week standing wage but he had three mens’
work to do every day, for he was the firebeater and the engine driver. He had to rise early every. morning and get the steam up, start the engine and keep it running all day. There were times when he was busy in the cardroom that he forgot all about the boiler fire till it was nearly out. Then he had to strip to the shirt and sweat till he had got the steam up again. ‘There was a little waterwheel but without the engine it could scarcely turn the machines. ‘There were no powerlooms at the mill. All the shawls were woven in the hillside cottages and it was common to see a bed and a loom in the same chamber. Before my father became a spinner he had a loom in his cottage and my mother a fifty spindled jenny. The master where we worked often said that no millworker was worth more than a pound a week, but there were other mills where the masters were kindly men, paid fair wages and treated their workpeople well. No matter how badly off we might be, I kept on writing verses at night on the only paper we had in the house. My mother’s groceries had been wrapped in it and she smoothed it out with her clothes iron. I wrote more easily when alone and I got the scourer at the mill to give me a few pieces of wood from a soap box and with bits of greasy old strap leather and tacks I made a rude desk. On summer evenings I took it across a field to the shelter of a blackberry hedge and scribbled away till dusk. I had only the stump of a lead pencil and when my poems had faded till they were unreadable my mother used them to light the fire. One Saturday noon I touched the peak of joy. My father gave me three pennies for writing verses about a laneside well and I have a vivid recollection of jumping over a wall into a field and trying to fly. It was the first time that I had received a gift of so much money. I have told, and it is worth telling again, particularly to young folks, who now have free education at village schools till they, are nearly old enough to begin courting,— IX
how unforgettable is the day in my life when I first saw some lines from Goldsmith’s Deserted Village, and I cannot remember ever longing for anything more intensely than I longed for the complete poem. One evening, a few weeks later I saw, The Works of Oliver Goldsmith, in a shop window in the village. It was published by John Dicks, London, in a yellow paper cover and the price was ninepence. I had fivepence and my. first thoughts were to ask my mother to. lend me fourpence but I remembered immediately that just then, she hadn’t it to spare. I had a miserable time, for I was haunted by a constant fear that the book would be sold before I had saved four- pence. As soon as mill hours were over I hurried home and bolted my tea. Then I ran, sometimes in the rain, to the village nearly, a mile away. I was unwashed and in my ereasy, clothes, but I could not rest till I had seen if the book was still in the window. If the evening were fine I stood for hours by the window watching people go into the shop, hoping that no one would come out with the book. I fell ill in the haytime and the neighbours said that the sexton at Heights Chapel had shook his spade at me. One Saturday when my mother had brushed her clogs and put a shawl on her head to go to the village I gave her my fivepence and asked her to lend me fourpence and bring Goldsmith’s Works, from the bookseller’s shop. To my great joy it was in her basket when she returned, and it soon became a much better tonic than the doctor’s physic. When I got back to the mill I went about the mulegate reciting the Deserted Village to myself all through the day. Then I saved every penny for months till I had got a shilling which I spent on another of Dicks’ publications, a yellow paper backed copy of Shakespeare. When my father brought his moor friends to our house late on a Saturday night, I had to get out of bed and go down the stairs half asleep rubbing my eyes open. Then I had to stand on the hearthstone in nothing but my shirt and recite to poachers,
while they drank our home brewed ale. I am sure they had never heard of Shakespeare and probably thought me mad. A friend who gave me much help and encouragement when I was badly in need of it, often said that my rough early life in the Castleshaw valley was the best bringing up that I could have had. He argued that a grammar school or university education would have destroyed all that was best in me. That it would have made me fine and given me a veneer and polish, “that oft outshines the solid wood.” It may have done all that, but of course I cannot tell. All I know, is, that I have kept a love for the rough Pennine countryside in my heart and it has come out in what I have written. Let me quote from one of my books: “My ancestors did not give me a yard of land or an ounce of gold. They hadn’t them to give, but they gave me something that I would not sell for money, even if I could. Their gifts were all in the rough and it is now too late to try to polish them, and perhaps if I did try I should make them into sham things. — They, gave me a great love for the green countryside, and the brown moor, for winds, trees and wild flowers, for wild birds and for all little things that live in fields, pools and running waters. Surely a man with a love for the beautiful in his heart is not badly off even if he has not a rag to his back or a shoe to his foot.” The people of the Pennine hills and dales, the millfolk and the farmfolk, speak in a plain direct way that is easy to understand, and it is chiefly for those people that I have written as simply, and as directly as I know how. From those early days I have gone through life in my own careless way, scribbling prose and verse after mill hours and spoiling much good paper that went up the chimney in smoke. Out of doors my greatest joy has ever been, to go roaming over long miles of windy moorlands. It is in the blood, they called my father and they call me. Sometimes
I met a man on the hills who always stopped and made me listen while he quoted two lines from Burns, one of which he said, fitted me :— «Some social join Some solitary wander.”’ At noon I often found my way into a deep clough where Y could sit on the heather and eat my bread and chop from a white napkin on my knees. I never carried a bottle of ale in my pocket. I made my hands into a cup and drank from the running waters of a stream. I have never had anything from a table that I relished or enjoyed more than those simple meals in the moorland cloughs. IT had not the faintest intention of ever trying to publish anything in book form till one Sunday evening in summer at Hilltop when I first met Thomas Thompson of Dale House, Delph, and “Songs of a Moorland Parish” was the result. He was a friend in a thousand. Call me a verse maker or a rhyme spinner and you have hit the white, for I am green as springtime grass about what is called poetry. Talking of poetry in the inn corner, Jim Heath said, “I like something joyous and about the length of a skylark’s song.” Ab o’ th’ Ring Hollows said, “A woman’s a poem, God made her, but the devil puts clothes on her back.” ‘There are many mysteries round us,’ Dan o’ th’ White Ings said, “for anything we know the daisies may be lark songs that have dropped down from the skies and taken root in the fields.” ‘Or it may be the other way,’ Hurley said, “the songs of skylarks may be the songs of flowers that the birds take up and make audible to us.” *
In keeping with the open air character of the work I have included three pieces of dialect verse. Other verses in the dialect I have had to leave out as they are chiefly of a personal character.
A.W. * See ‘‘At the Sign of the Three Bonnie Lasses.”’
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY GEO. WHITTAKER & SONS ECLIPSE PRESS : STALYBRIDGE 1938
COPYRIGHT ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Songs of the Pennines
“Nothing more impresses one in the character of the barrier (The Pennines) than the loneliness. There is no other corresponding contrast of men and emptiness that I know of in Europe.” Hilaire Belloc.
But the towns of the Pennines, old and new alike, are, or should be built of stone. And because the Pennine country is stark and resistant the Pennine towns are stark and resistant. Nature not man made them so—Katharine C. Chorley.
‘We feel sure that no book has ever been published that contains so much verse of the open air, the countryside and the moorlands of the Pennines.”
I was born on a bare, bleak hill, In a year when life was stern, And lean days gripped my father’s hearth, For there was little to earn.
No weit to spin, no warp to weave, No sound of jenny or loom, Only the moan of the moor wind That deepened the sadness and gloom.
And all that I have writ—is writ, Whether it be blest or cursed; Remember the little that’s good, Forgive and forget the worst.
To the Reader
LIKE the wind among the heather, Just as merry and as free, Up and down this moorland parish, Come, my friend, and roam with me.
Why sit moping on the hearthstone, Out of doors there’s joy and thrill When you meet the good wind blowing To your face upon the hill.
Life’s too.short to pull long faces, All too soon its day is done; Let’s go singing through the hours
To the setting of our sun.
Up the old farm lanes of morning Down the hamlet lanes of eve, We will take to no man sorrow Nor a care behind us leave.
If we meet a weathered shepherd With his dogs at four-lane-ends, Or a blue-smocked handloom weaver: They shall know us for their friends.
When across the moorlands roaming We at last begin to tire, We will seek an old inn kitchen, And its glowing red peat fire.
If a man’s best drink is water, We will neither scorn nor rail, If he’ll grant to us a pitcher Full of hearty home-brewed ale.
ENNINE Moors March Hill and Clowes Moss.
We'll be straight to man and woman And as open as the day; Creeds were never God’s religion, Never mind what preachers say.
Ii we meet a hungry beggar, Shall we pray that he be fed? It were better and more Christian That we give him cheese and bread.
Let me tell you I’m outspoken, And I’m not bound up by creeds, That I’ve cut adrift from teaching That just fits a Sunday’s needs.
There’s much praising God on Sundays, That’s ne’er a weekday fact; There’s much preaching love and goodness But too little in the act.
Now, my friend, when we’ve done roaming, You will think no worse of me, That you found me plain and homely, Which is all I wish to be.
My Father and Mother
WHEN I sit by the hearth at midnight alone, And the fire burns low in the bars; While out in the dark fields the night winds moan, Writhing in pain under the stars; When I doze in my chair, ’twixt waking and sleep, Dim faces peer out of the gloom, And forms I have laid in the gravelands deep Come silently back to my room.
And there’s one dear face looks over my chair, A face that I cannot but know, For my mother’s smile is still playing there, As it played in the long ago; And the same brown hair is braided so neat, And bound with a tortoise-shell comb, While the same hazel eyes, so tender and sweet, Bring back to me all that was home.
I see the long windows white-curtained at night, The hearth, and each chair in its place; And my mother, she leans o’er her needles bright, With the firelight warm on her face. My father sits high in his great armchair, And sings the wild songs of the moor; There was joy in that home, though its walls were bare, With sand from the brook on its floor.
My mother, she gave me her sympathies wide, Her scorn for the foul and the mean, Her love of the right, and her native-born pride Of all she held honest and clean; She wished me no braggart, loud shouting and vain, No lover of pomp and display, But hoped I'd be simple, straight-forward, and plain, Nor pose as superior clay.
She showed me the fields of fairest thought; But alas! I grope at the gate; And the dust les thick on all I have wrought, For mine is the dreamer’s fate; Yet never a lark song comes to my ears But bids me awake and rejoice, And never a rain wind shivers the meres But strange yearnings struggle for voice.
And over my chair comes another dear face, Red flushed by the wind of the hill, In its rough, strong lines, how well I can trace The sweet gifts of the uplands still; And the fire that burns in my inmost heart, How well do I know what it means, It's the love of the moors—the passionate part Of the blood in my father’s veins.
He left me no lands, no farms in my span, No titles or riches had he; But he gave me the grit that makes a man, Who will bend not the fawning knee, He bade me respect the rights of the great, And hoped it would ever be said I’'d kept a clean name though poor my estate, And honoured all that was inbred. |
My way is a way that’s little trod, I am bound to no sect or creed; I say my prayers to Nature’s god, In the fields where the lapwings breed: I hear the wind preach and its psalms sung In praise of the Infinite free, And ne’er a sermon from human tongue Is half so divine unto me.
On a Yorkshire Moor
OVER a hill the west wind loves, There lies a quiet glen; Far away from the roaring world, Far from the haunts of men; Out to the south a lordly wall, Reared by no human hands, A cloud-dark wall that overlooks The windy heather lands.
Crags to the north like fortress bold, A stern embattled steep, That shelters from the raiding storms The winter-harassed sheep; Cloughs to the east and riven moor, Striped like a tiger’s skin; With raking flank of yellow grass, And ribs of darksome whin.
And one grey rock like pagan god, Solemn as death and lone; That oft maybe the hill tribes made Their ancient worship stone; The strange wild people of the past, Have vanished race on race, And we like shadows on the grass Now pass before its face.
And one glad stream like sky-lark’s song, The singer of the heath; A fairy rising with her lute From magic caves beneath; The trailing mist on wet May morns, The wild autumnal rain; That gave their music to the hill, The stream gives back again.
A voice that when the hills were young, Came piping down the height; And chanting now by altar stones,
A chorister in white; And I poor singer doomed to seek, My songs with weary thought; I envy thee, O happy stream, The songs that rise unsought.
O’er pebbled sand like Eastern floor, With tiles of every hue; A jewelled houri flashing down, Long corridors of blue; And roaming seaward bears the wave, A gift from inland wells; The North Sea takes its grandeur from The stormy Yorkshire fells.
And here there comes on rushing wings Red-singed by August fires The moorcock lordliest bird that loves The lusty northern shires; And here the kestrel strikes across The lark-hushed spaces high, A moment poised, then down to earth An arrow from the sky. And where the wind-song shakes the grass And all the hollow fills, I lie and hold communion with The spirit of the hills. And naught of greed or petty strife, Or human fret is here, But one deep feeling sways my heart To worship and revere.
A temple built by Nature’s hands, With chancel, nave and aisle, And all the holiness that fills An old cathedral pile, A minster where eternal rites, And harmonies abound; The sky above, the moor below, And the great God all round.
REVERED I stand, Solemn and grand, On this green upland, The moor above and the dale below Keeping my watch while the ages go; A warden great, with unbroken trust, I guard the fields of sacred dust. Over the graveyard dark and weird, Over the granite wealth had reared,
Over the vault of squire and dame, Over the mound that bears no name, Over them all, night and day, Over them all I watch for aye, Day by day, and year by year, They bring them here From far and near, Father and mother, Sister and brother, One by one, till all are gone; Till all are gone, and all forgot, Their names, their homes, remembered not.
My gable stones Are on dead men’s bones, Yet truly set and firm their bed, Deep in the graves of forgotten dead. A noble wall, on a noble base, I stand, a church of strength and grace. Though white-haired winter’s witch of storm May furious rave against my form, Though fiends of wind and northern sleet With cruel claws may tear and beat, Yet, strong as the hills that round me climb, I mock the strength of storm and time.
Fight great bells in my tower swing, Eight great bells that reel and ring Down the sky’s broad ways A pageant of praise, Hymn and chant in gowns of white, Prayer in saintly raiment bright. Reverent bells, when the people kneel, Reverent bells, that know and feel
Each tremor that through me thrills, Each holy sound that swells and fills
My fretted stalls
And hallowed walls;
And through my bells, like spirits fair, They leap into the gladsome air, And down the winds to every door, To mansion great, and cot of poor, They take sweet gifts of peace and rest To weary heart and aching breast.
A christening rite: A child in white, Lying asleep on its mother’s arm, Folded close to her bosom warm, Her every thought, her every care, Her love, her life, all centre there. All that is holy, pure, and good, Meet in the joy of motherhood; And who can tell her hopes and fears, Seeking to probe the future years: Will leagued dishonour, shame, and sin, In Life’s grim fight the vantage win? Will destiny shed the rays of fame In quenchless light around its name? Will he who stands by that mother’s side Look down its life with honest pride?
Who can say, Yea or nay? A name is writ in my great Church roll, A name is writ on a fair white soul, And whate’er betide, henceforth to be, By this holy rite, a part of me.
Wedding days, Orange sprays, Coach and greys, Youth and grace, Joy’s red rose on each happy face, A joyous crowd about my door, Lightsome feet on my vaulted floor, When down the aisle, like morning’s glow, With downcast eyes, she walketh slow. Azure and gold, emerald and rose, Shower her raiment as she goes, But never a ray that round her lies Can match the light of her winsome eyes.
At the altar side Bridegroom and bride, Low and clear They vow and swear To be one in heart Till death doth part. Up the aisle they wedded go, Up the aisle for weal and woe, Bridal maidens in their rear; Guest and kindred thronging near; Many a saint in my windows fair, Looketh down on the happy pair.
Lovely and gay, They ride away, But O, how soon Joy’s cup is quaffed, And low they lie who sang and laughed.
Saddest of all, Hearse and pall, And one great bell the people dread. That welcomes home the coming dead: One great bell the people fear, That tolling speaks of coffin and bier. A choking sob Heaves in the throb, In the beat of its heavy heart, That tells of ties now rent apart, When up the road Comes the sombre load. The smiling babe, from its mother’s breast, And weary age, that craveth rest, Girlhood fair, in Life’s springtime, Manhood, vain of its lusty prime, Rich and poor, humble and proud, Ride to my gates in coffin and shroud; Lust for power, and lust for gold, Their doom is seen in my graveyard cold. The squire, shorn of his great estates, How poor he lies within my gates; The strutting lord of a passing day, How voiceless his once haughty clay. And why should we, in Life’s frail span, E’er set our heel on a fellow man? For maybe, in our lordliest breath, Crushed, we fall ’neath the heel of death.
Then list, ye proud, whoe’er ye be, Oh, list to meek humility, For humbled ye'll come one day to me.
Dust to dust, Canker and rust, To lie and rot Is the mortal lot, While that which is immortal waits The opening of the golden gates.
A prayer in stone am I, A rock-built prayer, uplifted high Into a windy moorland sky; A prayer for those who round me lie, A prayer that they who wander by May live remembering death is nigh.
The moon is up o’er the dark moor height, Good-night, ye hills; ye dales, Good-night!
In the Pennine dales in springtime, Oh, who would not be there When the thrush is in the hedgerow And the lark’s in the air; When the frolic winds come shouting With a hey and a hoy, And the heart is like a blossom That’s just found light and joy.
On the Pennine moors in summer, I want no scene more fair, Nor a joy more sweet than roaming With the grouse and the hare. When the bees are in the heather Lip deep in purple wine, Then the life they live in Eden On Pennine moors is mine.
On the Pennine hills in autumn, When harvest winds are spent, When the gold is on the bracken, And silver on the bent; When the fields grow honey yellow, In days of dreamy ease, Then to me they are the gardens Of my Hesperidees.
On the Pennine hills in winter, With a nip in the wind, There’s a red cheek and a bracing For body and for mind. Then away from streeted houses As far as bird can fly, To the hills God made for roaming And health and joy, say I.
A Hunting Morn
A hunting morn is o’er the hill, The horn of heaven blowing, And he who feels no joyous thrill Is not a man worth knowing.
It’s o’er the hills, the hills, my lads, Where winds are fresh and bracing, The hound, the horn, the red-necked morn, And new life through us racing.
A hunting morn is o’er the hill, The morn of bonnie women, And soon our blue rimmed bowls will fill With stew and loaches* brimming.
A hunting morn is oer the hill, The morn of good wives “‘tunning,’’ fT I hear the hounds in every gill, And see the brown hares running.
A hunting morn is oer the hill, We'll thank the gods for giving The only sport that gives us still The hearty joy of living.
* Loaches. Pieces of meat. | Tunning. Bottling.
The West Wind in Spring
O wind from the moorlands that lie to the west, Where the eve is folding the day to her breast, Like one that is weary and longing to rest, Come whisper to me!
By the old Pule farms on the moor highway, I climb where high Stanedge looms lonely and grey, But my path is enchanted wherever I stray When [I listen to thee.
OQ wind of the sunset, still warm with the glow, From skies that are saffron, come hither and blow Thy freshness around me, for fain would I know Some tidings of Spring!
O tell me, sweet wind, of the silver tongue! Shall I meet this sweet maid I have looked for long? Is she roaming this night on the moorlands among The cloudberry and ling?
O tell me, West Wind, what the skylark hath said? What song is she dreaming to-night, in her bed,
That will shake the white towers of morn overhead With peals of delight?
Hath the lapwing come back to her last year’s nest, To the field she was born in and loves the best? O warm be the eggs ‘neath her soft white breast On the shelterless height!
And, say, hath the swallow come back o’er the sea, O’er the white Channel waves to frolic with thee? Hath the ring-ousel told the cloughs on the lea Her legends of May?
Hath the cuckoo been heard by the old sheep farms, Where the pastures lie green in the moor’s rough arms? What sorcery is hers! what witchery and charms Are thrown from her lay!
And say how the moorcock hath greeted the Spring, Red bird of the August—so wild on the wing! My heart is like thine on the hills of the ling— The vast and the lone!
O live if you will where the lowlands are spread, With black city walls and contagion is fed, But give me the heights where the plover is bred And health has her throne.
The night is now here, with her jewels and crown, For the red moon is up, o’er the edge of the down, And wan over Wharmton the glare of the town— Gay revel and sin!
And faintly, West Wind, art thou whispering now, Scarce a word can I hear, so sleepy art thou; Good-night! and good-rest! on the high moor brow, In thy chamber of whin.
I crave not a comrade in the ways I pass, Whose thoughts are for ever intent upon ‘‘brass’’; Whose soul is as dead as the dried up grass To a feeling divine!
But thou be my comrade, so fresh in my face! O the joy to be caught in thy wildest embrace, Away on the hills in some wuthering place— A playmate of thine! Thou eagle-winged spirit, the wild and the free, How often I think what a life it would be To leap the green hedges as lightly as thee— Unfettered by care!
To whip the wild horses of storm o’er the hill! Till they race to the east and the heavens fill! To live and to die at my own joyous will— Unseen in the air!
A Merry Thrush
A bonnie brown thrush in a whitethorn bush, he’s gone music mad, He sings all day, hey tirra lirra lay, Spring is here lass and lad.
There’s never a care in his laughing air, Nor e’en a passing sigh, And he calls, ‘‘what cheer, come hither, come here,’’ When folks go moping by.
In ripple and run of frolic and fun, You hear the fairies shout; Hey oh! who will go to a wood we know, Where daffodils are out?
He sings merry glees to the leafless trees, And thrills them to the core, ‘““‘Come out with me, little leaves and see The spring is here once more.’’
‘Do you here wake up, come and fill your cup, I’m serving heaven’s wine, Come and drink, make haste, ere it runs to waste, This magic draught of mine.’’
It be spring if the thrush didn’t sing, For how would flowers know It were time to wake, in meadow and brake, And make the green earth glow?
Then hey for a thrush and a whitethorn bush, Hey for a song to sing That will fill the blood with a joyous flood Warm from the heart of spring.
Friezland—said to mean furze or gorse land—forms part of the Pennine parish of Saddleworth, Yorkshire.
WHENE’ER I drink old Friezland ale, Drawn from a big brown bottle, I feel as if a summer morn Were running down my “‘throttle’’;* A pint of sunshine at a swipe, All sparkle, grip and mettle, There’s nothing like old home-brewed ale For keeping folk in fettle.
It runs out of the bottle’s neck Like morning’s milk but richer, And bubbles up in bunches white Like roses in a pitcher; But never roses e’er can be So full of bloom and sappy, A mellow pot of Friezland ale Would make a gatepost happy.
And when I drink this hearty brew With malt and hops in plenty, I’m ten years younger with a pint, And if I’ve two I’m twenty. Then what a fool I’d be to change And join cold water teaching, I'd go to church on Sunday morn If Friezland ale were preaching.
It is the ale that fills my pot _With merry song and laughter, That makes me feel I’m made of joy And brings no headache after.
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It does not roll me on the road Or set my head a tupping, I always feel I’m twice the man When Friezland ale I’m supping.
There is no ale from barley brewed With half so bold a flavour, For English folk and English soil In every drop I savour: And they who brew by Friezland moors, In homesteads clean and ‘“‘warty,”’ Are jannock folk with double chins, And always hale and hearty.
The ale-wife meets the early morn, When brimming over, And filling all the meadow lands With buttercups and clover; For morning brings her wondrous gilts Of magic taste and witching, That make a charméd fairy room Of her old-fashioned kitchen.
She gathers where the plover roves, As wild bees gather honey, Her apron full of fragrant things, The joyous and the sunny; The smell of blossom in the lane She catches as she passes, And blends it with the sweets she finds Among the mowing grasses.
She captures, too, the skylark’s song, And takes each run and quaver, And song of thrush in hedges green, To give her brew a flavour; The low of cows at milking time And smell of moorland heather, She mixes with her malt and hops And boils them well together.
And then she takes her brewing tub And lays the ‘‘trow’’ across it, She gets her jug of gradely yeast, The “‘spiggott’’ and the ‘‘fawsitt’’; She knows that going too oft to th’ well Will bring good malt to ruin, That just eleven quarts to th’ peck Will make a Friezland brewing.
Give me a warm and homely hearth, A pint for quiet drinking, There is no woman on this earth I'd marry to my thinking, For womenfolk are hard to please, And fond of fine apparel, If e’er I wed I’ll take for wife A brown old Friezland barrel.
Now he who drinks this home brewed ale Grows redder than the cherry, He walks on daisies all his life In sunshine blithe and merry; And in his hand you feel a grip That tells you he’s your brother, For Friezland ale does parson’s work It makes men love each other.
* Dialect word for throat.
O’er the Hills and Far Away
In April days when the young buds peep, And I wake up from a good night’s sleep, I out of bed in the morning leap, Singing out of doors on a windy day, And o’er the hills and far away.
I break two eggs into home brewed ale; ‘Tis a roamer’s drink and ne’er doth fail To help a man over hill and dale; Singing out of doors on a windy day, And over the hills and far away.
When the morning air is fresh and keen, And the old farm roads are dry and clean; Then I’m away to the hilltops green, Singing out of doors on a windy day; And o’er the hills and far away,
By gate and gap I merrily go, Free as the winds that around me blow; I swing along till I’m all aglow, Singing out of doors on a windy day, And o’er the hills and far away.
When the green is young in field and tree, And joy is wild in the heart of me, And life is life as it e’er should be, Singing out of doors on a windy day, And o’er the hills and far away,
J drink my fill of the wine of Spring, Till I want to run and jump and sing, And catch wild birds when they’re on the wing, Singing out of doors on a windy day, And o’er the hills and far away.
-I come from men of the moorlands broad, Who gave me joy of the earth they strode, And a lightsome heart to bear my load, Singing out of doors on a windy day, And o’er the hills and far away,
And when I’m gone will they say of me, He was just the man he wished to be; For he loved the hills and all things free, Singing out of doors on a windy day, And o’er the hills and far away.
In“Auld Lang Syne”
I was born by the moors at the wane of the year When the curlew had gone and the sheep fields were drear And I hear them still calling wherever I roam Come back to the heather and the hills of thy home.
There my mother span weft for my father to weave, In a room by their bed from the morn to the eve; He’d a cow and a stirk in a field on the hill,
And a donkey to carry his warps from the mill.
When the day’s work was done o’er a pint of home brew He oft sang by the hearth the old songs that he knew; And till I fell a nodding in my little chair I would try to sing chorus to ‘‘Hunting the Hare.’’
When the meadow was mown, by a low tumbled wall, I was laid down asleep in an old woollen shawl, With a dog to watch o’er me all the long summer's day, While father and mother were at work with the hay.
The fancies of childhood how I cling to them still, When I thought I could touch the red moon on the hill, And the first hare I saw in a field on the lea, I thought it would come like a sheep dog to me.
I remember the joy on a morning in spring, When I found a grouse nest with four eggs in the ling, And the ring-ousel’s nest by an old wicken tree, I was then as near heaven as a mortal can be.
And the hot summer’s noon at a pool in the brook, When I caught my first trout with a pin for a hook. ‘Twas the length of my hand from its head to its tail, And my mother she laughed as she called it a whale,
And I gather them up for my heart to hold fast, The flowers of memory from the fields of the past; That no winter can nip and no storm wind can blight, Tul I go to my sleep in the grave’s long night.
A dreamer I have been and a dreamer I’ll be, While my dreams bring a world that is Eden to me; When the workaday life grows darksome and cold, I light up my heart with the sunshine of old.
Bill’s 0’ Fack’s A Song for Lads and Lasses.
Tuis famous old inn stood in the heart of the finest moor- land scenery in Yorkshire. It has just been demolished to the great regret of the thousands that loved it.
As I walked out to Bill’s o’ Jack’s When Maytime winds were blowing I heard the grouse cock on the moor Among the wimberry crowing.
Singing hey O, folla lolla lay The Merry, Merry May, The Merry, Merry, Merry, Merry Maytime.
I met a maid on Pots and Pans, A roaming through the heather, I told her life was twice as sweet When two walked out together. Singing hey O, etc.
Her face was like a morn in June, Her hair blown o’er her shoulder, The noon-blue skies were in her eyes, ’Twas heaven to behold her. Singing hey O, etc.
‘‘When maids are tied to men,’’ she said ‘*?Tis always for the worse, sir, There is no man upon this earth That’s worth a tinker’s curse, sir.’’ Singing hey O, etc.
‘My arm will fit your waist,’’ I said once around my She looked on me so pleasantly “Oh no, I’m not so silly.”’ Singing hey QO, etc.
There’s a kiss for me in your red lips, Just one, just one my honey;”’ She answered me so laughingly No, not for love or money.’’ Singing hey O, etc.
So there and then I stole a kiss, “You thief, Pll tell my But her blue eyes they seemed to say, Why don’t you steal another. Singing hey O, etc.
There’s bread and wine at Bill’s o’ Jack’s For all good lads and lasses, Then take your fling, Time’s on the wing, And soon Life’s morning passes. Singing hey O, etc.
April on the Mooredge
I heard a blackbird singing in the wood by Wicken Hall, A song they sing at Bill’s 0’ Jack’s when the hunters call, It’s up and down and roundabout and back again for fun, Like the running of a hare in the wind and the sun.
I came upon the fairies in the bracken and the ling, They were busy cleaning down like women do in spring; With little silken “‘dusters’’ they were rubbing up the stalks, That April might kiss them when she took her morning walks.
And some were in the hazel trees touching them with green, And others sweeping hollows out and making fallows clean; A thrush in speckled ‘‘singlet’’? and brownish coloured coat, Was high upon a rowan tree a-clearing out his throat.
And some were in the moorland grass shaking out the dust, And brightening up the gullies, thick with winter’s rust; And all the upland stairways and all the pasture rooms, Were full of merry elfin folk with little silver brooms.
And some were bringing fragrance to fling about the meads, And others bringing music to fill the willow reeds; And some were swinging torches and lighting as they came The flowers of the coltsfoot and setting scars aflame.
And washed were all the roadways and all the intake walls, The rains had been on ‘‘double shifts’’ in their cloud-grey ““overalls’’; But now the weather fairies were trimming skies with blue, That spring might have the sunshine upon her garments new.
I found the friendly farmhouse and all it used to be, The little stone-flagged kitchen and the table set for tea; The ham and eggs and butter, the cream too thick to flow, The “‘treddle’’ cake and seed loaf, the bread as white as snow.
The willow pattern plates and the wee old-fashioned spoons, And the quaintest little cups I had seen for many moons; The kindly farmer’s wife with a jolly double chin, The shy and freckled daughter who cut the slices thin.
‘Iwas up the hill and down the hill, and merrily I strode, A lighter heart and lighter foot were never on that road; And roving in the twilight, beneath a homeward sky, I sang ‘‘The Rigs o’ Barley’ and ‘‘Comin’ thro’ the Rye.’’
The Song of a Tramp
I’m brown and tanned as the wild moorland, Ragged and dusty, rough and free; It’s out of doors, over hills and moors, And the life of a tramp for me.
I’m passed with scorn, for my shoes are worn And my rags are ready to fly; I can cadge a crust in rain or dust, For a tramp on the road am I.
So it’s up and down, through shire and town, And I ne’er go short of a bite; When I’ve got the grist I chew thick twist Or fill my pipe, and I’m all right. I’m blest by fate with no rent or rate, . And no duns ever seek my door, My roof’s the sky, where the lark sings high, The good old road is my house floor.
I care not a toss where’er I doss— Under a hedgerow J don’t mind, An old grey farm and a haystack warm, A barn door nook and off the wind.
I tell the tale with buttons for sale, And pins and needles, too, I hawk; Though women say ‘“‘No,’’ yet I ne’er go Till I’ve got their money with talk.
Through foul and fair I have ne’er a care, I beg or trade at house and inn; ‘‘What a life!l’’ says I, as years go by, With naught to lose and lots to win.
I’ve got no wife to worry my life, Let fools get wed and rue the day; Out on the road a woman’s a load, Growling and nagging all the way.
The Call of the Country
I’M coming to the hills again! I’m coming back to stay! You may call me weak and foolish— But I care not what you say. I’m coming to the hills again, To the folk I long to meet! Where the skies show morn and sunset And the earth is green and sweet.
For I’m weary of the city, Weary of the crowded street— Of the hard and cruel pavement And the never-resting feet. Oft in dreams I see the heather And the crags along the height! And I hear a comrade whistle Shrill across the fields at night.
O I’m weary of the city, Weary till my heart is sick! And my eyes are dull and aching With the sight of stone and brick. Day and night the city’s roaring Like a monster—loud and gruff! How I long to hear a throstle Singing down an April clough.
O to smell the dew-wet roses In old gardens on the lane, And the smell of hawthorn blossom In the hedges after rain. O to hear a plover piping On the moor at even-tide! O to see a flock of starlings Slanting down a green hill side,
Let me see the old stone farmsteads Looking o’er the pastures steep! Let me hear a shepherd calling To his dogs among the sheep. O to see the May morn flinging Spring-time leaves among the trees! O to wade through August pastures With the grass about my knees.
O to see the white dawn rising O’er a hamlet on the hill, With the roofs and gables standing On the sky-line—dark and still. For I’m stifled in the city, Stifled with the dust and smoke! O to feel the fresh wind blowing Past the homes of cleanly folk.
Past the weaver’s worn old door-step! Past the barn and little stack! Past the long, low, mullioned windows And the house-leek on the ‘“thack.”’ Let me meet a hillside farmer Going across his pasture-land— With the cow hair on his breeches And the cow-stick in his hand.
I’m coming to the hills again, For my feet are just like lead, When I feel the moor beneath them— Scarce the grass will feel my tread. All day long I hear the country Calling from the hilltops clear! I can never love the city While that sunny voice I hear.
The Scouthead Road
THE road from top of Austerlands that swings out to the east— Where is there another road half so good for man and beast? Half so good for lusty tramping for an ailing man, to find A way to make him hearty and sound in limb and wind.
It’s not a sleepy lowland road that goes its way in dreams, But a gripping mountain road, bolder even than it seems; It leaps up out of Lancashire and revels on the down, A joyous thing that’s broken from the trammels of the town.
Air and light are cheapest physic, and believe me they are best; If you doubt this then I pray you put them to the test. Go striding up through Austerlands, and set your face to meet The wind that’s over Stanedge from the moorlands clean and sweet.
If you're feeling fagged and weary, and your coat hangs on your back, If you cannot face your breakfast, and your waistcoast’s getting slack, Get you out to Scouthead meadows, to a place that makes you feel A pound of steak and onions will only serve for half a meal.
Do not sit beside the fire in a moping mood and sad; Shake yourself, and foot it on the Scouthead road, my lad. Rip your shirt neck open, tear and fling your waistcoat wide, Let the wind blow through your lungs and sweeten you inside.
Get you up to old Newhouses; get you soon or get you late,
And I'll wager pounds to pennies that you’ll jump a five- barred gate.
But what’s the use of talking, wasting words will do no good; What you want is nature’s tonic flinging sunrise through your blood.
The breakneck and the hurry of your weary week of toil, The clamour of the driving wheels the cotton dust and oil, There’s a royal road to slip them if you care to test its worth— The open road and tramping are the finest things on earth.
Let them stifle in their cities half a dozen in a bed, Let them struggle through the crowd till they’re nearly choked and dead, Get the joy of breezy acres where there’s room to stride about, And the God of all the gods puts the sordid things to rout.
Ii you stand out east of Pastures and look downward o’er the
land, You have got four English counties in the hollow of your | hand. There is Lancashire and Cheshire, the mountains of the Peak,
The brave strong hills of Yorkshire, that battle for the weak.
The high wood over Grotton that is brown with throstle
wings, The bird loved fields of Wharmton where first the skylark sings, The farm lands over “ Brunedge” that are restful to the eye,
The swarthy moor of Alphin that goes climbing up the sky.
Out o’er the level meadows and the long green cattle tracks, You see the town of Ashton and its herded chimney stacks, So faint on summer evenings, and so far away it looks, A city of old romance that you read in fairy books.
When August comes in shouting of the bonnie heather cock, And the rough lands over Badger where the golden plovers flock, And the bent begins to whiten in the pastures on the hill, Oh that’s the time for tramping and to feel your pulses thrill.
Then hey for top of Austerlands, and hey for all it gives; _ For the freedom and the freshness for which a mortal lives. The road that calls the weakling and makes him lithe and strong, And takes away his whining and fills him full of song.
The Songthrush near a Town
I heard a songthrush near the town, Speckled breast and wings of brown, Singing strangely out of place, In a dusty garden space. And I wondered as I heard Why the sunny-throated bird Had come down from God’s good land To a place where song is banned— Save the jarring song of toil, Din of wheels and smell of oil. From some leafy beechen copse, To the smoky chimney tops, From some green and flowered height, To high mill walls dark as night. From a sun warm pasture sweet, To a drab and noisy street; And I thought that thou wert born, In a blossomed hedgerow thorn. Up a rambling country lane, On a day of springtime rain; And maybe thy brothers still, Are in song on Wharmton hill. Or far up in wooded clough, Piping to the moorlands rough; Or upon some grassy lea, Hopping with no care for thee; But thou wayward bird of song, Singing where the houses throng, Caring naught for quiet glen, Loveth best the haunts of men.
Never song more wild or free, Ever shook a morning tree; Light and colour all a-whirl, Hues of sunset tints of pearl;
Here and there a snatch of lay, Like a windy dawn in May. Now and then a wisp of tune, with roses red in June. Then an oft repeated trill, Rippling waters down a hill; Then a note so sadly sweet, That it straightway led my feet Down the old remembered ways, Through the fields of other days. And I saw dear mem’ries rise Trembling with their love wet eyes; Ever to my soul they speak, Through my heart play hide and seek. And in laughter and in tears, They unroll the film of years; Days of sunshine days of rain, All come back to me again. All I am and all I’ve known, Little gold and much of stone.
e e e
The roaring noises wake the town, Bird and scene song whither flown. Never, lord of mellow throats, May the dust cling to thy notes; Never care or weary toil Come near thee to mar and spoil; Sing for ever, song is thine, Nor heed this foolish song of mine.
To a Moorland Lass on her Eighteenth Birthday
HERE’s to you Jennie Morison, a year has gone by, And your face has grown fairer and bluer your eye, The heather moon shone o’er the moors at your birth, And gave you a beauty more of heaven than earth. |
When you go through the fields with the wind in your hair, The wild flowers are wishing they were half so fair, And the grasses spring up till they’re high as your knee, When they feel your glad feet roaming over the lea.
In the warm days of June when you’re out in the hay In your straw coloured gown and your sunbonnet gay, Then the rakers waste time when there’s plenty to do, For how can they make hay in a meadow with you?
Though skies be grey clouded and the sun doth not shine, When you go a-roaming it is sure to keep fine; And the farm women say on a harvesting morn, "Tis young Jennie Morison that ripens the corn.’
The wild heather that blooms on the moorlands so high Grows lovelier than ever when you wander by; And when sheep are well woolled then the shepherd folk
say “Yon lass Jennie Morison has been o’er this way.”’
To church on a Sunday with your mother you fare, All the countryside lads are sure to be there, A fig for the parson and his sermon so dree, ‘Tis young Jennie Morison the lads go to see.
When I sit with my pipe and I look in the wine, I can see your blue eyes and the light in them shine, And I dally and sip for how can I drink up, When bonnie Jennie Morison looks from the cup?
Here’s to you, Jennie Morison, August is here, With the heather moon rising to look at you, dear; To see you and love you, and I pray it will give You joy and white roses all the years that you live.
To a Southern Friend
You tell me down in Hereford on a spring-time morn, If I’ve not seen the orchards I know not I’ve been born; The long white miles of blossom, the April scented air, If I know not Hereford I know not fair.
You tell me down in Devonshire that life is just a dream Of song and bloom and sunshine and apple wine and cream; But you may sing their praises with honey in your mouth, I wouldn’t change our winter for summer in the south.
Your south is like a lady in silken gown and lace, With dainty airs and graces and powder on her face, My north’s a hearty woman and merry as a lark, And always up and doing from early morn till dark.
Come out along the hilltops and stretch your legs with me Where northern winds are longing to blow the dust off thee; Give me the gipsy moorland in ragged heather shawl, And you keep your Hereford and Devonshire and all.
The Hill Country
THE Dawn came singing over the hill A song that I wish I knew, You'd know where the hills of Heaven are If I could sing it to you;
I hadn't a penny to bless my rags, And my shoes were both worn out, And an old check napkin round my neck As brown as an oven.-clout;
But rich am I in a hundred ways, As rich as I e’er need be, When the Dawn flings gold along the fields In my hill country.
The Noon came singing over the hill A song that was death to Care, And lilting through my heart it left The scent of the hayfields there;
No blade of grass I could call my own, Neither stick nor stone had I, But streaks of ore in the dross of me That no minted gold could buy;
I roam the hills and I feel the wind, I hear the bird and the bee, They’re all the wealth I shall ever seek In my hill country.
The Eve came singing over the hill A hymn that was hushed as prayer, And sweet as a child that clasps its hands And kneels by its mother’s chair,
And kind was she to a dusty tramp, And gave me a bed and fare, With birds and blooms in a room of stars, A bed for a millionaire;
So over the hills take my way And mate with the wild and free, Till my dust is flung to the winds In my hill country.
The Royal Tiger Inn
THE Royal Tiger at Austerlands was an old inn, famous for the strict and orderly manner in which it was conducted, and for the homeliness of the public room, with its old- fashioned furnishings, the oak panelled langsettle with its flowered print cushion, rush seated spindle backed chairs, mahogany corner cupboard, grandfather’s clock and bread- fleck hung with crisp oatcakes. When every inch of the stone flagged floor had been whitened on a Saturday morning, customers had to walk to their seats over old newspapers. Now, hardly a wall stone can be found in the grass where it stood. AT the Tiger Inn at Austerlands I oft sat down with friends, With old friends, with new friends, With good friends, with true friends. And oh, what nights we had, When every heart was glad, For there could never be A merrier companie; With every man in bloom "Iwas summer in the room,
The old rush seated chairs Ne’er harboured men with cares, And drawn from out the wood The ale was ripe and good; And oh, the songs we sang Till all the rafters rang; What merry tales we told On those good nights of old, When winging hours flew to ten We shook the hills of Yorkshire when— We drank good health to all good men At the Tiger Inn at Austerlands.
Down in a clough there stands a wreck, A worn old watermill! Where slimy pools of mud and reeds Lie in the wheelrace still; The broken walls, forlorn and weird, Are black with age and grime; A lonely grave where buried lies The toil of olden time.
It stands bebow a dark grouse moor, A sad forsaken spot! Far from the roaring ways of life, By this mad age forgot; There in her rags foul ruin toils, A witch of skin and bone, And crooning to herself she tears The old mill stone from stone.
The window spaces, bare and black, Like sightless eyes they seem! The leaded panes all diamond shaped, Looked out on crag and stream; And there at night the moormen hear Strange voices sad and low, And through the dark and haunted rooms The ghostly workfolks go.
The wheel has gone! the great strong wheel, Where now no waters flow, Its oaken arms went dripping down To the black deeps below. The walls are smeared with greasy rings Where ran the driving wheels, And still the bolt holes show where stood The little slubbing creels.
The ‘‘willow’’ room with oily walls And green mossed windows dull; The whirring sound of iron teeth That tore the tough white wool; The dyeing room with windows barred, And door with massive stays, That kept at bay anarchy’s horde In wild ‘‘plug drawing’’ days.
The ‘“‘waking’’ time when winter days Were short and long the nights; Then tallow candles through the mill Sent forth their feeble lights; And in the draughts with veering flames They swiftly seemed to burn, Then round the rooms the master went And snuffed each light in turn.
And oft above the hum of wheels Was heard the hunting song, The rousing chorus lightened toil And made the day less long. Now gusty winds scream through the rooms And swing the creaking doors, And whirl the dust and lime about The worn and broken floors.
Where once the slubber slurred his feet The floor is worn and thin, From morn till night his bare arm swung And turned the ‘‘billy’’ in. The bottle full of home brewed ale He hid behind the skips That oft on hot midsummer days Went to his thirsty lips.
The carder’s home was in the mill For he had much to do,
Two small rooms at the gable end For wife and children too. Now where they lived the starlings nest When April sways the skies, And up and down the old millstairs The summer swallow flies.
Oft in the droughty, haytime days The little dam ran low, And millfolks then the meadows sought, When every man could mow; And on the dry and sunburnt moor They set a simple snare, And caught the bright winged butterflies That thronged the noontide air.
The tenters stood along the field Where pieces once were hung With ‘‘sizing sticks’’ stuck in the wall Where the wet warps were strung. Now in the dam, once full of trout, The grass and rushes grow, And down the long and narrow goyt The wild marsh flowers blow.
When August winds the heather blew Into a purple flame, At sunrise down the hazy cloughs The brown-winged moorcock came. In that glad time, close by his loom, The weaver reared his gun, Then out of gear the treadles went, The shuttle would not run.
His snuff-streaked coat of hunting green, And collar lined with red, And big brass buttons down the front, Stamped with a pointer’s head;
His breeches, buttoned to the knee, Were made of woollen cord, His heavy boots were tallow greased To wade the swamp and ford.
In long blue smock down to his knees No more the master stands, And strokes the wool from off his beard With rough and greasy hands. He leans no more against the creel And takes a pinch of snuff, Nor whistles, ‘‘Jockey to the Fair’’ Among the flying fluff.
No more the old handloom is heard In homes of upland folks, They load no donkeys at the mill With warps and bobbin “‘pokes.”’ The paths they trod are lost and gone, And green the grass-grown lane; The fields and meadows farmed so well Are rough brown moor again.
The years rolled on, and changes came That brought death to the mill; With ruined houses in the dale, And out upon the hill. The ghostly past in silence mourns Where all is black with doom, The clough’s a graveyard, lone and drear, And the old mill’s a tomb.
The Green Road
THE red is on the rowan, where the throstle takes its fill; The starlings flock the meadows on the edge of the hill; The lark is in the heavens, the hare is on the lawn, And I’m across the windlands with my face to the dawn.
I am thinking of the days, in my pinafore and frock, When I used to blow the hours round the dandelion clock, And buttercups to my chin, on the yellow dotted knowes, To see if I liked butter from the milk. of dappled cows.
Pll go out to top of Stanedge, where the sheep tracks cross, I’ll leave the teeming town roads, the bustle and the dross. You may walk on peoples’ heads, you may tread upon their toes, But Pll be over Warcock where the green road goes.
The times that I’ve been longing to hear the plover pipe, And the times I’ve longed to hear the drumming of the snipe. The merry days I heard them to the south of Millstone crags, When my coat was out at elbow and my cap was all in rags.
I'll go roaming up the cloughs in the shale and the peat, Where once I left the impress of my careless boyhood’s feet: I see them oft in fancy and they come to me in dreams, And the trout I used to catch ’neath the boulders in the streams.
I'll take a red check napkin and a bit of bread and cheese, And sit among the heather with my fare upon my knees; I’ll take a homely onion and I'll slice it to a cone, And I'll lie among the grass till they soak into the bone.
I’ll go to Swelland water where I know the seagulls breed, Where a man may live his life knowing neither care nor greed; Where the day is never sordid and the cleanly hours pass, To the little things a-housing in the blowing cotton grass,
I’ll go wading to my waist in a green rippled sea, When the wind is in the bracken and the moor joy in me; The joy that comes to every man who loves the open air, Then away to top of Stanedge and thank Heaven for your share.
I'll go back to my mother, my mother of the moor, To the toys I used to play with and left about her floor; To the little gentle playmates that harbour in her house, The ousel, and the curlew, the grey hare, and the grouse.
She rocked me in the cradle of the wild and the free, And crooned to me her songs as she nursed me on her knee, But they fell on careless ears, on a heart that took no heed, And where flowers might have bloomed there is nothing now but weed.
O, the gods of my mother are my gods while I live, And her creed is the cleanest this sinful earth can give; The saints of old church windows are neither kith nor kin To the saints by heaven painted on the heather and the whin.
When the good day is ended, and the moor life gone to rest, And the eve is flinging gold dust on the hills to the west, Then I’ll seck the homely corner of an old-fashioned inn, And pity the poor creatures in the turmoil and the din.
A f lint Arrow-head found on Pule Moor *
THE same wild hills are round me flung, And this—the same stern brow, But where’s the hand that fashioned me, Where is that hunter now? With him I ranged the oaken wood, The mountain clough in storm and flood, When oft my barbs were red with blood— O hunter, where art thou?
The deer that loved yon southern hills, Now looming bare and grey! The wolf that oft like light’ning flash I flew so straight to slay! The shaft to which he bound me true, The springy bow of upland yew, His bare strong arm oft backward drew!— O tell me where are they?
I wake—and see the flight of time From ages pale and wan! The myriads that have come and gone Since first my race began! And I, a bit of fashioned stone, Left on this moorland bleak and lone— Hath seen all that these hills have known Of little human span.
I saw the Roman shield and spear, Come flashing from the West, Their sentry fires blaze at night Along yon Eastern crest! T And Cesar’s great imperial train! And raiding Scot and stalwart Dane! And many a lordly Saxon thane Have trod this rocky breast.
I’ve dreamed through England’s story Beneath these tangled greens, Through all her long and brave array Of mighty kings and queens; Through Norman sway and Tudor prime! Through age of peace and age of crime! Through reign corrupt and reign sublime! Through great and stirring scenes.
Fling me afar among the ling Where I would ever be, Till this proud England hath returned To her wild infancy; And when the ages long have rolled, And Time repeats its usage old, Some young barbarian, strong and bold, Will head a shaft with me.
* Pule Hill, on the Stanedge moors, now famous as a pre-historic burial site. A grave was discovered there in 1896 which contained urns, bones, and flint implements. The neighbouring moorlands have also yielded many primitive implements and much flint debris. The hill is 1,400 feet above the sea level.
+ Cambodunum: the Roman station at Slack, Outlane; it was partially explored in 1865-6. A great number of tiles found during the excavations are now built into the field walls, and appear likely to outlast the natural stone. The camp had previously yielded a Roman Altar and a fine Hypocaust. 63
Grouse Driving on Bill’s 0’ Fack’s Moors
WHEN the Grouse Wind roves through an August sky, And the heart of the moorman thrills! When the ling buds burst where the young broods lie In the hollows among the hills! When the grey hare sits with a windward nose, And the old birds lead the pack! There’s never a call the Grouse Wind blows Like a merry young cock’s “‘g-bak.’’
Its the deil’s own road o’er the Wildcat Low, But we’re never the men to flinch! In the cold drear mist it is well to know The shelving moorland inch by inch! There’s ‘‘Hardman’s Up’’ and there’s ‘‘Upperwood Down,”’ A drive o’er the Feather-bed Moss! A drive for a king, with the birds well flown, To the butts—then whirled across.
We heed not the lash of the drenching rain, Nor the grip of the blinding gust! Each man is a link in a well-forged chain That knows neither flaw nor rust! We swing them down from the ‘‘Owl’s Head Hill’’— Till they spin in the reeling wind! From the ‘‘Iley’’ drives with an old moor skill That leaves not a bird behind.
To the peat-built butts with their fringe of ‘‘yeth,’’ The hares o’er the cloudberry bound! But the hunter feels ’twere a nobler death To be slain by a huntsman’s hound! How the blood leaps up when the ‘‘pack’’ drives in, And the sky is a whirl of wings,— The swerve and the sweep, the shots and the din, That make the sport the Grouse Wind brings.
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A PENNINE STREAM Saddleworth Moors
When the drives are o’er and the day is done, And we’ve earned our right to rest, We drink good luck to the grouse and the gun— And the sport that we love the best! There are tales to tell and songs to sing, There are hands to grip and part; If I had everything else that wealth can bring I’d be poor with no moorman’s heart.
Town and Country
THE weary town grinds at its toil, Its breath comes thick and foul with smoke; But still o’er Lurden blow the winds, That tan the cheeks of shepherd folk: O’er roofs that lie in dreary miles, Like cinder heaps ‘neath gloomy skies, I see the hills where morning gives To moorland maids their sweet blue eyes.
The noisy cars crash through the street, And ironed clogs tramp to the mill; But sings the thrush in Tunstead Clough, The plover pipes on Rooden hill: In oil smeared workshops oft I see, ’Mid whirr of wheels and clang of tools, The starlings flock in Wharmton fields, The brown trout flash in Hull brook pools.
By dingy walls of crumbling brick, In dirty slums still fair I see The wimberry bloom on old Highmoor, The heather, and the honey bee: And oft at night when lamps are lit In dim back streets so mean and poor, I see the summer moon come up, On harvest eves o’er Chew Wells moor.
At swagger feasts in gaudy rooms I dally with the lavish fare, And long for ‘‘brewis’’ on the hob, A quiet hearth and old armchair: In gay flash inns ’mid ribald jest, And trashy song I seem to hear, Old Dan i’ th’ Lone to Mally, sing: ‘‘The days of “Auld Lang Syne, my dear.’
The vile red swill that men call ale, By devils brewed to foul and wreck; But O! the ripe and halesome draught Old Betty brewed, ten quarts to th’ peck: And when my homeland hills and dales, From me begin to fade and flee; Like Annie Laurie’s lover then I'll long to ‘“‘lay me doun an’ dee.’’
The Twelfth of August
It is the Twelfth of August, I cannot rest in bed, I hear the grouse moor calling when I lay down my head. I turn o’er my shoulder, my mind is on the rack, I cannot sleep for hearing the moorcock cry g-back.
It is the Twelfth of August, how strangely stirred I feel, I see the wild birds winging, my eye looks down the steel; My blood is all a-tingle, my breath comes fast and hot, I hear along my pillow, a ringing double shot.
It is the Twelfth of August, up and stand the “crow,” I’ll pipe among the heather all the grouse calls I know; I’ll don my old green jacket, [ll take my dog and gun, And make the feathers fly at the rising of the sun.
It is the Twelfth of August, I cannot help but heed, For dogs and guns and moorcraft were ever in my breed; The gods that swayed my fathers they bend me to their will, They call me and I follow the old road up the hill.
Roving o’er a Moorland —
ROVING o'er a moorland, singing a song, When the heart is light and the step is strong; Out upon the linglands far from anywhere, You never meet the witch that men call Care.
Roving o’er a moorland, singing in May, Trip along, skip along, life’s a holiday; Uphill and downhill, swinging in the wind, Till the blood’s aglow and the face red-skinned.
Roving o’er a moorland, singing in June, With wild birds following to catch the tune; And the hares leap up in the sun-browned grass, And dance to the song when they hear me pass.
Roving o’er a moorland, when August brings The bonnie brown red to the moorcock’s wings; And a merry mate called the honey bee Is singing in the ling all day with me.
Roving the moorlands is the life to live, Gathering the joys and the health they give; Oh, to be drinking of the wine filled air, If heaven’s on earth it is surely there.
The Ruined Farmstead
OvuT on the hill in the mist and rain, Where the grass grows rank in field and lane, There in its cold and forsaken lands, Lonely and silent the old farm stands. In wrack and ruin, its oak beams bare, And the lime lies thick on floor and stair; The windows are gone, the door lies prone And rotting beneath the tumbled stone.
And hanging against the barn wall black A tattered coat and an old meal sack, And a rusty scythe, once bright and clean, And broken spades in the corner lean. The shippon door with its horseshoes on, And ‘‘boose’’ and ‘‘sooal’’ and hayloft gone, The window frame is still stuffed with straw That stopped the draught when the wind was raw.
Once that old farm knew sunshine and glee, When children played by the old ash tree, And kept a shop all the long summer’s day, And sold sand pies and their cakes of clay. At dusk when they heard their mother call, They hid behind the old meadow wall, And when prayers at her knee were said With little rag dolls they went to bed.
Where is the father who delved the croft In the warm spring days when winds were soft, And smoked by the gate on summer eves In his apron grey and white shirt sleeves? No more up the mooredge fields he’ll climb To gather his cows at milking time, And ne’er again on a housing day He will fill the barn with well got hay.
Where is the mother in neat print gown On baking days with her oatcakes brown? Who churned the butter and brewed the beer And whitened the hearth and scrubbed the speer; Who read the Bible by candle light To her children on a Sunday night; Her pattened feet on the sand strewn floor And her old love songs are heard no more.
Their days sped on as the speed for all From life’s glad ways to a hearse and pall; And their’s the way that we all must go From those we love and the homes we know. One by one from the farm they were borne To the graveyard on the hill forlorn, Where the ghostly mist trails from the moor, And rain winds grieve at the old church door.
A Moorland Grave Mound
O gentle Spirit of the hills, Come stay with me, and rest | Where rolls this lonely heather sea, Grey-billowed to the west; The passion of the day hath died Along yon fading height, And white the stars like flowers throng The garden of the night.
In upland hollows lies the mist, In folds of silver grey, And sleeping les the harvest wind Among the new-mown hay; The moor crags rise against the sky, A dark and ragged line, And red along the dusky hills The farm-house windows shine.
Far from the rude and noisy throng, By some sweet impulse led, I lie among the grass that hides The long-forgotten dead; And thou, meek Spirit of the hills, O hearken to my plea! For fain would I this summer night Go down the past with thee.
The purple flame of August ling, ' The bracken green and deep, The sweet, clear bugles of the wind That play along the steep; The flush of dawn, the grey of eve, The storms that rip and rave, Have they not brought thee secrets from This lonely moorland grave?
Then say in what departed age This simple mound was reared, By what strange people of the past With pagan rites and weird? Whence did they come, and whither gone _ The unknown mountain race? Who found on this bird-haunted hill A noble burial placer
How lived they on these windy heights? What simple span was theirs? To what strange customs were they. bound? To what gods said their prayers? A speck of dust, a smear on Time, Is all that we can see! So much will future ages know Of all my friends and me.
And who was laid with reverence here, What mother, youth, or maid? Or stalwart father done to death In some wild hunting raid? Or heathen seer whose name by all The hillmen was revered? Or warrior chief whose spear of flint Had made him great and feared?
Perchance some maid, the loved of all, The flower of her race, Here gave to earth all that was her’s Of loveliness and grace! And here, maybe, some valiant youth Was stretched upon the pyre! While hapless kindred wailed around The red cremating fire.
O well it is these ancient dead— That their last sleep should be
Upon the high and heathery moor Where all is wild and free! Though dark and rude their earthly path, Their gods to us unknown! Are they less sacred than the dead Beneath the sculptured stone?
I feel, sweet Spirit, thou art near, So holy and profound! I feel thy presence in the night Above this grassy mound! I hear thee speak a mystic tongue In accents all divine! A language that immortals speak In other worlds than mine.
Good-night! sweet Spirit, I am earth, And dark and dull and foul, And all unfit to question thee Who art the purest soul! And as I came, so I return, Still leaving in thy trust! What far off ages gave to thee An ancient cave-man’s dust.
Flowers in an Oldham Alehouse
You four flowers, did you grow Where the winds of Devon blow? Only Devon's earth and air Can have fashioned you so fair! The poet said, and true it be, ‘“God alone can make a tree’; And I’m sure it’s just as true God alone one morn made you, And from heaven when you came, Devon folk gave you a name, But no mortal e’er can guess All that makes your loveliness. Did you come to this drab room From the fields near Ilfracombe, Or from some dew shining down Not a mile from Teignmouth town?
All that’s Devon in you lies, Lovely scenes and sunny skies, Tors and glens and headlands free Striding out into the sea; Lynton’s rocks and Tavy’s stream, Cider barns and pots of cream, Cobbled streets and quaint old inns, Fisher folk with sea-tanned skins. Ploughmen from the upland farms, Freckled maids with sun-browned arms, All that is or e’er will be, From the moorlands to the sea.
Oh, the happy days you had, When the sunny fields were glad, And the white winged butterflies Came to look in your sweet eyes, And the bees oft kissed your lips - For the joy of honey sips,
And the thrush from blossomed thorn Woke you in the early morn, And the lark high in the blue Often sang all day to you, And you heard the orchard breeze Shaking laughter from the trees.
Now you're here in Oldham town, Houses black and dirty brown, And you hear the roaring street, Crash of cars and tramp of feet; To this room you brought a whiff Of the heather from the cliff, Now your beauty’s spent and spoiled, Every leaf and petal soiled, And you hear from unclean lips Slang and oath and racing tips. Mauled by noisy drinking folk, Poisoned by the ‘‘bacco’’ smoke, Dying in an Oldham inn ‘Mid the rabble and the din. Better you had lived and died On a Devon countryside, For to-morrow you’ll be thrown On a tip with rag and bone.
GREY among the high green meadows, Heaped and thrown like moorland crags, Long, low roofs and mullioned windows, Weathered walls and foot-worn flags.
Low-walled gardens loved by roses, Wrapped about by leafy arms, Doorways quaint and old barn gables, Sheltered lanes and little farms.
O’er the moors when morn is waking, First on thee her smiles alight, And the day, her chamber seeking, Says to thee her last ‘‘Good-night!”’
Washed by upwinds from the valley With the gentle tears of Spring, Kissed by winds of Summer blowing Ruddy health across the ling.
On thee ever lies a sweetness, Like the bloom upon the tree, For the bygone ages dying Left their fragrance all to thee.
High above the strife and tumult, Far away from jar and wear, There old faiths and old-world customs Keep a sanctuary dear.
White of dawn and gold of sunset, Night of stars o’er hilltops bare, Gentle mood and wondrous passion Shape themselves to beauty there.
Haunting charm to mystery wedded, Who can ever fathom thee, Old moor hamlet, tranced, and lying In a golden reverie.
A Driving Shot in a Driving Wind
A driving shot in a driving wind, And a rain of hissing lead! A whirling flight from a heathy height, To redden the moor grass—dead. With wind and wing o’er the waving ling, And the wings of death behind, The fowler’s test, and he loveth best A shot in a driving wind.
A driving shot in a driving wind, Away into reeling space! A cleaving leap o’er the ravines deep— To lose in a fateful race; A flying death o’er the purple ‘‘yeth,”’ Afar in the August skies, A royal death, in the gun’s hot breath, The bird of the moorland dies.
On seeing a Moorland Lad in the‘Town
Wuo needs to be told that he comes from the hills, From the heather-ridged moors, far heaving and free, Where the red grouse breed by the brown peat rills, And the winds whistle down o’er the crag-dotted lea! Where the clough scars climb in their yellow and grey, And the kestrel hawk is the lord of the sky, Where the marsh of the snipe dips lonely away, And a rain splash is heard in the lapwing’s cry?
There’s a hunting morn in his wind-tanned face, The hare and the hounds and the call of the horn, And his limbs are the gift of a fair-haired race That clings to the land where its men are born! The sweep of the hill and the roll of the moor Are seen in his swing and his raking stride, And though strange to his feet be the hard street floor, It breaks not the lilt of the old hillside.
In his speech you may hear the song of the dales, The gust of the wind and the splash of the brook, The lore of the hills and the old world tales That are told at night in a farmhouse nook! When they sit with their pipes at the warm ‘“‘hobend’’— Old Jim in his smock and old Ailse in her frills, The trencher board spread and a chair for a friend,— Its all in the speech of a lad from the hills.
Through the crowd in the street, with its stifling breath; Through the dust and the heat and the glaring lights, You may catch, as he goes, the cool smell of the ‘‘yeth,”’ And the rain-wet gorse on the yellowing heights! The Spring and the Summer he takes to the town, The hedges of April and the meadows of May; The lanes to the village and the sheep-fields brown, The roses of June and the scent of the hay.
His dawn is not strangled by ropes of smoke Far flung from black chimneys in coils of death; It comes o’er the cloughs that are green with the oak, From skies that are filled with the skylark’s breath; There’s no stench from the slums and the soot-walled hells, From streets that are rotten with squalor and sin, E’er fouls the sweet air of the ling-blossomed fells, Or stains the green freshness of bracken and whin.
The town hath its gold—but no glory of morn, No stillness of eve on the russet moortops; Its fetters and filth—but no sweetness up-borne From flower-loved field and song-shaken copse; The town hath its glamour and its restless crowd! Its wrangle and struggle for power and gain! But, O for the peace of a neighbourly ‘‘fowd,”’ And an old-fashioned home on a hillside lane.
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A PENNINE HAMLET
The Fields of Lurden
THE fields that lie on Lurden Are daughters of the moor, That left their heathen mother In garments ragged and poor; Then loving hands enrobed them With gowns of sunny grain, But now their mother calls them— To wear their rags again.
The fields that lie on Lurden Are fields of old renown, The feet of bygone heroes Have trod the hollows brown; No mail-clad knights of tourney, Wearing the laurel wreath, But heroes of the ploughshare, Who fought the savage heath.
The fields that lie on Lurden Are fields of conquered soil, That once our sturdy fathers Ennobled with their toil; The men of fearless ages Here bared their tireless arms, And tore from barren moorland The once fair upland farms.
The fields that he on Lurden Are spread, an open page! Where fearless men have written A message to our age; They came and found the valley— A morass, foul and mean, The moorside—peat and bracken, And left them, sweet and clean.
The fields that lie on Lurden They shame our feeble hands, For now the hungry moorland Eats up our fathers’ lands; They left to us the ploughshare, The spade that knew no rust, But will and strength to use them Is buried with their dust.
The Fairy Etcher
Frost Pictures on the Window Panes.
A fairy stood on my window sill One starry winter’s night, When hill and dale lay deathly still In ghostly shrouds of white.
And on the window panes she drew, With skilled and dainty hand, The scenes that she loved and knew In far-off fairy land.
One pane showed high some mountain crags, By sullen tempest piled! And standing there, some antlered stags Looked out across the wild.
And one seemed glorious with the dawn, With level beams outspread! Along a breezy upland lawn That feet of shepherds tread.
And one a farmstead seemed to show, Amid long fields of wheat! A broad highway ran down below, By copse and orchard sweet.
And there a woodland ran to riot With feathery bracken fronds! ‘Mid leafy bramble and the quiet Of reed encircled ponds.
A sleeping hamlet backed by cliffs And stormy winter moors; The cold white snow, in heavy drifts, Lay deep about its doors.
And one fair hill with rounded sweep, And knots of coppice trees; And out beyond, a silvery steep Dipped down to lonely seas.
One pane had strange unearthly shapes In wild fantastic dance! Centaurs and dragons, elfs and apes, From realms of old romance.
And one was thronged with angel wings, Down swooping in their flight! And shapely heads, with shining rings Of everlasting light.
And one had warriors, mailed and tall, And plumed cavaliers! While bristling up a castle wall— A multitude of spears.
And one a stretch of ocean shore, With pools and shells and sand! Where one lone figure stood and wore The light of holy land.
One pane was wrought with scrollwork fair, some cathedral choir! With sculptured columns, white and rare, And sainted windows all afire.
For lo, the morning sun had sent, Upon the panes, a ruddy beam, And one by one the pictures went— Like faces in a dream.
The Brown Hare of Whitebrook Head
WHEN down the dale by Alphin they heard John Andrew’s horn, Then every lad worth rearing was hunting bred and born; The squire and the poor man, O hand in hand went they, And life was worth the living, lads, in old John Andrew’s day. Chorus.—To m1 fol the dol the day! To mi fol the dol the day!
In Whitebrook fields by Alderman a brown hare was bred, That oft o’er top of Board Hill the Friezland dogs had led; But on a hunting morning he wound his horn and swore The brown hare of Whitebrook should double back no more.
There never came from heaven a fairer questing morn,— The white mist lay on Wharmton like blossoms on the thorn; But the fairest sight of all the glory of the scene— Were the merry lads of “‘Grenfilt’’ in hunting red and green!
She sat that morn at Tunstead, behind a white-thorn tree, Of all the hares in Saddleworth—the bonniest was she; The spirit of the moor-wind was in her bounding leap, And the love of every hunter went with her up the steep.
They brought that famous Bounty—the pride of Bockin Hall, The fleetest dog in all the land—to bring about her fall; They gave her a ‘“‘view halloa’’ when they saw her break away ,— Like a sunbeam through a gap-hole, the Whipper-in did say.
She took the fields to Brockley and o’er the heather height, She caught the rising moorcock and matched him in his flight; Fleet Bounty swept the bracken like the rustle of the wind, But the brown hare of Whitebrook kept leaving her behind.
She bowled away to Rimmon side where Towler led the pack ,— And never hare dared loiter with Towler on her track; They danced to royal music, yon ‘‘Birchen Clough,’’ across,
With the scent knee-deep behind her, along the “‘Ashway
They saw her head for ‘‘Slate Bounty was the cry, That gallant hound in answer rose among the moor-grass
high; ‘‘She’s shot her bolt!’’ said Andrew, when he saw her break and fail, And he sounded ‘‘Gone away, lads,’’ down bonnie Longdendale.
The Hills of Longdendale
WHEN lanes were blossom-scented and linnet songs were new, And the skylark teeming rapture down the sunny blue, I felt the restless longing and the call of the trail That grows fairer as it climbs the hills of Longdendale.
Out in the bracing freshness of the blowing moorland air, Out where the dawn comes singing to see herself so fair, There is no room for sorrow, all life is shouting hale, In plover fields a-roaming the hills of Longdendale.
Out where my foot grows lighter with every step I take, Through scenes that never give me heart weariness or ache, The pools in purple hollows, and gold of scar and shale, The lights that change and dapple the hills of Longdendale.
And He who made these hilltops so spacious and so free, I know not why or wherefore, He’s God enough for me; I will not seek or question, I’ll neither mock nor rail, While I go happy roaming the hills of Longdendale.
OvuT on the hill in wind and rain, Where lapwings plaintive cry; Where lonely fields and sodden moors, Sweep to the cold north sky: Where stricken thorns brood mournful o’er The empty grass grown lane; There stands a sad forsaken house, That clouds the hill with pain.
The weathered door with wooden latch, The kitchen rafter-spanned; The stone flagged floor is green with moss, Once strewn with yellow sand; The oven now so thick with rust, Ne’er feels the fire’s blaze; Or roasts the beef or browns the cakes, Or e’er knows baking days.
There stood the chest that polished shone With years of “‘elbow grease, A cover with the Bible on, And ne’er a spot or crease; The brass drop-handles on the drawers, So quaintly shaped and bright, That shone like gold against the wood, In the red firelight.
The old oak couch with panelled back, And neat print cushion hung; And by the breadfleck’s dry oatcakes, A rope of onions swung; A sampler’s picture in coloured wools, And in the corner nigh, A long case clock with yellow moon Upon its dial sky.
The press where hung a hunting coat, With silver buttons gay; And mother’s pride the Paisley shawl, Worn on her wedding day; And here and there rush-seated chairs, With straight and spindled backs, A pot shelf with its pewter ware, And pitcher hooks and racks.
An oaken cupboard in the nook, Above my mcther’s chair; Its shelves well filled with dainty stores Of fragrant spices rare; And on the beam hung mint and sage, In drying bunches tied; An old horn lantern seen at night, Along the dark hillside.
The mantelshelf with nicknacks set, Strange things in bright array; A tally iron and two pot dogs, Brass candlesticks and tray; And strung in straps across the beam, The ramrod and the gun; And copper kettles in a row, A famous hound had won.
A castle grand with open doors, And walls of tinted shell; Where Jock and Jenny in and out, The weather used to tell; Old Jock was donned in breeches white, And smock of deep snuff brown; And Jenny wore a scarlet shawl, And lilac coloured gown.
The long dark hole where ‘‘boggarts’’ hid, Behind the kitchen speer;
Where once the great brown bottles stood, Full of the home brewed beer; The hillside neighbours old and ‘‘foace,”’ In weaving aprons blue; Oft came at night to play at cards, And swipe the good ripe brew.
There stood upstairs an old handloom, Close by my parents’ bed; A cuckoo clock with flowered face, And heavy weights of lead; The little jenny my mother span, The skips and slubbing creel; The ‘“‘chovin dish,’’ the sizing pan, The twelve staved bobbin wheel.
My father’s song went with his loom, His right hand swinging free; When warp was strong and weft was thick, A lightsome heart had he; Then all day long with lusty voice, That shook the raftered oak; He sang the songs of hare and hound, And red faced hunting folk.
The “‘boggart’’ tales in whispers told, That struck me cold with dread; On wild dark nights with noiseless feet, I trembling, crept to bed; To lie awake and frighted hear The north wind howl and roar; The ghostly rustle of the blind, The banging great barn door.
Three horse shoes on the shippon door, To keep the hag away; That “‘witched’’ the cows and spoiled the milk In my grandfather’s day;
The queer old signs the holy cross, Above each boose and stall; The awesome shapes by rushlight seen, Along the dark barn wall.
Their once dear homes are empty now, Those old moorfolk are gone; Their tales are told their songs are sung, Their long day’s work is done; Their graves are full upon the hill, Where the generations lie, For country folk they e’er must sleep, Beneath their homeland sky.
The Men of the “Churchside’”
In the following lines I have strung together many, if not all, of the old folk and farm beliefs, customs and usages once common in the Pennine parish of Saddleworth.
UP the lane and through the meadows, Straight away to Churchbank Mill, Runs a pathway, past the graveyard, To the farmsteads on the hill; Past the Church to join the roadway Up to Primrose and the moors, Winding round the old barn gables And the homely neighbour doors; Half-way up there stands a farmstead, Thrown across a narrow glen, Where around a kindly hearthstone You may meet the gradely men;— Men who speak the word of friendship As they take you by the hand! Men who speak the rare old dialect In a way you understand! Men who fear not wind and weather! Men who know their right and place! Bearing well the old traditions Of a hardy moorland race; Worthy sons of worthy fathers, Sound of heart and sound of bone,— Men, no matter where you meet them, You are always proud to own.
South of Birches out to Tunstead, From the hollows, green and warm, North of Sherbrook out to Fairbanks, Gather they from cot and farm;
Come they in with song and story— All the lore of hill and dale, Stirring songs of famous hunting, Sung across the well-mulled ale; Come and laugh beside the ingle At the merry skits you hear,— Courting tales once told in Friezland! Boggart tales from Friarmere! Tales once heard on sunny mornings, Told by farmers in the lane When the meadow-grass was springing With alternate sun and rain!
Upland skits of old-time farming ,— How the banks of clover grew When the pasture-lands were nourished By the falls of honey-dew! Tales once told in shippon ‘‘booses,’’— Told in whispers full of awe, When the witch had scored the heifer, Till her hide was cracked and raw! Tales once heard at hill side ‘“‘berrins’’ Of the signs when neighbours died,— Dogs that howled through deathly midnights, Creaking doors that opened wide! Queer old legends told by shepherds Driving sheep across the fells,— How they heard the mountain fairies In the twilight ring their bells! Oft told feats of famous mowers In the days of old renown, How the strapping lads of Denshaw Slashed the Darkside acres down! Tales once told in wild December Round the hearths of Friarmere, When the snow at night was drifting Deep around the homesteads drear!
Tales of hardship, storm, and danger, Loss of life and loss of limb, Spearing trout in Broadhead waters, Poaching on the Hassocks grim! Laughing skits from breezy uplands, Full of old mooredger’s wit, Songs they sang in ’mid-November Round the bowls of ‘“bedlam spit!’’ Homely skits from Delph and Diggle! Quarry tales from old Highmoor— From the land of famous ‘‘ale-shots’’ Chalked upon a kitchen door! O’er the Brunedge out to Lydgate,— Windy Lydgate on the hill! Where the road dips down to Grasscroft On to hunting Uppermill; Out by path and dusty turnpike, Over field and winding brook, Raking skits from every corner, Bits of lore from every nook.
Many tales of hand-loom weaving In the busy days of old, When the weavers late were ‘‘waking’’ High upon the uplands cold; When at night the lone wayfarer Took his guidance through the gloom From the lights for ever winking With the motion of the loom; scattered lights of farm and cottage, Far against the moorland lea, Seemed like fisher lights a-dancing Out upon a midnight sea; When they made the honest broadcloth, Blacks and greys without a peer, Mountain woven, tough as leather, Fit for any king to wear;
Then the ‘‘willowed’’ wool was sprinkled With a farmstead’s morning milk, And the cloth was raven-lustred With a touch as soft as silk; It might rain a ‘‘month of As it never rained before, But it ne’er could soak the ‘‘karseys”’ That the hillside farmers wore! Oft across the high, bleak Stanedge, Winding down a narrow track, Yeoman-dame and wife of weaver Led the pack-horse with its pack ,— And the weavers, hearty hillmen, Hard as Alphin, tough and rude, Went a spreeing weeks together When the ale ne’er came unbrewed; Late June days they took to mowing,— Stalwart masters of the scythe, Swinging oft in step together Sixteen mowers, strong and lithe; England then—was lusty England, Bred the men who gained her sway, When the bluff old-fashioned yeoman Sat to porridge twice a day! Then the children ran bare-footed, Summer through, about the downs, And our fathers wore knee-breeches— And our mothers linsey gowns! Silent now the old loom chambers, Of the weavers—little left, Save the rod-holes in the gables Where they used to swing the weit.
Many tales of old ‘‘cowbanging’’ In some mooredge pasture brown; How old farmers ““barged’’ a day’s length, Fought a cowprice up and down;
How the seller showed her breeding— All her points and milking fame, Walked her all about the pasture, Showed her neither stiff nor lame, ‘‘Sponned”’ her quarters, called them mellow, While the other called them ‘‘slink,’’ Till at last they settled squarely With a ‘‘bob’’ for luck and drink; Every little rig and wrinkle, Every point of stock and store,— How many pounds a pig should offal If it weighs eleven score; How to feed young ducks and goslings; How to gear up cotes and pens; All the breeds to pick for laying; How to cure broody hens; How to patch a road for wearing; How to mend a broken gap; How to load and gird a lurry; How to fasten rope and strap; How to dub a game-cock neatly; How to crop a terrier pup; How to “‘hurn’’ a cow-drink cleanly; How to sling a ‘‘spavin’’ up; How to “‘cob’’ and train a homer Till it’s neither flaw nor ‘‘fote,’’— How to make it drop when “‘leeting’’ Like a stone upon the cote; How to rear and train a lurcher; How to make a pointer “‘set’’; How to keep a ferret running; How to lay a rabbit net; How to frame and build a rushcart,— What to hang upon the sheet; How to christen hounds for hunting; How to cut and humour peat; How to brew the prime ‘‘October,”’
A PENNINE VILLAGE Dobcross
Photo. G. H. Shore
Just three gallons to the peck,— How to ripen till a mushroom Grows around the bottle neck; Every subject under heaven! Where to go and what to do; If you'll only sit and listen You may learn a point or two.
Simply live these sturdy hillmen, Rough and honest to the core, Clinging to the same old home-life As their fathers clung of yore; Going the ways they went in childhood, Up through manhood’s strong estate, With their lowly lot contented, Railing not at God and fate; Knowing this and knowing truly, Though the world be fair and wide, Best of all and far the dearest Is their own beloved hillside; Caring nought for pomp and fashion, Caring nought for empty show, Meeting neighbour as a neighbour Till at last they downward go,— Downward go by field and meadow, Slow, before a funeral train, To the graveyard of their fathers At the turning of the lane.
A Good Day
O for a bye-road, up the dale, Where ruts are green and gapstangs down; When eggs are warm in throstle trees, And last year’s haigs are dead and brown: When cuckoos call the stripling spring, And thrifty folk their money turn; When cattle first go out to grass, And butter yellows in the churn.
O for the fling of windy moors, Of drumming snipe and calling grouse; And bare hillsides and stone-fenced fields, And here and there an old farmhouse; Where hare lands smell of hunting days, And scarlet coats and questing packs, And old lane-ends still keep the scent Of farmer folk with old meal sacks.
O for an old brown gabled inn, In some green hollow of the hills; Where moormen come with tallowed shoon, Smoke their pipes and sup their gills: From where high sheep walls break the wind, And gusty cloughs to wellheads climb; They tell how fared the bleating ewes In withered fields at lambing time.
O for a warm red-sanded hearth, When twilight dims the window panes; And brooding farms grow dark and still, Beside the lonely hillside lanes: A rough plank bench as white as snow, A drowsy chair of nut-brown oak; The homely smell of burning peat, The burring speech of shepherd folk.
OQ for an old love ballad sung By red-faced cowman from the farm; His waistcoat loose, his brown chest bare, His sleeve rolled up his brawny arm: A song they sing in haytime barns, Of freckled farm lass with her cows; And neighbour lad in ploughing smock, That linked her o’er the grassy knowes.
O for the road, the inn, the song, The kindly folk, the simple fare; The new laid eggs the home-fed ham, The hunger caught from moorland air: How swiftly burns life’s restless flame, Like candles swealing in the wind; Let’s go together o’er the hills, And know a good day’s peace of mind.
“Th Heaunds are eaut
THE dogs of the tempest are howling again, As wild from the moors they come in their might, The lean, cruel hounds that are tearing amain To ravage the valleys this ruthless night.
Rough Winter hath unleashed his ravenous pack From kennels of ice in the frozen north, And away in the night on old Autumn’s track With whips of sleet he is lashing them forth.
They spring at my window, an entrance to gain, They crash at the door with furious howl, They bark at the threshold—bark fiercely in vain, Till baffled, they leap at the gable and growl.
The flesh of old Autumn hangs loose on his bones, Torn into shreds by the merciless fang, In the night and the darkness he shrieks and moans, In the leafless trees where the May thrush sang.
Heaunds are eaut agen,’’ is an old saying among moorland folk, heard in rough weather when winds were howling like a pack of hounds.
The Hill of Sleep
Heights Church stands in a field anciently called ‘‘Height Fleake,’’ and is 1,060 feet above the sea level. Built 1765-8; Consecrated June 4th, 1768.
IN my green pulpit of the hills, Like some loved preacher dear, I stand and welcome to their rest The worn and weary here. At God’s own gateway to the skies They wait their call on high, For ‘neath the grey and lettered stone The loved of Heaven lie.
Here sleep together, as they lived, The folk from dale and hill, The homely neighbours of the lane In death are neighbours still. About their graves the pleasant earth Is blest with joyous things, The flower fields around them blow, The lark above them sings.
Mourn not the dead, for in the night, Like wind in summer grass, I hear o’er vault and lowly mound The feet of angels pass. And be ye sure while here I stand, In this fair field of sleep, Like the Good Shepherd with His flock My faithful watch Ill keep.
The Song Thrush I
FLING to the sky Melody flowers In opulent showers; Each note From my speckled throat Is an airy blossom, an invisible bloom; Flowers of song that dissolve and perfume The cool morn air With odours rare, Until the air you breathe Is charged with the garlands I wreathe, And your tranced spirit moves Through new lights and new loves, Fresh gathered and young From a garden of song!
I sketch, I paint, I etch, Melody pictures on every breeze, Sunlit pastures and leafy trees. I Mass the colours that round me lie In Impressionist schemes From inspired dreams; Lilacs and creams, Purples and blues, And wondrous hues No mortal can teach, No art ever reach; I fill meadow and glade With subtle effects of light and shade; Sunrise on the morning hills, Crags and cloughs and winding rills, Lying clear In a glorious atmosphere!
I paint Neither Madonna nor Saint, Nor hang on the morn’s white walls Altarpieces from old Cathedrals; Yet in passion and glow, I outshine Fra Angelico; For in my mood I delight To work a Pre-Raphaelite, Painting the canvas of air With minutest care, Painting the soul of leaf and flower With supremest power!
I capture Every rapture That throbs in the anemone’s heart; Every beat Of pulses sweet Throbs in my own the intensest part; Of joy and loveliness I weigh and assess Each syllable sweet from the speedwell’s lips, Each ripple of speech that joyously slips From the globe-flower’s tongue, each beam that glows From the foxglove’s torch and the wild hedge rose; And the gossiping daisy all over the meads Ne’er holds its sweet tongue, but hourly feeds With daintiest tribute the flow of my song That my soaring runs; I sustain, I prolong, Through luxuriant flights To ethereal heights, To a realm that lies Where the morn never dies; Hear me, O hear me! Come near me,
Hear me while impassioned I pour A tumultuous song of voluptuous lore, A frolicsome song, Buoyant and strong, As full-throated March shouting over the hills, When the lawns are yellow with daffodils, And I ask if music was ever impelled By diviner forces? If song or speech ever upwelled From purer sources?
I am no dream In great Nature’s scheme, But a force, a reality, cogent and knit, With all laws that her hand hath writ! O listen, ye preachers, in your gilded walls, Ye surpliced choirs in your fretted stalls, I sing not for fraud, open, brazen, and bold, For the merciless fight for rank and gold; I heed No manacled creed, I despise and reject All forms of worship decked For showy effect; I plead For Nature’s creed, The simplest of all, Which shames the theatrical; The worship that fell from man’s tongue, In ages past when the hills were young; Ere man In his wisdom began To measure prayer spick and span, Marking the line of good and ill In formal words and phrases chill, Wearily wrought With gloomy thought.
O learn the prayers that rise in me, Joyous and free! Like the leaves on this green tree; Hear my symphonies, Chants and litanies! Hear me preach, And teach, That of all religions under the sun, The worship of beauty is the purest one.
Interludes In dreamy solitudes; The charm of eve on old hilltops, When slowly down the broad sun drops Red through the boughs of the beechen copse, And over the quiet moorside The grey-sailed clouds at anchor ride, Like fairy barques from mystic seas, Laden with drowsy ease; In the dewy hush, Like a fountain’s gush, My song is heard; but who can guess The depth of its tenderness! For the holy breath That presages death, Attunes my theme To a low requiem; And I pray For the dying day, Until the air Is heavy with prayer. The stars come out o’er the heavens wide, And the farms grow dark on the upland side, While the Angel of Sleep Spreads her wings over valley and steep, Laying the life of pasture and dell
Under her spell! The dew clings To my brown wings, The West pales, And my song fails, Lower And lower, Slower And slower, And then, Amen!
Parting Iwo shepherds came over the moor one day, Over the moor in the raw east wind; With the grey-woolled sheep they had gone that way Till robust years were far behind; ‘Good day!’’ cried one, through the mist on the height, “To-morrow we'll meet in the But the sheep dogs howled at his door that night—* And he saw not the moorlands again.
Two lasses came down through a hamlet fold, Singing “‘Who will o’er the downs with me”’; When a springtime dawn was amber and gold; O youth and sunrise are fair to see! ‘‘Ah! soon will the summer be here,’’ laughed one, ‘“‘And mine the merriest heart of all’’; Alas! when the summer came by, she was gone— Under the grass by the old Church wall.
Iwo flowers grew up in a moorland field, In the grass where the lapwings lie, And all day long they danced and reeled To a lark-song up in the sky; night!’’ said one, ‘‘for the shadows are here, May dreams of you come to my bed! To-morrow we'll dance in the sunshine, dear,’’— At morn it lay withered and dead.
The thread of life is but tender and weak, And our strength an empty boast, For the stoutest is oft the first to break, And our hopes are dust at most; To-day, in our pride, we are revelling here, Merry of heart and warm of hand, To-morrow, we are gone, no one knows where,— Into the gloom of an unknown land. * In Saddleworth, there is an old and still existing belief that when a dog howls in the night-time it is a sign of approaching death, 107
The Heather Cock
THOUGH sweet the song of soaring lark, O’er upland meadows singing, And sweet the throstle’s sunrise song, Through leafy hollows ringing; But, oh, the thrilling wonder song Through all my being echoing, When sings the lusty August wind, And heather cocks are crowing.
A fool is he, a drunken sot, Who in the inn doth tarry, And drains his pot until he’s got More ale than he can carry. But wise is he that takes a cup, And goes straight home to bed, Who ne’er gets up at night to sup And nurse an aching head.
Youth and Age
Down the path, from upland meadows, Forth she came one summer morn, Glancing through the elm tree shadows, Fair as spirit heaven-born; Out across the long green ledges, Banded grey by walls of stone, sloping down to white-thorn hedges, Forth she wandered all alone.
Sweet beneath her white sun bonnet, Rosy-tinted shone her face, Joy and health were shining on it, Innocence and simple grace; Gown of silk and ribbon whiter Than the fairest rose of June, Charm of gait and footstep Than a sprightly harvest tune.
Blue and gold the skies above her, Soft the wind among her hair, Wind and sunshine seemed to love her,— Loved to kiss a maid so fair; song of lark and cuckoo calling Over field and beechen copse, Song of thrush and linnet falling Mellow from the ash tree tops.
Fair she saw the world before her, Not a sorrow, not a Care, Not a cloud to hover o’er her, Joy and sunrise everywhere; In her heart she aye rejoices, Life will ever thus be sweet, Far away from mournful voices, Far away from weary feet.
Through the fields still gaily singing Songs that never pain or tire, Till she met the morning bringing He who filled her heart’s desire; Youth and maiden, two together, In the sunny time of life, Drifting through the blue June weather— Into wedded man and wife.
Down the path, through winter meadows, When the years had gone she came, Winds of tempest, wraiths and shadows, Beat around her withered frame; Drear the skies above her bending, Drear the frozen earth below, Drearier still her days were ending In the gloom of pain and woe.
From her cheek the years had taken All the roses and the bloom, Left her shattered, palsy-shaken, Waiting sadly for the tomb; He that once had wooed and won her From her side had long been ta’en, All but sorrow seemed to shun her— Sorrow with its hapless train.
Thus for ever are we leaving Life’s sweet fields and pleasant ways, Till—at last— we linger grieving O’er the wreck of other days; Time is flying, youth and maiden, Soon your dream of joy is o’er! Soon the years, with sorrow laden, Bear you to the sunless shore.
By Ladhill Bridge
By Ladhill Bridge, and up the way, Along the waterside, With arm-a-link two lovers stray This summer eventide; By mowing meadows rich and green, By pastures rough and benty, QO fair is she, and seventeen, And he is only twenty.
Her cheeks are roses, pink and white, Her chin a pretty dimple, Her gown is shaded dark and light, But very neat and simple; Her merry eyes—such eyes, my dears, Are very blue and sunny, And QO, the curls about her ears You cannot buy for money.
‘‘Now, May,”’ says he, “‘I love you dear, As sure as we are “Shut up,’’ says she, ‘‘for much I fear It’s balderdash your talking; Look here, my boy, let’s talk of dress, Now browns—I hate intensely, But sweet effects in quiet greens, OQ Jack! I love immensely.’’
dying for a kiss,’’ says he, Says she “‘that’s quite alarming! Do die, dear Jack, I’m sweet in black,— In fact, I’m simply charming;”’ They linger by a meadow fence And whisper words endearing, Says she “‘do have a little sense, You fool, my hat is tearing!’’
“Your hat!’’ says he, “‘its only straw, And flimsy tulle and feather, Now I propose we take a match And burn the lot together!’’ ‘‘My summer hat—O Jack! you beast! That suited me so sweetly. What shall I do? to say the least— It’s ruined now completely.
‘‘What shall I say to mother, pray? She'll ask me how I’ve done it? I think I’ll swear—O mother dear, I slipped and fell upon it! Kach Sunday, why, just every eye Was on this feather resting! It’s pretty hue lit up our pew And made the Church interesting.”’
says he ‘‘when bells begin to toll, My pater’s in a passion— When folks go by with little soul For anything but fashion! ‘Religion now,’ the pater says, ‘Is hollow emptiness, Folks go to Church—well, nowadays, To see each other’s dress.’ ”’
‘‘T know,”’ says she, ‘‘all men are fools, And liars not to mention, And marry you, to tell you true, I’ve not the least intention! They say that courting’s nuts and spice, Strawberry, cream, and biscuit, That wedding’s, well—frost snow and ice;’’ Says he “‘the women risk it!’’
“‘Leave go my waist, I’m off,’’ says she, ‘The night is growing chilly,
And mother’ll be so cross with me— She says I’m young and silly;’’ Says he “‘O mothers, they talk rot, They’ve seen the day, you know! They were worse than us, a jolly lot, Some thirty years ago.”’
While lads are lads, and maids are maids, While eyes are blue and glancing, There'll ever be the trysting tree, The kissing and romancing; And matrons grave, who’ve played the game, This much is true, I ween, That you, my dears, were just the same When you were seventeen.
A young friend of mine took me to task, she said: ‘‘You always write about old cronies, old houses, old this and old that, do try and write something about young people.’’
On Doldrum Hill in Fune
Just you and I on Doldrum Hill, On Doldrum Hill in June, When morning wore her golden gown, And fields were flower strewn; No harvest winds on Doldrum Hill Were half so free from care, Or ever kissed an English girl More winsome or more fair.
Your lips were red as poppied fields, And summer blue your eyes, And far away the years that bring Life’s sorrow days and sighs. | We roaming drank love’s wonder wine From its enchanted brew, And still in dreams I lift the cup, And drink again to you.
still sings the thrush in morning woods, Still soars the noonday lark, Still calls the grouse on Longden Dean When evening moors grow dark; Still comes the flower to the field, The blossom to the tree; I'd give them all to roam one day On Doldrum Hill with thee.
A Moorland Inn
NEAR Broadstone Clough, in Saddleworth, There stands an old-world inn, Where highland winds come blustering down The bracken and the whin; A neighbour haunt that Time hath cared So well and tenderlie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
The winding lanes run north and south By grey-walled cot and farm, Where lovers walk on summer eves, By hedgerows—arm in arm; And often there come upland folk, So fresh and fair to see! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
Maybe, when Shakespeare’s fragrant song O’er this fair England blew, Some joyous couplet found this clough And to a homestead grew, "Neath loving hands that laid each stone To some quaint melodie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
And still the gables sing in stone The songs our fathers sung, The stirring music that was life When this old inn was young; The Past about the Present flings Its arms for love of thee! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
A fairy opes the magic doors Where all the past is stored, And brings before our wondering eyes The treasures of her hoard;— Old Saddleworth life, from age to age, In one glad pageantrie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
About the low old-fashioned rooms At eve, our fancy hears The rustling silks of Georgian dames, The step of Cavaliers; And dimly sees the stately forms, The brave old courtesie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
Here sat at night, in oaken chair, The hale and hearty squire, And smoked his long churchwarden pipe Beside the red peat fire; And here the parson and his clerk Oft sought a quiet ‘“‘spree!’’ Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
The rude oak tables by the ‘‘speer’’— What sunshine once they knew! What farmer folk sat drinking there And mellow round them grew! What hunting bowls here circled round The rare old companie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
How oft the leaded windows shone On festive nights of yore!
How oft the ripping rushcart tunes Were danced upon the floor, Till wall and beam and rafter shook Like one great heart of glee! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
And here the ringers came to rest And “‘weet’’ the well-rung chime; Here oft the wardens came to quaff Their quarts in sermon time! And oft the day and night were wed With song and revelrie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
There sparkles in that tankard still The ripeness and the glow, That sparkled in the hillman’s life A hundred years ago; And in the sunny draught you taste The joys that used to be! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
And still you meet the moormen there,— The flower of our race! The shapely limb, the rugged strength, The ruddy, wind-blown face! And in their grip you feel the warmth Of their bold ancestrie! Then fill the tankard, drained of old, And let us merry be.
The Road to Ripponden
Up the road by Rooden water, In a rough wind from the west, What’s a dull and moping morning That has neither life nor zest. Oh, for winds that grip, and wrestle On the hills with hearty men, Oh, for winds that romp, and gallop On the road to Ripponden.
Out of doors in hunting weather, And as keen as hounds new slipped; Does the old moor road remember How we lightly o’er it tripped; That black witch called Care we flouted, And she left us there and then; Who wants Care in wind and sunshine On the road to Ripponden?
Mile on mile of bracing moorland, Stream and clough and weathered steep; Mile on mile of grouse and plover, Blowing grass and grazing sheep; Life they say is dust and ashes, But we never felt it when, Half on earth and half in heaven, On the road to Ripponden.
How we felt the joy of living, Pure as joy a flower feels; And our blood was flushed with music, That ran singing to our heels; O’er the moor on foot with fairies, Once you go you'll go “‘agen’’; Oh the joy to wear shoe leather On the road to Ripponden.
And the roadside inn at evening, Bread and wine and pipe and rest; Night and stars and two old comrades, On a lone highway abreast; So when sad let us remember How the wind shouts up the glen, And the merry day goes laughing On the road to Ripponden.
The Song of the “Lightside” Valley
THERE’S a song of a moorland valley, A song I heard in my teens, And a line of it now is a rapture That sings for days in my veins; The tune is a romp and a gallop, A sparkle of mirth and glee, That catches my heart in its frolic And gallops away with me.
It is warm with ripples of sunshine, As warm as the month of June, With the scent of the wild hedge-roses Scattered about in the tune; And clear in the swing of the chorus— The song of a morning thrush, And the song of a lark upsoaring— A speck in the rosy flush.
There are fairy folk in the rhythm, That laugh in the lines and play Like the flitting lights of the springtime O’er the waking fields of May; They gather the words in a rose-chain, With a noose of haunting rhyme, And I’m borne to the fields of romance I knew in the olden time.
The song was the help of the valley, The help of the long green hill, It worked with the plough of the farmer And helped the men at the mill; "Iwas a friend to the hand-loom weaver— For its melody swung the loom, And it swung the hearts of the moor-folk Till their cheeks were all a-bloom.
It was sung at the lane-side weddings For luck of the maids To ripen the love of the laggard And hasten the wedding, they said; "Iwas sung by the women when brewing To mellow the harvest peck, Till it sang at the lips of the yeomen And reddened his lusty neck.
It was sung in the new-mown meadows For weather to get the hay, For skies that were red at the sunset And morns that were misty grey; It was sung in the great loom chambers At the feast of the weaver-folk, Till the old house rocked to the music— From gable to beam of oak.
There were rousing nights with the yeoman, When the hunting cup went round, And the green coats sang with the scarlet The songs of the clean-bred hound; And the cool, fresh smell of a grouse moor Comes back to me just as sweet As it did when the song of the ‘‘Lightside’’ Brought every man to his feet.
There are songs that we learn and forget That catch but a passing whim; There are songs that glow in our being, And sing through our flesh and limb; There are songs that are not worth hearing, That slip through the ear and away, But the song of the Lightside valley, Went straight to the heart to stay.
The “Shelf” Road
I leave the stifling valley and I climb the breezy ‘‘Shelf,’’ I run out north by Badger from the smoky roofs of Delph; I leave the dingy houses and the noisy street behind, To roll along the upland in the sunshine and the wind.
My feet are in the village, in the dreary and the dark, My head is on the mountain with the lapwing and the lark; From ‘‘Colls’’ to ‘‘Cunning Corner,’’ from ‘‘Cotemans’’ to the ‘‘Ship,”’ I go forward to the crossways where my three brothers dip.
The road that runs to Crompton o’er the bare and windy downs, That links the hills of Yorkshire with the striving cotton towns; | The rutted road to Oldham where the toiling traffic roars, The road that dips to Denshaw and the silence of the moors.
They slashed me east of Cotemans in the old surveyor’s days, My mission was the blinding of the ancient bridle ways; They ran me through at Garners in a curve of yellow broad, The lord of all the traffic, and a noble carriage road.
The plover swings above me in the cradle of the breeze, And below me sings the throstle in the springtime meadow trees; And here and there a field-path, and here and there a lane, That goes to meet the skyline or tumbles to the plain.
I bear the faint impression of the lady’s dainty foot, The honest hob-nailed pressure of the workman in the rut, The feet of happy children that go racing down at noon, And feet of lovers meeting at the rising of the moon.
I feel the squire’s carriage,—though it scarcely marks a stone, The slurring of the brick cart that grinds me to the bone; Every tremor of the traffic, every touch of foot and wheel, From the heavy laden lurry to the infant’s toddling heel.
Sometimes I feel a footstep that is light as summer air, And again I feel a footstep that is weighted down with care, very joy and every sorrow of the neighbour folk I know, And I love the lads that whistle up and down me as they go.
From the merry foot of childhood to the feeble foot of age, Year by year I read the chapters till I reach the final page, Till the heart that now is beating is for ever lying still, And other feet come eastwards round the corner of the hill.
Oft in the summer midnight when the harvest fields are warm, | And the windows all are dark at the cottage and the farm, There comes a ghostly people in a dim procession slow, All the feet that trod me in the vanished long ago.
The Shelf Road is the road from Delph to Grains Bar.
The Wind of the Hills
a bracing wind on the highlands, A wind that is nerve and grip, That swells like the horn at your doorways, And cracks like the hunter’s whip! That whistles in gusts at the lane-ends, And whirls by the grey old farms; That gathers the sweets of the pastures, To fling them into your arms.
There’s a ringing wind on the hilltops, That gives new strength to the weak, That flushes the blood through its courses, And brings a glow to the cheek! That comes to the heart like the April, To lands that are bare and mean; That blows the vile dust from our being, And leaves us fragrant and clean.
To be lulled to sleep on your pillow By a wind of wondrous song, That hath fashioned all sounds to music, And sings through your dreams, night long; Now a peal of wild bells are ringing! Now a musical sound of hoofs! And the steeds of the night-wind fairies Are galloping over the roofs.
And O for the wind of the Springtime! When clouds are flying and rent, And March is abroad like a spendthrift, Till the hoards of Winter are spent; And O for the wind of the Summer! The breath of the glowing east! That comes to the meadows with haytime, And plenty for man and beast.
A Summeyr’s Night on a Moor
I climb the rough stairs up the moor To its high topmost story, When sunset back to heaven takes The day’s slow fading glory; No stuffy chamber draped with silk, No bed of down and feather, I share a sweeter bed, and lhe With grouse among the heather.
Or in some bracken sheltered clough, On grassy pillow dreaming, The moon above the southern hills, The north lights eastwards streaming; A wakeful stream beside my bed O’er tumbled boulders leaping, The one lone voice the night moors hear When birds and winds are sleeping.
No loud alarums stab my ears, No mad street traffic brawling, The curlews crying, morn is here, The moorcocks round me calling. Then, Oh, for some clean breathing moor, The musty night room scorning, And sunrise fairies ope for me The windows of the morning.
A Hunting Day
I need not go a-hunting, I need not go again; I need not shout ‘‘Hark forrad’’ in the sunshine or the rain; I need not seek the upland, the meadow and the garth; For I can go a-hunting while I sit upon the hearth.
The horn that Joe o’ Breb’s blew is hanging on the wall, I only need to see it and I hear its mellow call; I get a pipe of “‘bacco’’ and I sit down in a chair, And I’m away in Saddleworth a-hunting of the hare.
You may say that I am dreaming, but I care not if I’m borne From Lydgate out to Lurden at the winding of the horn; It's all among the hound dogs and all among the men, And all among the brown hares I know I’m happy then.
There’s Joe o’ Breb’s in scarlet, and as proud as any king, His dogs are howling round him two and twenty in a ring; hearken, Rip and Ringwood,’’ he tells them as they wheel,
‘“There’s a bonnie hare on Wharmton that will let you see her heel.”’
They’re coming from the Churchside and Friezland lads have come, They’ve left their coats and singlets a-hanging up at ‘“ wom,” They hadn’t time to don them, for hunting days are sweet, And there’s old Jamie Raltal dancing round i’th’ stocking feet.
coming down the by-roads, through the hedges and the gaps, And all the lads are wearing the scarlet in their caps, And lassies from the hamlets—and they’re bonnie lassies, too— They say go a-hunting as their mothers used to do.
They’re climbing up to Wickens, for the hounds are questing
there. Hark! hark! again to Towler, and now Plunder’s found the hare; Oh! there’s going to be such hunting, I could jump out of my skin,
And the valleys all are ringing with the shouting and the din.
She's up among the fir trees and o’er the mountain top; She bowls away to Colthill where the fields begin to drop; The hounds are in a cluster, and it’s hark away and hie, “Ohe’s a hare among a thousand,’’ I hear the huntsman cry.
She whirls away to Fieldhouse and out to Wallhill farm, The hounds are full of mettle and the pace is getting warm; She spins them up the hillfields among the quarries rough, Where Blueman goes a-leading, for old Towler’s had enough.
At a farmstead on the Platting they had heard that break away, They were women hanging clothes on a sunny washing day; ‘Bi hanged,’’ they said ‘‘to suddlin’, to soap suds an’ to dirt, Eaur Jack mun try another week to wear his greasy shirt.”’
She rattles out to Blunder o’er the meadows like a shot, ‘We have her now,”’ says Joe, ‘‘and we'll tie her in a knot.”’ ‘‘Now, Ranter, up and wing her,’’ he cries for all he’s worth, But the bonnie hares of Wharmton are the slyest hares on earth.
They're shouting out at Nebo, such a jolly ringing shout, There’s no one cares a hang if it rips the heavens out; The topstones on the fences are dancing as we go, You haven’t been a-hunting if you never followed Joe.
She swings around to Herdslow and throws them off the scent, : Hark back again and wind her and find the way she went;
But Joe he whips his horn out and gathers in the pack, gone away to Wharmton. I knew she’d double back.”’
We cross the fields to Green Leach and there to every eye She bounces in the “‘bent’’ grass and runs out to the sky; She bangs away to Mantley, where the field is getting thin, And we lose her out at Rooden when the day is closing in.
I feel I’m growing sleepy, and the fire’s burning low, I see the hunters fading down the road that shadows go; And I hear a far-off singing in a land of old delight, For oh! I’ve been a-hunting with Joe o’ Breb’s to-night.
So when the wind is howling, and the folk are all a-bed, I sit thinking of the life that our lusty fathers led; Of the greencoat and the scarlet; the ripping days and good; A man will think of hunting, if there’s hunting in his blood.
I'll wind that horn on Wharmton, wind it clear and high, And wake the long dead hunters on the Churchside where they le; I'll call up old John Andrew and the men that used to be, And they all shall go a-hunting with Joe o’ Breb’s and me.
A PENNINE FARM “North Britain” (near Swineshaw Moor).
Photo. K. Leech
Spring in the North Country
FRoM the arms of haggard winter, From the wan, decrepit days, Skin and bone, she feebly falters Up the bare, penurious ways.
O’er the dead and shrivelled bracken, Past the starved and shivering trees, Where the sleet winds, lean and hungry, Gnaw the rags about her knees.
Raw-boned March, a surly miser, Gives her food and lodging poor, Till some passing elf of sunshine Gently opens April’s door.
Then the April whim and caprice Flings the maiden scorn, and jest, Till at length her flouting tempers Melt to love around her guest.
May then greets her warm with passion, Knows her fair and swect and good; Leads her to the gates of summer, Grown to perfect womanhood!
We'll go again a-Roaming
WE'LL go again a-roaming, a-roaming go, It is the sweetest pleasure that a man can know. We'll tramp away from sorrow, and from care’s dull track, Till our step’s like a feather, and our youth comes back.
We'll go again a-roaming, where the up-winds reel, Where only we and heaven know the joys we feel; Where every fibre’s ringing, and our cheeks are tanned, And our hearts set music to the roll of the land.
We'll go again a-roaming through the land we love, The rough road beneath us and the grey sky above, Where the soil we are treading is the home soil still From the fair green valley to the brown of the hill.
We'll go again a-roaming, where we’ve happy been, In the land of the past, and the good days we’ve seen; For a man must be callous, and his heart all weed, That loves not the homeland and the hills of his breed.
We'll go again a-roaming, by farm and by fold, Till the foot begins to fail and the heart grows cold; Till our sun’s at its setting and our life takes flight, And we sink down for ever on the hills of night.
We'll go again a-roaming, till we roam no more, Till the long tramp is ended, and our day is o’er; Till we've followed our fathers to the churchyard dull, And our homesteads are empty, and our graves are full.
Then come again a-roaming, a-roaming with me, The road is never dreary with a mate like thee. Though no skylark is singing, and no sun doth shine, There’s ever light and music in that heart of thine.
Then come again a-roaming where our feet never tire, We'll set the meats a-frizzling o’er the red peat fire; I'll sing thee songs of hunting, and the brown hare days, And tell thee of the moorfolk and their quaint old ways.
All I Ask
OLD tales to tell when old friends meet Round homely hearths on merry nights, To loll at ease in old arm chairs, While at the door the cold wind bites. Old friends, old tales, old hearths, old chairs, Are all I ask, enough for me, And he who finds no joy in them How lone and drear his life must be.
Old songs to sing when old friends meet— The dear folk songs of days long gone, Old pipes to smoke, old wines to drink That make the night roll gaily on. Old friends, old songs, old pipes, old wines, Are all I ask, and till life ends I ne'er will seek a greater joy Than merry nights with dear old friends.
It’s good to be in Saddleworth In the Springtime of the year, When the cloughs are yellow coltsfoot And the blossom days are near; When the lark is on the uplands > And the throstle’s in the lane, When the fields are fair as heaven And the heart is young again.
It’s good to be in Saddleworth, In that little red necked shire, When the sunburnt folks are housing In the meadows round the byre; When the dales are full of laughter And the skies are full of lght And the lads and maids are singing On the Summer roads at night.
It’s good to be in Saddleworth, Just to wander up and down, When the home-fed hams are salted And the hunting ale is brown; When the fields are Autumn dappled And the haigs red on the thorn And the brown hare sits and listens For the winding of the horn.
It’s good to be in Saddleworth When it’s snowing o’er the moors, And a rough old northern Winter Whirls the drifts about the doors; That’s the time for beef and puddings, Warm mulled ale and hearty fare, When the farmer sleeps and fattens In his old grandfather’s chair.
It’s good to be in Saddleworth When you're full of aches and pains, And the healing winds are blowing O’er the pastures and the lanes; When you're feeling dull and weary And you lack the nip of life, O’er the hills and get a bracing That will fit you for the strife.
It’s good to be in Saddleworth When the road beneath you spins, And the fresh air makes you relish Bread and cheese at moorland inns; Take your fill of breezy weather, Nature’s physic when you're sick, Till the life within you sparkles With the joy of being “‘wick.’’
It’s good to be in Saddleworth, the green miles and the grey, There’s no better earth for roaming And no better folks I say; Up and o’er the top of Wharmton, In the keen life-giving air, For whoever tramps in Saddleworth, Says good-bye to every care.
The War Memorial
POTS AND PANS MOOR.
THou art not reared in some down-trodden place Of wizened houses sullen as the night, But on this sweet and heather purpled hill, Loved by all happy things that love the light.
Thou art not set where grimy traffic roars, And smeared and splashed in some low smoky hole, But on this clean and bird-belovéd height, Great as a God and sacred as a soul.
Thou art not hid, but soaring like a spire, Up-flung among the stars supremely high; Thou giv’st another grandeur to our hills, Another glory to our homeland sky.
‘Tis well, great keeper of a holy trust, That thou art set where wings of angels beat, And whoe’er looks on Saddleworth looks on thee, And sees heaven’s doorstep shining at his feet.
The morn shall bring to thee her first white wreath, Fresh from the fields of heaven, lily spread; And eve’s last splendour in reverence kneel, And burn its incense to thy ‘‘glorious dead.”’
And here the bugle-throated winds shall come, And call thy proud names over land and sea, Till Flanders’ earth shall hear and its green graves Grow greener with the love wind-borne from thee.
And when the peoples of to-day are gone For ever to their graves, thou still shalt keep For the young generations as they rise The lght of valour burning on thy steep.
And age on age thou shalt stand up and say— ‘Soul of thy soul and heart of thy heart, Life of thy life and God of thy God, Saddleworth! behold in me thy deathless part.”’
Hearing the Cuckoo on Crompton moor
A new voice on the hills, enchanting and clear, A jewel of song, all sparkle and gleam, And the sweetheart of May, the cuckoo, is here, Now singing of love by yon heather-fringed stream.
The dawn is white pearl o’er the edge of the moor, And grey as the sea are the fields on the fell Where the night, with wan lips, at her western door, And shorn of her stars, is saying farewell.
A secret of nature, a mystery, art thou, That the seers of science can never unfold! And yet, to these hills that are listening now Thy notes are a gift of springtime gold.
Like some knight of old romance espousing the fair, Thy song is a challenge thrown down on the field, But the dragon of winter hath crept to its lair, And the triumph of spring emblazons thy shield.
The songs of the south ‘tis thy mission to bear, From lands that he warm in music and dreams, To a land that is swept by the rain-winds drear, To skies where the flag of the storm-king streams.
The thrush in the hedges hath pleaded for spring, Through pitiless morns that withered its song, And the lark hath upsoared with wind-beaten wing, And its song torn to shreds when gusts were strong;
The wind of the south is now ploughing the moor Where the feet of the storm had trampled the ling, And the bare hill-fields and the sheep-lands poor Have longed for thy coming, thou sower of spring.
And now thou art here, sweet bringer of gladness, Thou bountiful giver of blossom and song, And away in the mist flits the witch of sadness, A guest unwelcome—she hath tarried too long.
WHERE rolling sheep-lands seek the moor We two were lads together! That time when life ran through our veins Like sunbeams o’er the heather; How swift and bright those days flew by— With ne’er a clouded morrow! Joy’s brimming cup was pressed to lips That ne’er had tasted sorrow.
And still I see in haunting dreams That happy time and dearest! The scenes that he about my heart, The fairest and the nearest; Still flits across my bleaker years, The gleam of morning hours! From sunny fields where once I knew The song-birds and the flowers.
The upland fields on harvest nights, The moon above them golden! The quiet homes of shepherd folk In hamlets, grey and olden; The weathered farms on windy heights, The moors behind them sweeping, Each scene we two in boyhood shared— Still lives in memory’s keeping.
The skylark loves the cloudless blue, The ousel loves the shadows! The throstle loves the hedges green That look across the meadows; The lapwing loves the lonely hills, The mooredge, bleak and stony, And true as they, I turn to thee A loving heart, old crony.
How fair the angel of the morn On wings of gold uprising! Yet full as fair thy manhood’s glow, The dark, the false, despising; Thy word hath wronged no fellow man, Thy hand ne’er shirked its labour! Thy knee ne’er bended to the fool Who scorns a poorer neighbour.
No flaunting show of land and gold, No fine apparel wearing! A nobler claim to honest worth, An upright, manly bearing; And once again, good health to thee, And may thy skies be bluer! For never man, by word or deed, Can worthier be or truer.
May many years and many joys Be added to thy measure! And thy esteem to me remain A dearly valued treasure; Fair weather friends may offer thee Affection—frail and fleeting! But ever warm and true shall be— An old companion’s greeting.
A Parson’s Pitchers
The Rev. John Buckley held the curacy of Heights Chapel, Friarmere, from 1779 to 1835, and a pot was struck to commemorate his coming into the parish. On one side there is a sturdy figure in quaint clerical garb carrying a pitcher in each hand. He never supped ale to excess like parsons Heginbottom and Sutcliffe at Saddleworth Church, and Cleasby of Lydgate.
WuHaAT had you in those pitchers, John, What had you in those pots? I wish that you were sitting here And filling me two tots. I’m sure it was not water, John, And no teetotal swill,
You would know your wardens wouldn’t drink Such rubbish on that hill.
You came to Heights in fettle, John, You show it in your stride, You knew you’re bringing something good To all that countryside; You brought those pitchers, brimming full, And that good heart of thine, To try and make, as parsons should, Your congregation shine.
You look right well and hearty, John, Like one that lived at home, You ne’er would see a fighting cock With half so red a comb. I like the shape of your good legs, They’re just right for a steep, They’d carry you without moping Like someone half asleep.
And John, I always like to think Those folk that supped with thee Had good red necks and double chins And lusty as could be. They’d lift your big white pitchers up And take such mighty swipes, You'd see their breeches buttons fly As th’ ale ran down their pipes.
You’d take your pot in the pulpit, For preaching makes one dry, A swipe before you took your text Would make you bright and spry; You'd feel you were a bishop, John, For it would loose your tongue, And every time you supped you'd make Your congregation “ lung.”
Your choir, too, would get a drop, For they would be like thee, They’d make the chapel roof beams ring As long as they could see. And when the yearly “‘sing’’ came round, They’d want an extra spur, And then they'd down a pint or two Behind the vestry ‘“‘dur.’’
There are no parsons nowadays Of the old English sort, I wish that I could meet with one As good as thee, old sport. They do some drinking now, I know, But always out of sight, But when you downed a pint, old boy, You did it in the light.
You preached to decent folks, John, In those old-fashioned days, Before they took to mixing prayers With dirty dodging ways. And church folks went to heaven, then, And no one went to hell, Because their parson was a man As gradely as ‘‘their sel.’’
This rare pot is in the possession of Aquilla Horsfall, Esq., Springhead, and the slight sketch was made by his kind permission.
I go my way o’er hill and dale, Of miles I roam full many, I smoke my pipe and drink my ale And owe no man a penny; I have no care for place or pelt I take what God has given, And I love others as myself And leave the rest in heaven.
LIFE is ashes, it is said— Burnt out fires, cold and dead. Death is certain; that being so, Grant that my last spark may go God knows where, but on some height, Where the morning birds alight, On a sunny upland space That looks heaven in the face, Where little things among the grass May take my spirit when it pass To the unknown, Oh grant that I May like the heather flower die, Knowing neither pain nor cry.
W hitebrook Head
THE rock-strewn moor behind the farm, The old lane, rough and steep, The grey, lone fields, once dotted o’er With little moorland sheep; The old farmhouse and empty barn— How dark and cold are they! The grass is on the doorstep now, Life and joy have gone away. No father, weary from the fields, sits dozing in his chair, No mother’s cheery voice is heard, No laugh of children there; The hearth-stone, where they sat at night, Is thick with lime and dust! The window panes are green with moss, The grate is red with rust. No shepherd calls at even now, To smoke a neighbour pipe, And tell the lore of hill and dale— Across a pitcher ripe! And sitting in the nook, no more A kindly eye will trace The rigour of the winter storms Upon his weathered face. The bloom upon the heather dies, The bracken turns to gold, The days to withered spaces run, The nights grow long and cold; The winter whitens round the farm— O’er frosted field and lane! Till spring returns—but never brings The good time back again.
An Old North Riding Road
‘‘T saw a man in a coat of green On an old North Riding road; A shepherd man with clear blue een On an old North Riding road. One windy morn at the Fastertide, He came along with a swinging stride; ‘I’m going,’ said he, the down To wed a lass in a Riding town, In an old North Riding town.
We tramped together there and then, On an old North Riding road; The sun ne’er shone on better men, On an old North Riding road. She's serving-maid at a coaching inn, And a bonnie lass, but hard to win. ‘“‘T’ve a bag of gold in my coat,’’ said he, ‘And it’s all for her if she'll wed me In an old North Riding town.
said I, buy her ribbons fair, On an old North Riding road; A buckle bright to bind her hait, On an old North Riding road. ‘‘T’ll fetch the bride and see it through, I'll stand by a mate as good men do, I'll give you a toast and sing a song, And the bells shall ring all day long In an old North Riding town.
Castleshaw and the Roman Fort
_ The hamlet of Castleshaw stands on one of the green spurs of Millstone Edge, at the head of the Lightside of Friarmere. It is now a mere handful of weatherbeaten barns and gables, that look as though they had fallen from a rag and bone cart. Yet ‘‘once on a day’’ it was one of the merriest and loveliest hamlets in Saddleworth. In the heyday of its prosperity the hamlet folks kept sheep and wove cloth, and the little school at the turn of the lane was full of moor-bred children, with faces like June roses and “‘toppins’’ that stood straight up like pin wire. The women-folk were wise in their day and generation; they used to brew ‘‘double- hopped’’ ale—short measure to the peck and flavoured with field gentian. This kept their lords in the hamlet at night, ‘‘neigh- bourin’ ’’ and telling the day’s news over a quart. In the day when every Saddleworth lad was taught to seek renown in the swing of the scythe, and the fleet system of mowing was in vogue, about 1815, the hamlet was the headquarters of the ‘“‘swipper’’ dalesmen who formed the famous ‘“Light Fleet of Castleshaw.’’ Its achievements in the meadows were equalled only by the not less famous ‘Black Fleet of Denshaw.”’
But Castleshaw is a place to pray for now, for it lies at death's door, stretched out in its bed of green pastures stricken with hopeless paralysis. The following lines, inscribed to Thos. Thompson, Esq., of Dale House, were suggested by the Roman Explorations.
WHERE the lordly moors of Stanedge Shake the meadows from their feet, Where the wind-words, heather-scented, Shape themselves to language sweet, There in weeds of silent mourning, Lines of pain about thy brow, Grey, old-fashioned country hamlet, Sad and ruined standest thou. Gone thy years of comely girlhood, Gone thy sweet maturer day, Once the lady of the uplands, Now the scarecrow of decay; Through thy garment, white as winter, Coldly gleam thy withered bones, Grim and wasted rise the roof beams, Broken lie the lintel stones.
Grey thy walls, but thoughts still greyer Rise within me as I go O’er the doorsteps worn and hollowed By the feet of long ago; | One by one the bygone neighbours All come back as yesterday; But, alas! they turn and vanish Down the road of far away. Famed wert thou for old churn-dances, Pride of all the long green dale, Toast of every “‘Lightside’’ mower ’Ere he drank the harvest ale; Lightest hearts and lightest footsteps Then thy dower seemed to be, Every heart that longed for pleasure Took the road that led to thee. Window-deep among the roses Stood each cottage on the lane, Wet with spray of moorland waters, Fresh and cool as summer rain; Farmer-song and song of weaver Loud together woke the morn, And the fiddles led the evening Through the hamlet revel-borne. Once was heard the shout of children Playing at the great barn doors, And the loud “‘halloo’’ of shepherd Coming down the long dark moors; Then each homely cottage window All about the lane grew red, And were heard the mothers calling Little playmates in to bed. Thrown about the long sheep fences, Rotting lies the weaver’s loom; And about the old home gardens © Reddens now the tall dock bloom; Storm and time, the ruthless spoilers,
Leagued against thee, tear and grind, And the voice about thy hearthstones Is the moaning of the wind. Gone the charm of hillside custom, Gone the romance and the lore, Old-world blooms, that grew together In the sunny fields of yore; Gone for aye—but other glories Brighten o’er thy dying hour, And thy bed is decked with relics Of a vanished empire’s power. Here the years of darkest silence Find at last a noble tongue, And a voice calls down the ages From a far Imperial throng; Now the sunshine sweeps the shadow Of the centuries away, And again this field of triumph Sees the hills that owned its sway. Here, maybe, some laurelled Cesar Saw his valiant legions wheel, Saw the captive in his wolf-skin At his feet submissive kneel; And when wild for blood and pillage Swept the Scot like tempest forth, Here, perchance, the mighty Hadrian Hurled his warriors to the North. Here, maybe, some high pro-consul Laid the footings of his fame, And through after years of valour Shook an empire with his name; Green to north the grassy rampart Wears no more a warlike frown, As, maybe, when Roman sentries Hurled the wild Brigantes down; Here no more the hardy veteran — Bares again his battle scars,
Bares them proudly—slaughter-laurels Of the Boadicean wars. And no more the soldier watches In the shadow of the gate, Dreaming of his homeland valleys, Brooding o'er his exiled fate. Somewhere near thee sleeps the Roman In his shroud of battle gear, Where his brave companions laid him, With his hand upon his spear; Far away from home and kindred, From the land that gave him birth, Grey old hamlet, guard his gravemound Lordliest dust of ancient earth.
Fragment of Samian ware from the Roman Camp at Castleshaw. Central figure said to be a gladiator
In Wimberry Time
Ou bother this sewing, my cotton’s too rough, And the wimberries are blue in yon moor clough, Now I’ve lost my needle, everything’s amiss, I cannot sit sewing on a day like this. So let’s go a-roaming out upon the lea, And a bottle of cream we will take for tea; Won't it be jolly, dear, sitting by a stream, Till our lips are blue with wimberries and cream.
A Trout Stream
WADING up a trout stream on a summer day, Barefoot and bareleg o’er a pebble strewn way, Up to the ankles where the ripples are cool, Up to the knees in a willow shaded pool. You may have your moorlands, and your August guns, But give me a valley where a trout stream runs.
In among the boulders how I love to feel A bonnie brown pounder slippery as an eel; Oh there, I’ve missed it, and now I see a flash, © And away up the stream I follow its wash. Now there'll be a splashing into pools and out, © I’ve never known a joy like racing a trout.
After the Mancrial sale at Huddersfield in 1792, the Saddleworth yeoman had a proud way of saying that his parish was a shire of its own.
To a serving maid and Long Jack and his mates, recalling a night in June.
SAID Jack the shepherd, strong and hale: ‘‘Here’s to the lads o’ And here’s,’’ said I, as up I stood, “To lads as jannock, brave and good, Through rough and smooth, and thick and thin, They stand their corner, lose or win, As true as steel, as tough as wire, The merry lads of Saddleworthshire.’’
Then up and spake a comely maid, In cap and apron white arrayed: ‘“Here’s health to you,’’ she smiling said, “‘T’'d have you know I’m Saddleworth bred; You praise the lads, but naught you say Of maids as good in every way; What greater wealth can lads desire Than bonnie maids of Saddleworthshire?’’
‘‘Here’s health to you, and here’s to all That makes me heed my homeland’s call! The hill and dale, the moorland rough, The upland green, the stream and clough; The winding lane, the hamlet fold, The homely village, brown and old, And all that burns in me like fire Among the hills of Saddleworthshire.’’
I Love the Road
I love the road o’er the moorland broad, The sheeptrack and the heather, And I’ve no care in the open-air For neither wind nor weather.
I sing a song when the miles are long And uphill in the gloaming, In light or dark I’m like a lark When I go out a-roaming.
I turn about when the stars come out And o’er the hills returning, I sit and smoke with the shepherd folk Where the red peat fire’s burning.
A December Night
O warm is the ingle nook On a wild December night, A pipe, a glass, and a book! O warm is the ingle nook! A home-fed ham on the hook And a peat-fire burning bright,— OQ warm is the ingle nook On a wild December night!
I’M wearing heather in my cap For August winds blow o’er the hill, The good grouse-days are full of sap, I’m wearing heather in my cap! For harvest brews are on the tap And sunburnt maids the tankards fill! I’m wearing heather in my cap For August winds blow o’er the hill.
Come Out, the Spring is Roaming
ComE out, the Spring is roaming, We'll follow to the hills, And see her spilling coltsfoot And dropping daffodils; She’s laughing o’er the meadows With the wind of the south, And flinging joyous music Into the skylark’s mouth.
The thrush is with his lady A courting in the grove, The linnet in the whitethorn Is nearly wild with love, The rooks are newly-wedded, The elms are all a-caw, And magpies in the rickyard Are stealing farmer’s straw.
Come out, the Spring is roaming, She hasn’t long to stay, She’ll leave us like the cuckoo That summer drives away: * So what’s the use of moping, When April skies are blue, When Spring goes out a-roaming Then we’ll go roaming too.
*«The first cock of hay Drives the cuckoo away,” is an old local saying.
A Rare Old Inn
THE Ram’s Head stands by Denshaw moor, A rare old inn, good gentlemen, And he who e’er goes past its door He walks in sin, good gentlemen.
But he who takes its homely fare, The shepherds tell, good gentlemen. He finds an earthly heaven there, And liveth well, good gentlemen.
The wind that blows from moor and lea
Is hunger’s wine, good gentlemen, And home-fed ham and eggs for tea
They make you shine, good gentlemen.
Its ale is ripe and full of grip, A hearty brew, good gentlemen, And when I lift it to my lip
I drink to you, good gentlemen.
The Hounds are Out at Lingards
THE hounds are out at Lingards, A hunting of the hare, The morning sky’s red-coated, And joy is everywhere. There is no room for sorrow, Old Care is far away, And merry winds are shouting The hounds are out to-day.
The hounds are out at Lingards, And who can stay indoors, The brown hare’s in the hillfields The white hare’s on the moors. There is no earthly music That thrills men like the horn, And sound of good dogs questing All on a hunting morn.
The hounds are out at Lingards, And wings are on our feet, And he who loves not hunting He knows not life is sweet. Then away to yon green uplands, O’er field and hedge and lane, The hounds are out at Lingards And life is life again.
A Song of Parting
CoME, stir good folks, and let’s go home, It’s got the time to sever, The clock’s gone round and told us all We cannot stay for ever.
‘Tis said the best of friends must part, So it’s no use complaining, For life is like an April day, There’s sunshine and there’s raining.
We've had a happy night, old friends, And shared each others’ pleasure, And while there’s joy on earth I hope You'll ne’er go short of measure.
So let’s away and get to bed Like decent folks and warty,* And pray that God will help us all And keep us hale and hearty.
* Workaday folks.
The Throstle’s Lament
One Sunday morning going along a road in Saddleworth I was pained to see that fine healthy hawthorn trees had been cut down to a hideous row of black stumps.
WHERE are the bonnie hawthorns gone? A poor sad throstle said, An’ where’s the tree 1th’ meadow bonk Where th’ wife an’ me wur wed ? ‘Twur there we built a cosy neest Ere trees wi’ leaves wur donned, An’ when we’d four blue eggs to sit Awr preaudest brid 1’ th’ lond.
Aw used to sing fro’ yon ash bough Wi’ o mi might an’ glee, An’ village folk would stop 7 th’ road An’ stond an’ hearken me. But neaw Aw connut seaund a note Aw havn’t heart to sing, Awm frettin’ o’er the dear thurn trees That sheltered me last spring.
When little buds began to show Among the leaves so green, Till every tree wur donned 1’ white As fine as ony queen ; But neaw they’re ragged as beggar folk An’ brokken deawn an’ bare, An’ ne’er agen they’ll fill the morn Wi’ blossom scented air.
Aw done some courtin’ 1’ these fields An’ sung some love songs here, An’ flown at morn o’er yon hillside A-roamin wi’ mi dear. Those happy days are o’er an’ gone An’ neaw Aw feel forlorn, To think Aw ne’er shall see agen The hedge where Aw wur born.
I’ th’ winter time when haigs wur red An’ days wur cowd an’ dull Then me an’ th’ wife an’ th’ childer pecked Tul o eaur crops wur full. But neaw there’s clemmin days i’ th’ seet, Ther’ll be no hawthorn meyt, We’re beawn to flit to some kind lond Where there’s enough to eyt.
We're beawn a livin deawn i’ th’ seauth, We’st ne’er like here agen. We'll build a heause ere April’s eaut I’ some green Hampshire glen. The devil’s been among these thurns He’s done this wark his sel, An’ what wur heaven once to us He’s made it look like hell.
A Doomed Oak
WHEN wur theau born owd rugged oak, I’ what year did theau spring ? Aw think thi little acorn fell When James the First wur king; Aw guess theau’d know thi fayther weel, He’d be a gallant tree Of lusty girth an’ mighty limb To breed sich like as thee.
Aw’ll bet theau’d see em cut him deawn To build a ship o’ war ; For owt theau knows he did his share That day at Trafalgar. He’d be some holed an’ split wi’ shot An’ red wi’ battle blood; An’ happen Nelson lay in death Upon thi fayther’s wood.
Theau didn’t pick a sheltered nook When theau began to groo, Theau set thi sel 1’ th’ wildest spot There is upon this broo. _ Theau scorned a grassy garden lawn Wi roses fine o’ reaund, An’ bulldog like theau fastened on This rough an’ windy greaund.
Theau’d ha’ some weary days an’ neets When theau’r a little shoot, An’ storms wur tryin’ o they could To rip thee op bi th’ root. An’ oft that lion March coom here, An’ roarin fierce an’ loud, It tried to rive thi off this knowe But never broke thi howd.
An’ when th’ April rains coom deawn Theau’d wonder what thi wur, Thi little twigs would stretch ther sel Fain to be eaut o’ th’ dur.
It’s hard to think neaw spring is here This field an’ thee mun part, An’ when May. comes wi’ leaves for thee It'll wonder where theau art.
Theau’ll never feel the sap agen Run through thi boughs wi glee, An’ summer sun an’ winter’s snow Will come no more to thee. An’ autumn winds that stole thi leaves An’ whirled em deawn the glen, When they come sheawtin o’er the moor ne’er find thee agen.
When summer fleawers wake at morn Wi’ teardrops 1’ ther een, They'll grieve to see the blackened stump Where once theau stood so green. Death comes alike to men an’ trees When an’ heaw none con tell, An’ th’ mon at lays thi op o’ th’ greaund He’ll drop some day his sel.
An Old Friarmere Hunting Day
JAMIE o’ Topper’s coom deawn th’ lone, Wi’ eighteen heaunds behind him, A finer lad nur Jamie wur, Aw wonder wheer yo’d find him; His yers wur lung, his toppin stiff, An’ he could sup his glasses; An’ same as o th’ owd Topper breed, He liked to be wi’ th’ lasses.
He wur bred an’ born o’ Denshaw side, His fayther wur a hunter ; An’ noather hare nur heaund o’er fund, Young Jamie eaut o’ flunter ; For when he wur as fine a chilt, As ever blest a mother ; He lay 1 th’ cradle at one end, An’ a grand heaund whelp at tother.
He wund his hurn at Crowstone Gate, Across the hilltops ringin’; An’ wackent throstles on 1’ th’ broo, An’ set em o a singin’; Hie wund agen a louder note, Far o’er the valleys swellin’; An’ rattled o th’ owd weighvers op, I’ every loneside dwellin’.
Owd Ben o’ Billy’s reawnt an’ fat, Wur just goin’ deawn a buntin’; He thrut his piece i’ th’ Oxhey lone, An’ away he went a huntin’; An’ Nan o’ Churnyed’s off beawt shawl, | sich a peyl an’ splutter; Hoo fell yed first o’er th’ garden wo, An’ rowlt deawn into th’ gutter.
Owd Bill o’ Thrum’s wur ceawert deawn, Some wom-fed bacon fryin’; But when he yerd young Jamie’s hurn, He sent o th’ collops flyin’;
“Theau bowsteryed,” owd Mally said, An’ started off a cacklin’; “Awm sure ther’ ne’er a woman teed, To sich a gaumless stracklin.”
Lung Liz o’ Martha’s left her loom, Her mother croot an’ chuntin’, same as o her fayther’s breed, Hoo’s starin’ mad o’ huntin’;’’ Owd Jamie Poot at th’ end o’ th’ barn, Wur sizin’ warps an’ wringin’; An’ away he went 1’ th’ stockin’ feet, Wi’ a brocken gallus swingin’.
Owd Squint he’d had th’ rheumatic bad A three months in its clutches; He crope to th’ dur an’ off beawt cap, A huntin’ on his crutches; At Denshaw Mill an’ th’ Broadhead Mill, Ther’ wurn’t a spindle turnin’, An’ o’ th’ owd Freermere farmers left, The’r milkin’ an’ the’r churnin’.
Fat Sal o’ Dick’s had bread i’ th’ oon, When hoo seed Collop runnin’; An’ off hoo set o’er hedge an’ dych, An’ left her mowfins brunnin’; An’ th’ parson, he’d a berrin- on, He wur some nowt an’ scornin’ “We'll put it off, to-day,” he said, ‘For th’ heaunds are eaut this mornin’.”’
An’ weddin’ folk fro’ th’ Castleshay, To Ratchda Church wur goin; But when th’ view halloa rang agen, It wur the groom’s undoin’; He off deawn th’ fields like hey-go-mad An’ blundert o’er the fences; “When th’ heaunds are eaut,” his mother safd, “They’re o eaut o”’ the’r senses.”
He laid em oni’ th’ Moorcroft fields For he knew wheer to find her ; Hoo leathered op amung the gress, Wi’ Towler close behind her ; O’er Noddle top an’ Crowshaw Hey, Hoo never turned a yure, Of o the hares ther’ never ran A gammer or a truer.
Reaund Lurden end an’ throot Deign Clough Across the Hassocks beawlin’ Wi’ mony a weighver slutched to th’ een An’ mony a good dog yeawlin’ Ther’ ballis to mend on Waystone Edge, Wi’ o th’ owd farmers winded ; An’ mony a good dame fast 1’ th’ gowffs, Wi’ turf an’ wayter blinded.
“It’s peaunds to pence,” said Cat o’ Bet’s yon’s a Leetside bred un, + For th’ hare ’at licks these bonnie heaunds Is sure a Moorcroft fed un;” | Said he to th’ parson, ‘‘ Neaw owd mon, Fro’ th’ pulpit will yo’ tell sir, ? "At ony mon ’at shoots yon hare, ‘Ill ha’ to go to hell, sir.”
+ Anciently the Castleshaw Valley was called the Lightside and the Denshaw Valley the Darkside of Friarmere.
In old Friarmere, a hunting day meant a general holiday.
By AMMON WRIGLEY
The Sign of the Three Bonnie Lasses. 5/- post free.
A book chiefly of Jack Hurley and
his cronies in an old country inn.
Saddleworth, Its Prehistoric Remains Well Illustrated, 1/-
LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS
LIST OF SUBSCRIBERS
AINLEY, F., Highfield House. Dobcross. AITKEN, James H. S., Four Oaks, Reedley, Burnley, Lancs. ALLANSON, GEORGE C., 64 Deeplish Road, Rochdale, Lancs. ALLEN, Fred, Greenfield, Near Oldham. AMEY, S., 3 The Serpentine, Lytham. AMMON WRIGLEY FELLOWSHIP, per H. Whitworth, Hon Sec. (12) ARCHBELL, Arthur, Halifax Rugby IF. C., Thrum Hall Halifax. ARMITAGE, Walter, Hope House, Burnley Lane, Chadderton. ASHBURN, Geo. H., 13 Barnfield Crescent, Ashton-on-Mersey. ASHLEY, Ben, Shude Hill, Delph, Nr. Oldham. ASHTON, Charles, 3 Neath Street, Oldham. (2). ASHTON, Harry, 38 Macclesfield Road, Hazel Grove, Cheshire. ASHTON-UNDER-LYNE Public Library, per Geo. Fletcher. (3). ASHWORTH, C., 28 Stamford Road, Lees. ASHWORTH, Harvey, 52 Norton Road, Rochdale. ASHWORTH, Nathan, 4 Churchill Street, Rochdale. ASTLEY, A. E., 67 Radcliffe Street, Oldham. AYNGE, Geo. T., 8 Woodlea Bank, Waterfoot, Rossendale. (3).
BACUP Public Library, St. James Square, per E. Heyworth. BAGSHAW, Mrs. J., George and Dragon Inn, Woodhead, Hadfield. BAMFORD, J., Bredon, Sunningdale Avenue, Hest Bank, lancaster. BAMFORTH, George, Clifton Woodhead, Brighouse, Yorks. BARNES, Mrs., Claremont, Waterworks Road, Waterhead. BARNES, Saml. B., 71 Lake Bank, Littleborough. BARDSLEY, J. A. Ltd., Yorkshire Street, Oldham. (50). BARLOW, R. N., 868 Rochdale Road, Manchester. BARNETT, W. W. T., Mansion House, Brompton, Chatham. BARON, John, 248 Ripponden Road, Oldham. BEECH, Hugh, 89 Egerton Street, Oldham. BERRY, G. T., 66 Hanson Street, Oldham. BLACKER, W., Kensington House, St. John’s, Wakefield. BLEA, J., 9 Horsforth Estate, Greenfield. BOOTH, Mrs. E. M., Moor View. Wood Lane, Dobcross, Oldham. (2). BOOTH, IF. K., Fredericsvil, Stamford Road, Waterhead, Oldham, (2). BOTTOMLEY, Eli, J.P., 37 Walter Scott Street, Derker, Oldham. BOTTOMLEY, J. W., “Tunshill,” Hillsboro Road, Ilfracombe. BOWDEN, Carey M., J.P., The Homestead, Woodley. BOWKER, James H. S., 63 Cedar Street, Accrington.
BOWMAN, Harold, 5 Queen’s Road, Oldham. BRADBURY, Ernest, Oaklands, Delph, Nr. Oldham. BRADBURY, J., 10 Annisfield Avenue, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. BRAMHALL, Randle, 274 Manchester Road, Rochdale. BREARLEY, J. H., Dale Bank, Bacup. (2). BRIDGE, Jonathan, “ Adelphi,” 69 Rd., Rochdale. (2). BRIERLEY, Ben, LP., Sunny Dene, Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. BRIERLEY, Miss F. B., Toravon, Werneth, Oldham. BRIERLEY, H., 119 Spotland Road, Rochdale. BRIERLEY, S., Dale Cottage, Delph, Nr. Oldham. BRIGHOUSE, Sir Samuel, Derby Street, Ormskirk. BROADBENT, C., 534 Huddersfield Road, Waterhead. BROADBENT, Miss E. J., 5 Irving Street. Southport. BROADBENT, H., Bramber, Thornfield Grove, Ashton-u-Lyne. BROADBENT, H., Millgate House, Delph. (8). BROADLEY, R., Tabley House, Stalybridge. BRODHURST, T., Woodcroft Street, Rawtenstall. BUCKLEY, Coun. Albert, “Finchwood, Glossop Rd., Marple Bridge. BUCKLEY, Miss F. A., Industrial Terrace, Delph, Nr. Oldham. BUCKLEY, Francis, J.P.. Tunstead, Greenfield. BUCKLEY, H. I, Hollingworth Hall, Hollingworth. BUCKLEY, L. L., Westleigh, 48 North Drive, St. Annes-on-Sea. . BUCKLEY, William, Sunnyside, 150 Oldham Road, Grasscroft, Oldham. BURRIDGE, J. Beech Lawn, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. BURGESS, IL, 639 Huddersfield Road, Oldham. BURTON, Travis, 41 Springbank, Broadway, Chadderton, Oldham. BURY Public Library, per John H. Shaw, Librarian, (2). BUTTERWORTH, A., 991 Oldham Road, Thornham, Rochdale. BUTTERWORTH, Eli, 388 Manchester Road, Shaw. BUTTERWORTH, E. C., Leghorn House, 4 Rakewood, Littleborough. BUTTERWORTH, Wm. S$. 18 Norwood Drive, Torrisholme, M’c’be. BYROM, Mrs. S. A, Brookland Lodge, Delph. (3).
CALDER, James Muir, 106 Tweedale Street, Rochdale. CALLIGAN, A. B., “Abels,” Church Road, Uppermill. CAMPINOT, A., J.P.,C.C., Shady Grove, Delph, Nr. Oldham. (2). CARTER, Walter, Keith "Villas, Delph. (2). CHADDERTON, F. W., 115 Coppice Street, Oldham. (6). CHADWICK, Cobden, Bryn- y-Glyn, Nant-y-Glyn, Colwyn Bay. CHADWICK, Fred, Gatesgarth, Latchford, Warrington. (2). CHADWICK, Joseph, 32 Salisbury Road, Chorlton-cum-Hardy, M/c CHADWICK, Thos., Limefield, Hurstead, Rochdale. CLARKE, Thomas, 912 Huddersfield Road, Oldham. CLAYTON, Wm., 55 Turf Hill, Rochdale. CLEGG, Harry, “Arlington,’ Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. (4). CLEGG, Joseph H., Leathley, Rochdale Road, Milnrow.
CLEGG, Thomas, 13 Falkland Avenue, Rochdale. (2). CLYNES, Rt. Hon., J. R., M.P., P.C., 41 St. John’s Road, Putney, S.W., 15. COLLINGE, Miss Lily, Hopwood View, Middleton, Manchester. COLLINS, Herbert C., 158 Sandy Lane, Rochdale. CONLONG, Tom, 150 High Barn, Royton. CORDINGLEY, Ronald, 111 Old Street, Ashton-u-Lyne. CORNER, T., Church Road, Uppermill. COTTRELL, P., “Gleniffer,’ Delph. ‘ (2). : CRABTREE, Frank, 431 Bury Road, Rochdale. CRABTREE, H., 6 Woodlands Av., Bury Rd, Bamford, Rochdale. CRABTREE, R. C., 639 Bury Road, Rochdale. CRABTREE, William, Woodland View, Whitworth. CRAVEN, Harry, 223 Allandale Terrace, Bacup, Lancs. CRAWFORD, Mrs. G. M., Scouthead Vicarage, Oldham. CROPPER, John, 3 Western Road, Stacksteads, Bacup. CROSSLAND, Arthur, 637 Huddersfield Road. Waterhead. CROSSLEY, A., M.P., 26 Mallord Street, Chelsea, London, S.W. 3. CURRIE, T., Hillbre Drive, Hesketh Park, Southport.
DAVENPORT, Alfred, 465 Rochdale Road, Oldham. DAVIES, Richard, 34 South Bar, Banbury, Oxon. DAWSON, E., Four Ways, Lydgate, Oldham. DELPH Co-operative Society Ltd. DEVIS, J. Digby, 675 Rochdale Rd., Royton, Lancs. DICKINSON, A., Habergham Villa. Burnley. DODD, John S., M.A.,M.P., Lyon Works, Oldham. DODD, W., J.P., Lyon Works, Oldham. DODD, W. A, L.L.B., 61 Queen’s Road, Oldham, DRANSFIELD, Mrs. J. T., Andrew Mill Cottages, Greenfield, Oldham, DUNKERLEY, F., C/o Ministry of Agriculture, Giza, (Orman), Egypt. DUNKERLEY, Fred, 305 Ripponden Road. Watersheddings, Oldham. DUXBURY, W., 18 Wheatholme Street, Cloughfold, Rossendale, DYSON, E., Liberal Club, Delph. DYSON, Joseph, Platt Lane, Dobcross. DYSON, Miss Mollie, 18 Richmond Avenue, Huddersfield. DYSON, Stanley, 199 Oldham Road, Springhead. DYSON, Taylor, Almondbury Grammar School, Huddersfield.
EASTWOOD, Chas. F., Brookdale, Dobcross. (2). EASTWOOD, F., 335 Greenacres Road, Oldham. EASTWOOD, Hampson, 135 Ashfield Road, Rochdale.
ECCLES, Allan, Rakewood House, Littleborough, Nr. Rochdale. 166
FANTON, Miss Elsie, 2a Salt Street, Shaw. FEBER, Frank, 84 Stamford Road Hey, Lees, Oldham. FIELDEN, J., 10 Woodhouse Lane, Norden, Rochdale. FIELDING, C., 28 Ball Royd, Longwood, Huddersfield. FITZPATRICK, T., 56 Green Lane, Garden Suburbs, Oldham. FLEMING, H., 31 Pioneers Villas, Newhey, Rochdale. Chris., 36 Clay Lane, Bamford, Rochdale. FLINTOFF, Robert J., Goathland, Yorks. FOZARD, W. L., 32 Sheriff Street, Rochdale. FRANCE, O. E. L., Moor Cot, Mottram Old Rd., Stalybridge. FREEMAN, W. E., “Inglewood,” Werneth Hall Road, Oldham.
GARNER, Alfred Howard, Rochdale. (2). GARNER, W. V., The Bungalow, Lower Fold, Marple GARTSIDE, A., 66 Fairfield Road, Winchester. GARTSIDE, Charles, Brookfield Terrace, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. GARTSIDE, I, Bailey Terrace, Delph. GARTSIDE, John, 674 Huddersfield Road, Waterhead, Oldham, GARTSIDE, John E., J.P., Grove Terrace, Delph, Nr. Oldham. GARTSIDE, J. E,, Moorlands, Stalybridge. GARTSIDE, Miss ‘A. 161 Balfour Street, Oldham. = _ (2). GARTSIDE, Mrs. N.. Delph Greaves, Delph. GARTSIDE, Roger S., 47 Frederick Street, Werneth, Oldham. GARTSIDE, S., 99 Clarksfield Road, Oldham. GARTSIDE, W., 13 Kay Street, Rawtenstall. GILBERT, Harold, 40 Latham Lane, Kitt Green, Orrell, Wigan. Public Library, per F. A. Richards. GORNALL, Arthur H., 36 Richmond Terrace, Blackburn. (2). GOULDEN, Mrs., 208 ‘Waterloo Street, Oldham. GREAVES, L., Three Crowns Inn, Scouthead, Nr. Oldham. GREEN, Christopher, Hill Top, Delph. GREENHALGH, Ralph, 6 Springside, Cowpe, Waterfoot, Rossendale. GREENWOOD, Hbt., 98 Green Lane, Garden Suburb, ‘Oldham. GREENWOOD, J. B., 5 Werneth Hall Road, Oldham. (2).
HAIGH, Mrs. Thos., New Inn, Marsden, Nr. Huddersfield. HALIFAX Public Library, per W. Ratcliffe, Secy. HALL, Mrs. D., 32 Thompson Road, Sheffield, 11. (2). HALL, William, 138 Woodhead Road, Holmbridge, Holmfirth. HALL, W. H., 24 Grange Cottages, Marsden. HALLAWAY, ‘A. T., “Redgarth,” ‘Grappenhall, Nr. Warrington. HAMER, Miss Beatrice, 333. Lees Road, Oldham. HARDMAN, S., 20 Castle Grove, Holcombe Brook, Nr. Bury. HARDY, Miss Ellen, 6 Railway View, Shaw, Nr. Oldham. (2). HAMPSON, W. F., Clare Bank Cottage, Heaton, Bolton.
HARRIS Public Library, Preston, per J. Pomfret, F.L.A. (2). HEMINGWAY, Wilfred I*., 21 Rossall Road, Foxholes, Rochdale. HENTHORNE, B., 123 Huddersfield Road, Newhey, Nr. Rochdale. HESKETH, Frank, Yarrow Cottage, 143 Broad Lane, Rochdale. HEWKIN, J. G., 14 Cannon Street, Manchester. (20). HEWKIN, William, Woods Lane, Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. HEYWORTH, Clifford, 179 New Line, Bacup, Lancs. HEYWOOD, Coun. E., 43 Bolton Road, Rochdale. HIGGINBOTTOM, H., Junction Inn, Denshaw. HILL, Harold, 12c Saville Row, Newcastle-on-Tyne, 1. HILTON, Joseph, 10 Fraser Street, Shaw, Nr. Oldham. HILTON, Mrs. B., 343 Ripponden Road, Oldham. HOBSON, Thomas, 51 St. Thomas Street North, Coppice, Oldham. HOBSON, W. G., St. Mary’s Crescent, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. HOLDEN, Robert, West Bank, Napier Street East, Oldham. HOLKER, E., The Cottage, Smithy Bridge, Littleborough, Lancs, (2). HOLLAND, A., 21 Chesney Avenue, Chadderton. HOLLAND, James, 17 Plough Street, Werneth, Oldham. HOLLAND, Richard, 8 Grimes Street, Norden, Rochdale. HOLLAND, Wm., 67 Dunkerley Street, Oldham. HOLMES, W. & R., 95 Yorkshire Street, Rochdale. (12). HOLROYD, John, Diggle Hotel, Diggle, Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. (2). HOLT, A., 30 St. Albans Street, Rochdale. HOLT, H., 16 Benfield Street, Heywood. HORSFALL, George G, Oaklands House, Lees, Oldham. (2). HORSFALL, Mrs., Lime Field, Lostock Park, Bolton, Lancs. HOWARD, H. A. Yorkshire St, Mills, Bacup, Lancs. HOWE, Arthur, “Alphin,’ Park Lane, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. HOWELL, Joseph, 139 Kelverlow Street, Oldham. (2). HOYLE, T. V., J. P.. C.A., Parkfield, Milnrow Road, Rochdale, HUDSON, Edwin, J.P., Keith Villas, Delph, Oldham. (2). HUDSON, J., Grove Cottage, Delph. (2). HUMPHREYS, Albert, Blackriding Works, Werneth, Oldham. HUMPHREYS, Augustus, The Oaks, Patch Lane, Bramhall. HUMPHREYS, Henry, 101 Frederick Street, Oldham. HUMPHREYS, William, Gilders Villa, Grotton. HYDE Public Library, per F. A. Richards. (2).
ISHERWOOD, Dan, Gardeners Arms, Waterhead. ISHERWOOD, 0O., Gardeners Arms, Waterhead. ISHERWOOD, R. H., Heath Street, Newton Heath, Manchester, 10.
JAGGER, John, 4 Endsleigh Gardens, Upper Woburn Place London. JENNINGS, Miss E., Rose Hill, Delph. JOLLY, John E., 540 Whitworth Road, Rochdale. JONES, J., 27 Hague Place, Stalybridge. JONES, Owen, 91 Ashworth Street, Rochdale.
KAY, James, 2 Smith Street, Waterhead. KELLY, W. T., MP., 26 Crofton Road, London, S.E, 5, KENNEY, Reginald, 7 Westbourne Road, Monton, Eccles, Manchester. KENNEY, R., 3 Queen’s Gate, London, S.W., 7. KENWORTHY, C. E., Heathfields House, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. KENWORTHY, James A., Bell House, New Delph. KENWORTHY, J. W., “Briarfield,’ Horsforth Road, Greenfield. KENWORTHY, Reuben, 1 Old Lane, Austerlands, Waterhead. (3). KENWORTHY, William, Myrtle Villa, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. (2). KERR, H. W., M.P., 14 "Tufton Court, Tufton Street, S.W, 1. KERSHAW, I*, 161 Ikdmund Street, Rochdale. KERSHAW, John W., 37 Park Street, Royton. KILBY, Mrs. CG. A, 33 Great Whyte, Ramsey, Huntingdon. KIMBERLEY, B., 93 Butler Street, Ramsbottom. KNIGHT, Miss Sarah, 262 Oldham Road, Grotton, Nr. Oldham.
LAWRENCE, J. W., Hull Cottage, Delph. LAWTON, T., Old Original Inn, Highmoor. LEACH, G. 1T.45 Falinge Road, Rochdale. LEACH, R., 122 Baytree Lane, Middleton. LEACH, Robert, The Baum, Rochdale. LEE, Howard Sharples, “Cliffe House,” Marslands, Dobcross. (2) LEE, John, O.B.E.,J.P., 12 Pullman Street, Rochdale. LEECH, Kenneth, Grosvenor House, Uppermill. (2). LIES, Miss Olive, Oak View, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. LORD, John, 89 Featherstall Road, Littleboro. LORD, John E., East View, Dobcross, Oldham. LOWE, James, 15 Limefield, Firgrove, Rochdale. LUNN, Thomas, 32 Peel Street, Marsden, Nr. Huddersfield. (2). LYE, F., Spring Mount. Oakenrod Hill, Rochdale.
MAGSON, I. L., Bear Hill House, Hollingworth Lake, Littheborough MALLALIEU, R., Holly Bank, Dobcross. MALLANDAIN, Mrs., Chew Valley Road, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. MARKLEW, E., M.P., Nia Belrevo, Old Clee, Grimsby. MARLAND, John, 4 Equitable Street, Waterhead, Oldham. MARSDEN, Garside, 17 Aden Street Breeze Hill, Oldham. MARSHALL, Phillip, “ Burnside,’ Osborne Rd., Hyde, Cheshire. (2). MAYS, William, 14 Queen’s Road, Urmston, Nr. Manchester. McCARTNEY, J., Hey House, Bolton, Lancashire. (2). McCONNELL, R., 72 Deeplish Road, Rochdale. McLINDEN, Dr., 93 Manchester Street, Oldham. McLINTOCK, Joseph Eric, “ Cartref,’ Huddersfield Rd. Denshaw. MELLOR, Robert, Sunny Mount, Dobcross. (2). | MERCER, Samuel, 211 Bentfield, Newhey, Rochdale. (2). MIDDLETON Public Library, per F. Atkinson.
MIDDLETON, T. W., 8 Incline Road, Hollinwood. MILNES, Frank, 155 Rochdale Road, ’ Firgrove, Rochdale. MILNE S. J. T., Norwood, Bamford, Rochdale. MILNES. Ann, 4 Newhey Road, Milnrow. MOORE, Win. S., Meadow Bank. Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. MORTON, R. S. Sunny Bank, Dobcross, Nr. Oldhai. MOWBRAY, G. 23 Rookway, Alkrington, Middleton. MURGATROYD, L., King Street. Delph. (10).
NIELD, Frank W., Bath Hotel, Oldham. (2). NUTTALL, I, 31 St. Alban Street, Rochdale.
OLDHAM, Alderman R. S., Ashton-u-Lyne. (2). OLDHAM Equitable Co- -operative Society, per T. Duckworth, OLDHAM Industrial Co-operative Society Ltd, Education Dept OLDHAM Public Library (6).
PARKER, L., 7 Brazennose Street, Manchester, 2. PEARSON, George, 11a Rhodes Hill, Lees. PEGLER, H. V., 7 Kilnerdeyne, Rochdale. PERCIVAL, Harry, “Fair View,” Smithy Bridge, Littleborough. PLATT, Frank, 319 Greenacres Road, Oldham. PLATT, Rev. I. H., 67 Otter Street, Derby. POGSON, John, 147 High Barn Street, Royton. POTTS, Mrs., “Glen Dale,” Carr Lane, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham.
RADCLIFFE, A., Warlow Green, ‘Greenfield. (4). RAWTENSTALL Public Library, per H. C. Caistor, F.L.A. = (2). REDMAN, Edward, Spring Meadow House, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. RHODES, Coun. A., 12 Ribble Street, Bacup. RHODES, Herbert Norman, Myrtle Villa, Uppermill. (8). RHODES, Sir Edward, Cairncroft, West Didsbury. RICHMOND, Miss E. H., 417 Halifax Road, Rochdale. RIGBY, Arthur, 21 Moorland Avenue, Milnrow. RIGBY, Mrs. J. N., 179 Hood Lane, Sankey, Warrington. RIMMER, N., 44 Phyllis Street, Rochdale. ROBERTS, J. W., Guardian Office, Slaithwaite. ROBINSON, A. B., “ Aysgarth,” 8 Lansdowne Grove, Bare, M’c’be. ROBINSON, F. E., "953 Park Road, Oldham. ROBINSON, Geo. H., 16 Lancaster Street, Mossley, Nr. Manchester. ROBINSON, James W., o1 Fern Street, Coppice, Oldham. (6). ROBINSHAW, James, ‘“ Montrose,’ Woodsland Rd., Hassocks, Sussex.
ROCHDALE Public Libraries, (6). ROEBUCK, Mrs. Clara, “South View,” 8 Quick Edge Road, Mossley. ROEBUCK,, W. H., Gable Ash, Stockport Rd., Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. ROTH, A. B., 92 Tweedale Street, Rochdale. ROTHWELL, A., 2 The Croft, Garden Suburb, Oldham. ROTHWELL, R., 5 Ronnis Mount, Bardsley, Ashton-u-Lyne. ROWE, Fred. H., Shaw Hall, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. RUSSELL, F°., Market Place, Marsden, Nr. Huddersfield. (3). RUSSELL, Frederick Wilton, “Rosemede,” Rose Hill, Marsden.
SALKELD, Robert, 2 Fold Street, Bolton. (3). SCHOFIELD, A. H., 26 Kay Street, Rawtenstall. SCHOFIELD, Bernard, “ Kinmount,’ Kinders Crescent, Greenfield. SCHOFIELD, Fred, Ashgrove, Dobcross. SCHOFIELD, Harold, Sugar Lane. Dobcross. (2). SCHOFIELD, Joseph S., 12 Fleet Street, Clarksfield, Oldham. SCHOFIELD, Stanley, Kinders House, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. SENIOR, C., 48 Hillside Avenue, Grotton, Nr. Oldham. SEVILLE, Mrs. R. G., 2 Stansfield Road, Failsworth. SEVILLE, S., 717 Huddersfield Road, Waterhead, Oldham. SHARPLES, Jack, 2) Standish Street, Burnley. SHARPLES, Mrs. P., 25 Park Road, Audenshaw. SHAW, Arthur, Newlands, Smithy Lane, Uppermill. SHAW, Harold, Delph Slack Farm, Delph, Nr. Oldham. SHAW, K. W., 18 Church Street, Waterhead, Oldham. SHAW, Lewis, 70 Grey Street, Stalybridge. SHAW, Miss B., 3 Flowery Cottages, Grains Road, Delph. SHAW, William, Lee Street, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. SHAW, W. L., 18 Church Street East, Waterhead, Oldham. SHEPHARD, George G., Lawnside, Alpic Drive, Little Bispham. SHERRATT & HUGHES, 34 Cross Street, Manchester. (8). SIMPKIN MARSHALL LTD., Stationers’ Hall Court, E.C.4. SLATER, Edward, 3 Sycamore Avenue, Greenacres, Oldham. SMITH, Edwin, 144 Oldham Road, Springhead, Oldham. SMITH, E. H., A.M. Inst. B.E., Coach and Horses Inn, Marsden. SMITH, Frank, 58 Stamford Road, Lees, Oldham. SMITH, H., 3 Wrigley Street, Scouthead, Nr. Oldham. SMITH, W. H. & Son, Ltd. 16-17 Commercial Street, Leeds. SOWERBY BRIDGE Public Library, per S. Robinson, Librarian. SPENCER, George, 1 Knowsley Street, Rochdale. SPOONLEY, Miss Eva, Ralph’s Farm, Denshaw, Delph, Nr. Oldham. STALYBRIDGE Public Library, per J. W. March. (6). STANSFIELD, J., Sundown, Windermere. STEVENSON, W. S., 554 Bury Road, Rochdale. STOCKPORT Public Library, per D. D. Nicholls. (8). STOTT, Alan James, Ashleigh, Newport Street, Oldham.
STOTT, John W., 54 Newhey Road, Milnrow. STOTT, T., 26 Dale Street, Milnrow. STOTT, Mrs. Will, Kingswood, Higher Sheriff Street, Rochdale. STRANGE, W. E., 20 Fisher Drive, Southport. STUBBS, Mrs. E., 48 Cross Lane, Marple, Stockport. SUTCLIFFE, Arthur E., J.P., Beech House, Bacup, Lancs. SUTCLIFFE, J. W., 174 Frederick Street, Oldham. (2). | SWANN, John H., 77 Cleveland Road, Hr. Crumpsall, Manchester, 8. SYKES, Fred, Jubilee Terrace, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. SYKES, Fred, “Woodstock,” 48 Godson Street, Oldham. SYKES, John T., Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. (2).
TANNER, Harold A.. Woods House, Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. TARR, Major S., 4 Highland View, Mossley, Nr. Manchester. (2). TAYLOR, Charles, 4 Thrush Street, Rochdale. TAYLOR, David, Bell Buildings, Delph, Nr. Oldham. (3). TAYLOR, Herbert, 130 Royds Street, Rochdale. TAYLOR, John S., “ Lyndale,’ Buckley Hill, Milnrow. TAYLOR, Rev. T. W., The Rectory, Gorton, Manchester, 18. TAYLOR, Thomas, “ Westdene,” Middleton, Nr. Manchester. (2). TAYLOR, Wilfred, 341 Ripponden Road, Oldham. THOMAS, J. E., 3 Woodfield Grove, Streatham, London, S.W. 16. THOMPSON, E. L., Annisholme, Thorn Road, Bramhall, Cheshire (2). THOMPSON, H. S., Hartford House, Werneth, Oldham. (2). THWAITES, Charles, The Elms, 329 Frederick Street, Oldham. TODD, Miss Nellie, Moorfield House, High Crompton. TOLSON, Leonard, Woodlands, Delph. (2). TRAIN, Walter, One Ash, Rochdale. TURNER, Charles H., 195 Roman Road, Failsworth. TURNER, E. T., 283 Entwistle Road, Rochdale, Lancs. TURNER, F., 121 Broad Lane, Rochdale. TWEEDALE, Sutcliffe, 98 Durham Sireet, Rochdale.
UMBERS, George L., 9 Delahays Road, Hale, Cheshire.
WAGSTAFFE, John, Mottram House, Mottram-in-Longdendale. WAINWRIGHT, B. H., Fern Lea, Stocks Lane, Stalybridge. WAKEFIELD Public Library, per R. C. Sayell. WALNE, Harry, “Carmona,” 8 Grendon Avenue, Oldham. WALLWORK, J. A. Ashdene, Stockport Rd., Grasscroft. WALSH, Arthur R., 34 New Road, Coppice, Oldham. WARD, J. H., 144 Bennett Street, Hyde. WARRINGTON Municipal Library per J. McAdam.
WATERHOUSE, Coun. J. F., “The Oak,” Hollins Road, Oldham. WATSON, Herbert, Stoneswood, Delph, Nr. Oldham. WEBSTER, Harold, 20 Emscote Street, Saville. Park, Halifax. WELBURN, James, Ingle Dene, Palatine Terrace, Bagslate, Rochdale. WELBURN, John, Moorside Bagslate, Norden. (2). WHITEHEAD, Albert, 419 Huddersfield Road, Oldham. (2). WHITEHEAD, Arthur, 56 Outram Road, Allahabad, India. WHITEHEAD, Miss A. H., Golburn, Uppermill, Nr. Oldham. WHITEHEAD, B. D., 812 Wright Av., Schenectady, N.Y., U.S.A. (2) WH:tTEHEAD, Coun. A., Sunnyside, Dobcross. WHITEHEAD, H. B., Road End, Greenfield. WHITEHEAD, James A., Saddleworth I[old, Uppermill. WHITEHEAD, James Jun., Tame Water, Dobcross, Nr. Oldham. WHITEHEAD, L. B., 37 Forrest Avenue, Marsh, Huddersfield. WHITEHEAD, Sam, 49 Carrs Road, Marsden. (4). WHITEHEAD, Stanley, 26 Gauteaume Crescent, Signal Hill, East London, S.A, WHITEHEAD, Tom, 23 Garden Street, Ravensthorpe, Dewsbury. WHITTAKER, Geo. & Sons, 56 Market Street, Stalybridge. (90). WHITTAKER, G. H., Pendene, Stocks Lane, Stalybridge, (3). WHITWORTH, H., Huddersfield Road, Austerlands, Nr. Oldham. WIGAN Public Library, per A. J. Hawkes, Librarian. WILBY, K. G. Ashdene, Delph, Nr. Oldham. (2). WILD, Coun. Albert, J.P., Prospect Farm, Grotton. WILD, I. B. 16 Elms Grove, Bare, Morecambe. WILD, Geo. I, The Cottage, Smithy Bridge, Littleborough. WILD, J. H., 19 Moorland Avenue, Milnrow. WILD, L., 703 Huddersfield Road, Waterhead, Oldham. WILD, Leonard, 703 Huddersfield Road, Oldham. WILD, Mrs. T. E., 945 Huddersfield Road, Scouthead, Nr. Oldham. WILD, T. E., 945 Huddersfield Road. Scouthead, Nr. Oldham. WILDE, J., Lynthwaite, Delph. WILLIAMS, Bert, 30 Vickerman Street, Bolton-le-Moors. WILLIAMSON, John, Glenthorne, Taunton Road, Ashton-u-Lyne. WILLIAMSON, Saml. S., Woodfield, Dacres, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. WINTERBOTTOM, A, O.B.E., Marine Parade, Hartlepool. WINTERBOTTOM, Miss A. M. King Street, Delph. WINTERBOTTOM, L., 9 Blundell Crescent. Birkdale, Southport. WINTERBOTTOM, C., Grains Road. Delph. (2). WILKINSON, George, 22 Upper Bank End, Golcar, Nr. Huddersfield. WILKINSON, J. G, J. P., 30 Hartwood Road, Southport. WOOD, C. F., Hawthorn View, Horest Lane, Denshaw, Delph. WOOD, E., 670 Huddersfield Road, Waterhead. WOOD, Frank W., 213 Oldham Road, Rochdale. WOOD, Franklin, Millgate, Delph. WOOD, H. A. Valley Cottages, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. (2). WOOD, James, of Green Lane, Hollins, Oldham. WOLSTENHOLME, Leonard, 237 Edentield Road, Rochdale.
WRIGLEY, F. P., 67 Wakefield Road, Stalybridge. WRIGLEY, James T., Springfield Bungalow, Denshaw. WRIGLEY, John, Old Tame, Denshaw, Delph, Nr. Oldham. WRIGLEY, J. E., 510 Stamford Terrace, Heyheads, Stalybridge. WRIGLEY, Miss S., 5 Arundel Street, Mossley. WRIGLEY, Lewis Irvine, 13 Cheshire Street, Mossley.
YATES, William, Post Office, Grasscroft, Greenfield, Nr. Oldham. YOUNG, John A. Bridge House, Dobcross, Nr. Oldham.