Ammon Wrigley - "The Homestead"
The following is a transcription of a work by Saddleworth poet Ammon Wrigley (1861-1946).
The Homestead
- Out 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 mother’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; he
- 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.