straight afoor their kitchen door;
Once a week they're set spring-cleanin',
fettlin' up their shippen(5) floor.

Women-fowk have taen to knackin',(6)
wilent speyk their mother-tongue,
Try to talk like chaps i' t' powpit,
chicken-chisted, wake i' t' lung.

Some fowk say I'm too owd-feshioned;
mebbe, they are tellin' true:
When you've lived wi' ghosts o' Romans,
you've no call for owt that's new.

Weel I know I san't win t' vict'ry:
son's agean me, dowters, wife;
Yit I'll hold my ground bout flinchin',
feight so long as I have life.

An' if t' wick uns are agean me,
I sal feight for them that's deead--
Roman sowdiers i' their trenches,
lapped i' mail thro' foot to heead.

Here I stand for Cambodunum,
eagle's nest on t' Pennine hills,
Wagin' war wi' modern notions,
carin' nowt for forges, mills.

Deeath alone sal call surrender,