An' sean we'll be theer oorsels, lass,
Liggin' cosy side by side.
A weddin', a woo,
A clog an' a shoe,
A pot full o' porridge; away we go!


1 Stumble. 2 Magpies. 3. Light




The Artist


Lang-haired gauvies(1) coom my way, drawin' t' owd abbey an' brig,
All their crack is o' Art-staities an' picturs an' paints;
Want to put me on their canvas, donned i' my farmer's rig,
Tell me I'm pairt o' t' scenery, stained-glass windeys an' saints.

I reckon I'm artist an' all, though I niver gave it a thowt;
Breeder o' stock is my trade, Mike Pullan o' t' Abbey Close.
What sud a farmer want wi' picturs that brass has bowt?
All his art is i' t' mistal, wheer t' heifers are ranged i' rows.

Look at yon pedigree bull, wi' an eye as breet as a star,
An' a coat that shines like velvet, when it catches t' glent o' t' sun;
Hark to him bealin' for t' cows, wi' a voice like t' thunner on t' scar,
Watch them sinews i' t' neck, ripplin' wi' mischief an' fun.