Three generations o' men have lived their lives for yon bull,
Tewed at his keep all t' day, dreamed o' his sleekness all t' neet;
Moulded the bugth o' his buttocks, fashioned the breadth o' his skull--
Ivery one on 'em artists, sculptors o' butcher's meat.

What are your Rubens and Vandykes anent the craft that is Breed?
Anent the art that is Life, what's figures o' bronze or stone?
Us farmers 'll mould you models, better nor statties that's deead--
Strength that is wick i' the flesh, Beauty that's bred i' the bone.

Bailiff's doughter at t' Hollins,
shoo's Breed, an' shoo's Life, an shoo's Art,
Bred frae a Westmorland statesman out o' a Craven lass;
Carries hersen like a queen when shoo drives to markit i' t' cart:
Noan o' yon scraumy-legged(2) painters sal iver git howd o' her brass

Picturs is reight enough for fowks cluttered up i' Leeds,
Fowks that have ne'er hannled beasts, can't tell a tup frae a yowe ;
But the art for coontry lads is the art that breathes an' feeds,
An' t' finest gallery i' t' worrld is a Yorkshire cattle-show.


1. Simpletons. 2. Spindle-legged




MARRA TO BONNEY