Th'Owd Verses've T'Dales

(Translation: Traditional Poetry of Yorkshire)

Pateley Reaces

Anonymous

Attention all, baith great an' small,
An' doan't screw up your feaces;
While I rehearse i' simple verse,
A count o' Pateley Reaces.

Fra all ower moors they com by scores
Girt skelpin' lads an' lasses;
An' cats an' dogs, an' coos an' hogs,
An' horses, mules an' asses.

Awd foaks were thar, fra near an' far,
At couldn't fairly hopple;
An' laffin' brats, as wild as cats,
Ower heeads an' heels did topple.

The Darley lads arrived i' squads,
Wi' smiles all ower their feaces;
An' Hartwith youths, wi' screwed-up mooths,
In wonder watched the reaces.

Fra Menwith Hill, and Folly Gill,
Thorngat, an' Deacon Paster,
Fra Thruscross Green, an' t' Heets Were seen
Croods coomin' thick an' faster.

'Tween Bardin Brigg and Threshfield Rig
Awd Wharfedeale gat a thinnin';
An' Ger'ston plods laid heavy odds
On Creaven Lass for winnin'.

Sich lots were seen o' Hebdin Green,
Ready sean on i' t' mornin',
While Aptrick chaps, i' carts and traps,
Were off to Pateley spornin'.

All Greenho Hill, past Coddstone's kill,
Com toltherin' an' singin',
Harcastle coves, like sheep i' droves,
Awd Palmer Simp were bringin'.

Baith short an' tall, past Gowthit Hall,
Tup dealers kept on steerin',
For ne'er before, roond Middles Moor,
Had there been sich a clearin'.

All kinds and sorts o' games an' sports,
Had Pateley chaps provided,
An' weel did t' few their business do
At ower 'em all persided.

'T'wad tak a swell a munth to tell
All t' ins an' t' oots o' t' reaces,
Hoo far they ran, which horses wan,
An' which were back'd for pleaces.

Awd Billy Broon lost hauf a croon
Wi' Taty-Hawker backin',
For Green Crag flew, ower t' hurdles true,
An' wan t' match like a stockin'.

An' Creaven Lass won lots o' brass,
Besides delightin' t' Brockils,
An' Eva danc'd, an' rear'd and pranc'd;
An gif she stood o' cockles.

But t' donkey reace were star o' t' pleace,
For awd an' young observers;
'Twad meade a nun fra t' convent run
An' ne'er again be nervous.

Tom Hemp fra t' Stean cried oot, "Weel dean,"
An' t' wife began o' chaffin';
Whal Kirby Jack stack up his back,
An' nearly brast wi' laffin'.

Sly Wilsill Bin, fra een to chin,
Were plaister'd up wi' toffy,
An' lang-leg Jane, he browt frae t' Plain,
Full bent on winnin' t' coffee.

Young pronsy flirts, i' drabbl'd skirts,
Like painted peeacocks stritches;
While girt chignons like milkin'-cans
On their top-garrits perches.

Fat Sal fra' t' Knott scarce gat to t' spot,
Afore she lost her bustle,
Which sad mishap quite spoil'd her shap,
An' meade her itch an' hustle.

Lile pug-nosed Nell, fra Kettlewell,
Com in her Dolly Vardin,
All frill'd an' starch'd she proodly march'd
Wi' squintin' Joe fra Bardin.

Tha're cuffs an' falls, tunics an' shawls,
An' fancy pollaneeses,
All sham displays, ower tatter'd stays,
An' hard-worn ragg'd chemises.

Tha're mushroom fops, fra' fields an' shops,
Fine cigarettes were sookin',
An' lots o' youths, wi' beardless mooths,
All kinds o' pipes were smookin'.

An' when at last the sports were past,
All heamward turn'd their feaces;
To ne'er relent at e'er they spent
A day wi' Pateley Reaces.