The scything boys.
Down from the high moors we return every year
the rake and the pitchfork the tools of our trade
We live off the land and sleep under the sky
not knowing the morn where for sleep we may lie
On hilltop or green woodland glade
*
We travel by stars and we work by the day
to work in the hayfields to bring in the crop
for the fell farmers money hard earned and hard parted
the years seasons cycles nere ending once started
ere the warm summer rain starts to drop.
*
The rich flowery crop yields in swathes to our scythes
as we sweep a fast arc laying low the sweet grass
the summer sun browns the long rows that we turn
our long wooden rakes comb the sedges and fern
We watch the dark clouds as they pass.
*
The horses lead sleds with their trembling stacks
to the fieldbarns dark window high in the stone wall
The pitchforks bright tines toss the clumps of sweet hay
the sun blazes down at the height of the day
as the raven croaks out his harsh call
*
The scampering children up tramping the moo
like dust powdered urchins will tumble and play
then home to their beds with a bread crust or two
with their ears full of dust and their hair full of hay
While we gather our pitchforks to go.
*
Whilst we wait in a line for to sign for our pay
The farmer stands watching with long leather purse
a florin a drink and a basket of food
A couple of rabbits we shot in the wood
then away for to find work the new day
Down from the high moors we return every year
the rake and the pitchfork the tools of our trade
We live off the land and sleep under the sky
not knowing the morn where for sleep we may lie
On hilltop or green woodland glade
*
We travel by stars and we work by the day
to work in the hayfields to bring in the crop
for the fell farmers money hard earned and hard parted
the years seasons cycles nere ending once started
ere the warm summer rain starts to drop.
*
The rich flowery crop yields in swathes to our scythes
as we sweep a fast arc laying low the sweet grass
the summer sun browns the long rows that we turn
our long wooden rakes comb the sedges and fern
We watch the dark clouds as they pass.
*
The horses lead sleds with their trembling stacks
to the fieldbarns dark window high in the stone wall
The pitchforks bright tines toss the clumps of sweet hay
the sun blazes down at the height of the day
as the raven croaks out his harsh call
*
The scampering children up tramping the moo
like dust powdered urchins will tumble and play
then home to their beds with a bread crust or two
with their ears full of dust and their hair full of hay
While we gather our pitchforks to go.
*
Whilst we wait in a line for to sign for our pay
The farmer stands watching with long leather purse
a florin a drink and a basket of food
A couple of rabbits we shot in the wood
then away for to find work the new day
©
We survived without "Inhalers" and the H/S man hadnt been born. We were immunised against various "Poxes" by being rubbed on a cows udder at an early age. Hmmmmm! That could account for a lot??? Ah well.
Many farm hands and drovers left the dales to come to Liverpool to find work and settled in Toxteth . My G.G Grandfather was a cowkeeper and also opened a grocery shop in Liffey St , He lived in a" Yorkshire" community in Cleveden terrace at the top of Upper Parliament st. Until he returned to Dentdale , unfortunately carrying TB which soon killed both him and his wife. He should have stayed in the Dales and kept away from the fever haunted streets and alleys , they left seven orphans who were brought back to Dentdale to the surviving relatives.
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