A Yorkshireman I’m Not
Yorkshire I’m not
Though I’ve lived here quite a lot
In a secluded spot next to an old mill by a stream;
My wallet’s half-full, my gansey’s Whitby wool;
I’m a walking Yorkshireman’s dream.
Pronounce it as pa-rticles
Or they’ll know you don’t come from round ‘ere
Thee’s an thou’s, ‘ospital and ‘ouse,
Don’t drink lager when they stock John Smith beer.
A spade’s a spade
Say how it is and be not afraid,
Your words must be weighed and honestly spoken,
No change unless it’s needed, routines must be heeded,
And don’t fix things that ain’t even broken.
Music and cricket;
Scargill and his flying picket
Told you just where to stick it, you soft southern weeds;
Brass comes from muck; don’t get out for a duck,
Northern powerhouse – Sheffield, Donny and Leeds.
Yorkshire was born
From Brigantia’s spawn,
In some distant Pennine dawn that time’s since diluted;
The drip-drip-drip on millstone grit
Being the one sound that greed’s not polluted.
Yorkshire is great,
It’s our Texas state,
Got more acres to date than words in the Bible;
Lancashire’s rose is as red as your nose,
But not rated by Yorkies as a rival.
Yorkshire, define us,
Don’t try to refine us,
‘Take us as you find us’ is the greeting you’ve got;
Harrogate’s dead posh, Barnsley’s no dosh,
A stereotypical Yorkshireman there’s not