* Geordie Folk Poem by Irene C S ClarkHogg

I was born on the banks of the old river Tyne,
Where it wends its way east to the sea.
Past the pit heaps and coal tugs; the clang of the shipyards
Created fond memories for me.


The happy child stayed by the Tyne and went fishing,
With a milk bottle, bread and some string.
If the minnows were not biting, I would wander the woodland,
And ate what the Autumn might bring.


The climate was harsh and the death toll was high.
Tb, coal dust and childhood disease;
But the folk clung together, helping each other,
Each one trying the burden to ease.


Not helped or respected by those men in power,
Who know nothing of living on dole;
Like Churchill who referred to the Geordies as rats,
Saying they should get back down their holes.


Things haven’t changed, though the shipyards are gone,
The mines closed and I’m growing old.
There are no jobs now, so the Geordies are poor,
But their hearts are still made of pure gold.