Mi Gronfeyther Poem by Samuel Laycock

'Aw 'VE just bin a havin' a peep at th' farm-heawse
Wheer mi gronfeyther lived at so long ;
So aw'll draw eawt a bit ov a sketch o' th' owd spot,
An' work it up into a song.
An' furst let me tell yo' aw 'm sorry to foind
'At th' place isn't same as it wur;
For th' di'mond-shaped windows han o bin pood eawt,
An' they'n ta'en th' wooden latch off o' th' dur.

They'n shifted that seeat wheer mi gronfeyther sat
Ov a neet when he'rn readin' th' Owd Book.
An' aw couldn't foind th' nail wheer he hung up his hat,
Though aw bother'd an' seech'd for't i' th' nook.
There's th' dog-kennel yonder, an' th' hencote aw see,
An' th' clooas-prop just stonds as it did ;
There's a brid-cage hangs up wheer mi gronfeyther's wur,
But aw couldn't see owt ov a brid.

When aw wur a lad abeawt thirteen, or so,
Aw remember aw 'd mony a good ride ;
For mi gronfeyther 'd getten a horse or two then,
An' a noice little jackass beside.
An' then he'd a garden at th' backside o' th' heawse
Wheer eawr Bobby an' me'used to ceawer,
Eatin' goosbris, an' currans, an' ruburb, an' crabs,
Or owt there wur else 'at wur seawer.

Mi gronfeyther-bless him-reet doated o' me-
He 'd tell me aw geet a foine lad ;
An' mony a toime say, when aw'rn sit on his knee,
'Eh, bless thee; tha favvers thi dad .' '

A rare foine owd fellow mi gronfeyther wur,
Wi' a regular big Roman nose ;
An' though nearly eighty, he look'd strong an' hale,
An' his cheeks wur'n as red as a rose.
There wur nowt abeawt him 'at wur shabby or mean ;
An' he wur no' beawt brains in his skull:
He wur allus streightforrud i' o 'at he did-
An owd-fashun'd Yorkshur John Bull.

He'd a farm ov his own, an' a noice little pond,
Wheer we used to go fishin' for treawt;
An' aw haven't forgotten when th' hay time coom reawnd,
For us childer had mony a blow eawt.
An' when th' 'heawsin' wur done, eh, we had some rare fun,
Wi' tipplin' an' rowlin' on th' stack ;
An' then mi owd gronfeyther 'd come wi' his pipe,
An' we o used to climb on his back.
Then he'd tell mi aunt Betty to beigh me some spice;
An' whenever hoo happen'd to bake,
He'd tell her to reach deawn a pot o' presarves,
An' mak' me a noice presarve cake.

God bless him, he's gone; an' a kinder owd mon
Never walk'd o' two legs nor he wur ;
Th' last time aw wur o'er theer, an' seed him alive,
He coom back wi' me ever so fur.
Aw geet howd ov his hont when we parted that neet,
An aw think aw shall never forget
Heaw he look'd i' mi face when he'rn goin' away:
It wur th' last time 'at ever we met.

A week or two after, th' owd fellow 'd a stroke,-
He fell off his cheer on to th' floor ;
They gether'd him up, an' they took him to bed,
But he never wur gradely no moor.
Good-bye, dear owd gronfeyther ; nob'dy, aw know,
Could be fonder nor aw wur o' thee ;
Aw shall never forget heaw tha patted mi yed,
When aw used to be ceawr'd on thi knee.