The Herring-Girls Poem by Angela Wybrow

Groups of herring-girls, in crews of three,
Watched and waited upon the South Quay;
Upon empty swills, some girls would sit -
Fishermen's ganseys, they would busily knit.

Once they heard the ship horns a-blowing,
Enthusiasm and excitement were soon overflowing;
With a catch safely landed, the quay came alive,
And the girls, they got busy with their sharp gutting knives.

The herring-girls' fingers were pretty damn nifty:
Of herring per minute, they gutted fifty to sixty.
The girls, they were prone to salt sores and cuts.
Their clothes were bespattered with smelly fish guts.

They wore oilskin aprons and rubberised boots,
And tied their fingers with cloth strips called ‘cloots.'
Depending on the size of that day's catch,
The girls' working day had hours to match.

Both mothers and daughters worked there together:
They worked awfully long hours in all kinds of weather.
As the hazy haar drifted in off the river,
The rain, wind and sleet made the herring-girls shiver.

Two girls gutted, while the other one packed,
Then to smokehouses the fish were taken back.
The fish were hung ready to be smoked,
Then fires were set using shavings of oak.

Song and laughter, they filled the salt air,
As did the tales the herring girls shared.
They ended their day feeling dirty and tired;
Their endurance was something others admired.

The fisher girls followed the fleet down the coast;
To the girls, local communities played host.
They travelled by train, carrying their kists;
They stayed in rooms which slept five or six.

When they arrived at each fishing port,
Everyone hoped many fish would be caught.
Regardless of age, they were referred to as ‘girls.'
They lived and they worked in their own little world.

By the mid 1950s, with fish stocks depleted,
The herring industry found itself all but deleted.
These gutsy girls may be long gone,
But their memories and songs still linger on.