Audrey Siddall

Monday by Audrey Siddall

I get up at six ter leet t'owd setpot,
Today I do t'beddin, so I want t'watter hot.
I'll put on some porridge for when t'bairns get up,
an I think ahl put kettle on, ah could do wi' a cup.

Ahl put all mi lines aht for when t'boilers are ready,
Oh no ; would you believe it, it's raining quite steady.
I hate drying rahned t'fire, it brings t'paper off walls,
an you can't see thru t'winders if onyone calls.

I hope no one does, cos ahm really reight busy,
I like to get done, or I end in a tizzy.
It seems a bit brighter so ahl start pegging aht,
an it's time t'bairns were up, so ahl give em a shart.

Mi whites are all ready to put aht on t'line,
ahd best get me skates on while it's still fine.
I wish her next door hed get her chimney swept,
cos when me sheets get smutted, ah get reight vexed.

Still they're leetening now that t'suns coming through,
so ahl put aht some more ; then enjoy me brew.
Ahl just put up mi feet for two minutes an then,
Oh no ; would you credit it, it's raining again.

Mrs Placketts Table Leg by Audrey Siddall

It was after the night of the Sheffield blitz,
and Hitler had done his worst.
The electrics were off, the gas was off,
and the water pipes had burst.

It was freezing cold and we had no coal,
and the sticks that we had were wet.
We needed some heat and some good hot food,
but what followed , I'll neer forget.

My mum had a friend, Florrie Plackett by name,
she was kind and had true British grit.
She said "I'll get some fuel, enough for us all,
and I'll be back in a tick with it".

"I've got an old table down in the cellar"
and to my mother she said,
"I'll chop it up with an axe or a hammer,
I'm sure I'll find somnething in t'shed".

Well the day wore on, and no Florrie came
with that bundle of promised wood.
Then teatime arrived and at last she appeared,
to show that her promise held good.

But the fuel she brought was an old table leg,
'and she was sorry, but it just wouldn't chop'.
It was a good table leg, all bulbous and curved,
but as firewood it wasn't much cop.

The grate was small, and the leg was quite tall,
and it's top got jammed in the flue.
So we pushed and shoved, and huffed and puffed,
until all our faces were blue.

We jiggled and joggled it, wiggled and waggled it,
till at last, all covered in muck,
we had to admit with much regret,
Flo's leg was truly well stuck.

As if stuck with glue, it stuck in the flue,
with it's foot firmly fixed in the bars.
It looked so firm just standing there,
with a worms eye view of the stars.

Well, we were so determined to get a fire,
so we got some paper for kindling.
We longed for a glow, cos our spirits were low,
and alas, by the minute were dwindling.

Then another friend came and brought some coal,
and it helped to banish our despair.
It bucked us all up immediately,
cos at last we were getting somewhere.

We set it alight and oh, what a sight,
round the leg, the flames leaping higher.
Tha varnish burnt blue, high up in the flue,
and then set the chimney on fire.

We ran for the salt to damp it down,
the water we just couldn't spare.
It was getting quite dark, near blackout time,
but there was a hint of rain in the air.

Oh, glory be; it started to pour,
and the fire in the chimney went out.
But we couldn't say that for Flo Placketts leg,
it stayed in - in the flue without doubt.

For two whole weeks it stayed smouldering there.
Shift it? we just weren't able.
It really wasn't a pretty sight,
even tho' twas from a solid oak table.

Flo Plackett herself was mortified,
the whole thing became like a fable.
Twas like some horrible totem pole,
that leg from the old oak table.

It had charcoal eyes which stared at us,
and a mouth with a chequered grin,
which seemed to say, dont turn away,
I'll be here till the New Years in. and it was.

Next Dooar Neighbours by Audrey Siddall

Mi neighbour next dooar is like a dowter ter me
She'll cum rahnd sumtimes an' we'll sit an' 'ave tea

An' if she's depressed, she'll ax mi advice
Then we'll end up laffin' thru t'tears in us eyes

She's got childer 'at treat me as if A'm the' Gran
An' 'er 'usband is really a very nice man

It's not very often as A'm in a fix
But if ivver A am, 'e's rahnd i' quick sticks

Aye, mi next dooar neighbours 're as nice as can be
An' A'm reight grateful the' live next dooar ter me

Some Mothers Do ‘Ave Em by Audrey Siddall

Ahr George is a reight un an noa mistake
If ther's owt goin rahnd, 'e'll ne'er laik
Chicken pox, croup, measles an mumps
It's enough ter put onny Ma dahn inter t,dumps
Ah've getten lotions fer this an potions fer that
Ahr George as ad em noa matter what

'Is chest as bin covered i' spots, fiery red
An t’doctor's come rahnd an sed "Keep 'im i’ bed"
It costs mi a fortune i' doctor's bills
What wi ointments an nurtures an bottles o’ pills

Last year 'e got fever, at least so wi thowt
Bur ‘e'd pizened issen wi sum spice at 'e’d bowt
‘e were blood-red all ower thra 'is 'eead ter 'is feet
Wi ‘is carroty ‘air 'e did luk a seet

If owt's goin wrong ahr George'll bi theear
'e gets mi in a flummox an shekkin wi fear
But bless 'im 'e's really quite a good lad
‘e runs all mi errands an that meks mi glad

‘e plays rugger an cricket an puts in all ‘e's got
But then 'e ends up wi 'is leg in a pot
Er a splint on 'is arm er a patch on 'is eye
'e just dunt care, not a fig ner a fly
Aye ahr George, Ah do luv 'im but Ah really do wish
At 'e wor a bit diff’rent an not just like this

Eeh, some mothers do ‘ave 'em !

The Flower Show by Audrey Siddall

The's bin a lot o' cumin's an' goin's dahn t'street
The's bin barrers an' prams, carryin' veges an' jams
Flowers an' froot, an' pickles ter boot
Eeh, it'll bi a reight grand seet

The'r 'oldin' it dahn back o' t'gasworks
I' that welfare 'all yer know
A'm goin' on Sat'dy wi t'mester
Eee, it'll bi a gud show

Last year t'mayor cum ter oppen it
'is chain wor polished all bright
'is face wer all flushed as fowks rahnd 'im pushed
An' 'is wife looked an 'orrible sight

'Er 'at wer just smothered i' flowers
All on t'crown an' even on t'brim
Then all ower t'lot wer sum nettin'
Caught up wi blue bows fer a trim

My old man's ent'rin' termaters
'E sez it'll bi 'ard ter finnd six all t'same size
An' t'slugs 'ave gor inta 'is taters
A'll 'ave ter use 'em up i' mi pies

Last year 'e gor a gold wi t'King Edwards
They really did look grand
Set aht on a plate on a doyley
Each one as big as yer 'and

Wen 'e gor 'em ready fer showin'
'E weshed 'em an' wiped 'em wi care
As if the' wor babbies bottoms
All plump an' smooth an' bare

T'chap next dooar is ent'rin' 'is onions
But 'e dunt really stand much chance
A think weather's bin agen 'em this year
A've seen better on t'bikes from France

A can't see why t'men 'ave ter tek veges
After all it's called a flower show
An' behind all them 'lotment 'edges
The's sum luviy flowers they grow

0' cooarse, sum do enter flowers i' t'classes
Gladdies an' dahlias an' all
But it's a job gettin' 'em all reight tergether
Afooar they all start ter fall

Eeh, A'm reight lookin' forrard ter goin'
But A'll bi glad wen it's o'er an' dun
Mi old man's strung up an' bad tempered
'E dunt seem ter think it's fer fun

'E might bi ent'rin' t'Olympics
Or sittin' fer t'G.C.S.E.
If 'e gets on'y a bronze 'e'll bi 'appy
If not, it's divorce f'rim an' me

Yorkshire Grub by Audrey Siddall

This cahnty ov ahrs is beautiful
Bur at times it's rather chilly
So to keep us sens wahm wi turn ter gud grub
An' we doant think 'at that's silly

Wi like sausage an' mash an' tatey hash
An' gret big joints o' beef
Then sweet an' succulent apple pie
Wi pastry med from lief

Nah rhubarb pie we rate very 'igh
Cos West Yorkshire's wheear t'rhubub's grown
An' menny's the stick i' t'sugar wi've dipped
Til ahr tummies 'ave med us moan

Nah wen t'Spring an' t'Summer cums
Ahr thowts turn to lamb an' mint sauce
An' the's a luvly wet salad to eat wi' York ham
An' that's truly Yorkshire of course

It's shredded crisp lettuce an' fresh dark green mint
Wi spring onions chopped up an' mixed in
Then sprinkled wi vinegar, seasonin' an' sugar
But ov these only a hint

Nah sum may deny 'at these dishes are ahrs
But one thing will allus 'od gud
Ahr brass bands proclaim to the ends of the earth
"Ahrs alone is the famed Yorkshire Pud"