Category: Lancashire

That neet,
‘e were steppin’ out
Wi’ a lass
Fro’ t’next street,
An’ ‘e wanted t’impress.

A bonnie lass,
Wi’ a beamin’ smile.
‘e’d washed an’ shaved,
An’ Brylcreemed ‘is yur,
But it weren’t reet – 
Summat were missin’

It clicked

‘e ‘adn’t polished ‘is best clogs!
Reverently, ‘e got ‘em out o’ t’cupboard
An’ lovingly polished ‘em
‘till y’could see y’smile i’t’leather

Best clogs shinin’
Ready fer t’neet
Ready fer t’lass

But

That weren’t t’reason fer ‘is best clogs,

Nay,

‘e were tekkin’ t’lass to
“The Lord Nelson Hotel”
An’ th’”Hotel” bit called fer t’best!

(it were a pub really,
But it sounded posh to a tackler)


©Alan McKean, 23 January 2018

(Tacklers were not renowned for their intelligence)

Our Lass were a bonnie lass,
Wi’ a big, beaming smile.
She could coax t, sun
Out from behind t, clouds
At t’ drop of a clog.

Nobbut seventeen year owd
When I first seen her,
Trundling t’setts t’ t’ mill
On a cowd, wintry day,
Wakin’ to a weak sun.

She’d a smile t’ tempt angels,
And I thowt “Aye, she’ll do”
So I followed her
T’ see which shed she were in,
Champion, next t’ mine.

I found t’ courage t’ask
If she’d step out wi’ me
An bless me, she did!
We courted fer two year
‘till I asked her t’ marry me.

I were floating o’er t’ clouds
When she said she would.
Th’ onny snag were t’ cost,
A couple o’ weavers gerrin’ wed
Might cost a bob or two.

It were a reet gradely do,
An’ it set t’ tone
Fer t’ next lump o’ years
Bad times, good times
But always me an’ Our Lass.

Wi’ childer an’ granchilder
We ‘ad some times
When belts had t’ be tightened,
An’ bombs, an’ rations an’ umpteen upheavals,
But through it all, it were still me an’ Our Lass.

She were a bonnie lass,
Seventeen when I first met her,
Eighty-seven when she said goodbye,
Just me an’ her,
Me an’ Our Lass.

An that’s why I’m so lucky –
Y’ see, I’m never lonely.
I’ve always got seventy years
O’ mem’ries t’ use up,
Seventy years of me, an' Our Lass


©Alan McKean, November 2014

“If tha can’t see th’ills, it’s rainin’
If tha can see ‘em, it’s gonna”
Th’ owd mon as used to live next door
Allus said that.
He were a grand owd lad,
An’ th’ owd lass as lived two door up
Allus called ‘im “Mester Wood”,
As ‘e used t’be a mill engineer,
An’ ‘is position commanded the “Mester”

‘E were nigh on eighty
When we moved in next door,
An’ looked frail an’ tottery,
But ‘is mind were as sharp as a knife,
An’ when he made ‘is own bread,
Ee lad, t’smell were grand.

‘Is daughter came t’ see ‘im
Ev’ry few week,
As did ‘is son,
So ‘e’ were well looked after,
But time began
T’tek its toll on th’owd lad,
An’ ‘e moved out,
To an ‘ome f’r owd fowk.

We didn’t see much
O’th’owd mon after that,
An’ we got new neighbours,
But it weren’t the same,

T’Mester was gone.



©Alan McKean
  March 2007

I doan’t remember clearly

T’time as I’d getten mi fust pair,

S’as though I’d allus ‘ad ‘em.

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Fra’ two yur owd t’ now,

In mi eighties,

They’ve allus bin theer.

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They’re noisy an’ ‘eavy,

But after a shift in t’mill,

Eeh lad, they’ve comfort.

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A bit o’ leather

A bit o’ wood,

A lifetime o’ mem’ries.

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Kids wore ‘em for a while,

Grandchilder, not at a’.

Now, s’onny Morris Dancers ‘as ‘em.

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No more

Sparkin’ th’irons

Up t’back snicket.

No more

Clitterin’ o’ t’ clogs on t’ setts.

No more cloggy-bogs,

When t’snow on t’clog bottoms

Teks thi three inches off t’floor.

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I’ve still got mi fust pair,

T’tiny clogs on t’shelf.

They’ll not be wore again.

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Owd mem’ries an’ lost generations,

Remembered onny

On t’pages o’ time.  

T’time o’ clogs is gone.

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Writing dialect poetry can be challenging. This piece was written from the point of view of an old man reflecting on his childhood, and how times change.

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