By field and fell and leafy dell,
Majestic, glorious moors;
By far green hills and gaping ghylls,
Yorkshire‘s realm allures.
In rugged dales and gentle vales,
Where tiny hamlets rest;
These acres broad that know no lord
Are surely England‘s best.
A land so bold, wonders unfold,
Both savage and serene;
Staunch citadels, great abbey shells
Sleep ruined, yet supreme.
On mountains bleak oft every peak
Hides shrouded, deep in mist;
Sweet rain does sweep, the hillsides weep,
By falling tears are kissed.
Dry-stone walls and marbled halls
In stately homes so grand;
Deep pothole caves and North Sea waves
Cascade on satin sand.
By rocky shore and mournful moor
Stride rough-hewn friendly tracks,
Where curlew fly beyond the sky,
Cliffs tall as chimney stacks.
In sprawling dales and wooded vales
‘neath canopy of stars,
Squeeze bubbling becks through rocky necks
Of grey-white limestone scars.
Where twisting lanes bring driving pains,
And secret little hollows,
Round every bend there waits a friend,
In goodwill the stranger wallows.
Grit Pennine hills frown down on mills,
Where weavers toiled their lives;
Another age, another page
Of history survives.
From York‘s fair vale to far Teesdale,
Once Roman legions trod;
Atop the world with flags unfurled,
Closer still to God.
To shires broad there came a horde
Of Norsemen fierce and wild;
Their battle cry and will to die
Begat the Yorkshire child.
Through all the years, in hopes and fears,
Much bloodshed here was spilled;
Yet Yorkshire folk threw off their yoke,
A people iron-willed.
© Roy Stockdill 1998, From “Rhyming Relations: Genealogy in Verse,”
by Roy Stockdill, published by Lancelot Yellow Books
6 First Avenue, Garston, Watford, Hertfordshire WD2 6PZ UK. roystock@compuserve.com
Paddling 