Attenshun all, baith grate an’ small,
An’ dooant screw up yer feeaces;
While I rehearse, i’ simple verse,
A’ coont o’ Pateley Reeaces.
Fra all ower t’ mooers, they com be’y scoaires,
Girt skelpin lads an’ lasses;
An’ cats an’ dogs, an’ coos an’ hogs,
An’ horses, mules an’ asses.

Oade foaks wer thar, fra near an’ far,
At cuddant farely hopple;
An’ laffin brats, as wild as cats,
Ower heeads, an’ heels did topple.
The Darley lads, arrived i’ squads,
Wi’ smiles all ower ther feeaces,
An’ Hartwith yooths, wi’ screw’d up mooths,
In wonder watch’d the reeaces.

Fra Menwith Hill, and Folly Gill,
Thornfat, an’ Deacre Paster,
Fra Thruscross Green, an’ t’ Heets wer seen,
Croods cumin, thick an’ faster.
‘Tween Bardin Brig, an’ Threshfield Rig,
Oade Wharfedeale gat a thinnin;
An’ Gerston Plods, laid hevvy odds,
On Creaven Lass fer winnin.

Sitch lots wer seen, o’ Hebdin Green,
Ready sean on i’ t’ mornin,
While Aptrick chaps, i’ carts an’ traps,
Wer off ta Pateley spernin.
All Greenho’ Hill, past Coadstanes kill,
Com taltherin an’ singin,
Harcasle coves, like sheep i’ droves,
Oade Pahmer Simp wer bringin.

Baith short an’ tall, past Gowthit Hall,
T’ up dealers kept on steerin,
Fer ne’er befoare, roond Middlesmoor
Had thar been sitch a cleerin.
All kinds an’ soarts, o’ games an’ sports,
Had Pateley chaps provided,
An weel did t’ few, ther bizness dew
‘At ower ’em all persidid.

‘T wad tak a swell, a munth ta tell,
All t’ ins an’ t’ hoots o’ t’ reeaces,
Hoo far the’ ran, witch horses wan,
An’ witch wer back’d fer plaices.
Oade Billy Broon, lost hoaf-a-croon
Wi’ Taty-Hawker backin,
Fer Crag Green flew, ower t’ hurdles trew,
An’ wan t’ match like a stockin.

An’ Creavan Lass, won lots o’ brass,
Besides delitein t’ Brockils,
An’ Eva danc’d, an’ rear’d an’ pranc’d;
As giff she stood o’ Cockals.
But t’ donkey reeace, wer star o’ t’ plaice,
Fer oade an’ yung observers,
‘Twad meeade a nun, fra t’ convent run
An’ near agane bi nervous.

Tom Hemp fra t’ Stean, cried hoot “weel dean”,
An’ t’ wife began o’ chaffin;
Wal Kirby Jack, stak up his back,
An’ nearly brast wi’ laffin.
Sly Wilsill Bin, fra ‘een ta shin,
Wer plaister’d up wi’ toffy,
An lang-leg’d Jane, he browt fra t’ Plain,
Full bent on winnin t’ coffee.

Yung pronsy flirts, i’drabbl’d skirts,
Like painted peeacoks striches;
While gert shignons, like milkin’ cans,
On ther top-garrits perches.
Fat Sal fra t’ Knott, scarse gat t’ a t’ spot,
Afoare she’y lost her bussal,
Witch sad mishap, quite spoil’d her shap,
An’ meeade her itch an’ hussal.

Lile pugnoase’d Nell, fra Kettlewell,
Com in her Dolly Vardin,
An frill’d an’ starcht, she’y proodly march’d
Wi’ squintin’ Joe fra’ Bardin.
Tha’re cuffs an’ falls, tunics an’ shawls,
An’ fancy pollaneeses,
All sham displays, ower tatter’d stays,
An’ hard worn rag’d shimeeses.

Tha’re mushrum fops, fra’ fields an’ shops,
Fine sigeretts we sookin,
An’ lots o’ yooths, wi’ beardless mooths,
All kinds o’ pipes, wer smookin.
An’ wen at last, the spoorts wer past,
All heeameward turn’d ther feeaces;
Ta ne’er relent, ‘at e’er the’ spent
A da’ wi’ PATELEY REEACES.

Thomas Blackah