Best Yorkshire Poems
My Favorite Animal
A Dog
Yorkshire Terrier
My Dog Peanut
A standard Yorkie over sixteen pounds,
Long silky ash coat with beautiful brown
Blond mane. Fast, energetic, never down
Especially if there squirrels around.
Gentle and playful; friendly yet spunky;
Always wants to play. Loves loud squeaky toys,
Newspapers, cardboard one of his mixed joys.
A purse unwatched, he can be too sneaky.
He will go and explore and like a cat,
Jumps on the sofa, coffee table, chair
Or on my bed where we share to sleep there.
Visits the neighbors for mere pats and chat.
He is my pet, but also my dear friend
From morning dawn arise 'till night descend.
12/12/2019
Don’t know what to wear?
try a loving expression
no one will ever notice.
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Yorkshire, 1914
I patch mended her copper saucepan,
Edged an axe, two cleavers and a knife.
I did all the jobs that were required.
By this comely young farmer’s wife.
She served me a platter of rare beef
With chunks of home baked bread,
And along each large slice of meat
Relish of horseradish was spread.
She served me there in her kitchen
Sat me at a large wooden bench
As I watched all around the room
A young and fine buxom a wench.
She slid on my knee quite suddenly
And I held her there in my arms.
For how could any young man
Refuse an offer of such charms
She kissed my mouth with a passion.
She kissed me with a lust and desire,
That set may pulses off racing
That set my whole body on fire.
I held her for all of that evening
And most of that coming night,
Enjoying the play of our passion
The pleasure and sheer delight.
She served me a farmhouse breakfast.
For which my whole body yearned.
Eggs and home slaughtered bacon
Bread, and butter near freshly churned
I held her once more in that kitchen
In thanks for the love we had made
Then out to follow my fortune,
A wandering Jack of all Trade.
I could hear Shires in the stable
That fine November’s morn
As I set off on my journey
Just at the crack of dawn.
I strode away quite briskly
Down that winding cart track,
My body so pleasantly sated,
Possessions slung over my back.
Oh how I so love this my freedom
To enjoy while there’s still chance
For I reckon it’ll soon be the recruiter
And a spell in the trenches of France.
Maybe this really happened.
I wonder did he survive
The carnage of that bitter war
To come back whole and alive.
Yorkshire 2022
To put an end to the myth that Santa lives in Lapland
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
People just say he's from Lapland, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whiskey, washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody in Yorkshire knows that
You say the Lapland Santa, glows warm and are red, and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor barh t at.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swap gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Yorkshire folk are know for being down to earth and saying what they see, ie a spade is a spade and not an earth moving device.
Ilky Moor Bar tat a famous Yorkshire Folk song where lovers meet and she chides him for not wearing a hat. The winds of the moor causing death and he will be eaten by worms and so on (google it)
Repost fromLast year.
~GG~ 2011 ©
To stop the myth going around that Santa is a Scotsman, a huge hit on the radio here. So fo those that believe this is the truth.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody knows that
You just say he is Scottish, cos he’s round and fat.
Well Yorkshire men can be the same they are not all dud
All year on the beer and whisky
Washed down with Yorkshire pud.
Santa is a Yorkshire man everybody here knows that
You say your Scottish Santa’s Glow warm, red and fat.
Well Yorkshire Santa’s have glowing bits, but they keep them out of sight
Except on Christmas Eve when their pants have got too tight.
Santa is a Yorkshire man so stop making such a fuss
A Santa who know what’s what, so you can call on us
If your chimney is too tight, Yorkshire Santa will let you know
He’ll leave your present’s elsewhere, and you will have to go.
To collect you gifts is your own fault if your chimney is too small
Don’t expect him to get up there, he doesn’t want to fall.
A spade is a spade wherever you go Santa will tell you that
If you want to get your presents early, try Ilkley moor bar tat.
They meet there on Christmas Eve to swop gifts and stories too
That’s why they all have glowing bits, I bet you would have too.
He doesn’t have time to mess about, you people should know that
Santa is a Yorkshire man, there’s no more to say that’s that.
Pub in Yorkshire with stout and ale aplenty.
Red faces sweating with alcohol's influence.
Singing fine songs in reverie and ecstasy.
Salivating at arrival of that succulent essence.
Tender juicy slices of beef covered with gravy.
A splendour when touched by crispy bubbling pudding.
Roast potatoes smiling that wicked grin for tongue's activity.
Forks and knives clatter in haste for that delight of tasty supping.
Drowning that deliciousness with ale.
Rhyming lyrics midst throng of patrons' happiness.
Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding you made me hale.
I will visit you often and celebrate tummy's warmth in merriness.
When the circus was in Yorkshire recently
a local man watching a rehearsal of
a scantily dressed, large bosom blond lion tamer,
inside the cage with a massive male lion,
was asked
“Would you do that” By a passing circus hand.
“Yes” Replied the local,
“Get the lion out”!
Anon.
Revived and added to,
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Just a special white rose
reposed in a sea of blue sky,
together our pride flutters in the wind.
© Harry J Horsman 2015
The Death of my Town
(for Bradford, West Yorkshire, England)
At first I was self-righteous and held the moral high ground
On approaching the imminent death of my town
Some days I would observe and shake my head
And say loudly “You know, I think my town might be dead!”
Looks on faces say should I no longer care?
What can we do for the people out there?
But the Town Hall had a plan
There was some government money in the pan
Which they spent on a big pond in the ground
To fill with water, applaud themselves and stand around
And that was supposed to revive our town
Bring it back to life so we could once again be proud
Visitors would flock from miles around
To bask in the renewing of my town
Which would filter round and round
Dragging us all up off the ground
Despite their plans, I did not know
Just how quickly the death would take
As I watched as the town’s thinning corpse
Wither away....and start to decay
I could not know how I would feel
When its lifeless body was at last laid out
That I no longer had the strength to shout
Or believe in those who had told us to be proud
But its people still hang about
Without the means or strength to leave
So they try to drown out the death of their town
By drinking and drinking and drinking until they fall down
And to those who were paid to save it and did not
But stand by and let it fall down
Wasting all that money
On a pond in the ground
I must believe the day will come
When they must pay for what they have done
At best competent
At worst nowt’
Because I refuse to understand
That all they could offer was a hole in the ground
To prevent the death of my once loved town
Trapping all those around
Whilst their confidence rang out so loud
Telling us all we had so much for to be proud
But knowing they were simply
Cursing us all to life in a dead town
Although I believe they can still get out.....
My Yorkshire rose...
You start a war in my southern soul
If you look like your passport
you’re not well enough to travel.
Anon
Revived Harry J Horsman 2010
Ey-up uncle Ken,
I bet tha goin, bookies Agen!
I'll go with thee,
If it's or rate.
I go that way,
To see mi mate.
Wats tha backin, in two thirty?
Mi gran ses put a Bob,
On flirtin girty.
Gonna play Togger on park,
Then go woods,
Before it's dark.
Get sum cheggies for afta tea,
If tha calls in Lata
Will save sum for thee.
See thee lata,
Hope tha win
Will no if tha has,
Thal av a big grin.
The poets from Yorkshire are best
That’s where I come from – you’ve guessed.
Though our words can get tangled
Like your smalls in the mangle
Phew! – That’s quite a load off my chest!
Upon parking in a no parking zone
a Pastor placed a message on his car.
“I have repeatedly circled this block
I have an appointment to keep
‘Forgive us our trespasser’s’”
Upon returning he found a further message
attached to his car.
“I’ve also repeatedly circled this block
and if i don’t issue a ticket
will lose my job.
‘Lead us not into temptation’”
Anon
Revived by Harry J Horsman 2010
A Farmer standing against his fence
was hailed by a rambler crossing his field.
“Is this here Bull safe?”
The Farmer replied
“He’s a lot safer than you mate”
Anon
Revived Harry J Horsman 2010