The New EnglishmanI’ve lived all my life i’ Keighley,I’m a Yorkshire artisan;An’ when I were just turned seventyI became an Englishman.Nat’ralised German! nay, deng it!I’m British-born, same as thee!But I niver thowt mich to my country,While[1]my country thowt mich to me.I were proud o’ my lodge an’ my union,An’ proud o’ my town an’ my shire;But all t’ consans o’ t’ nation,I left to t’ parson an’ t’ squire.Class-war were t’ faith that I Iived for,I call’d all capit’lists sharks;An’ “T’ workin’ man has no country,”Were my Gospel accordin’ to Marx.When I’d lossen my job back i’ t’ eighties,An were laikin’ for well-nigh two year,Who said that an out-o’-wark fettlerWere costin’ his country dear?Owd England cared nowt about me,I could clem[2]wi’ my barns an’ my wife;Shoo were ower thrang wi’ buildin’ up t’ empireTo build up a brokken life.“Ivery man for hissen,” shoo said,“An’ t’ dule can catch what he can;Labour’s cheap an’ trade’s worth moreNor t’ life of a workin’ man.”When t’ country were chuff,[3]an’ boastedThat t’ sun niver set on her flags,I thowt o’ wer back-to-back houses,Wer childer i’ spetches[4]an’ rags,When t’ country drave by i’ her carriage,Wi’ flunkies afore an’ behind,I left her to bettermy bodies,An’ I gav her a taste o’ my mind.But when shoo were liggin’ i’ t’ gutter,Wi’ a milit’rist mob at her throit,“Hands off her!” I cried, “shoo’s my mother:”An’ I doffed my cap an’ my coit.I’d gien ower wark at seventy,But I gat agate once more;“I’ll live for my country, not on her”Were my words on t’ fettlers’ floor.Shoo’s putten her trust i’ us workers,We’ll save her, niver fear;Feight for her, live for her, dee for her,Her childer that loves her dear.Eight o’ my grandsons has fallen,My youngest lad’s crippled i’ t’ arm;But I’ll give her choose-what[5]shoo axes,Afore I’ll see her tak harm.T’ war is a curse an’ a blessin’,If fowks could understan’;It’s brokken my home an’ my childer,But it’s made me an Englishman.[1]Until.[2]Starve.[3]Arrogant.[4]Patches.[5]Whatever.
I’ve lived all my life i’ Keighley,I’m a Yorkshire artisan;An’ when I were just turned seventyI became an Englishman.Nat’ralised German! nay, deng it!I’m British-born, same as thee!But I niver thowt mich to my country,While[1]my country thowt mich to me.I were proud o’ my lodge an’ my union,An’ proud o’ my town an’ my shire;But all t’ consans o’ t’ nation,I left to t’ parson an’ t’ squire.Class-war were t’ faith that I Iived for,I call’d all capit’lists sharks;An’ “T’ workin’ man has no country,”Were my Gospel accordin’ to Marx.When I’d lossen my job back i’ t’ eighties,An were laikin’ for well-nigh two year,Who said that an out-o’-wark fettlerWere costin’ his country dear?Owd England cared nowt about me,I could clem[2]wi’ my barns an’ my wife;Shoo were ower thrang wi’ buildin’ up t’ empireTo build up a brokken life.“Ivery man for hissen,” shoo said,“An’ t’ dule can catch what he can;Labour’s cheap an’ trade’s worth moreNor t’ life of a workin’ man.”When t’ country were chuff,[3]an’ boastedThat t’ sun niver set on her flags,I thowt o’ wer back-to-back houses,Wer childer i’ spetches[4]an’ rags,When t’ country drave by i’ her carriage,Wi’ flunkies afore an’ behind,I left her to bettermy bodies,An’ I gav her a taste o’ my mind.But when shoo were liggin’ i’ t’ gutter,Wi’ a milit’rist mob at her throit,“Hands off her!” I cried, “shoo’s my mother:”An’ I doffed my cap an’ my coit.I’d gien ower wark at seventy,But I gat agate once more;“I’ll live for my country, not on her”Were my words on t’ fettlers’ floor.Shoo’s putten her trust i’ us workers,We’ll save her, niver fear;Feight for her, live for her, dee for her,Her childer that loves her dear.Eight o’ my grandsons has fallen,My youngest lad’s crippled i’ t’ arm;But I’ll give her choose-what[5]shoo axes,Afore I’ll see her tak harm.T’ war is a curse an’ a blessin’,If fowks could understan’;It’s brokken my home an’ my childer,But it’s made me an Englishman.
[1]Until.
[2]Starve.
[3]Arrogant.
[4]Patches.
[5]Whatever.