Derek. A. Sim
My Tynedale. (Summer)
Hedgerows green, wood pigeons preen,
Quiet valleys seldom seen,
Winding lanes for country miles,
Run down farmhouses with missing tiles,
Field after field of ripened corn,
This is my Tynedale, the place I was born.
The guns and the beaters all head for the fell,
Their target; grouse, maybe pheasant as well,
A year’s work done, it’s the glorious twelfth,
The birds all released in the best of health,
Thrashing and flailing, and waving their flags,
Brace after brace dropping down to the crags.
Farmer and labourers amass in field,
Make hay while the sun shines and gather their yield,
Cutting and bailing, trailers stacked high,
A ploughman’s lunch under Northumberland sky,
The sun getting hotter as they rake up the last,
Off to the inn, refresh and repast.
Singing old songs with forgotten lines,
The men all have ale, the womenfolk, wines,
Each and all tired from toiling the day,
Picking the tatties, or bailing the hay,
All the work done, beast watered and fed,
‘Tis the end of the day, aye! ‘Tis time for bed.
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