A song I sing o' t' Yorkshire dales,
That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea;
Frae t' breast o' t' fells, wheer t' cloud-rack sails,
Their becks flow merrily.
Their banks are breet wi' moss an' broom,
An' sweet is t' scent o' t' thyme;
You can hark to t' bees' saft, dreamy soom(1)
I' t' foxglove bells an' t' lime.
O! Swawdill's good for horses, an' Wensladill for cheese,
An' Airedill fowk are busy as a bee;
But wheersoe'er I wander,
My owd heart aye grows fonder
O Whardill, wheer I'll lig me down an' dee.
Reet bonny are our dales i' March,
When t' curlews tak to t' moors,
There's ruddy buds on ivery larch,
Primroses don their floors.
But bonnier yet when t' August sun
Leets up yon plats o' ling;
An' gert white fishes lowp an' scun,(2)
Wheer t' weirs ower t' watter hing.
O! Swawdills good...
By ivery beck an abbey sleeps,
An' t' ullet is t' owd prior.
A jackdaw thruf each windey peeps,
An' bigs his nest i' t' choir.
In ivery dale a castle stands--
Sing, Clifford, Percy, Scrope!--
They threaped amang theirsels for t' lands,
But fowt for t' King or t' Pope.
O! Swawdill's good...
O! Eastward ho! is t' song o' t' gales,
As they sweep ower fell an' lea;
And Eastward ho! is t' song o' t' dales,
That winnd frae t' moors to t' sea.
Coom winter frost, coom summer druft,
Their watters munnot bide;
An' t' rain that's fall'n when bould winds soughed
Sal iver seawards glide.
O! Swawdill' s good...