04-14-2017, 06:07 AM
As a child I would try to read poems from a small blue book that my mother had bought it was a collection of poems written in Lancashire dialect, This one was my favourite poem in that book.
"ONLY A POET." (1894) Samuel Laycock)
ONLY a poet," a schemer o' schemes;
A weaver o' fancies, a dreamer o' dreams;
Insanely eccentric, wi' long flowin' hair,
An' eyes strangely bright, wi' a meanin'less stare!
"Only a poet"—that's all, nowt no moor;
An', as every one knows, often needy an' poor;
Tho' that little fault may be remedied soon,
If th' minstrel could allis get paid for his tune.
Then look what a lot their strange yarns often cost!
Just fancy five sov'rins for "Paradise Lost"!
Why, for much less than that, there are theawsands o' men
Who would not only lose it, but find it ogen!
Neaw supposin' yo bowt some good clooas to yo'r back,
Some beef-steaks an' onions, or owt o' that mak';
These would bring yo some comfort, an' help yo to live,
But yo'll dee if yo'n newt but what poets con give.
"Only a poet"—a gazer at th' moon,
Or soarin' aloft i' some mental baloon;
Ah, some of 'em wingin' their flight to God's throne,
An' seemin' t' forget they'n a whom o' their own,
Wheer a wife may be ceaw'red in an owd tattered geawn,
Very patiently waitin' till th' husband comes deawn.
"Only a poet," a spinner o' rhymes,
An' never caught worshippin' "dollars an' dimes."
"Only a poet"—a star-gazin' bard
'At met tell yo th' earth's distance fro' th' sun to a yard;
But question him closely on trade, or bank shares,
An' he'll soon show his ignorance bi th' way 'at he stares.
Wanderin' throo' country lanes all the day long,
Gabblin' strange jargon, or croonin' some song;
Pennin' grand thowts 'at may mak' a world stare,
Then die in a mad-heawse, like poor John Clare!
"Only a poet "—ah! but what does that mean?
Bein' passed bi a naybur witheawt bein' seen;
Becose just across there comes Alderman Stott,
An' he get's th' warm greetin' th' poor bard should ha' got!
"Only a poet"—he's newt he con spare;
If his feelin's are hurt a bit, what need yo care?
For a poet is noan a much use as a friend,
Since he's newt he con give one, nor nowt he con lend.
"Only a poet," so let him alone,
Or, if yo think fit, yo may fling him a bone;
He lives o' sich stuff—bones an' owd meawldy books,
At least one would think soa, to judge by his looks.
Yo keep eawt o' th' way on him, foalks, for he's sure
To speak abeawt summat yo'n ne'er yeard befoor;
He's likely to tell yo yo'n brains i' yo'r yead,
An' a soul that'll live when yo'r body's gone dead;
He'll talk about spirit friends hoverin' areawnd,
When yo know they're asleep, fast asleep, deawn i'th' greawnd.
He'll offer to lead yo through nature's sweet beawers,
An' bid yo admire her grand fruitage an' fleawers.
Very grand an' poetical; nice food for kings,
Or bein's 'at flutter abeawt us wi' wings;
But one couldn't weel offer to clothe a bare back,
Or feed hungry bellies wi' stuff o' that mak'.
"Only a poet," like Bloomfield or Burns,
'At may happen amuse yo an' vex yo i' turns;
Neaw charmin' his readers wi' th' thowts fro' his pen,
Thus winnin' their heartiest plaudits, an' then,
It may be th' next minute yo'r filled wi disgust
At some sarcastic hit, or some pointed home-thrust!
"Only a poet"! What moor do yo want?
Some narrow-souled parson to rave an' to rant
Abeawt th' heat an' th' dimensions, an' th' people i' hell,
Till yo fancy 'at th' chap must ha' bin' theer hissel.
Yet there are foalk i' th, world 'at don't think it amiss
To pay hundreds a year for sich twaddle as this;
While others, entitled to love an' respect,
Are treated too often wi' scorn an' neglect!
"Only a Poet," what moor do yo crave,
To sweeten life's journey fro' th' cradle to th' grave?
Which is th' likeliest—think yo—to help us along,—
An owd musty creed, or a good hearty song?
"ONLY A POET." (1894) Samuel Laycock)
ONLY a poet," a schemer o' schemes;
A weaver o' fancies, a dreamer o' dreams;
Insanely eccentric, wi' long flowin' hair,
An' eyes strangely bright, wi' a meanin'less stare!
"Only a poet"—that's all, nowt no moor;
An', as every one knows, often needy an' poor;
Tho' that little fault may be remedied soon,
If th' minstrel could allis get paid for his tune.
Then look what a lot their strange yarns often cost!
Just fancy five sov'rins for "Paradise Lost"!
Why, for much less than that, there are theawsands o' men
Who would not only lose it, but find it ogen!
Neaw supposin' yo bowt some good clooas to yo'r back,
Some beef-steaks an' onions, or owt o' that mak';
These would bring yo some comfort, an' help yo to live,
But yo'll dee if yo'n newt but what poets con give.
"Only a poet"—a gazer at th' moon,
Or soarin' aloft i' some mental baloon;
Ah, some of 'em wingin' their flight to God's throne,
An' seemin' t' forget they'n a whom o' their own,
Wheer a wife may be ceaw'red in an owd tattered geawn,
Very patiently waitin' till th' husband comes deawn.
"Only a poet," a spinner o' rhymes,
An' never caught worshippin' "dollars an' dimes."
"Only a poet"—a star-gazin' bard
'At met tell yo th' earth's distance fro' th' sun to a yard;
But question him closely on trade, or bank shares,
An' he'll soon show his ignorance bi th' way 'at he stares.
Wanderin' throo' country lanes all the day long,
Gabblin' strange jargon, or croonin' some song;
Pennin' grand thowts 'at may mak' a world stare,
Then die in a mad-heawse, like poor John Clare!
"Only a poet "—ah! but what does that mean?
Bein' passed bi a naybur witheawt bein' seen;
Becose just across there comes Alderman Stott,
An' he get's th' warm greetin' th' poor bard should ha' got!
"Only a poet"—he's newt he con spare;
If his feelin's are hurt a bit, what need yo care?
For a poet is noan a much use as a friend,
Since he's newt he con give one, nor nowt he con lend.
"Only a poet," so let him alone,
Or, if yo think fit, yo may fling him a bone;
He lives o' sich stuff—bones an' owd meawldy books,
At least one would think soa, to judge by his looks.
Yo keep eawt o' th' way on him, foalks, for he's sure
To speak abeawt summat yo'n ne'er yeard befoor;
He's likely to tell yo yo'n brains i' yo'r yead,
An' a soul that'll live when yo'r body's gone dead;
He'll talk about spirit friends hoverin' areawnd,
When yo know they're asleep, fast asleep, deawn i'th' greawnd.
He'll offer to lead yo through nature's sweet beawers,
An' bid yo admire her grand fruitage an' fleawers.
Very grand an' poetical; nice food for kings,
Or bein's 'at flutter abeawt us wi' wings;
But one couldn't weel offer to clothe a bare back,
Or feed hungry bellies wi' stuff o' that mak'.
"Only a poet," like Bloomfield or Burns,
'At may happen amuse yo an' vex yo i' turns;
Neaw charmin' his readers wi' th' thowts fro' his pen,
Thus winnin' their heartiest plaudits, an' then,
It may be th' next minute yo'r filled wi disgust
At some sarcastic hit, or some pointed home-thrust!
"Only a poet"! What moor do yo want?
Some narrow-souled parson to rave an' to rant
Abeawt th' heat an' th' dimensions, an' th' people i' hell,
Till yo fancy 'at th' chap must ha' bin' theer hissel.
Yet there are foalk i' th, world 'at don't think it amiss
To pay hundreds a year for sich twaddle as this;
While others, entitled to love an' respect,
Are treated too often wi' scorn an' neglect!
"Only a Poet," what moor do yo crave,
To sweeten life's journey fro' th' cradle to th' grave?
Which is th' likeliest—think yo—to help us along,—
An owd musty creed, or a good hearty song?
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out