The New Englishman

I've lived all my life i' Keighley,          I'm a Yorkshire artisan;     An' when I were just turned seventy          I 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 fettler          Were 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' empire          To 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 more          Nor t' life of a workin' man."     When t' country were chuff,(3) an' boasted          That 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.