We’ve bin lords o’ Cambodunum for well-nigh eight hunderd yeer; Fowk say our fore-elders bowt it of a Roman charioteer.
Ay, I know we’re nobbut farmers, mowin’ gerse an’ tentin’ kye, But we’re proud of all we’ve stood for i’ yon ages that’s gone by;
Proud of all the slacks we’ve drained, an’ proud of all the walls we’ve belt, Proud to think we’ve bred our childer on the ground wheer Romans dwelt.
“Niver pairt wi’ Cambodunum,” that’s what father used to say; “If thou does, thou’ll coom to ruin, beg thy breead thro’ day to day.”
I’ll noan pairt wi’ Cambodunum, though its roof lets in the rains, An’ its walls wi’ age are totterin’; Cambodunum’s i’ my veins.
Ivery stone about the buildin’ has bin dressed by Roman hands, An’ red blooid o’ Roman sowdiers has bin temmed[1] out on its lands.
Often, when I ploo i’ springtime, I leet on their buried hoard— Coins an’ pottery, combs an’ glasses; once I fan’ a rusty sword.
Whisht! I’ll tell thee what I saw here of a moon-lit winter neet— Ghosts o’ Romans i’ their war-gear, wheelin’ slow wi’ silent feet;
Pale their faces, proud their bearin’, an’ a strange gloor i’ their een, As they marched past an’ saluted, while th’ east wind blew snell an’ keen.
Dalewards, dalewards, iver dalewards, th’ hill-fowk wander yeer by yeer, An’ they toss their heeads an’ flout me, when they see me bidin’ here.
I’ve one answer to their fleerin’: “I’ll noan be a fact’ry slave, Breathin’ poison i’ yon wark-shops, diggin’ ivery day my grave.”
“You may addle brass i’ plenty, you’ll noan addle peace o’ mind; That sal bide amang us farmers on th’ owd hills you’ve left behind.”
See that place down theer i’ t’ valley, wheer yon chimleys spit out smoke? Huthersfield is what they call it, wheer fowk live like pigs i’ t’ poke;
Wheer men grind their hearts to guineas, an’ their mills are awlus thrang, Turnin’ neet-time into day-time, niver stoppin’ th’ whole yeer lang.
Cambodunum up on th’ hill-tops, Huthersfield down i’ yon dale; One’s a place for free-born Britons, t’other’s ommost like a jail.
Here we live i’ t’ leet an’ sunshine, free as larks i’ t’ sky aboon; Theer men tew[2] like mowdiwarps[3] that grub up muck by t’ glent o’ t’ moon.
See yon motor whizzin’ past us, ower th’ owd brig that spans our beck; That’s what fowk call modern progress, march o’ human intelleck.