On 2022-04-12 15:43:29 OneNightOnlyTwo said:
Poem for the day

I was happy when I was a lad.
It wasn't all good, but it wasn't half bad.

Loved this poem ...Still to this day believe we grew up in an amazing era / generation..

We played with sticks we played with stones;
we built ourselves dens that we called homes.

We explored the woods, we climbed the trees,
and we played with marbles on our knees.

Conkers in season we threaded with string.
If your opponent missed, your knuckles would sting.

We built trolleys with old pram wheels.
We were often too busy to go home for our meals.

We made catapults, bows and arrows and spears,
quite often resulting in painful tears.

We scrumped apples, plums and pears;
of getting caught, we had no cares.

In fact, we were often caught, and our ears clipped,
no smart replies - we never lipped.

During the long school summer holidays when the sun shone bright,
we played outside from morning to night.

War games, tin can tommy, hide and seek,
Such fun we'd have, what havoc we'd wreak.

Raiding allotments, pinching what grew.
We'd get a good hiding if our parents knew.

Round blazing open fires on logs we would sit.
In the pitch-black night our faces it lit.

We'd have singsongs and tell tales of ghosts,
of things we had done, exaggerated boasts.

Now looking back, such a long time it seems.
Sometimes I wonder was it all in my dreams.

But then I remember all the things that I did
could only be done when I was a kid!

On 2022-04-13 09:36:27 Jakeburns78 said:
I grew up the son of weavers in a valley were cotton really was king, my home town after the war had 26 cotton mills, now they have 1.
But as kids we all learned this poem as that was what most of our parents did

See how the lint flies out over the moorlands;
see how the smoke in the valley clings;
see how the slate roofs shine in the drizzle:
This is the valley where Cotton is king.

See how the houses cling to the hillsides;
hear the streets all the children sing;
wake to the scream from a thousand factories:
This is the valley where Cotton is king.

Sleep is washed from the broken faces,
morning clogs on the cobbles ring,
off to the mills the weavers go hurrying:
This is the valley where Cotton is king.

See how the hunger has eaten the faces,
tired flesh to the bones just clings,
dust in the lungs and the bodies stand broken:
This is the valley where Cotton is king

Well you work all day to the loom's hard rhythm,
scrabble and toil til your tired bones sing,
crawl back home with the gas-lights a flickerin':
This is the valley where is Cotton is king.

This is the land where children have labored,
where life and death mean the self-same thing,
where the many have worked that the few might prosper:
This is the valley where Cotton is king.

Now see the clouds flyin' over the moorland;
see how the graves to the valley sides cling.
Look at the mills: they're idle and empty.
This is the valley where Cotton was king.

Jake

On 2022-04-14 08:57:21 Jakeburns78 said:
I wish, it was written by a Lancashire folk singer/comic called Mike Harding. It resonates with me because it takes me back to my childhood

He has a way with words, this and one called the Accrington Pals are his best

Jake

On 2022-04-14 09:51:22 Anne said:
On 2022-04-14 08:57:21 Jakeburns78 said: I wish, it was written by a Lancashire folk singer/comic called Mike Harding. It resonates with me because it takes me back to my childhood

He has a way with words, this and one called the Accrington Pals are his best

Jake

Thank you for this! I went back to reread it a few times.