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.
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