Saturday, 5 May 2007

I Remember Digging Snow 1947

I Remember digging snow, with my little spade,
I would be about eight years old, my friends and me we played,
Little caps and scarves we wore, and wellinton boots as well,
Digging under snow drifts, till roof top down it fell.

All the men from in the village, started to dig the road,
Drifts for over a mile each way, they all toiled and strove,
To get the hay from barn to shed, out lying cattle to feed,
Even the tractors couldn’t move, or get to hog of swede

The village it was totally cut off, for about two days,
Us kids we dug up to houses, digging out the pathways
For this we got a piece, of home made cake with jam,
Or a drink of Corona pop, just a little dram.

Bread man was the first, to venture in on foot,
Helped along the way, on our sledges bread he put,
The postman he was helped, slippery paths we ran up,
Paper lady old Violet, her papers did not turn-up.

Milk from the farms still their, to double in two days,
Take to Bridgeford Garage, across the fields on drays,
Bring back the empty churns, all clanging on the back,
To fill again them over night, and back along same track.

Third day we went to school, Miss Pye from Doxey walked,
Only six of us turned up, on board in front of fire she chalked,
Chairs and a table pulled to the fire, roaring up the chimney,
Compared our notes about, through snow we had to journey.

When the snow ventualy melted, lumps of drifts stayed put,
It took weeks for this to go, from under hedge and butt,
Floods came out all over low ground, silt and mud abound,
Pleased when the spring came along, thought the grass had drowned.


A Tour of our Village

The Village has its own clock, for to tell the time,
On the tower of St Chads, every half hour it does chime,
This its done for many years, and to wind it up you climb,
Three big weights on cables, crank it many times.

In the tower set in oak frame, sit its ringing bells,
Ropes and wheels for swinging, its congregation tells,
Come to church for service, to have your sins expelled,
All the parish can hear them, peal of Village bells.

The vicar has his job to visit, all parish elderly and the sick,
Take all the Sunday services, with sermon long and epic,
Christmas Easter Harvest, Christenings funerals and weddings quick,
He is kept so busy looking after, all village elderly and sick.

Out and down the church path , is the village green,
Under the lych gates, standing all serene,
Looks a little weathered, for all the years its been,
Guarding the church yard, on the village green.

Also on Seighford green, was the village pump,
Standing in the corner, on a grassy hump,
To prime it work the handle, almost had to jump,
Water all the cottages, from this well and pump.

Across the road to educate, is the village school,
Teacher at the blackboard, sitting on a stool,
There to help the children not to be a fool,
Basic reading writing, maths in the village school.

Further down the village, was the blacksmiths shop,
Making all the horse shoes, on the anvil hot,
Hammer always ringing, shaping metal without stop,
Give the horses new shoes, to make them clip and clop.

Undertaker in the village, is at the wheelwrights shop,
Lays out and measures them, makes the coffin non-stop,
His brother digs the grave, and family lines the coffin
All the week they make farm carts, in the wheelwrights shop

Next again is Holly Bush, our local village pub,
As well as drink you can get if hungry, a little bit of grub,
For a gathering of the locals, this was the hub,
News and gossip turned around in the village pub.

Down at the post office, in the village shop,
Sells all essentials, also chocolate sweets and pop,
Letters parcels postal orders, have a hefty whop,
Rubber stamp saying Seighford, in the village shop.

The postman comes on his bike to visit, six days of every week,
Delivering post and parcels, each morning his bike it creaked,
Collecting all the gossip while, having cup of tea he’d speak,
All about what he’d learned, on his round six days every week.

On all the farms they have cows, and they produce the milk,
Beef and chickens hens and geese, sheep with fleece smooth as silk.
They have mixture of everything, corn for cows and pigs,
Hay and roots, rolled oats, peas, feed the cows produce the milk.

In all the cottages were the families, men who work the land,
Herdsmen, wagoners, and those to anything can turn their hand,
Early start in all weathers, generally a happy band,
They work late at harvest time, all these men who work the land.


I Record My Memories

I record my memories, of where I lived my life,
People who lived and worked here, all about the strife,
The ones that moulded me, from very early age,
Learning how to cope with life, recorded on this page.

I started with my mother, and all the things she did,
Father’s next on how to work, to earn an honest quid,
Then it’s all the neighbours, of how they influenced me,
Its on to school and educate, to use my head you see.

Everyone’s an influence, in a small village like ours,
Tell you tales when they were young, they went on for hours,
Some were porkies I’ve no doubt, but non of them were lies,
Stories told and past down, told before they meet demise.