I Remember Albert Hine (45)

Albert was an old character the I remember from my school days, he worked with shire horses on the farm where I farm now. For such a short man he seemed to take long strides just to keep up with the shires he worked with, and was never without his pipe. As withe nearly  all the gardens belonging to the farm workers it was well cultivated and his major crop was tobacco, no one else grew it and he was proud of the fact he grew and dried a whole years supply, store in his small house

This is Ivy Cottage where Albert lived.

This is one of a pair of farm cottages known as "Spight cottages", situated on the vicarage corner they were built to prevent the view from the Old vicarage to Seighford Hall half a mile away. ( The vicar and the Lord of the Manor did not like each other and these cottages were put up to block the view from the vicarage hence the name "Spight Cottages")The other cottage is situated between it and St Chads Church.(On the right in the picture) 
As a tied cottage it belonged to the Yews Farm, and at one time it was occupied by the cowman, then latterly by Albert Hine who was the wagoner. In the 1950's it was stripped of its ivy and both cottages were cement rendered and painted white.

I Remember Albert Hine

Dated in the 1940’s and 1950’s

Albert was a Waggoner, for Charlie Finimore,

A strong and healthy man he was, and stood at five foot four,

In his younger days it’s told, he would walk out of the hills

With a ewe under each arm, in winters cold and chills.

 He lived at Ivy Cottage, where he grew his own tobacco,

For to keep his pipe alight, it was not a laughing matter.

As the summer days got longer, so pick leaves did  he,

And hung then in the living room, the ceiling  could not see,

 When dry and almost crisp they got, into a draw he pressed

To keep them through the winter, by large old chimney breast.

He rang church bells on Sundays, with a team they were so loyal,

They practice in the mid week night, as if expecting royal,

 He had a box, of twelve inches, though he was in his prime,

The little man he rang the tenner, keeping stead time.

The team with him at that time, they are well remembered,

It written in the belfry sill, names and bells all numbered.

All day he worked with horses, a carting muck with two,

He had the one up in traces, as the load was from the Yews,

Up to the Noons Birch field, where he hooked it out in rucks,

Ten paces up, ten paces wide, so even was the muck.

 Describe the man were looking at, a jerkin he did ware,

Tied round the middle with binder twine, to hold more than just a tare,

Corduroy trousers tucked in spats, round his hob nail boots,

Cap raked left and pipe raked right, pouch and matches in a box.

His old waist coat worn and taty, kept his big watch n matches dry,

The shirt it had few buttons , and the collar he kept it by,

For high days and holidays, when everything was clean,

And home guard duty, when the sergeant, he was very mean.

 His platoon was made up of men, who worked around the farms,

They mustered in the village hall, to train as fighting men at arms,

The pork and bacon beef and taters, butter eggs and creme,

All of these were traded, mongst the brave old fighting men.

Albert kept his pipe and bacca, it was woodbines for the rest,

As the smoke it was so dense, no room for enemy they jest

This ploy worked well , no men got lost, and warmer they could keep,

Till sergeant came and caught them, so loaded up his jeep.

 Two cows he kept and young stock, and a few old tatty hens,

The fields where he kept them, had sheds and tidy pens,

He mowed along the grass verge, all the way to Stafford,

To make his hay to keep them, and drew water from the ford.

 All his life he worked dammed hard, but slower he did get,

Albert met his maker, he was one you can’t forget,

Popular and cheerful, he lived to seven, tee

Buried in Seighford church yard , remembered by me and thee.

_________

 

Half our life is spent trying to find something to do with the time we have rushed through our life trying to save.

Will Rogers  (1879– 1935)