The New Englishman

I've lived all my life i' Keighley, I'm a Yorkshire artisan; An' when I were just turned seventy I became an Englishman. Nat'ralised German! nay, deng it! I'm British-born, same as thee! But I niver thowt mich to my country, While(1) my country thowt mich to me. I were proud o' my lodge an' my union, An' proud o' my town an' my shire; But all t' consans o' t' nation, I left to t' parson an' t' squire. Class-war were t' faith that I Iived for, I call'd all capit'lists sharks; An' "T' workin' man has no country," Were my Gospel accordin' to Marx. When I'd lossen my job back i' t' eighties, An were laikin' for well-nigh two year, Who said that an out-o'-wark fettler Were costin' his country dear? Owd England cared nowt about me, I could clem(2) wi' my barns an' my wife; Shoo were ower thrang wi' bui1din' up t' empire To build up a brokken life. "Ivery man for hissen," shoo said, "An' t' dule can catch what he can; Labour's cheap an' trade's worth more Nor t' life of a workin' man." When t' country were chuff,(1) an' boasted That t' sun niver set on her flags, I thowt o' wer back-to-back houses, Wer childer i' spetches(2) an' rags, When t' country drave by i' her carriage, Wi' flunkies afore an' behind, I left her to bettermy bodies, An' I gav her a taste o' my mind. But when shoo were liggin' i' t' gutter, Wi' a milit'rist mob at her throit, "Hands off her!" I cried, "shoo's my mother:" An' I doffed my cap an' my coit. I'd gien ower wark at seventy, But I gat agate once more; "I'll live for my country, not on her" Were my words on t' fettlers' floor. Shoo's putten her trust i' us workers, We'll save her, niver fear; Feight for her, live for her, dee for her, Her childer that loves her dear. Eight o' my grandsons has fallen, My youngest lad's crippled i' t' arm; But I'll give her choose-what(3) shoo axes, Afore I'll see her tak harm. T' war is a curse an' a blessin', If fowks could understan'; It's brokken my home an' my childer, But it's made me an Englishman.