As Ah was gaen doon the street,
Whoa dusta think that Ah sud meet
But yan Ah’d kenned fur sebenty year!
“By gocks!” said I, “What! Mary here?”
“Ay, ay, and fain Ah is to see
That Death’s nut gitten hod o’ thee”
“Come, tell me, Mary, lass!” Ah said,
“Hoo ist thoo gaes wi’ sec a tread,
Wi’ sec a pooer o’ hilth i’ store,
Sae lish and rash at eighty-foor?”
“Ah’ll tell tha, barn,” said Mary than,
“Ah’ve leeved my life as Ah began:
In good auld dayses havver-bread
Wi milk fur ivvery meal was spread,
And fowks supped poddish gaily free,
And nivver fashed thersels wi’ tea.
What, barn, thoo kens that noo-a-days
White flour steel-milled is aw the craze,
Wi’ ivvery bit o’t natur’ gone
Clean oot that made for brain and bone;
But give me flour the stanes ha grund
Wi’ flesh and bwone I’ ivvery pund.
But aw this silly mak o’ stuff,
Pure white that’s nobbut starch reight thruff,
Wid-out the germ, wid-out the bran,
Nea swort o’ use for feedin’ man.
Than aw my life it’s corkert shoon
I’se worn, and fund them sic a boon—
Good honest clogs that nivver let
Yan’s feet be boddered wi’ the wet—
But, loavins, noo-a-days the clogs
Is well-nigh kessened to the dogs.
Instead o’ weel-nebbed wooden shoes,
It’s paper-leather wark they choose.
Puir things! theer tied to come to harm;
Theer feet is nivver dry nor warm.
We’ve coomed intil a bonny pass!
When Ah was but a sarvin lass
We span and than we knitted woo’!
And what? instead o’ kersey-mere,
It’s aw fandanglements they wear.
Puir bodies! it’s nae mortal wonder
They catch theer deeths and seun gang under.
Ah’ve walked to-day fra door to door
Three miles or mair at eight-four;
And wi’ my basket nut sae sma,
A’se back three miles or mair to go;
But, barn, it’s nut the havver-bread,
Nor poddish, nor good clogs to tread.
Nor is it that Ah moistly wear
Good flannel and good kersey-mere;
My secret is, Ah lenk right on
To Kursmas next fra Kursmas gone.
For why? Ah ken, an’ thoo kens too,
At Kursmas cooms ‘The Auld Fwoks Do,’
And what, t’wad be nea ‘Do’ at all
If Mary wasn’t i’ the hall,
And sea fra week to week Ah pray
‘Lword, let me leeve till t’ Auld Fwoks’ Day,’
And Ah believe He hears ma prayer,
And sea fwok meet auld Mary there;
He keeps ma lish, He sends ma cheer,
In this ma five and eightieth year.”    

(English Lakes Visitor and Keswick Guardian, 29 December 1906, p. 4)

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With stout storm-jacket o’er their shoulders
        cast,
Their food sealed safe against the waves in hand,
Bravely they turned toward the barren strand,
Forgetful of the misadventures past;
Down to the shore the children hurried fast.
Knee-deep, the sturdy three on breakers stand,
Push at the boat—she quivers—leaves the sand,
And soon the brown sail bellies from the mast.
The sun dropped down; far off, the fishers knew
The smother on the darkening cliff to be
The breath of fires that warmed the household meal;
And all night long, that cloud was clear in view,
Though every boat had dropped behind the sea,
And herring-moonlight flashed about each keel.

(Sonnets Round the Coast, p. 154)

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I was thinking of the old folk, men and women sixty years and upward, who were to be assembled to-day in the Oddfellows’ Hall to partake of what is known as the “Old Folks’ Christmas Dinner and Tea,” with whatever entertainment of reading, recitation, song, and speech should make time pass pleasantly between three and seven o’clock. (p. 189)

I had an invitation to be present, and as I wished to see an old-fashioned ‘Cumberland “Do,”’ I made my way thither towards 3 o’clock in the afternoon.  ’Bus load after ’bus load came rumbling up, bringing out of the countryside the guests from distant hamlet and farm.  Not less than 400 invitations had been sent out, no less than 180 old folk had responded.  The institution was unique in its way.  Thirty years ago it occurred to the writer of one of the best guide books that exists in the English Lake District, Jenkinson by name, an enthusiastic Yorkshireman who was domiciled at Keswick, that it would be a very pleasant thing to have a social gathering to which all classes might be invited in Christmas week, and to which all who came should feel that they were there, not as it were by charity, but simply met together to chat with one another and enjoy themselves on equal terms as friends.  Jenkinson’s idea was warmly taken up by the leading townsmen, and from that day to this, the annual ‘Old Folks’ “Do”’ has been looked forward to all through the year, and looked back upon with pleasantest memory.  Surely it is no small thing that opportunity should be given not only for the neighbourhood to subscribe its small mite to the cause of neighbourliness, but that the young men of the town should all work harmoniously together with the landlords of the various hotels and the principal tradesmen, to make arrangements for the proceedings and to wait upon their older guests. (pp. 190-191)

Arrived at the entrance of the Hall, I found the local band making brave music.  Passing up the steps by kitchens whose steamy fragrance filled the air, I was ushered into a large room decked with much Christmas evergreen.  Five tables reached from end to end, daintily decorated with ferns and flowers.  The Vicar of Crosthwaite, the County Councillor of Keswick, the local lawyer, the local bank managers, and some of the leading hotel keepers were seated in the place of honour as carvers, and after a whistle was sounded by the master of ceremonies all rose to their feet, grace was said, and the Chairman begging no one to hurry, impressed upon the company that the oldest and youngest were to take time to-day, and then the soup was served.  The leading tradesmen of the town were told off to various tables again.  To the sound of the whistle of the master of ceremonies they advanced and served their guests.  At another whistle, soup was removed and the meats were borne into the room.  Beef, turkey, mutton, goose were all there piping hot; potatoes, peas, pudding, turnips, and all other vegetables steamed on the tables.  The Secretary, as I suppose he was, said something in a solemn way to the Chairman.  The Chairman called for order, and announced, as it were a matter of most urgent importance, that giblet pies innumerable were downstairs, and anybody who wanted giblet pie had simply to say the word.  There was plenty to eat, plenty to drink.  For those who cared for it, there was beer, but a very large proportion seemed to prefer lemonade, which was served side by side with the beer, and which was also seen in syphons all down the table.  There was not much talking.  Three o’clock was a late hour for many of the old folks’ dinner, and they were hungry, but as hunger passed away the talk grew, and very pleasant it was to see the old folk who had not met for a whole year cracking with one another, and to hear the little bits of family gossip, to ask how So-and-So has fared and what So-and-So is doing now. (pp. 191-192)….

After the meats, came plum pudding.  Again the Secretary solemnly approached the Chairman, and the Chairman as solemnly assured the company that for those who had few teeth in their heads or had eaten so many plum puddings that they had ceased to care for them, there was an abundance of rice pudding prepared, which was very much at their service.  Mince pies seemed to be a kind of necessary second course to this plum pudding and rice.  Then the whistle sounded again, and cheese and butter and biscuits were the order of the day.  So after about an hour the tables were cleared and grace was said, and the bulk of the old folks left the hall for the carpenters to make their arrangements for the concert staging.  They returned in half-an-hour and took their seats again at the tables for the entertainment, which was broken half way by an interval for tea and cake. (p. 193)

I saw the programme and knew that I was in for a long sitting, but it was so varied that it all passed along without fatigue.  It was begun by the elementary scholars of one of the Keswick schools, under command of their master, singing four glees and reciting the ballad of the “Revenge.”  Then a stalwart fox-hunter mounted the platform and gave with admirable voice and spirit, “We’ll all go a-hunting to-day.”  At the end of each verse, he shouted “Now all together,” and one felt the roof would be lifted, by the way the 180 guests of 60 years and upwards joined in, with full accord, to assure the singer, “That they would all go a-hunting to-day.”  One or two songs followed, and the Chairman gave his address.  He begged them to remember the founders of the feast, and spoke of the thirty-one old folk who had passed away since last meeting. (pp. 193-194)….

An excellent Cumberland dialect reading was given, and the tea was served.  Another Cumberland dialect poem followed, then a fiddler mounted the platform, and the Chairman solemnly begged the company to remove their clogs.  I did not know even what a clog was, but I soon found out the point of his remark.  Hardly had the fiddler begun than the feet of all those aged people were heard keeping time to the fiddler’s tune.  That love of dancing and sense of rhythm is native to Cumberland, and although days are past when the elementary schools had to be closed because the dancing master had come into the neighbourhood, dancing is still a passion with the people, who seem better able to express themselves in that way than in any other.  Suddenly the fiddler changed his tune to an old-fashioned eight-reel, and an aged woman rose from her seat and with the accustomed cry was seen to begin to dance as she had danced it seventy years ago. (p. 196)….

The proceedings ended with the National Anthem and a verse of “Auld Lang Syne,” which filled the room and echoed out into Keswick streets, and then, after many a hand-shaking and “Ye’ll be hear next year likely,” “Ay, ay, I whoape sea,” they passed back to the town and back in the omnibuses to the far-off farms and hamlets, and the Old Folks’ “Do” of 1901 was past and over. (p. 198)

(A Rambler’s Notebook at the English Lakes, pp. 187-198)

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I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
I remember too the garden,
With its green and grassy lawn.

I remember too the Village Church
With its ivy-coloured tower
Where the little birds took refuge
From the sun or summer shower.

I have seen full many a village church
And many handsome towers
But I ne’er yet have seen a prettier one
In all the land than ours.

And in the month of Xmas
When my sisters small and great
Wanted ivy from the tower
The church to decorate.

I have climbed through the belfry
And up the ladder tall,
Through the bells and out at the top to cut
The ivy from the wall.

I remember, too, the village clerk,
Old Sadler was his name;
And poor old Mrs Walters,
At the bottom of Church Lane.

And many a village peasant,
They were all so good and kind,
But I have come away from there,
And left them all behind.

I remember too the Lock-keeper
His name was Mr Small,
I remember too the backwater
And the gurgling waterfall.

Oft have I heard the creaking sound
Of the roaring old mill wheels
Oft have I seen the baskets
Where the mill-men caught(?) their eels.

I remember too our meadow
Where in the month of May
With my little wooden fork I worked
And helped to make the hay.

They always used to make the stack
Near a little wooden shed
Where the cows were milked at even(?),
And the pony made his bed.

I remember too the Warren
With a little stream hard by
Where the cows used to get water
When the ground was hard and dry.

Oft on a summer’s evening
Have I watched the rabbits run
Into the Warren, when they heard
My brother with his gun.

And from that Warren I have heard
The turtle dove bewail
And the throstle with his charming note
And the lovely nightingale.

I remember too the Chalk cliff
Where the Lords and Ladies grew,
Where I have plucked the violets
Both red, and white, and blue.

I remember too Old Father Thames
In whose darkly-flowing face
I have watched the little gudgeons play
And the perch, and roach, and dace.

Oft in a summer’s evening
When the gnats flew thick and free
Have I gone to fish with my brothers
When I had done my tea.

Oft have I wandered in the path
Close to its watery edge
And have seen the little Willow wren
Fly from the grass and sedge.

I remember too the Island
Where the snow flakes came rare and few
With their heads bent down like the snowdrops
In snowy clusters grew.

And in the meadows by its side,
Have I plucked the celandine
And the sword-grass, and the primrose
And the little eglantine.

And in the month of Xmas
When the fields were flooded o’er
When the song of the Nightingale or Thrush
Were heard by us no more.

When Old Father Thames was frozen
And the meadows by his side
I remember how we used to go
And have a jolly slide.

And on the night of Xmas eve,
I used to love to hear
The singers at midnight in Shiplake Church
Ring in the happy new year.

I listened to the joyous sound
As it floated in the air
And I never have heard a merrier peal
Or one better rung, than there.

But I never shall hear them again
I have left all those behind,
But they never will be blotted
From my memory, or my mind.

[Dedicated to Miss F. A. Rawnsley, Hardwicke’s twin sister. This is the earliest surviving poem of Hardwicke Rawnsley. Written when he was 10 years old.]

[See RR/9/5 and RR/7/21 in the Rawnsley Archives]

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