POETRY.
SHEFFIELD IN A TRENCH. "Misr would I like to see? " No fear ! Not London—no, nor Windermere, Nor Paris with its sky so clear—
Give me a look at Sheffield.
I have it in my mental eye—
Its valleys, and its uplands high, Its smoke-cloud flung against the sky— The smoke that blackens Sheffield.
Its five small rills that slowly steal Past rolling-mill and grinding-wheel-- Their very names can make me feel That I belong to Sheffield.
(0 Loxley, Rivelin, Porter, Sheaf ! Flow onward to the Don, your chief ! And ripple out your challenge brief- " Men must be free in Sheffield !
I know each tower and lofty dome That's long made Sheffield air its home. And where some others, lately come, Have reared their heads in Sheffield.
I mark each street and winding lane—
Oh, yes, they're black! Oh, yes, they're plain!
But let me tread them once again, And Heaven will shine in Sheffield.
And I can hear, as luck may hap, The nickerpecker's* " tap, tap, tap," The grindstone's hiss, the tilt's " rap, rap," As if I was in Sheffield.
Aye, and the blunt old Sheffield speech As none else to my soul can reach— It knows not how to beg, beseech, The tongue that's spoke in Sheffield.
Could I but see that smoke-cap thick, Meet swarfy-breechZd Torn and Dick, And lads with scissors on a stick, I'd know I was in Sheffield.
But here we are !—" What for?" You say?--• To teach the Roche the time of day, And keep him far enough away From setting foot in Sheffield. A SHEFFIELD LAD.
Previous page
