Tom Twisleton Poems in the Craven Dialect

Read Tom Twisleton’s poems here: https://archive.org/details/poemsincravendi00twisgoog

Here below is John Twisleton’s commendation of Poems in the Craven Dialect by Tom Twisleton  Sixth Edition  Settle 1907 166pp
 Also Poems by Henry Lea Twisleton and Henry Lea Twisleton (Junior)

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The combined edition of the Twisleton poets spans nearly a century occasioned by the compilation of poems from Tom (1845-1917), Henry Lea (1847-1905) and Henry Lea junior (1879-1946). All three were born at Winskill, above Langcliffe near Settle but the last two, brother and son of Tom, emigrated to New Zealand.

Tom Twisleton’s poems are in the distinctive Craven dialect and contrast with the more polished lines of the two Henry Leas. Whereas his brother Henry’s name is on the books of Giggleswick School Tom writes in his introduction of ‘growin’ up baath rough an’ strang, I threw down t’ books befoor ‘twas lang, an’ tuk up t’ spaad an’ hammer’. Tom writes passionately and engages with the fine detail of life in Victorian Craven. The two Henry's write with a broader sweep from their New Zealand context, although Henry Lea Junior's poems detail the hardships of bush farming in the 1929 slump.

Christian faith is a common denominator. Much of the poetry evokes the beauty of creation and the privilege human beings have of enjoying its grandeur. Tom’s poems include one used to end sermons and others to be read at temperance meetings - he has vivid tales of alcohol abuse. His sympathies though are critical of the established church, eager to highlight hypocrisy and the wealth of the clergy.

Tom Twisleton’s poems – a taster

Wharrivver hev ye been is the telling alternative title to Tom’s poem ‘Husband and Wife’. In this poem we have the battle of the sexes set out in dialogue on the husband’s return from the ale house to a vexed wife. 

Husband: For thou talks sich a height, thou yowls an’ thou squeaks,

yan mud hear thee a mile an’ a hauf when ta speaks

To compensate his poem The Bachelor sets out a sorry picture of the unmarried:

‘Naa thrifty wife, wi’ queen-like pride,

sits thaar an’ plies her knittin’;

thaar, by his dull an’ dark fireside,

he all forlorn is sittin’, a bachelor

The Song of the Old Maid likewise ends with a warning to young ladies:

Saa now, au ye lassies, ‘ats turn’d twenty-yan,

don’t be saa consated i’ t’ choice of a man;

don’t set yersels up wi’ a heigh scornful air,

but strike for a bargain what t’ buyer bids fair;

for youth is like summer – swift passin’ away,

an’ soon ye’ll be like to a cowd winter’s day,

yer strength will be wasted, yer beauty decay’d,

an’ ye’ll find ye’ll be nowt but a stingy owd maid,

when ye are fifty and three.

In Lile Bobby Tom Twisleton captures the joys and challenges of having a baby in the house:

Who is it sometimes starts a weepin’,

as if some trouble he was deep in,

at neet when fooaks sud au be sleepin’? –

Lile Bobby.

But who oft rises in a mornin’,

as if au grief an’ trouble scornin’,

wi’ smiles his bonny face adornin’? –

Lile Bobby

The Picnic captures how people made their recreation in 19th century with a graphic account of ‘lads and lasses’ taking a day trip to the local Goredale Scar:

Heigh in the heavens the sun did blaze;

he pour’d his hot, unpityin’ rays

upon the lads – poor fellas!

The lasses naa distress beytray’d,

but tripp’d alang beneath the shade

o’ their lile, silk umbrellas.

Tom’s poem Brass paints a picture of the humiliation that comes about when folk run out of money.

Oh! The chap without brass! As a thousand fooak knahs,

is as helpless in t’ world as a cat without claws;

though he’s nayther deficient i’ talent or pluck,

he mun stand on yan side or be trodden i’ t’ muck.

Though his sperrit be heigh an’ his temper be quick,

he’ll hev to knock under as sure as he’s wick;

for to other men’s wills he mun knuckle an’ bend,

an’ howivver it grubs him his caase he can’t mend.

Lines composed on seeing a woman intoxicated in Settle streets on a market day start with a picture of Tuesday market:

Yan day, it was Tuesday, an’ Settle was thrang,

for fooaks to an’ fro in the market did gang;

there were workmen an’ tradesmen, an’ farmers, an’ squires,

an’ some com as sellers, an’ some com as buyers;

some med thersels thrang amang hampers and crates,

an’ some stood i’ clusters an’ held girt debates;

whal others, who seemed to hev nowt mich on hand,

wi’ ther hands i’ ther pockets at t’ corners did stand.

The poem goes on to identify a lady who could not walk straight:

Thaar she reel’s up an’ down in the full market-plaace,

wi’ the marks of a drunkard stamp’d plain on her face

her een they were blood-shot, her nooas red enough,

an’ her jacket an’ dress were au covered wi’ snuff.

Fooaks laugh’d as they pass’d, but naa heed did she pay,

self-esteem an’ respect hed au vanished away.

Tom ends with the moral for young men thinking about taking a wife:

Don’t gang huntin’ about efter beauty or brass,

but fix on a modest an’ sensible lass;

yan ‘ats caarful an’ tidy, i’ t’ habit o’ thinkin’.

an’ not yan i’ t’ habit o’ snuffin’ an’ drinkin’.

Henry Lea Twisleton senior’s poems – a taster

In Farewell to Craven Henry Lea senior captures his Craven roots:

Old Craven! Farewell! – when no more I behold thee,

the ocean will still roll between us in vain;

for I in the lap of remembrance will fold thee

till providence call me to see thee again.

Thy mountains, in youth, roused my awe-stricken wonder,

and fancy’s bright angels still haunt their green sod;

alike, in the sunshine, the tempest, or thunder,

they move on the hills in the presence of God.

These ‘bright angels of fancy’ operate throughout Henry’s nature poems, those from his Craven youth and the majority from his life in New Zealand, where his literary gifts became familiar through his contributions to the media.

There is at times a strong melancholy, as in The Hawthorn.

Here stands the tree, beneath whose shade

the children once were playing;

where oft-sweet speech, ‘twixt man and maid,

grew sweeter for the saying;

what tears, what vows, ‘neath bird-filled boughs,

when young life went a-Maying!

Now through the boughs with dirge-like tone,

the wintry winds are sighing;

the leaves are shed, the birds are flown,

the snowflakes round are flying;

and man and maid, who loved the shade,

in graveyard cold are lying.

In one Sonnet he expresses a preference for sunset over dawn:

Morn may be glorious when the birds are singing

in dewy copse and in the air above;

when bees are humming, and each freshen’d flower

on every side its sweetest scent is flinging –

morn may be beauteous: but I better love

the solemn stillness of the sunset hour.

Henry sees the passing of the seasons as a warning, with winter the symbol of death and judgement, in The Four Seasons of Life:

Time speeds – his ever quick’ning wheel

rolls through the circling years;

and ‘ere we think our summer gone,

our autumntide appears;

and blest is he to whom it brings

ripe wisdom’s golden sheaves,

when youthful hopes and joys lie dead,

like fallen, wither’d leaves.

The closing scene – deep Winter’s gloom –

the short and feeble breath,

dim eye, and failing limb foreshow

the near approach of death;

and glimpses of the future life

rise to the spirit’s sight,

the sun-streaks of a glorious morn,

or shades of dismal night.

Henry senior was briefly a pupil at the local Giggleswick Grammar School which is celebrated in his nostalgic poem My Comrades recalling the daily school ritual:

Where are ye, comrades of the golden time?

Ah! Dead, or, scattered wide,

ye dwell in many a land and many a clime;

and no renewal comes of boyhood’s prime

to place us side by side.

Below King Edward’s statue we stood oft,

until the morning bell.

By young hands swung within its tower aloft,

sent over dusty road and dewy croft

its far-resounding knell.

Then to their desks the boys and masters went,

and late ones, by the stair,

till prayers were finished, stood with ears attent;

that work sped on till all in silence bent

at evening’s parting prayer.

Henry Lea Twisleton junior’s poems – a taster

The book ends with poems by Tom Twisleton’s son Henry Lea (1879-1946) who followed his uncle out to New Zealand as documented in Thoughts of a Poor Bush Farmer:

The far lands beckoned to us,

they whispered on the breeze,

we bade adieu to England’s home,

and sailed across the seas.

A stormy passage then was ours,

wildly the billows toss,

until at last we reach our goal,

beneath the Southern Cross.

These poems have a hymn book look about them since most are four liners and they refer quite often to God. They are less varied in style than those of the other Twisletons.

Henry Lea junior speaks nostalgically of the loss of a sense of history felt deeply by the colonial pioneers in Shades of the Past:

I love New Zealand’s lovely isle,

where now my lot is cast.

But oh! I long to feel again

the spirit of the past.

Here bounteous Nature spreads around

her charms with lavish hand,

but nothing speaks of ancient times

as in the old Homeland.

New Zealand pioneers were nonetheless caught up with the international conflicts that are the great markers of the history of the twentieth century, as we read in To the Sons of Empire:

Hail to the sons of Empire

who rose with one accord

when war’s loud summons shook the world

to check the savage horde,

fierce ravishers of peaceful lands

by vain ambitions driven,

who sought dominion of the world;

their crimes still ring to heaven.

Henry’s poems speak of the impact of the worldwide recession of the early twentieth century, as in The Banker reaps the Harvest:

The farmer toils from morn till night,

he uses every hour of light.

He ploughs the fields, and sows the seed

to satisfy the banker’s greed –

the banker reaps the harvest.

The farmer toils with sweating brow,

he shears the sheep and milks the cow;

he hopes in time for some return,

but interest swallows all he earns –

the banker reaps the harvest.

In times like these, it is but fair,

that bankers should the burden share.

They should be made reduce their rates,

and help the farmer in his straits –

and share with him the harvest

Summary

The Twisleton poets will remain significant for Tom’s capturing in verse of the important Craven Dialect of English evident in that part of Yorkshire to this day. 

The celebrated poems of Tom Twisleton provide a picture of Settle and its surrounds and the beauty of the Dales. They document  village life and customs in the nineteenth century, as well as domestic life, encouraging its cultivation through Christian values and more especially the temperance cause. 

The two Henrys poems speak again of the beauty of nature. They witness the pioneering spirit that went with them from Craven to New Zealand to live there once again off the land and what they missed about their Homeland. Their writings touch on the global conflicts and economic challenges of the early twentieth century.

The Revd Dr John F Twisleton 6th June 2011