Station Road
Mosborough
Sheffield
Dear Reader,
I hope you will find these Poems profitable and interesting. I am very sorry I cannot afford to sell them at a cheaper rate. Having had only a few copies printed has caused them to be very expensive.
I am
Your humble servant, THE AUTHOR.
MOSBORO’
Dear old Mosboro’ it’s the place that I love best
Dear old Mosboro’ it’s the first the rest
There’s Piece Style and the Pingle, Bridle and o’er Flat
Hanging Lea and down Sammy’s
Then you’re on the Holbrook track
You can go Halfway and up the Hollow
Windmill if you like
And there’s hundreds more down wood bottoms I’m sure.That’s given thousands delight.
There’s been “Poole’s” “Wells” and “Swallow”
Kings and Queens galore
Fourteen or fifteen Publics
And that’s quite plenty I’m sure
And many well-known characters
Not forgetting “Lucky Bill” “Jabez”, “Luke”
“Jude” and skill
And if you have been this run
There’s no place under the sun
Like “Mosboro” I’m sure.
MR GEORGE FOSTER – DIED 13-03-1909
He was a learned, quiet, unassuming man
Often sought for, for advice
He always gave a helping hand
And seldom failed to give suffice
But when he laid his pen down
It’s sad to relate
There isn’t one come forward
To take poor George’s place,And when they laid poor George to rest
The fate of all mankind
Many a one is better off
For the work he did behind
I hope he’s reaped his harvest full
It’s a thing we can’t debate
and when we cross the border
I hope we find the “Open Gate”.
MR RICHARD DAVIES
The late Mosboro’ Schoolmaster. Died 19-01-1901A Welshman was he.
Only short in statute
But in temper top of tree,
He used to shout and shout again,
You big Don-key.
But when I come to reason now,
You must all with me agree
He had every reason for doing so
With scholars such as these.
There was “Bon” and “Bull” and “Slabs” and “Tupps”
Real Darbyshire ones too
And many more passed out before
I must include myself too.
It’s hardly fair to mention names
But I think they will forgive me all the same
The currant trees in his garden
Grew something more than fruit.
I for one can vouch for that
They’ed knock dust out of your suit
And “Josey Rose’s” orchard
Was where the Church now stands.
And many a one for being inside
Had a couple on his hands
And Thompsons field across to Rece Style,
Was very handy too.
But woe betide if Thompson spied
You had some running to do
And as we grew up to manhood
And did understand.
Many shook the old “Master”
Warmly by the hand
But now he’s long since gone to rest
Which we all must do some day.
No one knows the hour nor when
But we know we can’t say nay
And as I read these few line through
If flashes through my mind.
No matter what’s been said or done
Spare the rod
And spoil the child.
MR J. J. CLAYTON – Died 6-01-1921
A very enterprising man was he.
He started the ginger beer trade
In a very small degree.
He set about his business did J.J.
And with patience and perseverance.
Soon made his way.
He started with a saucepan on the fire
And gradually got higher and higher.
First one dray then two then three
And his warehouse was like a hive of bees
All the Statons’ his brother-in-laws
Came to work for him.
‘William, Wilfred, George, Sam and Ralph
And his business grew at a tremendous pace
In fact he set up in another place
Both near and far around
And you could see J.J. Name in many a town.
He was fond of Music
And once raised a village band
to keep a thing going like that at Mosboro’
Well? You have to be in to understand
He was Wesleyan Chapel Organist
Many, many years, while speaking of Music.
I must here just relate,
That his nephew Dr J. Frederic Staton,
Was bred and born in Mosboro’ Town.
Mr J.J. By this time was riding at his ease
And to his name they attached the letters C.C.
He was a jovial little man
And liked a bit of spree,
In fact if I remember right
He used to umpire for the M.C.C.,
I have often heard him talk of the exploits
They had at the week-end.
And laugh and chuckle with glee
While telling them to his friends
But now I think most of the Old Team “bowled Out”
No arguments, none whatever
“The Umpire’s” decision (Final).
Now poor J.J. Has gone to his last resting place,
Which all must do sooner or late,
He left the earth a better place
For his being on it.
MR SAMUEL WRIGHT ROTHERHAM – Died 24-03-1937
A noted Mosboro’ Farmer’s only son,
His father gave him a good education
To fit him for a situation
He could hold an argument and keep cool
I suppose from the lessons he learnt at school
He know what he was saying.
A very concientious man was he
Fond of his gun and like a bit of spree,
Mark Kirkby and him down the Woodside
Had many a good day and more beside,
He was a good shot and they all knew that
If anything got up it was soon knocked flat.
Alas one day Father Time came with his scythe,
And took his wife and left him with five,
Four sons and a daughter.
He Struggled on and supplied the goods,
And his dutiful daughter did all she could,
Until the sons grew up and all had homes of their own.
And then there was only him and his daughter at home,
They carried on as happy as could be,
Until one day they took him away in agony,
They patched him up but only for a while,
Then they took him again, but it was all in vain,
The “Doctor’s skill” against “His Master’s will”.
MR FRANK DAWES – Died 17-02-1938
A methodical man was he,
Always up and doing
When he had no need to be,
Everything had to be
To time and place,
If it wasn’t you would hear his tongue,
More than saying grace.
He was a determined, self-willed man,
No putting off or I will if I can,
When he said it, it had to be?
Just plain man to man always was he,
And shrewd in all his dealings
No matter whatever they be.
He was quiet, sober and industrial too,
And went to his Chapel as more should do.
A good benefactor was he
The Wesleyans will miss him evidently,
He lives a good age four score and four,
And then the “knock” came to his door,
All his earthly sufferings were o’er.
To some it comes early
And some it is late,
But when it does come to us
I hope we are (already)To pass through “The Gate”.
MR WALTER ROSE
A big and hefty man is he, Unkempt at times he appears to be,
Three score and ten with ten years grace,
He’s run the race but what a pace.“John Barley Corn” and him are friends,
And even might be in the end,A man of strong and iron will,
To bamboozle him was brooding ill.
But with all his faults for who has none,
He’s a tenderer spot as anyone,It is no idle boast to say,
He is most generous in his way.
None are appealed to him in vain,
If in dire need he eased their pain.
He doesn’t boast any breed or sect.
But gives his quota with the next.
In fact if all had given as he,
The Churches would more flourishing be,
there’s one big gift it stands out still,
A piece of land given to Spinkhill.
Again poor Walter has lost his wife.
A good old soul.
Trudging from morn till night,
Making things cosy, warm and bright.A thoughtful woman,
Stern but kind
And many will miss her.That’s left behind.
He will miss her very much I’m sure,
For she was his right hand.
Yea even more,
But after all he must abide.
God is good and does preside,
There’s one thing more I must relate,
Where he crosses the boarder,
I hope he’ll find theOpen Gate.
ALDERMAN EDWIN PEAT
Alderman Peat,
He is Jaber’s son,
He has run a good race,
Since first he begun.
It was uphill at first,
With obstacles and pitfalls indeed,
But with pernicious pluck and perseverance,
He did succeed.
Now at the top and riding with ease,
Long may he continue
Ere comes his decease,
There’s one great redeeming feature.
He has never forgot,
The weary and lame he passed,
Struggling to get to the top,
The annual treat he gives to the poor.
It’s worth more than it costs
I am certain and sure,
To see faces lit up,
Though wrinkled and old.
To Teddy I’m sure is far better than gold.
Now Teddy you know is not a young man,
If you sit down and think you’ll find,
He’s lived the allotted span.
Long may he have good health,
And keep on living,
More power to his purse,
And more pleasure in giving.
MR ALBERT EDWARD STATON
Albert E Staton
He’s old Statch’s first son,
A chip of the old block,
When all’s said and done.
I think he was called after
The late Prince of Wales,
But he’s a king
When it comes to telling tales.
I have never seen nowt like him,
For humour and wit,
And he seems to apply it,
Just where it fits.
You can see a group of men standing,
All down in the dumps,
And when Albert comes on,
He drops them a trump.
You have only to mention Wednesdays,
And you have got him on run,
Why man he’s an encyclopaedia,
Since first they begun.
You can ask him a question,
And if he doesn’t know,
Then hunt up your records,
You will find it isn’t so.
Poor Albert you know,
Got lamed in the pit,
But he gets on nicely,
With a walking stick.
He doesn’t complain much,
Though obviously in pain,
It shows he’s some grit,
To carry on again.
So, carry on Albert,
Good Cheer and good Luck,
A better scribe than me,
Why, he could write a book.
So, remember the old adage,
It’s worth quoting again,
Alleviate all suffering,
And don’t cause pain.
For those that bring sunshine to others,
Cannot keep it from themselves.
MR WILLIAM TURNER
There are three or four of that name,
Hence little Bill,
To distinguish the same.
Now Bill you know
He’s a shrewed little man,
I want to emphasize that
As much as I can.
When you are talking to him he says “Ah”,
And his face breaks into a smile,
You can tell what he’s thinking
At the back of his mind.
He was brought up in the old school,
With a tutor second to none,
His dad was a real old topper,
From Peppers to honest John.
I remember him courting their Lucy,
Somewhere about Little Hill,
She lived with her granny “Polly Webster”
A gradely old lady indeed.
Now Bill is getting well on in his sixties,
And it’s time to go as you please,
I’m glad to know he can do it
And be sure of his bread and cheese.
I know it is alright to tell folks,
But I’ll admit it is hard sometimes,
To always keep your face toward the “Sunshine”
And the “Shadow” will fall behind.
MR JOHN CROFTS
Mr John Crofts,
Was an athletic of local fame,
Track running I think,
Was his favourite game.
He wasn’t very stout,
But plenty of pluck,
With the heart of a lion
When nearing the post.
I think he would have run all out
Before suffer defeat,
The other fellows knew it,
If it came to a squeak.
There was many a race won
Before they got on the mark,
When “Luke” came along
With sportsmen of every kind,
It didn’t matter what the game was:
They could fall into line.
There was “Crumpy”, “Cobbler” and “Yank”,
“Henry” “Hugh” and “Tom” Plant”,
“Tommy King”, Tommy Bird”, and “Luke”, Johnny Waller,”
“Billy Brocklehurst” and “Benson”.
These are just a few mentioned haphazard,
There are lots more besides,
There’s no game you can mention
But what one could oblige.
If it came to an argument,
It was a walk-over for Yank,
With Jack hardening him on,
You couldn’t fine two to lick from Mosboro; to London.
Now Jack has gone in retirement,
but I think he has worked overtime
I hope he lives years to enjoy it,
Before he as to toe the line.
Now Jack old land,
Your running all o’er,
Put your togs and pumps away,
You won’t need them any more.
You have qualified for the final,
And when your race is run,
I hope you will hear “The Master” say,
Well done.
MR FRED TURNER
He’s a typical man,
He wanders home to Mosboro’
When ever he can.
I am with him there,
I’m bound to relate,
Like the needle to the magnet,
There the heart does gravitate.
He’s been both sides of the hedge,
And know all the games,
To pay due demands
And receive just the same.
But now Father Time
Is asserting his claim;
We can’t postpone that,
What ever’s the game.
He has steered his ship,
through tempest and storm.
But now alas
The first mate is gone.
The crew’s all grown up
And let the ship,
May he sail smoothly on
Until the journey is done.
Then anchor safe
In his “Father’s home”.
FAREWELL
Dear old Malthouse,
We have got to part at last,
Thou art condemned to be pulled down,
It’s a shame to come to that.
Thou hast sheltered me and mine,
for over fifty years,
And when I come to look back,
I am nearly brought to tears.
I have spent my happiest days with thee,
From school -days up to now,
I have also had the sad ones,
Yea, the saddest of the sad.
I have bought thee many and many a time,
And even now thou are not mine,
If it had been so I would have fought for thee,
Yea fought with might and main.
To see if thou could be reprieved
And let us both remain,
but as that is not so,
And we cannot prove nor fend.
However, I should have liked,
To stay with thee to the end.
MR FRANK BUXTON
The youngest of Mr Johnny Buxton’s six sons,
Six stalwarts to be proud of,
And they were by their mother, yea every one,
I can see the old lady now giving us good advice,
We thought we didn’t need it then,
From one that had travelled the road before,
But we have found out mistake out now,
As we are nearing the shore.
Frank and I have been friends all our lives,
We have played together all up and down.
And at that job no better have I found,
No not in all the rounds,
You can read in the Old Book,
Praise Him upon the well tuned symbols etc,
He has got a gift the best talent on earth,
There’s many a one that would give talent on earth,
There’s many a one that would give a fortune for that,
In fact some have made it,
That’s not in the same class.
I will quote the Old Book again,
“Hiding your light under a bushel,”
It’s a “pity” a “shame” and a “sin”,
When you come to look and realise the thing,
What is and what might have been,
Excuse me Frank if I seem unkind,
It’s gone on the paper because I had it in Mind,
I must curb the pen, not let it run away with me like that,
I hope you will forgive me for that.
I cannot leave off just as it is or
The reader will think the writer a saint,
I am far from that my friends,
I’m only a poor miserable sinner,
So I will quote the Old Book once again,
Take the beam out of your own eye.” etc,
“Let him that hath no sin cast the first stone”,
And so we must struggle on until our race is run,
And then I hope we shall hear the “Master” say
Well done.
MR ARTHUR GREEN
He is old Zenus’ son,
As much difference between themselves
As beer and rum.
You can see him most mornings
Bucket in hand,
Gathering manure
To put on his land.
He is known to the children
As “Fatty” by name,
If you said Mr Green
They’d think you were insane.
Poor old Fatty you know
Got lamed in the pit,
But he gets along nicely
With carrying a stick.
He is a sly and cunning old boy
Don’t you know,
He stands in the road sideways
And show the white of his eye.
Then into his inside pocket he dives,
He looks up and down
“Old Crack” told me this,
To see if anyone noticing it.
It’s there where the notes are,
That is quite plain,
You can tell by the way he fastens
His waistcoat up again.
But after all he’s a genial man,
The children all love him,
But he plagues them.
If he can.
When he meets them he greets them.
With words such as these,
I don’t like chocolate
I like “Ice Cream”.
Good morning John, any money,
And that’s the way he carries on
Until the week end.
And starts on Monday all over again.
IN AFFECTIONATE REMEMBRANCE
Oh is she gone, for ever-gone,
And left us here to weep,
Till called by death to follow her,
And in the grave to sleep.
But since thou could no longer stay,
To cheer us with thy Love,
We hope to meet with thee again,
In yond bright realms above.
Yet should we fear to meet there,
Since though no pledge is given,
Although thou as left us here to mourn,
Thou hast a place in heaven.
So early called to meet thy doom
With such a little time,
For to prepare to meet thy God,
And with his Saints to shine.
We thank the Lord some time before
That very fatal day,
Thou had prepared to meet thy God
I now and can safely say.
In mercy Lord we hope that thou,
Thou chastening rod did send,
And grant that those bereft of her,
May find in thee a friend.
May he who hears the ravens cry,
And feed their ravenous brood.
Protect and guide thy husband dear,
Till he may be removed.
Thy son that he may be preseved,
From danger grief and harm,
Till call by Christ with him to reign,
And wear a starry crown.
That he may too a warning take
At mother’s sudden death,
And be prepared when called hence,
To leave this fleeting earth.
Her pains were great we are quite aware,
But Jesus thought it best,
To take her in his blessed arms.
To his eternal rest.
The loss of a father is very great,
But the loss of a mother is more,
But the loss of Christ is such a loss,
That no one can restore.
Thus while you live, live unto God,
That when you come to die,
Your soul may live with Jesus Christ,
And reign above the sky.
LOST
SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SUN RISE AND SUN SET
TWO GOLDEN HOURS
EACH SET WITH SIXTY DIAMOND MINUTES
NO REWARD IS OFFERED
AS THEY ARE LOST FOR EVER
Credit to H C Havenhand – typed up by Linda Taylor March 2018
