A poem probably only understood by Geordies.
Doon Wor Street - 1956
There’s a lot gans on along wor street, it’s a playgroond for wuz ahll,
With ganseys piled fer goalposts it’s the pitch fer wor footbahll.
Or wuh chalk some wickets on a wahll, an’ with a wooden bat,
Wuh’re playin’ for the Ashes, wi' them Ozzies on the mat.
Wuh hear the cahll o’ “Rag a’ Bone”, as wi' a clip an’ clop,
That horse n’ cart rolls doon wor street, an’ makes it’s weekly stop.
Ah hev a pile o' paypahs an’ some decent cotton rag,
So ah swap them fer a goldfish in a little plastic bag.
Ah just hope that this one’s healthy, an’ is from a robust breed,
As the last one lasted just one week, then floated there, stone deed.
As ah’m wahlkin’ from that wagon, ah hear a noisy ploppin’,
That horse has done his business, as manure it’s ahlwas toppin’ .
So ah dash in fer a shovel, even though that stuff just reeks,
Me Granda sez it’s porfect fer his rhubarb an’ his leeks.
Last week wuh had a weddin’ up at numba forty-six,
An’ the bridegroom did his hoyoot, but he played some dorty tricks,
He had wahrmed up ahll those pennies that he threw doon on the street,
So when wuh tried te pick them up, wuh dropped them with the heat.
Me Grandma says he ahlwas woz a funny sort of lad,
An’ deein’ that fer hoyoots could bring him luck that’s bad.
It would sorve him reet is what ah say, me fingahs are still sore,
An’ ah didn’t get a penny, an’ that horts wuh even more.
On Sat’da it’s the pop man, wi' those bottles ahll a ‘clink,
He leaves some on wor doorstep, where ah tek a crafty drink.
There’s dandelion an’ burdock, that’s a treat ye hev te savour,
An’ ah do like ice cream soda, which hez such a lovely flavour.
There’s orangeade an’ Tizer, ahll just waitin’ for a taste,
Ah can tell yez ahll fer certain not a drop will gan te waste.
Wah’re blessed with smashin’ neighbours, an’ wuh watch each othas’s backs,
There’s nee burglaries or muggin’s here, that helps wuh te relax.
And if there’s evvah any trouble, why wuh need nee Police caboose,
As the hord lads in wor neighbourhood just sort it oot in hoose.
Next door is Mrs. Walton, shuz a canny sort o’ soul,
Her Man’s on long torm sickness, an’ hor son is on the dole.
Shuh often knocks on Grandma’s door, te ‘borrow’ somethin’ new,
Each week shuh needs Domestos, an’ a bag o’ dolly blue
Me Grandma ahlwus helps hor oot, refusal would be mean,
“Just a cupful o’ Domestos, please.. te keep wor netty clean”.
One week me Grandma, strange enough, ran oot o’ this herself,
Surprised te find that there was nee Domestos on hor shelf.
So roond she gans an’ gives a knock on Mrs Walton’s door,
An’ asks for some Domestos, like shuz nevvah done before.
That shameless Mrs. Walton looks me Gran reet in the eye,
An’ sez : “Ah’m ahwful sorry, it’s a thing ah nevvah buy...”
An’ when me Gran gets back inside, hor face is wet wi' tears,
Shuh tells us ahll shuh hasn’t laughed as much as this in years.
Ah’ve happy memories o' wor street, a livin’, breathin’ place,
Where people came together just te share that earthly space.
Though ahll of wuh were pooah, with nee money there te spend,
Wor true an’ priceless riches lay wi' family an’ friend.
Those days have gone, as ah look back, with mem’ries bitter-sweet,
Ah count mesel’ a lucky lad, te grow up on wor street.
Doon Wor Street - 1956
There’s a lot gans on along wor street, it’s a playgroond for wuz ahll,
With ganseys piled fer goalposts it’s the pitch fer wor footbahll.
Or wuh chalk some wickets on a wahll, an’ with a wooden bat,
Wuh’re playin’ for the Ashes, wi' them Ozzies on the mat.
Wuh hear the cahll o’ “Rag a’ Bone”, as wi' a clip an’ clop,
That horse n’ cart rolls doon wor street, an’ makes it’s weekly stop.
Ah hev a pile o' paypahs an’ some decent cotton rag,
So ah swap them fer a goldfish in a little plastic bag.
Ah just hope that this one’s healthy, an’ is from a robust breed,
As the last one lasted just one week, then floated there, stone deed.
As ah’m wahlkin’ from that wagon, ah hear a noisy ploppin’,
That horse has done his business, as manure it’s ahlwas toppin’ .
So ah dash in fer a shovel, even though that stuff just reeks,
Me Granda sez it’s porfect fer his rhubarb an’ his leeks.
Last week wuh had a weddin’ up at numba forty-six,
An’ the bridegroom did his hoyoot, but he played some dorty tricks,
He had wahrmed up ahll those pennies that he threw doon on the street,
So when wuh tried te pick them up, wuh dropped them with the heat.
Me Grandma says he ahlwas woz a funny sort of lad,
An’ deein’ that fer hoyoots could bring him luck that’s bad.
It would sorve him reet is what ah say, me fingahs are still sore,
An’ ah didn’t get a penny, an’ that horts wuh even more.
On Sat’da it’s the pop man, wi' those bottles ahll a ‘clink,
He leaves some on wor doorstep, where ah tek a crafty drink.
There’s dandelion an’ burdock, that’s a treat ye hev te savour,
An’ ah do like ice cream soda, which hez such a lovely flavour.
There’s orangeade an’ Tizer, ahll just waitin’ for a taste,
Ah can tell yez ahll fer certain not a drop will gan te waste.
Wah’re blessed with smashin’ neighbours, an’ wuh watch each othas’s backs,
There’s nee burglaries or muggin’s here, that helps wuh te relax.
And if there’s evvah any trouble, why wuh need nee Police caboose,
As the hord lads in wor neighbourhood just sort it oot in hoose.
Next door is Mrs. Walton, shuz a canny sort o’ soul,
Her Man’s on long torm sickness, an’ hor son is on the dole.
Shuh often knocks on Grandma’s door, te ‘borrow’ somethin’ new,
Each week shuh needs Domestos, an’ a bag o’ dolly blue
Me Grandma ahlwus helps hor oot, refusal would be mean,
“Just a cupful o’ Domestos, please.. te keep wor netty clean”.
One week me Grandma, strange enough, ran oot o’ this herself,
Surprised te find that there was nee Domestos on hor shelf.
So roond she gans an’ gives a knock on Mrs Walton’s door,
An’ asks for some Domestos, like shuz nevvah done before.
That shameless Mrs. Walton looks me Gran reet in the eye,
An’ sez : “Ah’m ahwful sorry, it’s a thing ah nevvah buy...”
An’ when me Gran gets back inside, hor face is wet wi' tears,
Shuh tells us ahll shuh hasn’t laughed as much as this in years.
Ah’ve happy memories o' wor street, a livin’, breathin’ place,
Where people came together just te share that earthly space.
Though ahll of wuh were pooah, with nee money there te spend,
Wor true an’ priceless riches lay wi' family an’ friend.
Those days have gone, as ah look back, with mem’ries bitter-sweet,
Ah count mesel’ a lucky lad, te grow up on wor street.