Saying it in rhyme

Amateur poets abound. And, it seems they always have.

Taking a crack at penning poetry to reflect life – and death - in your town and village has for centuries occupied our forefathers.

Here we look at one poet’s thoughts of one of the best known streets in Hull and at the fishing grounds known as the Dogger Bank.

WHITEFRIARGATE

Up from the Bridge to Silver Street,
Up Whitefriargate and down,
To every Hull born woman,
This constitutes “The Town.”
They come from shouting Hessle Road,
Or Garden Village peace,
Be they well-meaning Weslyans,
Or known to the police.
Come they from the slums and New George Street,
Or shady Avenue,
Be they the cream of Newland Park
Or West Street Irish stew.
They must each walk up Whitefriargate,
To Silver Street and down
For female charms must be displayed
Where better than “The Town.”
And from the bridge to Silver Street,
Up Whitefriargate and down,
Is just as much a slave mart
As any Arab town.


DOGGER BANK

The Dogger Bank is hard on us
As has to fish the winter through,
When icy sleet comes tumbling down,
When hands are numb and faces blue
I’d rather face the Dogger’s sleet
Than spend my days in Scarboro’ Street.

The Iceland coast is hard and bleak,
It shouts no welcome to the sea,
It kills a lot o’ trawlermen,
Yet it is more than home to me:
I’d rather die there than I’d greet
As home those huts in Scarboro’ Street.

The Faroe Isles, the cold White Sea, Long days of work and nights of toil,
They are not full of kids and dogs
And carts collecting foul night soil,
Send me to sea, I’m feared I’d meet
A nat’ral death in Scarbro’ Street.

*Taken from Rhymes of the Hull Streets by Maurice Philips (Sherratt and Hughes, Manchester, 1923).

Written by The Editor - 14/03/2001 15:49:18

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