Aug 312012

By Bob Smith.

I weel myn o the hairst time
Wi its golden quilts o corn
Faither sayin if the wither huds
We’ll get stairted cuttin the morn 

The chatter o the binder blades
As fowk warked till it wis dark
The exasperation on faither’s face
If the knotter it widna wark 

Wi shaifs o corn aneath each airm
Ye set up raws o stooks
If they werna deen jist richt
Ye got lots o funny looks 

Fin the stooks war ready
For them tae be teen in
Again ye warked till the dark
Ti stop afore wid hae been a sin

I myn o faither biggin’ rukks
Ye wid find hard tae match
He took great pride in seein them
Tapp’t aff wi a layer o thatch

I ken the combine it is faister
In the parks it fair flees aroon
Bit ye’ve lost aa the freen’ship
Gyaan aboot fin I wis a loon  

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2012
Image Credit © Elaine Andrews