Oop North

Ee but it’s grim oop North

With us “dark Satanic mills”

With clogs on us feet

And whippets in yard

And lads trudging up cobbled hills

To fetch t’loaf from village shop

And scoot back on thur bike

Maybe stop for a chat with Compo or Cleggy

Or Willy Eckerslike

Them Southerners’ve not got a clue

They a’nt got no idea

To be honest we’d rather they stayed where they are

We don’t want them coming oop here.

You can keep yer fancy cup-cakes

Parkin’s fine for me

You can keep your High-Costa Coffee

Cos we’ve got Yorkshire Tea

We don’t need none of yer Southern ways

Yer way too soft by far

With yer airy-fairy confectionery

What’s wrong with a Yorkie Bar?

They reckon t’South is cultured ‘n’ that

With theatres and concerts and shows

But they’ve not got the time to attend anything

That’s something that everyone knows

The South’s clogged up with traffic jams

Car horns blaring and hooting

Overdue busses that travel in threes

Oh, the joys of daily commuting!

We can’t be doing with charging around

We like a more leisurely pace

Them in the South has misunderstood

What’s meant by “the human race”

Oop here we’ve got humanity

We’ve still got time for caring

For wandering, strolling, stopping a while

For pondering and staring

For having a chat

For counting us blessings

For taking in countryside’s bounty

There’s nowhere else I’d rather be

Than in Yorkshire – God’s own county.

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