Living in Doncaster and the surrounding area has, and is, proving to be quite inspirational, both for the poet and the creative writer. Some of the people of Doncaster have put pen to paper to record for all eternity their thoughts and feelings, together with the emotions that are generated from living, working, and raising families within our remarkable town. There will be no particular order to start with but as the page grows and more poems are added I will try to index them alphabetically or whatever method seems best. Some of the poems could take inspiration from out-of-town places, however, hopefully you will be familiar with the areas from which the writer took inspiration.
I cannot think of a better place to start than with a short poem that was written just for me!
- Symeon’s Website
Here a potted history, Resolving many a mystery,
With style and artistry, Donny in the spotlight.
Birth dates and epitaphs, Tales revealing ancient paths,
All with splendid photographs, This is Symeon’s website – John Davison.
- Wentworth’s Pickit
That bonnie Prince, Charlie Stuart, [Sum seh touch’d, o plain doolalli,] Orl t do wi Scotch Culloden, But nivver wit Dearne Valley?
Ow can the bier link wit Prince, Or enni sort er friction, But tek thi sen t Hoober Stand, An study its inscription!
Built int yeer seventeen fotty eight, T commemorate grim Culloden, A terrible place two yeers bifoor, Woh grievously blud sodden.
Very last battle on British soil, Foh this t’brave Scots consigned, Egg’d on bi madcap Charlie Stuart, Agen Cumberland’s bloodlust mind.
‘Butcher’ Cumberland istri sez, Aftert sloorter red ‘n’ gory, If the must bi battles, then amen, But Culloden’s a ghastly story!
Thomas Wentworth worrint fray, An thowt the victory grand, So commissioned Henry Flitcroft, T build t’tower, Hoober Stand.
Ninety eight foot er local stone, In taperin triangular fashion, A victri sign this belvedere, A mark er Wentworth’s passion!
Perch’d up theer onner lofty ridge, Toppert Stand’s six hundred feet, Orlt Dearne Valley set art below, Like er jigsaw joined complete.
Forrer bird’s eye view near o far, Av er gander from Wentworth’s picket, Thall see orl tha wants from theer, Forrabart two quid er ticket! – John Davison
- Farewell Brodsworth Pit
Gone – The darkness and the grime, the heat, the dirt, and the slime.
Gone – The laughter, the mates and the hot canteen the showers, the lockers and the scrubbing clean.
Gone – The dust, the bile and the smell that makes you ill, the face , the gate, and the roof that can kill.
Gone – The union, the strikes, and the rage, the defeat, the humiliation, the wage
Gone – The Deputy , the Over-man, and the Boss, the union man, who was always at a loss.
Gone – The certainty, the dignity, and the grit, the friendship , the community, the Pit – Brian Gray
- Doncaster, past and present.
Woodcock, Bader, and Williams [Charlie] any amount of pubs to parley, tasty Nuttall’s oval Mintoes, ‘Parky’s’ Butterscotch, ‘Donny’s’ ‘rose’.
St George’s or Christ church to pray, Hexthorpe Flatts for a lovely day. In Roma n ruins dig archaeologists, plus a great Museum for biologists.
Harvester’s, and ‘Pilk’s’ Glass, sprotbrough Canal where barges pass. The infirmary where care is sure, picnics on the green Town Moor.
Sheard Binnington for a cosy carpet, the Corn Exchange and Cattle Market. Bemberg’s for a fabric warmer, that famous ‘bobby’ on Clock Corner.
An Open Market with stalls galore, with whatever folk were looking for. For jewellery here’s Samuels, and a Doss House once for ne’er-do-wells.
The Flying Scotsman and Mallard faster, both made here in Doncaster. Pegler’s Brass for shiny taps, the Army Stores suit sporting chaps.
Coal House to place fuel orders, Thomas Cook to cross foreign borders. At Robin Hood ‘planes gladly plying, and a Vulcan bomber proudly flying.
Uppadines to cheer cyclist’s hearts, their clock totally from cycle parts! The Tank Factory on three shift rotas, ‘Cromps’ turned out electric motors.
A Theatre where top class acts, and a Library to study those obscure facts. Wheatley Park, happy people boating, Travelling Fairs amusements toting,
Oh, those Fairs where merry youths, tried their luck in the Boxing Booths. ‘Donny’ is horses and St Leger, full of ‘winners’ the tipster’s ledger.
Here’s the iconic North Bridge, spanning The Plant’s curtilage. With so many Collieries round about, Coal was King of that no doubt.
A Power Station, coal-fired too, safe and secure was the miners view. A shopping Outlet tho’ fine it is, seems to lack the old bubble and fizz.
The By-Pass opened in ‘sixty one, hurt the town as trade moved on. Such as Woolworths, Marks and Spencers, against supermarkets no defences.
Mayors numerous as a field of daisies, down the years from Veylle to Davies. These some facts to muse upon, as ever quietly flows the Don! – John Davison.
- Calamity Dahn Cadeby Pit.
If in istri thar shud delve, Tek er luk at nineteen twelve,
Weer fate ordained wi sad decree, An med disasters cum in three.
Scott perished just weer i shudn’t, Titanic sank just weer it cudn’t,
Then t’calamity dahn Cadeby pit, Wi starkest tragedy they woh hit.
What terrible scenes on July nine, Around that tragic stricken mine,
Weer as wives an little ‘uns slept, Intert pit cold death ad crept.
Seventy nine were on the roll, Payin the dreadful price er coal,
Anguish an sorrer sadly shown, After Cadeby pit ad blown.
Ant sun woh shinin’, arter place, Ont sheer misery of each face,
Moor fittin’ on that nightmare day, If t’ skies woh cowld an grey.
Families waited ovverort, Foh news this awful day ad brort,
An faces the’d nivver see again, On that day at Cadeby Main.
Four generations nar av passed, Since that stunnin’ fiercesome blast,
Tho’ memries fade wi must nivver shelve, That July day in nineteen twelve – John Davison.
- The Cage Crash.
December twelfth in ‘thirty nine, It’s ‘Bull Week’ at the Hatfield mine,
Working all hours to boost their pay, For the glad approach of Christmas Day.
Fifty nine men and boys descending, And twelve men on the cage ascending
In number two shaft a half mile deep, This date with fate they had to keep.
The steam engine went into over-wind, An incident which is awfully defined,
As revolving rapidly out of control, And those poor lads in that black hole !
In seconds all their hopes were dashed, When at great speed the cages crashed,
One in the bottom, one at the top, Fate had gathered this tragic crop.
The west side cage precariously hung, To which twelve men in terror clung
Sped doctors and rescuers to the scene, In hospital waited a surgical team
To tend broken bones and dislocations, And eleven life-saving amputations
Yet in all this fearsome, hellish, reality, Miraculously there was but one fatality.
As for the saying, ‘life goes on’ These men agreed, every cheerful one.
– John Davison.
- Ould Thurnscer.
Ei up! A seh! Wot’s gooin on? Soon ould Thurnscer will bi gone,
A mean t’ould villij az wi knew it, Thaz got ter wunder wot’s appened to it?
Gone is t’ Pit ant Brickyard weeit, [Ooivver thowt az we wud seeit?]
Cinema flatten’d wit grand Baths Hall, Gone t’markit, evri bustlin’ stall;
Anoo ivver thowt sad day wud cum, The’d level er Colossus like t’famous Drum!*
Just thinkert shops nar knocked darn, Sellin owt tha wanted from beds ter barm,
Great spoort ont Welfare; runnin ‘n’ bikin’, Tennis, crickit an footy, owt ter thi likin’,
Boxin’ an billiards, dancin’ int Hop, Wi dint think forra minit orl this cud stop!
Sundi afternoons, ice cream in thi ‘and, Thad sit stately int Park lissnin tert Band,
Dotted ararnd worra dozen ould farms, Orl addin’ richness tert villij’s charms,
Levelled foh progress, the seh it’s foh that, Burra can’t elp thinkin it’s er villij gone flat!
O ar, modern development, that’s worrit’s foh, But Thurnscer’ll nivver bi worrit once woh !
– John Davison.
Three Skulls At Hickleton Church. A Memento Mori.
Sodi mis cras tibi, which means; Today for me. Tomorrow for thee.
- Hooray Fot Skulls.
A see t’three skulls at ickey church, Woh recently reinstated,
Appily grinning from their perch, Reight merrily woh they feted.
Ould Lord Halifax set ‘em theer, E cudn’t purrit kinder,
Ter mek mans frailty crystal clear, An wi thank im fot reminder.
Wi messij sharp, [it nivver dulls] Inscribed forrorl ter see,
T’day foh me, grin the skulls, An t’morrer tolls foh thee.
Fot century past the’ve bin er part, Ov Hickleton lore secure,
Til sum mischiefs toor um art, An scattered um rarnd flooer.
Like t’Phoenix the’ve bin raised, An ristoored in t’ lych gate wall,
Orlt folk concerned must bi praised, And hooray fot skulls annorl.
– John Davison.
- If Thaz Yorksher.
Wen thaz darn sum forran street, Anon strange ground thaz put thi feet,
An tha meets er bloke weer Yorksher voice, Dunt it mek thiart rejoice !
Wi noe to uthers it sounds ser queer, Burrits like music on thy tykes ear,
So nivver ang thiedd in shame, Thi Yorksher tung tha shud acclaim,
The’s nowt er matter wi thi intellect, Bi proud er thi Yorksher dialect !
– John Davison.