by Rachel Dunn
This Yorkshire Lass is from Batley, a fact of which I’m proud
It makes me feel quite special, like I stand out from t’ crowd
It’s a shoddy town, that’s filled wi’ dark soot-covered mills
And my once young, spindly legs, ne’er cared much for its hills
Its folk are proper northern, and of the truth they ain’t afraid
They’re definitely the sort who call a spade a spade
As a bairn you could smell Foxes Biscuits, wafting through air
And a bag of broken biscuits you could get from any market stall on t’ square
On weekends I’d see me Grandma, she lived off Soothill Lane
She allus made me fat n bread and told me “not to be so vain!”
In never ending summers, we’d spend afternoons at cricket
I didn’t pay much attention, less Soothill got a wicket
In winter we’d watch snooker on t’ telly in black n white!
Or have pie n peas in t’ smallest café, by ‘eck that space were tight
Better still we’d go watch best team in t’ world – up hill at Mount
We’d stand there cold and frozen, at Ref we’d scream and shout
There ne’er seemed right much to do in me teenage years
We’d spend us time on street corners, drinking cider or beers
Suppose I started suppin’ young; it’d make a Social Worker shiver
Ah, it never did me no harm – though I can’t speak for me liver!
Hours of me mis-spent youth in the Vic at Hick
Playing songs on juke box, me money allus went too quick
Tap room filled with REAL men, downin’ pints of Tetley Bitter
No doubt their wives at ‘ome, makin’ Sunday Dinner
But those days have bin n gone and I’ve travelled far n wide
But a place as fine as Batley, well I simply cannot find
Though after all I’ve said, I should get to St Marys for confession
Cos I were born in Dewsbury, and me Mams from chuffin’ Wigan!