Wakefield Museums and Castles

A Pageant show was made in 1933. June, to be exact
Entertaining the masses of substantial degree
But I’m not going to quite open it like that.

My spirit of Wakefield decided to visit this small city and how it came to be
The jewel in the best county, of course I am biased
Being a lass from Wakey, near Leeds
We are going to visit some of the things that make Wakefield so spectacular
Wacas field, Wachfeld, Wachefelt – old English for ye old Traveller
To this bustling place of trades of corn, coal, textiles, wool
Marked 1086 in the Domesday Book, and now a metropolitan borough full
A formidable cathedral with its magnificent tower and spire
Commands its presence in the centre
Nine hundred years of history, it’s an absolute belter
And the flow of river Calder rides under the stone bridge where the small but mighty Chantry Chapel lives
Round the Bullring we go, down by Wood Street and by the Town Hall we know
Over to Wakefield One, where Sir Attenborough opened the Waterton
Exhibitions, artists, and galleries galore, the prestigious Barbara Hepworth and Henry Moore.
Painting the town red… speaking of which
If you listen carefully, you will hear the rantings of the Black Horse Poets in the Red Shed, whilst getting gobby in the lobby in 1867 if writing is your hobby
Who has done… The Westgate run? Start at Redoubt and get to The Hop for ales to sup
Rooftop Gardens, Casanovas, Wakey Wines, 3 VKs for a fiver in Buzz nightclub
Black Rock pub, Inns of Court, Henry Boons, The Black Swan – the oldest one -  to pour you a beer
We glide through Thornes Park, Newmillardam, Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Pugney’s, Horbury Lagoon – it’s like lake Windermere
Standing on top of ye 12th Century Sandal castle, you can see Jane McDonald’s house from here
A sight to behold, well not Jane’s house, no offence Jane, but a War of the Roses to end them all, even though it’s just a few walls… now. But lest we forget the men fallen in that battle spot but let’s face it Yorkshire pudding is better than hot pot
The Grand Old Duke of York he had ten thousand men
He marched them up to the top of the hill and asked
‘Where are we again?’
The Spirit of Wakefield said those two immortal words
that only people of Wakefield would converse, understand, and speak
- at some point in their life indeed
Wakefield, where’s that?
NEAR LEEDS (just say near Leeds)

Wakefield’s massive though  init? All Five Towns too. Least seven ex council estates full of diversity - of ages, races, culture, and community
Portobello, Lupset, Flanshaw, Plumpton, Peakcock, Eastmoor, Belle Vue, Agbrigg, Horbury.
All the Thorpes (they like their thorpes don’t they?), all the Gates
Alverthorpe, Kettlethorpe, Wrenthorpe, Kirkthorpe, Milnthorpe – Thorpe Audlin!
Westgate, Kirkgate, Kirkhamgate, Carr Gate
Slow down Spirit says, slow right down, in fact we have almost stopped as we are stuck in traffic on Asdale road once again! This is not ideal.
But eventually you’d get to the National Coal Mining Museum with a pit for real, rich with history of our mining towns
Not forgetting all our railway viaducts for once getting around, industrial legacies.
Now our trains from Wakey will get you to London in a whizz!
Arriva has forty bus routes, Spirit, if you fancy catching the 148 but you can pay the fare
Take us by Heath Common, and see all the rides at the funfair
The old round shaped bus station with big fat columns inside, I remember those I tell Spirit
Made way for a new one to catch a ride
T’was near the old market hall, bustling and vibrant, cafes, butchers, greengrocers, sweet stalls
The Old Vicarage one of the oldest buildings, still stands tall when many a building has taken a fall
Including Stanley Royd, now Fieldhead Hospital resides, home to the Mental Health Museum and with all of us in mind
 
If you don’t like a Rhubarb fest, you might be a bit stuffed, as they stuff the stuff everywhere, in sarnies, in beer, in cakes, in pies.
The famous Pie Shop, where revellers go when they are pie-eyed
Like a garden centre spirit? Spoilt for choice here.
Hampsons, Carr gate and spring green nurseries cos we like a walk about, a day out paying for a plant that will prob die and themed plant pots in various sizes
That will eventually go to our quality tip to put the rubbish in like Castleford Tigers
Spirit of Wakefield loved all the drama and song, this city brought along!
From Long Division to Clarence Park Festivals, summer solstice and Art Walks, local creative spectacles  
We whizz through Drury Lane to the jewel in Wakey’s crown, glitzy Theatre Royal and Opera house, 130 years old this year, happy birthday dear!
Look closely enough in Happy Valley you see the notorious prison scenes with Sarah Lancashire
We cannot visit, Spirit, Cat A prison for bad crimes, and rumour has it, a mulberry bush rhyme.

Anyway…

Richard Harris roamed Wakefield with David Storey’s Sporting Life, a deep dark new wave movie of trouble and strife
Rock band The Cribs and Skinny Living, and speaking of singing…
Please Please Me warbled the Beatles in 1963 and we saw them standing there at the cinema of ABC
The spirit of Wakefield loved the Mecca Dance Hall, where they had a ball  -but now it’s eyes down
Reading the Wakefield Express, in print or online or listening to Rhubarb Radio of locals having a good time. News, entertainment, what’s on and sport
Ossett FC, Wakefield FC, Trinity Wildcats, Wakey Whirlwinds, according to sources sixteen tennis courts!
1837 the Chess club was born, Michael Denison and Derek Paffley tactical with pawns
You can hear the crowds scream as Neil Fox kicks the rugby ball high in the Wakefield Trinity sky
Harriers race around the Thornes Park track
We tune in to get feedback, about the Ref
From our Freedom of the City, Chris Kamara- unbelievable Jeff!

We whizz through Ings Road, well…that’s a lie, always traffic, so we may as well stop at BnM to grab a sack load of things we never intended to buy. ( Tent, trumpet, shampoo, and a themed potted plant)
The Ridings stands prominent opposite our colossal Cathedral
1983, this three-storey building dominated the scene, with cafes, and shops and modern looking lifts
Boots, and Primark and Marks and Spencer’s for gifts
The spirit shifts
Over to Trinity Walk, The Ridings’ younger sibling an open-air shopping centre, complete with arch
A place where Wakefield Pride begin their march
To show how proud we are of our community  - which brings
Me to our Community Foundations Unsung Heroes, who do marvellous things

Which takes us to the end of our tour spirit
What did you find in our brief snippet?

From battles, to trades, to industrial inventors
Creators, makers, inventors and collaborators
Wonderous architecture, museums, and castles
Community spirit that can never be shackled
Culture, sport, diversity, and support

Spirit satisfied he floats away with his rhubarb crumble
They say Waca or Waku is pretty, yet gritty
A smaller yet mighty champion city
Of all proud people, classes, races, masses
Who persevere, prosper and enshield

This ye old merrie city we call Wakefield.

We’re known for warmth and bladed wit,
being tough, with working grit,
but pits and industry now slashed
so some communities by-passed.
For many cash is tight
until it comes to weekend night
when “Westgate Run”
sees all life come…
And even if it’s threatening snow
to see some wearing winter clothes
you’d be hard pressed.
They gather to forget:
it’s time to drink and dream
on exotic and romantic themes.
Then queue for pie perfection;
comfort in the chill, or if suffering rejection.

There’s also theatre, archive, college, library;
museum, music, films, novels, poetry;
Chantry, Red Shed, Unity;
hockey, swimming, Rugby League.
We’ve rhubarb plucked by candle light;
succulent and candy-bright.
Cathedral is a worthy sight
with spire at tallest height.
And Waterton: explorer, preserver,
first nature reserver.
A history of thinkers:
from Robin Hood, to builders,
educators, explorers, Nellie Spindler.
Artist mates from this birthplace
grace the world’s most cultured space;
Hepworth in her gallery
and Moore, and more,
in wondrous base named “YSP”.
Blue plaques galore:
from architect to hero in the war.
And Portland Cement:
glue at centre of the firmament.
Once an inland port -
still a hub for transport.
Now, with arts, healthcare, gaol, and sport
there’s almost nothing we are short.
Plus, as shown by those on “Westgate Run”,
we’ve earned credentials for more sun!

No need to fly to LA 
Or do the Hollywood Walk of Fame 
Avoid the jostle and seedy shops of the Hollywood Boulevard 

Instead 

Take the bus or train to a city 
Under a northern sky 
Cradled by the Calder 
A city whose history is woven into every wall 
A city steeped in coal dust, stone, steel, and spires 
Where the subtle scent of wool may linger 
In empty mills 
Wakefield 
And you think it’s known for only rhubarb, Robin Hood, and rugby. And Peregrines? 

Think again 

Walk Wakefield’s pavement plaques 
Celebrate Wakefield’s stars 
Starting at the Bull Ring 
Walk our own city’s walk of fame 
Absorb the culture, the science, the sport 

From actors to authors to athletes 
From rugby to rock. From politics to pop 
From entertainers to explorers 
Songbirds to song writers to sporting heroes 
The makers and movers of Wakefield’s history 

John Godber 
Charles Waterton 
John Harrison, the clock maker (made famous by Del Boy in Only Fools and Horses) 
Castleford’s Henry Moore 
Barbara Hepworth 
The Cribs 
Neil Fox 
Jayne McDonald 
Stan Barstow 
Paul Sykes 
Kate Taylor 
Martin Frobisher 
David Topliss 
And more 

Sing along to the Cribs and Jayne 
Slide and tackle with Neil 

As you walk the Wakefield Walk of Fame 
Let your footsteps echo on pavements 
That knew their feet 
Pay tribute to those who loved and served 
Revisiting and remembering lost voices and stories  
That form the rich heritage, 
The history of this majestic city 
Wakefield.

A site to gather. 
Held softly, like flowers. 
To catch a deeper drift, 
propel a conscious shift. 
Stilled, to an antique pace, 
in upward-yearning space 
of bone-soaked stone and beam. 
With prayers, and dreams, 
steeple-chased as famous spire 
personifies desire 
to reach for what is rare 
beyond the grinding daily wear and tear. 
Then stoic beauty at our centre 
re-examined need to enter: 
re-defined its quest, 
that all might feel 
how music, art or words could heal. 
Could soar as bird through footless hall; 
and thrill, like light through windows 
onto jewel-dancing walls. 
With path to tread, a labyrinth - 
a thread to unique source 
within. 
A bright, contemporary role 
by which to reach the wider soul: 
to entertain, inform, create, 
so people in, 
or outside faith, 
stayed nourished by this place.

In 1888 Wakefield parish church, 
Became a cathedral and Wakefield became a City. 
Medieval history speaks, of a Saxon and Norman 
past, Lead windows, in coloured glass, painted by hand. 
Tells us bible stories, and its new, Oak Altar looks grand. 
So much more than bricks and mortar, Baptismal Font, and 
holy water. A Spire, the tallest in Yorkshire, for all to see, 
there’s none, higher. It’s our local gothic, glory. 
A splendid spiritual home, in wood and stone, its 
perpendicular dome, of skilled beauty, homage to ‘The 
Great Architect’s loving duty. Created by many Craftsmen, 
this most holy place. A Sundial, above a wrought iron gate. 
Filled with love and grace, wood and slate, and all the 
workmen's skill, standing proud, on Wakefield’s hill. 
Wakefield Cathedral, worthy of all praise, and 
poems penned. Offering peace, where we can always, 
talk, to God or Jesus or some other friend. Where a splendid 
Organ, stands its ground, resonates with perfect sound. 
Echoes on every aisle, a tale, told in all its stones, 
And it’s the heart of Yorkshire’s bones. 
The central tower, a reminder of times gone by. 
Steps lead to a casement, where we stand, and observe, 
an ever-changing sky. Oak beams cross, over ancient history, 
carved memories, mythical beasts and a green man. Where 
Carved Bosses, hang, high from Blue vaulted 
Ceilings, gives us folk, worshipful feelings. 
A maze, on newly restored floors, to walk a pilgrim’s 
journey upon, merges into wooden doors. And a new stone 
Font, White prayer candles, for those In Need of Comfort or 
Want. Ancient spirits hover, within, Pews, and Effigies’ 
Memorials to Yorkshire folk. Their Dedications, 
and a box, containing generous donations. 

The smell of old, mingling, a more modern skin. 
Of peregrine falcon, nesting, in, the eaves. In sight of 
newly planted trees. Watch each new day begin. In early 
morning light, and late each night. Sight and sound, the 
tick and tock, the noble face of a giant clock, the story, 
Campanologists tell, within the pealing of its bells. 
The sound of Angels, in those bells, in the heart 
Of Wakefield city dwells, wishing all the people good. Happy 
shoppers, who sit, and pray. And come, for a coffee, 
in its Atrium, the sanctified Sandstone and Blessed wood. 
Who stay, and listen to the Choir’s Heavenly tones, 
and take its Joy, back with them, to their humble homes.

A frieze of fiery shadows unlit by sun
Reflecting pale on emerald walls through yellow labyrinths of laburnum
By scented cedar, the moon newly hung on black slate roof
Stars like marble balls
A frieze of fiery shadows unlit by sun
Boudicca, she swears the nightingale has sung
From ancient bows in rosewood halls
Through yellow labyrinths of laburnum

Tales of warriors’ blood-stained woad and crimson long since dead
In a wilderness, history recalls
A frieze of fiery shadows unlit by sun
Lit fires, beacons should the Vikings come
Royal oaks where druids cursed Roman rabbles in Wakefield
Through yellow labyrinths of laburnum

Silenced now in their tombstones go unsung
Memories in warm earth, touched by rain as it falls
A frieze of fiery shadows unlit by sun
Through yellow labyrinths of laburnum

You’re all familiar with the tale of Robin Hood, aren’t you? Well, a little refresher. He was a bloke in green, stole from the rich, gave to the poor, and did some nifty tricks with a bow and arrow. 

And along with Robin Hood, you had blokes he hung around with like Little John – who was, errm, not so little – Will Scarlett, Friar Tuck and so on, and he loved that Maid Marian. Then there was the Sheriff of Nottingham, who he loved a lot less, shall we say. 

Although he wasn’t really the Sheriff of Nottingham. More on that later. 

So these stories and legends were told on. And on and on, by word of mouth, ink and paper, and film, until we get to today. 
And of course, we all know the place that Robin Hood came from. That’s right. 
Wakefield. 
What, you didn’t know that? Well, buckle your belts and get ready, as I let you all into the real truth behind the legend of Robin Hood. 

Robin Hood used to be a noble man, living in Sandal Castle back when it was a lot less of a ruin. You know, there was more about it than a bit of a rubble. Pretty ruin though. Anyway, there he lived, with his dad, until he went and joined the Crusades. When he got back, his dad, looking an awful lot like Brian Blessed, was betrayed and killed, and Robin, definitely NOT having the time of his life, was chased away to darker parts of Wakefield. Until he found himself in the forest. No, not the forest of Nottingham. But the forest of Wakefield. Or Thornes Park, as it’s now known. 

So there he was, all miserable and downtrodden, when he heard a booming voice: 
“Aye up lad, what’s wrong with ya? You’ve got a right monge on and no mistake.” 
Ah yes, it was Little John. And when Little John told him his name, Robin looked at him and said, “Are you, perfectly sure?” 
Little John gave one look to his merrie men around him and said, “What’s wrong with this posh loony, ‘are you sure?’ Ha ha!” 

So the two had a battle by the lake. You know the one. It often smells strongly of poo. Both used the best sticks they could find. 

“You think you’re better than me do you?” chided Little John. 
“No,” Robin smirked, “Just less wet.” 
“Wha?” said Little John, before ye old prophesy was fulfilled, and little John fell in the water, indeed getting wet. 

Soon they made up, Robin did a card trick that proved even more why he should be the leader of the merry men, and operations could begin. 

Up in Wakefield, Robin stole from all those richer places and people, you know the ones, and gave to the poor, and soon he caught the eye of the Sheriff of Wakefield. But he was never caught. He did catch however, the eye of Maid Marian, the prettiest lass in all of Wakey. 

“You’re lovely you,” she said to him one night on a date outside the famous pie shop. 
“I know,” he confirmed. 

So it was soon that Robin Hood and Maid Marian became an item, much to the distaste of the Sheriff. 
“I’ll get that Robin Hood,” he said. Plans were afoot. 

In the meantime, the gang was expanded with Friar Tuck from Wakey cathedral. And Will Scarlett, so called because he almost resembled the colour of rhubarb. 

Eventually, Maid Marian was kidnapped, and held here, in Wakefield One. 

So Robin Hood went there with all his merrie men, and had a big fight for the grand finale. If I was to act it out, I’d run out of budget, you just have to imagine some ruddy epic stuff. 

Battle nearly over, the Sheriff was running out of options, so he relied on his secret weapon he got from the Create Café downstairs. 
“Let me fight you with this spoon!” The Sheriff snarled. 
Robin frowned, “In what way are you going to fight me with a branch of a pub franchise?” 
“No!” The Sheriff snarled, “Not Weatherspoon’s, this spoon!” 
So they fought here and there, and eventually, the Sheriff was defeated. 
Turns out, bringing a spoon to a sword fight was not a great idea. 
So the merry men and Robin And Maid Marian celebrated, the Merry Men got merrie in the merry city (why do you think it's called that?) 

Robin Hood and Maid Marian got married thanks to Friar Tuck in the cathedral, 
Robin said “I do, because everything I do I do it for you,” and all was well and good. 

And then, many years later, some rotter messed with the facts and the truth that Robin Hood came from Wakefield was lost to time. 

So there you go, the true story of Robin Hood. What, don’t believe me? I read it all from the internet, so it must be true!

It was fought in the ripe, golden fields 
Battling with swords and shields 
Both armies, unwilling to yield 
Richard of York, Henry the seventh 
The two born to reign 
One a protector of England  
Which the other felt disdain  
A fortress for York 
No one dared oppose it 
But the loathsome Henry came along 
And tore the place apart 
His single order required 
In the beautiful village of Sandal 
An escapade failed at the least 
An ambush set up for the perfect start 
Arrows ready to fire 
Sent into the sky 
Ready to land 
On many passers that dare go by 
The fight was echoed over millions of years 
And never has there been anything similar 
Found in details of writing in ye old language 
Richard, never to be seen again 
The Lancastrians thought they’d won 
But the Yorkies roared back 
In search of revenge, of a bloody attack  
United England but not for long 
Did they cry their victorious song  
The war had decimated Wakefield 
Hopefully nothing quite the same will happen again 
The foundations of England have strengthened since then 
But it was over for the Yorkies, and victory for the red rose men.

The evening doth young and ready set for fun 
To where upon I lay my scene 
Ye old Robber’s Rizz pub dwelled a common theme 
Of all the outlaws to embrace  
This frolicking place  
Are the two notorious of them all 
Teaming up and having a ball, with treasures to store 
From the rich, to give to the poor. 

So, we tracked them down  
In the outskirts of town, for an exclusive 
And for their thousands of followers  
To find out more.  

Ya see the thing is, it’s as simple as this 
I am the notorious Nevison, and it isn’t easy being the rizzler 
(For those of you who aren’t Gen Alpha that means top charisma) 
I’ve robbed a few gents, of a few quid 
But do I feel bad? No, they were mid 
(That means terrible) 

Anyways t’was on my latest travels I met the Hood 
At first, I thought he was a skibbidi ohio rizz 
(they are weird) 
But he was rather good, by the book 
So, I said. Let him cook - and see where this goes 
You know 
(let him do his thing) 

Nevison downs a generous ale 
As we turn to the Hood 
To listen to his tale 

When I first saw Nevi, he proper popped off 
(he was doing way too much) 
So, I thought help a mate out 
ya’ know I looked up to him  
He gives main character energy 
(he’s a legend) 
So, I said how about it bro? 

The scene is set for thee  
As they talk of robbing a young maiden  
Mistress Waddington as pretty as can be 
A tearful farewell 
Nevison gives his hat to she 

Well, what can I say, she wa well fire 
(attractive) 
Although it was jewels, I desired 
You could say I am an alpha 
(top dog) 
And it' what I do best 
I never kill, I never slay 
Well, actually I slay  
(Winning at life) 
But for the poor, the rich shall pay 

Nevison and Hood clash their ales 
In rapturous applause  
So, gentleman, do tell us more 
Of your journeys forth 
To the highways and more 
With settles to score 

You could say as Robin Hood I am in my influencer era 
(I have plenty of fans) 
Having a team behind me though now is making things a bit dearer 
Maid Marion, Friar Tuck, Little John 
And now with Nevi here, we’re getting the job done 
I get what folk say 
Am I extra? Or are you basic? 
(you’re just not as good as me) 
I said what I said 
(no regrets) 

So, there we have it 
A tale of two men 
Famous, outrageous, and extremely dangerous 
Beware the highway when they both come out to play 
And in unison they yell 
We slay! 
(Slay)

Katman Ken (A union meeting for Parkhill mineworkers)
As a strike it was my first not the best or the worst
To a meeting we went as a man to see if things were going to plan
It seemed to go well until the moment when
They asked any questions up stood Sparky Ken
Saying “when we talk of support I know who will need it
there’s a cat at that pit, who’s going to feed it?”
Someone made a speech he’d got it off pat
Only for Ken to stand and say “who’s going to feed the cat?”

A door opened and there rolled out two men trying to knock each other out
Neither the upper hand could gain and so rolled back in again
Then four men went off for a game of skat
And Ken stood up again and said “who’s going to feed the cat?”

Others talked and drank their beer before it went flat
And Ken continued to stand up and say “who’s going to feed the cat?”

The meeting was becoming quite at task
Cos’ “any questions?” someone did ask
Well hit me with a bat
Cos’ Ken stood up again and said “who’s going to feed the cat?”

That was all in the past and the pit didn’t last
Me and Ken went our separate ways but I remember those striking days
And to Ken I’ll take of my hat
For the tines he stood he said “who’s going to feed the cat?”

In the 1880’s shafts were sunk, a new era begun.
Coal providing jobs for many a father and son.
Round Wakefield mines were built,
villages of iron, brick and steel.
While deep underground, miners worked the coal seam.

Cages on the move, up and down the shaft,
Carrying many a miner, to and from his graft.
The coal was won by sweat, the work hard, the hours long,
The step by step, modernisation came along.

Each step an improvement, for the miners that was good,
Because all too often, the price had been in blood.
To power two war machines, coal was not denied,
The miners doing England proud, when on them she relied.

Coal from various levels, in the mines heyday,
There was coal aplenty; the mines were paying their way.
But over the years, coal reserves ran low,
Some of the mines shut down, others had not long to go.

But then another event, a strike that did eclipse,
Even the Great Strike, of 1926.
Twelve months later, after much hardship and strife,
The miners returned, the mines came back to life.

But eventually they said the coal was exhausted,
no new seams to be found.
Slowly one by one, the Wakefield mines shut down
But at least we’ve got Caphouse Museum, to keep alive the story,
For future generations, those days of Mining Glory

It was a place of work, hazardous to health
While for its owners it brought in much wealth
Then came nationalisation taken over by the nation
Toiling underground cousins and brothers,
fathers, sons and many others
Shaft 1 took the men down the hole
Shaft 2 equipment and brought up the coal
Workshops with tradesmen all knowing
Maintained the machines and kept the pit going
Lamproom staff kept the lamps bright
For those that worked in the mines perpetual night
Pit top locos small and stunted wagons of coal they moved and shunted
In the screens time seemed to drag
Watching the coal pass and removing the slag
Working there for many an hour
The end of the shift and a welcoming shower
Now only memories remain of Parkhill’s story
the land restored to nature’s glory

This poem is a tribute to the girls and women of World War One who fought for their country – not in the trenches, but in the munitions factories and hundreds died as a result of explosions and poisonous chemicals such as TNT.
As their skin turned yellow, they were referred to as canaries. They paved the way for votes for women – trailblazers.

This poem is called Poisoned by TNT: The trailblazers.

We are Elsie, Maudie, Mary, Florrie
We are working class lasses from working class addresses
We put our lives on the line.
Elsie, Maudie, Mary Florrie
We pay dear from a taste of freedom
As we fill those shells, mixing the devil’s porridge
We are Elsie, Maudie, Mary, Florrie
Our skin stained yellow, our hair green
Looked down on by some of the men on the train as we do our bit.
Elsie, Maudie, Mary, Florrie
We sneeze, we cough
Maybe it’s just a cold, a funny taste in the mouth
Feeling below par
We are Elsie, Maudie, Mary, Florrie
We’re not well
Confused, fevered but we keep hushed
There may be spies about
Elsie, Maudie, Mary
We slap on the oatine face cream
We drink the milk they give us
They tell us it’ll clean out the TNT
We believe them
Elsie, Maudie, Mary, Florrie
We can’t eat, our heads ache and we are so so tired
When off home to bed, sometimes a death bed
Elsie, Maudie, Mary, Florrie
And all of the others
Working class lasses from working class addresses
The wives and widows, who are the cooks, the maids, the nannies
The skivvies, the tearoom nippies, the tramway clippies
The shop girls and mill girls, the barely left school girls
We, the canaries, little yellowed birdies
Two of us dying a week at least
Made yellow and poisoned by TNT
Succumbing to anaemia, toxic jaundice, coma
We pay dear
No medals, but we are the sisters of Tommy Atkins
We do our bit and much more for our King and country
Not in the trenches, but in the shell-filling factories
My name is Else and I am from Knott’ley
I don’t feel very well
But I’ll be up at the crack of sparrow yawns for my train tomorrow
Doing my bit
Filling the shells.

The West Ridings is hard at work making ammunition
An important job in the war effort mission
Sounds of sirens are heard
People scatter from place to place
A giant Zeppelin dominates air space
Munition is key
The workers graft and toil
The hygiene can be horrendous
But the workers stay jovial
Even in war and ration
Limited food and fashion
And don’t we just love BULLY BEEF
It seemed a normal day at work
Except the papers said
At on the 11th of the 11th
The war was declared dead
Take me back to good ol’ blighty could be heard for miles
As crowds of faces were filled with smiles
Troops return
For a rest they yearn
Heal their wounds and scars
Although they faced a lot of hardships
Reunited families, no more war memoirs.