I HAVE recently recounted the legends of the Colne Valley.
But has anyone heard of Paddock Jack?
Reader Rod Liversidge has sent me the following poem and asks if anyone knows the origins of the character. I suspect it may be the work of local poet Graham Shaw but any information will be gratefully received.
I’ bygooane days ther lived a scamp
called Paddock Jack, ‘at used to tramp
raand t’West Rahdin, far an wahde,
livin’ off o’ t’countrysahde.
T’wor cappin haa he used to think
O’ ways for gettin’ food an’ drink.
Aye monny a trick an monny a tale
addled him his meyt an’ ale.
In some o’ t’ places wheer he landed
fowks wor raither oppen-handed
an’ theer he’d stop a day or two
until they thowt he’d had his due.
Sich days wor fat – but some wor leean
for other fowks wor vary meean
lahke them at lived up Cleckitt way
wheer Jack arrahved one summer day.
Startin aat to seek his dinner
He spent three haars i’ gettin’ thinner
for ivvery trick an’ ivvery tale
wor trahd or towld to no avail.
At last he came to Cleckitt Lodge
an’ theer he warked a brand new dodge;
he walked on t’lawn, cool as yo please
an’ went daan on his hands an’ knees.
Thra t’coorners of his crafty een
he sooin saw ‘at he’d been seen
bi t’mistress an’ her sarvant lass
an then he started nibblin’ t’grass.
T’maid an’ t’mistress stood an’ stared;
“Whah t’chaps famished,” t’lass declared,
as Jack went on wi’ th’herbal feast,
“He’s eytin’ t’grass, just lahke a beast.”
“Fetch him in,” her mistress said
an off t’front dooar t’servant sped
comin’ back in hauf a whahle
wi’ Jack, whose face wor one big smahle.
As t’mistress studied him, he reckoned
he wor landed – for a second.
“Come this way” she said to Jack
“T’grass is twahce as long in t’back.”