Lancashire, North of England, 1960 by Elizabeth Young - Lancashire Poetry

On Sunday afternoon

The Vicar comes to tea.

On Sundays we has butter,

And sugar in us tea.

I reckon ee does alright,

For everywhere ee goes,

They feed him chocolate biscuits,

And fire brightly glows.

We ‘ave to watch us manners,

Or mother will be ‘shamed.

We pretend that we’re not ‘ungry,

Or sugar cubes ‘fair game.’

‘Ee sits in’t comfiest chair,

Next to jellies wi’ blobs of cream.

A certain tension fills the air

Were mum’s ham sandwiches ‘ad been.

Me father doesn’t like ‘im.

Says: “Vicar’s not from round ‘ere.

He has a funny accent;

Drinks a funny kind of beer.”

‘Ee wears a coat of wool,

Knows every sin I’ve done.

Decides the fate I’ll suffer,

As he eyes a cherry bun.

‘Ee likes me younger sister,

She’s not clumsy like me.

She never chomps the celery,

Or asks why God made fleas.

Me Grandma saves ‘er sherry,

In case he’ll ‘ave a drop.

Me da’ says it’s a waste,

To touch such sober lips.

The Vicar doesn’t say much

But ee’s treated good and proper.

Everyone knows ee’s above us;

‘ee dresses like a dapper.

So maybe when I grow up,

A Vicar I will be,

And make other folk grow ‘ungry,

When I come fo’ tea.

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