In Coningsby, as in many other places, at the chapel anniversary every year, it was the custom to invite someone special to speak at the evening service. It was usually a preacher of note or some local celebrity who would be likely to draw in a bit of a crowd. A ‘nice spread’ would be put on by ‘the ladies of the church’ for tea-time, around five o’clock, to be followed by the service at six. My mother along with the rest would be roped in to make sandwiches, cakes and pastries at the weekend for this event. She wasn’t a cake baker but could make a decent scone (of the fruit or cheese variety as the occasion demanded) and was a dab hand at sausage rolls. The chapel was next door so mum would be nipping back and forth most of the afternoon with things hot from the oven. One of the most memorable anniversaries as far as I was concerned was when we were entertained by a legend of Lincolnshire dialect, Mrs. Edith Burgess. By the time she visited us she must have been in her late seventies but still as chipper as ever. I gather she’d been invited on several occasions but it had taken us literally years to get her to come. I think I am right in saying she wasn’t merely a celebrity but had been actively involved in the church as wife of a Methodist preacher for many years so she could have delivered a message filled with spiritual guidance and insights but, to our delight, she didn’t do this. Instead she told us about her life as a young girl growing up in a north Lincolnshire village and her love for poetry and tales of Lincolnshire folk and history. Every now and then she would slip effortlessly into her dialect voice to regale us with words and phrases that were familiar but from a bygone age. She had recorded several pieces of poetry in dialect most notably several of the works of Alfred Lord Tennyson, like ”The Northern Farmer, The Spinster’s Sweet-Arts and Owd Roa (Old Rover).
A few years back I heard a woman from Osgodby called Titch Rivett talking on the radio about the demise of words in the Lincolnshire dialect. Among other things she attributed this to developments in modern farming methods; like the arrival of the tractor in place of the carthorse. Many dialect words were terms associated with farms and their animals especially horses. She also blamed the moving population. She felt that 'frim folk' (people from other areas) had come to the county whilst many Lincolnshire folk had also moved out and taken their voice with them. In 2004 she was busy trying to keep Lincolnshire's dialect alive by running courses on the subject and making audio recordings of its quirky expressions, such as wozzle (root vegetable) and gimmer (a ewe which has never given birth), sneck (metal hook), blather (mud on clothing) and dowking (wilting). But when she was speaking in 2004 her course was in danger of being cancelled due to lack of interest. She was saying that she was aware that it was almost a different language but if folk didn’t sit up and take note like old farm buildings falling into a state ‘beyond repair’ that language would be lost forever . As she said at the time, “Once that's gone you can't come back and say 'we'll have it now' because it's been lost.”
One poem I’m sure I remember Mrs. Burgess reading, and very possibly Titch Rivett knew it too, was one entitled, “A bit o’ binder string.” I’m not sure whether this originated in Lincolnshire but Mrs Burgess adopted it. I ran across it recently, although I can’t swear (and neither could Mrs. Burgess!) that her version and this were the same. I suspect some phrases have been southernised:
A Bit of Binder String.
Dost mind Bill Bates as used to work for Drake at Badgers End?
There weren’t a tool about the farm this feller couldn’t mend
From a hayfork to a harvester or any mortal thing
Old Bill could always fix it with a bit if binder string.
One day a Friesian bull got out and raged and tore around
Nobody dared go near ‘im as he roared and hooked the ground
Till Boss shouts “Bill” the bull’s got out and been and broke his ring
An Bill lassoed the beggar wi’ a bit of binder string.
Bill courted Mabel seven years an’; then he said “Let’s wed”
I’ve got a table an’ some chairs an’ Granny’s feather bed
Ther’s half a ton o’ taters up in the field as I can bring
An’ I’ve made some handsome doormats out of thic’ there binder string.
Dost mind Bill Bates as used to work for Drake at Badgers End?
There weren’t a tool about the farm this feller couldn’t mend
From a hayfork to a harvester or any mortal thing
Old Bill could always fix it with a bit if binder string.
One day a Friesian bull got out and raged and tore around
Nobody dared go near ‘im as he roared and hooked the ground
Till Boss shouts “Bill” the bull’s got out and been and broke his ring
An Bill lassoed the beggar wi’ a bit of binder string.
Bill courted Mabel seven years an’; then he said “Let’s wed”
I’ve got a table an’ some chairs an’ Granny’s feather bed
Ther’s half a ton o’ taters up in the field as I can bring
An’ I’ve made some handsome doormats out of thic’ there binder string.
Well Mabel said “ We’d best get wed before they cut the hay
So they had a slap up Wedding on the seventeenth of May
But when they got to the church Bill found he had gone and lost the ring
So he had to marry Mabel with a loop of binder string
Next year a little daughter came to bless the happy pair
Wi’ girt blue eyes and a tuft of ginger hair
And Bill, he says to Parson at the baby’s Christening
Zee, ‘er be just the colour of a bit of binder string.
Well time went on an’ old Bill died an’ came to Heaven’s Door
He heard them all a singing there and he was worried sore
An’ he says to good St. Peter, “Zir I’ve never sung before
I were always kep’ so busy mendin’ things wi’ binder string.”
“Don’t worry Bill”, St. Peter said “The Good Lord understands
He’ve been a carpenter and likes to see folk use their hands
An we’m very happy to see ‘ee here, we’ve plenty who can sing
But we need a handy chap like thee, has ‘ee brought some binder string?
So Bill do bide in Heaven now, he’s very happy there
He’s got a liddle workshop round behind St. Peter’s chair
An’ while the Angels play their harps and all the saints do sing
Bill mends the little cherub’s toys with bits of binder string. "
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