Hannah Hauxwell spent nearly all of her life at Low Birk Hatt Farm, Baldersdale, high in the North Pennines of England.  By the early 1960s her parents, and the uncle who lived with them, had all passed away, and she spent the next 30-odd years running the farm alone, in a constant struggle against grinding poverty (she somehow existed on less than £300 per year), bitter winters and abject loneliness.  

However, a 1970s television documentary brought her to public attention and her gentle spirit and humility, seemingly from a bygone age, endeared her to the nation and beyond. Donations from well-wishers meant she was finally able to have electricity and running water installed at the farm, but as the years caught up with her she had to concede the battle at Low Birk Hatt, sold up, and retired to the village of Cotherstone, where she still resides to this day.

Hannah Hauxwell. A solitary hero. A daughter of The Dales.

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There once was a woman who lived on a farm
High on a hill over Baldersdale
She toiled alone on the moor every day
And her face was weathered and pale
Her family was gone and she knew nothing more
But working as one with the stubborn land 
Her life was enslaved to the will of the soil
How many more years could she stand?

No power to bring her a light in the dark
No water could flow to her door 
Invention had left her adrift in its wake
Forgotten no less and no more
But still she prevailed always steady and bold
80 acres to carry and call
No man or machine for to lighten her load
This desolate lady stood tall

Hannah you struggled so long
In your rags as you laboured the snow
Standing brave in the face of a life in the North Pennine gales
With your cattle to see you along
And the love of a world that you’d never know
You’re a solitary hero, a daughter of The Dales

And though she was bidden to cherish the fields
Of fathers before her long gone 
The work and the winters had taken a toll
And now it was time to move on
And so she resides at the head of the dale
With neighbourly warmth and goodwill
But her heart it still yearns for those lonely old times
High up at the farm on the hill 

Hannah you struggled so long
In your rags as you laboured the snow
Standing brave in the face of a life in the North Pennine gales
With your cattle to see you along
And the love of a world that you’d never know
You’re a solitary hero, a daughter of The Dales


Copyright Catton and Pollard, 2014.

Daughter Of The Dales

The tale of an East Yorkshire felon and reputed witch, who notoriously skinned a lad alive after he foiled her plot to steal a horse, and then almost cheated the hangman’s noose that she was sentenced to.

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In Wicstun town in days all gone 300 years or more
On billowed leas a deadly game was played
A wicked host of outlaws with a devil at their core
A harridan to light their evil way
Peg Fyfe would be the demon Queen of England
A ransom on us all that we must pay

About these parts and more beyond as far as seething waves
In thievery and witching lay her fame
With pistol drawn and curses made to send folk to their graves
Strong men would shake at mention of her name
And if her prey should disregard misfortune
She’d lay them waste to raise her bloody claim

Now Peg did task a stable lad to keep his eyes a blind
That she might steal his master’s horse away
And should he speak about it to another humankind
From every bone his precious skin she’d flay
But the boy did ask his keeper to the stable
And told the steed of words that Peg did say

Hearing of the beastly deed that Peggy Fyfe had planned
The master kept a vigil with his men
And when she came a-calling with a dozen robbing hands 
His paladins waylaid her there and then
Scattered far and wide all by the ambush 
The dozen hands returned home as just ten

For many months she waited for the moment to arise
To carry out the promises she made
And a gruesome bloody reckoning was taken for a prize
When the poor and screaming stable boy was flayed
They laid her down in prison and commenced upon a trial
And sent her to the gallows for her pains
And though the rope was scuppered by the silver of her guile
By passing Knights while hanging she was slain

Copyright Catton/Pollard 2015.


Peg Fyfe

This is a traditional bawdy folk song, the origins of which are unclear. One thing is very clear, though; it’s a rather saucy little number!
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On the fourteenth of May at the dawn of the day
With my gun on my shoulder to the woods I did stray
In search of some game if the weather proved fair
Could I get a shot at the bonny black hare

Oh I met a young girl with her face as a rose
And her skin was as fair as the lily that grows
I says "My fair maiden, why ramble you so?
Can you tell me where the bonny black hare do go?"

Oh the answer she gave me, her answer was "No
But it's under my apron they say it do go
And if you'll not deceive me I vow and declare
We'll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare"

Well I laid this girl down with her face to the sky
And I took out my ramrod and bullets likewise
I says "Lock your legs round me and dig in with your heels
For the closer we get oh the better it feels"

The birds they were singing in the bushes and trees
And the song that they sang was "She's easy to please"
I felt her heart quiver and I knew what I'd done
I said "Have you had enough of my old sporting gun?"

Oh the answer she gave me, her answer was "Nay
It's not often young sportsmen like you come this way
And if your powder is willing and your bullets play fair
Why don't you keep firing at the bonny black hare?"

"Oh, my powder is wasted and my bullets all gone
My ramrod is limp and I cannot fire on
But I'll be back in the morning if you are still here
We'll both go together to hunt the bonny black hare"


Trad, arr. Pollard, 2015.


The Bonny Black Hare

The remarkable tale of the notorious burglar, murderer and master of disguise.

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Now gather ye and lend an ear in search of sorry tales
And stay a while to talk of deadly deeds
Crook your necks and drink your beer as murder is regaled
Don’t give a cuss for the scoundrel Charlie Peace

In Sheffield was the tale begun an honest cobbler’s lad
The last of four in 1832
At 14 years his luck was done his fortune all gone bad
A cripple now and little could he do
And soon enough another year his father passed away
And Charlie’s heart had more than had its fill
His thoughts and words they did appear more dreadful every day
And bitter tears had turned his temper ill

To felony of crude renown the boy did turn his hand
To housebreaking and robbery he strayed
Plundering those hardy towns across the northern land
In daylight hours his innocence was played
But courts and the assizes came familiar with his name
And common was refusal of a bail
Now twenty years unwise did pass with just himself to blame
For all but three were spent alone in gaol

With liberty it would appear his lesson had been learned
But soon enough a wicked thing was done
Within four years his errant ways had more than just returned
A constable lay murdered by his gun
Across the fields by lighted moon escap’ed by a breath
A blameless man to justice then was brought
Poor Willie Habron was his name and sentenced all to death
While Charlie Peace the killer watched in court

And then with covetous desires a neighbour’s wife became
The target of his unrequited charms
But as she stood against him for to slight his little game
The desperate man once more did take up arms
So when ‘er husband intervened intending them to part
And bring to task all notion of his love
Old Charlie left a bullet in his temple and his heart
And sent him to his maker up above

Now on the run he soon became a master of disguise
In Bristol, Oxford, Birmingham and York
Justice for the  misdemeanours kept at bay with lies
He took upon the aspect of a hawk
His countenance was twisted for to keep himself from harm
And fruits of his deceit were made in full
A transformation so complete that bearing a false arm
He lodged with a Police sergeant in Hull

And Charlie took a mistress by the name of Susan Grey
He charmed her at the barrel of a gun
To Nottingham he did repair to steal most every day
But soon again he was all on the run
To London town he made his way for treasures to be near
And Thompson was the alias he’d keep
By day a hearty citizen by night a buccaneer
But now the seeds of treachery he’d reap

Late one night in Blackheath ‘neath a dark October sky
As Thompson was about his rotten trade
A Constable named Robinson alert and calm of eye
Did watch him as he carried out his raid
Then Charlie leapt the window calling “Son, I’ll do you harm”
But the officer pursued him as he fled
Three shots fired at the copper and he took one in the arm
But he wrestled him then cracked him in the head

They sent him up to Sheffield to face the court’s disdain
But even this was not without its play
With spring’ed heels at Kiveton Park he jumped clean from the train
But the warders fell upon him where he lay
Determined were the jury so to hang his ragged frame
Their meeting was just seven minutes long
And while a rope did end his days another played his game
As children skipped to Charlie Peace’s song

I love Charlie Charlie was a thief
Charlie killed a copper Charlie came to grief
When the coppers caught him they hung him on a rope
Poor old Charlie you haven’t got a hope



Copyright Catton/Pollard 2015



Charlie Peace

There are few more dangerous occupations than that of the deep sea fisherman, a fact brought into sharp focus between January 10th and February 4th of 1968, when no fewer than three Hull trawlers were lost, claiming 58 lives, with just one survivor – Harry Eddom, First Mate on The Ross Cleveland, which was the final vessel to be lost.

This lament was written by Bill Meek, and what a haunting picture it paints.


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High on the storm-torn coast of Iceland
February, sixty-eight
Ross Cleveland out of Hull lay hiding
With anxious eyes her skipper waits


Gale force twelve and the black ice building
Blinding hail and the radar gone
On the cruel rocks of Isafjord
She'll be thrown before the dawn


Try to run for the eastern seaboard
Turn her head into the gale
Harry Eddom leaves the wheelhouse
Steps into that howling hell


Down to a grave in the icy waters
Down to a grave in the cruel sea
Over goes the good Ross Cleveland
Ten seconds to eternity


Out in a raft in the boiling water
Bitter wind cuts like a knife
Two men freeze and die beside him
As Harry Eddom clings to life


Morning comes and the raft is grounded
Three men lie as made of stone
Consciousness at last returning
One man walks ashore alone


Cold are the shores of Isafjord
Harsh and bare her rocky crest
All day all night walks Harry Eddom
A dead man if he stops to rest

In the misty light of an Iceland morning
Over the rocks in the drifting rain
Shepherds bring poor Harry Eddom
Back from the dead to sail again


Harry Eddom

Ordinary farmworkers have always had it tough, but the gradual process of enclosure which took place between the 16th and 19th centuries, along with the introduction of agricultural machinery, created a landless and homeless class of rural folk. Many of them migrated to the growing industrial towns and found work in the factories, but a few remained, travelling the countryside looking for seasonal work and being allowed to graze their cattle on what was left of common land. The Wold Rangers were one such nomadic group, living off the land on the Yorkshire Wolds. They were hardworking and trustworthy and were never turned away when they appeared looking for work; at the very least they would be given some food.

The last of the Wold Rangers was one George Smith, better known as Dog Geordie, who died in Driffield at the age of 76, in March 1987.


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Imagine if you can, across this green and pleasant land
To the days of yore when there was work for every hand
Days were long in summer heat and biting winter rain
Toil was done all for a Master’s gain


The wretched would abound in every vale, on every moor
But even among these did live the poorest of the poor
The landless and the rootless, with a beast or two in pay
On common ground their squatters’ rights did lay


Came a time the landowners did have the fields enclosed
An act of selfish benefit for those who had the most
Machines arrived to do the work and men would take their rest
Now those who once had none had even less


A ragged band of nomads who had lived to bear this loss
Roamed the chalky upland where two ancient Ridings cross
Living rough and dying young, a life so hard but free
Yorkshire’s own Wold Rangers they would be


Camping on the green lanes, finding shelter where and when
On every farm a door was left ajar for honest men
No need to fear or worry when the Rangers were around
All things were left exactly as were found


Drifting with the seasons, fleeting work did meet them well
Gathering at the cattle fairs, their labour for to sell
Lambing time and harvest were the best months of the year
Enough to keep a Ranger all in beer


In Fridaythorpe and Foxholes, Sledmere and Thixendale
Folklore had the Rangers at the heart of many tales
Limpy Joe, Mad Halifax, Croom Mable, Horse Hair Jack
They’d ramble on but always they’d be back


A Ranger named Dog Geordie was the last one of his kind
A handsome and more pleasant man you’d struggle for to find
Four decades back, in Driffield, came a sad and empty day
The last of the Wold Rangers passed away


Last Of The Wold Rangers

Elizabeth Jackson was just a baby when her parents left East Yorkshire and headed to America to start a new life in 1637. She grew up to be strong and independent, farming the land successfully with her blind husband; something of a maverick who didn’t conform to female stereotypes of the time. Sadly, this invited accusations of witchcraft, and she was eventually sentenced to death at the Salem Witch Trials, in 1692.

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Hear the tale of Lizzy Jackson from the Parish of Rowley
Hear the story of her journey and the fate that waits for she
How a father takes her to a brave new world to call her own
Free to lead a life more true and tend all where the seeds are blown

Swaddled in her mother’s coat and just a babe of one year old
All for Hull to sail a boat and cross the ocean wide and cold
Taken from the Shire of York all in the name of liberty
Never did she get to walk across the fields of High Hunsley

Just a blind boy was James Howe but he in love took Lizzy’s hand
Strong the bond it was and now the finest farmers on the land
Standing tall without protection such a lass should never be
Men cast eyes in her direction born of fear and jealousy

When a girl called Hannah Trumble into temper often fell
Such a madness in a child could only be a witch’s spell
Village men with pointing fingers guilty of the witchcraft she
When the ruling came to linger on Lizzy’s shoulders it would be

“A lie” the cries they would not hear them ten long years she bore that stain
When the fires did burn in Salem Lizzy’s name was heard again
Then the preacher Cotton Mathers evil workings he would do
Hanged was she with 14 others June of 1692

Swaddled in her mother’s coat and just a babe of one year old
All for Hull to sail a boat and cross the ocean wide and cold
Taken from the Shire of York all in the name of liberty
Never did she get to walk across the fields of High Hunsley

Beggar's Bridge

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