A nice little poem from an ex Hydonian now living in Sydney, Australia. By the references etc it appears to be based around the 1960's.
MEMORIES FROM OZ
I sit here on a red hot day,
Under peerless azure skys,
I watch the cockatoos seek shade,
And brush away the flies,
I see the harbour and it's bridge,
The opera house, world famous all,
Paradise found, after searching the earth,
I love it here, life is a ball,
But my mind sometimes wanders as I sit here so warm,
To the life that I led long ago,
To the green, green hills of a small cotton town,
Wakes week, and Werneth Low.
St Mary's school and Flowery Field,
Hyde Market each Saturday morn,
Snowmen and slippery slides made of ice,
And the sound of the ice cream van's horn.
The ABC minors, a film club for kids,
The "Stannies" and Hippodrome too,
Cough candy and Vimto, Victory V,
Then off home via Commercial Brow.
Of Papa Jess Lewis on old Talbot Road,
In his chippy, old men in cloth caps,
selling pudding and peas, fish and chips, greasy pies,
And the good old "six penneth of scraps",
November the 5th, oh boy what a day,
with Guy Fawkes dressed up in trolleys,
"Penny for the Guy" was the primeval cry,
Easy money for fireworks and lollies.
Parkin cake, treacle toffee and charcoaled spuds
Bonfire night with it's bangers and rockets,
With great "oohs" and "aahs" as we looked to the stars,
Round the fire with our hands in our pockets.
Wakes week with rides, carousel wheels and slides,
Coconuts, goldfish and noise,
Candy Floss, toffee apples, a shilling from mum,
Then off to explore with the boys.
Whitsuntide was great, dressed up to the nines,
New clothes, new shoes, quite a nob,
The off to the relatives, "Oh he looks nice",
All and sunder then give him two bob.
Walks down Matley Lane on a nice Sunday morn,
Hunting frogspawn, sticklebacks and taddies,
Plenty of parkland for tearaway boys,
Playing cowboys, both goodies and baddies.
Delivering the papers on cold winter days,
Heavy bags, on my bike, it's the pits,
But that doesn't matter when Christmas time comes,
Cos that's when I get my tips.
Jack Cryers my boss and he gets quite cross,
As I flick through the papers pages,
"You missed Mrs Clegg, that's the third time this week,
I'll dock it from your wages".
Tying those knots as a 3rd Newton Scout,
Proudly wearing both uniform And waddle,
I dibbed, dibbed dibbed, and dubbed, dubbed, dubbed,
Great life, it was all a real doddle.
Hyde Public Baths where I learned to swim,
The attendants oh so mean,
"Out you come, your time is up"
"Don't queue at the brylcream machine",
The Hyde Lads Club, wehat a great place,
Table tennis, sport and football,
Wrestling, boxing, darts and tiddlywinks,
And basketball in the big hall.
It's not a big place this old town of Hyde,
Full, of mills, terrace houses, chimney stacks,
But for a wee lad in shorts and socks,
Twas a place that I would go back.
The games after school in the street with the lads,
Cricket rollerskating, hide and seek,
Then out would come mother"Come on time for bed",
But these games would go on for a week.
Those halcyon days down Hallbottom Lane,
Playing footy and chasing the lasses,
Gave me a start like no other for sure,
Lifes lessons that aren't tought in classes,
I have travelled the world since those faraway days,
Yet I still can say with pride,
When asked by an Aussie"Where are you from"?
I tell them " A great place called Hyde"
Sydney Australia 1998