Made in Sheffield

Made in Sheffield(Steven Cooke) A few translations of Sheffield dialect
(Woodbines and Senior Service are cigarettes. Fag means cig, Black pudding is a seasoned sausage made from pigs blood and fat.ahr lass got belly up means pregnant. T, neight means tonight and grub means food.)

It's early morning; a mist descends into the valley.
Not a mist from some love poem but a fog forged in graft.
No sun shines here, there is no welcome,
for here lies the crucible of the World.
No bird song, only furnace dust
and a dead river.
For this is Sheffield Steel.

The grime covered buses arrive for morning shift,
windows grey with smoke,
for breakfast, Woodbines and Senior Service,
a dripping crust and a flask of tea or two.
One by one they descend,
a goliath of manhood,
raw power, nature’s finest creation,
an elephant gun would not bring these men down.

A pot of tea, another fag, then into the mill
into the Heat, Dante’s Inferno,
armed only with Leather aprons and tongs,
first job, a tank barrel,

They work as a team,
a sacred bond, forged in years of graft
Pure strength twisting the writhing white hot ingot,
in a rhythm, nay a dance, with a twenty ton hammer.
The grace of men in harmony with machine,
a rite of passage, their inheritance.

But this also a dance with the devil,
one crack and shards of death rain upon them,
no escape, just a bed in Tinsley cemetery,
plenty of company there.

Another crew tames the roaring furnaces
spewing flames like some demonic demon.
Molten metal thrashes out,
shower upon shower of burning sparks
that brand and seer the skin,
a steel workers tattoo of pride.
And the heat, always the heat,
creating a perfume of toxic aftershave,
a vision of hell created by man on Earth.

But yet through the heat and smoke, there are voices,
no angels here,
for this is them, these men of steel.
“Ready for a pint”,
“Ahr lass got belly up,”
“Stick us a ten bob on that horse”,
“Goin in club t’ neight”,
“Ready for me grub”,
This is the voice of Sheffield.
no hardships, for this is their blood,
their culture, their world.

Dinner time approaches, the apprentice brings dinner
half a loaf of bread, dug out, and filled with chips,
plenty of salt and vinegar.
Then a link of black pudding
washed down with four bottles of Stones Bitter,
and a couple of woodbines.
No Health and Safety here.

I pay but a moment’s homage to this scene
for this was Sheffield Steel,
the Cog that drove the World
But time moves on.

The steel workers and Miners, all gone
broken By Maggie.
Thrown on the scrap heap of yesterday.
Sculptors of their craft,
never to work again.

Now the rivers run clean
and the birds sing.
The sun, shines on the valley
but not on the steel workers.

For they have faded away
replaced by the souls of progress,
Shopping malls and stadiums,
for Sheffield is now a City of Sport
and tourism reins King.

But spare a thought for these men.
Our fathers who lived there way,
with courage and honour.

Steel was their Church,
built on the foundations of Pride.
Their graft a noble Calling
and sacrifice their honour in death.

These men who celebrated friendship,
a pint, a smoke, and a gamble.
For this was their home, their Sheffield,
It was their craft their sweat
that forged the world,
and it forged me.

And now, a part of my World is lost forever.
So let the history books be kind,
and lets us remember fondly, these men,
Made in Sheffield.