Article submitted courtesy of Christopher Jameson, July 2022
During my life achievements have been very few. However, I discovered an ancestor, my great grandfather
Willam Rogers, via my relatives Alma Reeve and Win Surtees both of which originated from Weardale Dale
Street, Spennymoor. Great Grandfather William has a fascinating but brief history. The family affectionately know
him as, 'The Fighting Lay Preacher of Spennymoor'.
William worked as a collier at the local pit hewing the black gold, and a lay preacher covering the Dene Parish. At
the outbreak of World War 1 he answered his country's call for help and joined the British Army. Upon completing
his basic training he served on the Western Front where he was gassed. William returned to Spennymoor to
spend many months to recover from the affects of his gassing. However, he never recovered sufficiently enough
to be able to work as a collier. All he could was continue with his lay preaching.
In 1930, William took pen to parchment writing poetry including a poem about Spring the rebirth from Winter.
HOW THE GIFT WAS PASSED TO HIS GREAT GRANDSON
I have been residing in the town of Willenhall, The Land of the Lock Makers, located in the industrial corridor between the City of Wolverhampton and Wolverhampton, an area famously known as the Black Country, for forty-six-years. Alma kindly sent me copies of his poems in January 2021. Being fascinated with the history of the Palatine of County Durham I studied his poetry in depth. Such was my fascination that I decided to to publish them on Facebook. During this process a thought sprung to me saying to myself, "have a go at it yourself, you have nothing to loose".
The result is that I started to write poetry. After a few failed attempts I decided to write a poem that paid tribute to all miners who served and died in the Durham coalfields, and The Miners' Prayer was written. Poem after poem flowed from my quill on numerous topics. To date I written several poems with Alma and Win cheering me on from 180 miles away.
Beautiful spring, beautiful spring
What is the joy the sunshine doeth bring.
Larks in the sky their song full of cheer
Gladness around makes our hearts merrily ring
Of all that is beautiful, beautiful is spring.
Beautiful morning, gladsome and bright
Glorious sunbeams with radient gleams
Spring from the happiness of beautiful spring.
Flowers of the woods, the glen of the dales
Lambs of the field in their frolicsome play'
Speak of the promises of hope to be revealed'
With spring beautiful, beautiful spring.
Youth in its vigour, ever does strive,
To attain all that is noble whatever betide.
Life with its pleasures, its joys ever seek,
Nothing too high, nor effort deride,
To filled to the full of beautiful spring.
William Rogers
The Fighting Lay Preacher of Spennymoor
13/3/1930
A Testament to All Colliers
Written by: Chris Jameson
Date: 31st May 2021
Lord guide me through this seam to earn my pay,
As I cut the anthracite to meet my quota today.
It’s dark, dusty and treacherous as I make my way,
Hewing the black gold is all I know to keep the bills at bay.
The pit props are ever so spindly and thin,
Oh Lord guide my pick even though I’m not without sin.
Please make the coal easy to hew today,
My bairns need new shoes to go to church on Sunday.
Protect me from the black lung,
So hymns of your praise can be sung.
I’m not at fault for being a collier,
As what I cut brings warmth when folk lite there fire.
Dear Lord, I will never shirk my lot,
So as I work the coalface forget-me-not.
May your guiding light be upon me today,
As I sweat and toil to earn my pay.
A song: Written by Chris Jameson
Date: 30th June 2021
Rolling along on the Spirit of Ferryhill,
Ferryhill Station Saturday morning rail,
Fourteen carriages and one hundred passengers,
Two conductors and forty sacks of Royal Mail,
All aboard the London bound train,
As the train pulls out of wor station,
It powers past the pasturelands of Durham,
Passing nameless locomotives,
Railheads full of old men,
And the graveyards of rusty old engines.
How-a-do Ferryhill how are ya?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your long-lost son,
I’m the locomotive they call the Spirit of Ferryhill,
I’ll be gone three hundred miles before the day is done.
Playing cribbage with the sorters in the mail carriage,
Farthing a point, but we ain’t keeping score,
Pass wor bag holding wor bottle,
Feel the wheels vibrating beneath the carriage floor,
And the sons of Pullman attenders,
And the sons of locomotive engineers,
Ride their ancestor’s rails made out of steel,
Mothers with their bairns asleep,
Rocking to the gentle beat,
And the rhythm of the wheels is all they feel.
How-a do Ferryhill how are ya?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your long-lost son,
I’m the locomotive the Spirit of Ferryhill,
I’ll be gone three hundred miles before the day is done.
Evening time on the Spirit of Ferryhill,
Changing carriages in Peterborough,
A quarter of the way home, we’ll be back in the wee hours of the morning,
Powering through the darkness of the valley,
All the towns and people seem,
To fade into a distant dream,
And the steel rails still have not heard the news,
The conductor sings his songs again,
The passengers will refrain,
This train has a - gotten the disappearing rhythm and blues.
How-a-doo Ferryhill how are ya?
Say, don’t you know me? I’m your long- lost son,
I’m the locomotive the Spirit of Ferryhill,
I’ll be gone three hundred miles before the day is done.
Written as an adaptation of the Spirit of Saint Lousi
Written by: Chris Jameson
Date: 15th June 2021
I was a Dean and Chapter colliery man,
Along the coal seam, I did ride,
With axe and pick by my side,
Many women lost their beloved to this filthy trade,
Many a collier shed his lifeblood, so they could get paid,
The colliery tried to take my life in the winter twenty-five,
But the good Lord saw to it to keep me alive.
I was a Dean and Chapter colliery man,
I was born on Durham Road,
And with the Lord, I did abide,
I walked to the accident scene deep below,
I went deeper underground to save blooded souls from the horror show,
When the pit props broke the colliery tried to kill me,
But the good Lord saw to it to keep me alive.
I was a Dean and Chapter colliery man,
Through the underground river deep and wide I did ride,
Where water and steel did collide,
I slipped and fell into the watery depths below,
But the good Lord saw to it that I did not drown,
And yes Lord I am still around,
Yes Lord I'll always be around and around and around.
Written by: Chris Jameson
Date: 23rd March 2021
The Weardale Cannonball
Listen to the whoosh as the mighty pistons roar,
As the locomotive powers its way through Wearedale,
To the North East shore.
Hear the whistle a blowing,
As the people rush to the locomotive,
Hear the guard call,
Your travelling through the valley,
On the Weardale Cannonball.
From the majestic dale,
To the rugged North Seashore,
From the glorious pastureland of the valley,
To the Eastern seaboard by the shore,
She's very well known by one and all,
She's a locomotive called the Weardale Cannonball.
Our Weardale towns and villages are fine and dandy,
So the people say,
From Frosterly through Bishop West,
And Shildon as it hurtles on its way,
Where the Wears rippling waters fall,
No changes can be taken,
On the Weardale Cannonball.
Here's to Great Grandfather Rogers,
May his name ever stand,
May all of his poetry and sacrifice always be remembered,
By the people of the Prince Bishops Land,
His earthly race is over,
Now the screens around him fall,
We'll carry him home to Spennymoor,
On the Weardale Cannonball.
Listen to the woosh as the mighty pistons roar,
As the locomotive powers its way through Weardale,
To the North East shore.
Hear the whistle a blowing,
As the people rush to the engine,
Hear the guard call,
Your travelling through the valley,
On the Weardale Cannonball.
An adaptation of a song entitled The Wabash Cannonball written by Roy Acuff who was first living person to be inducted into the Nashville Hall of Fame.
Written by: Chris Jameson
Date: 6th October 2021
The Cattle Swain
Lord make Baldersdale easy to walk today,
On this cold winters day,
Even though my life is not without sin,
Help me to gather the cattle in,
Guide my feet across the rocky outcrop,
To a new pasture plot,
Lord bless my cattle and forget them not,
My love for you and my cattle is a pretty thing,
To be an impoverished farmer is all I want to be,
The joy of farming is all I want to do,
Lord, I owe my joy to you,
It’s a hard and lonely life,
At least it’s a life free from worldly strife,
The materialistic life is not for me,
All I want to do is worship thee.
As I come home from the herd late at night,
As joyful as a queen in her delight,
And happier, too:
For queens bethink what tomorrow require,
Where I carol by beside my meagre fire
Since farming loves such sweet desires I do gain,
What lady would not love to be a cattle swain?