A Year's weather: 1895 by John Megginson

1895 – the year when Oscar Wilde was sent to gaol, when Middlesbrough Football Club won the FA Amateur Cup, Alfred Dreyfus was sent to Devil's Island, the future George VI was born and, in Bavaria, Adolf Hitler had his sixth birthday.

The year had begun, according to the pages of the Whitby Gazette, with the usual entertainments and concerts held by churches, chapels and societies.  In the months that followed, golf clubs opened at Whitby, Robin Hood's Bay and Goathland.  Ships were wrecked, lives were lost at sea and in the local mines.  Two men died in a thunderstorm at the Royal Show at Darlington, a father and son in a lightning strike at Kirkbymoorside.  The people of Helmsley were horrified to discover that the attentive young father, on holiday with his wife and baby, had murdered them both with a large carving knife and buried them a few miles outside town. 

And the year's weather on the North York Moors was recorded by John Megginson in verse.  He was a 52 year old farmer, woodman and local preacher who lived at Fryup Head with his wife Ann Frank and their large family.  Snowdrifts, floods and storms – here they are in lively verse: 

Original Poetry on the Year of Our Lord, 1895

John Megginson, Great Fryup, Lealholm, Grosmont

As long as we are all alive

We shall remember January of '95;

When it came in it was so coarse, 

It snew and blew with mighty force!

So those that had to go to preach

They had a task the place to reach;

And when they had to travel back

They were beat sometimes to find a track;

For down below, and on the moor,

The wind it made the snow to stoor;

And people round about the place

Could not get to the means of grace.

The month of February then set in,

And the frost was sharp, the wind blew thin;

There was many a strong and bitter blast,

Folks wondered oft how long 'twould last;

And many who never saw the like,

For it covered up both hedge and dyke,

And places in the hills so steep

The snow was fully twelve feet deep.

Then the month of March it was so cold

It told upon both young and old,

For all around, both high and low,

The ground was covered up with snow;

But just before the month was spent

A thaw to us was wisely sent;

To all it will be understood

It went away without a flood.

When April came it was so fine

All through the month the sun did shine;

And then it came such splendid showers,

On every side sprung up the flowers;

The birds they then began to sing,

The cuckoo did good tidings bring;

The rook he crew though he was so dark,

And then went towering up the lark;

The farmer rose before 'twas light,

And worked with might from morn till night,

And then retired to his rest

Content that he had done his best;

When morning came he was up again,

Away he went to sow his grain,

And when his soil was clear of weed

To sow good seed he did take heed.

The next that came was the month of May,

It rained and blew from day to day,

And some who thought their labour lost,

Before it went out there was such a frost.

The month of June it was so dull

We thought that wheat would never be full,

And barley too as well as oats

Would both be troubled alike with shorts.

July next came, as all's aware

'Twas two days rain for one day fair;

The thunder rolled, the lightning flashed,

And down the valley the water dashed!

And such a waste amongst the hay

For many a load was washed away.

When August came it was so bright

The sun it shone from morn till night,

And all things round they looked so pleasant,

A smile was on both lord and peasant.

The next that came was rich September,

And such a month none can remember,

There was such a hot and clear sky,

The corn was all secured dry.

But October came with wind and hail,

And lofty ships could hardly sail;

For while they were on the ocean tossed

I heard that many a life was lost.

When November came it was much the same,

It was not snow but fell much rain,

The nights were dark, the wind was strong,

It was a struggle to get along;

For a man who had to cross the moor

He had a task we may be sure,

I was told that he did lose his way,

And had to wait till the break of day;

He could not there resort to wire,

But with some turf he made a fire,

And behind a butt he sat him down,

For he was far from either friend or town;

And as he sat upon a stone

He thought of them who were at home;

When morning came he tried again,

And urged his way with might and main;

The road he travelled he did not ken,

But he landed at Hardle* just at ten, *Hardale Stray, Tranmire YO21 2BW?

And while to them he told his story,

The friends for him were very sorry;

They said he was neither mean nor shabby,

But he wanted to be to Rosedale Abbey!

Great Fryup Dale by James@hopgrove

December came to close the year,

On every side there was much cheer,

And all around there was such mirth

It reminded us of the Saviour's birth.

For as shepherds watched their flocks by night,

They were guided by a star so bright,

And angels did so sweetly sing,

Which told they did good tidings bring.

So now let all unite and sing

A song of praise to Christ our King,

That when our race on earth is run

The Lord at last may say well done.

My poem now it must be ended,

I have said much more than I intended,

And there's many a thing that [can't be mended]

But the harvest's past, the year [is ended].

Richard Blakey & Son, Printers, West Row, Stockton-on-Tees

Sadly, the corner of the card on which these verses were printed has been torn away – the square brackets indicate where I've made a guess at the missing words.