- The WCPR Song by Ken Rollings:
In the parish of North Weston, the place where I was born
You could hear that whistle blowing in the early morn
It was the old light railway engine a movin’ up Cemetery Hill
Sometimes at night when the wind is right I think I hear it still.
From Portishead to Clevedon and Weston super Mare
Along the iron railroad and thro’ the country fair
That local locomotion was the best by far
It was great to ride to see the tide on the W C P R.
In summertime the children came aboard that local train
Stopping on the Bristol Road and again at Clapton Lane
An outing on the Flyer was part of their reward
For attending reg’lar Sunday school and singing about the Lord.
In the early morning when the mist was on the moor
You could see them sparks a-flying as she steams to Weston shore
With quarry stones and cattle on Yatton’s market day
And five and twenty passengers a-riding all the way.
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- A Poem in Somerset dialect by Rev W. Gregory-Harris published in 1925:
There ez a line in Zummerzet,
(And Aw! To think o’t makes I zwet):
The queerest, quaintest thing I ween
That ivver wuz by martals zeen.
The train conzists of coaches tew,
In which the trav'llers zits askew;
There baint no rume to stretch wans lags
‘Tez true, zo zure as aggs be aggs.
Th’Injun dates from ‘zebbintydree’,
(A reg’lar rattletrap her be):
Dree times a day her tries to start,
Whilst spazzums rend her gallant ‘art;
Ef timed at Weston to arrive
At ha’past dree, her comes at vive.
Or, if to Clevedon her wud go
Her niver starts at all, you know,
Or, if her du, her dawn’t go var,
But kips us wond'ring where we are !
Her whissles, an' her groans an’ grunts.
An' ivverry vorty yards, her shunts;
Tez wearisome, upon my zawl,
They everlastin' trucks o’ cawl) !
Her backs down ‘pon ‘em wi’ a bump,
An’ kips our narves ‘upon the jump';
All dru the Zummer day we ride
Wi’ lovely vields ‘pon either zide,
The cocks an’ hens, an’ vowls an’ pigs,
Be quite accustomed to our ‘rigs’,
An’ care not if we come or go,
Or bust at Weston Gordano!
When Delia wance to Weston came
Thik railway played a party game:
Her waited at the Clevedon end,
And chatted wi’ a porter vriend,
Vor wan vull hour beyond the time
('Twuz really like a pantomime)!
Whilst my old missus waited here,
Her ‘art all ‘pinkypank’, vor vear
Lest her gude denner shu’d be spiled
An’ all the mate to rags be biled!
At last ! At last! Dear Delia caame;
But there ! At night ‘twuz ‘zactly zaame;
At least, twuz wuzz, for in the wet,
Her waited for thik ‘Injunette’,
But’t’want no gude, the thing brewk down
An’ left her there in Weston Town!
Aw my dear zawl! Thik Railway ‘light’,
Du land volks in a purty plight;
Vor, even when yu’v peassed the wecket,
An paid gude cash vor cardbooard ticket,
There's no dependence ‘pon the train
Howe’er th’ Offishuls scheme an’ strain;
An’ ‘taint no gude to fume an’ fret,
Us taakes our time in Zummerzet!
‘Tez aisy come, onzairtain go,
Iss zure, my vriends ‘tez zackly zo.
But now the ‘eight hour day’ has come
We’ll meake thik liddle Railroad ‘hum’,
The staim is up, th’injun waits,
‘Zo pass along an’ taake your zaits;
An’ if vor ‘home’ you’ve booked your vare,
Tomorrow, zometime, you’ll be there !!
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