T H E     W E N N I N G   Memories         A copy of the poem reprinted here has been for some time in the keeping of Mr. Eric Brown, Brown & Whittaker Ltd, though no details of its origin or authorship have survived. As the poem may be of interest to many present and future residents of the area, Mr. Brown has kindly agreed that it may be reprinted in this form. We shall be glad to receive any comments or further information about the poem. Special thanks to Robert Jefferson for his illustration of the Wenning at Greystonegill Bridge, Mewith. THE WENNING By sloping banks again I trace And shall at times for ever, Though far from thee my sojourn be, My own dear native river. Each nook and corner still I know, Mute pool and blatant shallow; What fields were grain, and which had lain In everlasting fallow. There’s Cowslip Hill and Bowtholme Wood, Names dear in life’s young morning, When copse was green and sunshine seen Each brow and holme adorning. Each homestead then is homestead yet, Each beck thy tribute giver, Each bush and tree I used to see Along thee, native river. Each flower enamelled meadow spreads Each fence and field as ever: Naught that I see unknown to me Along my changeless river. But where are they – my playmates once? Ah! man abideth never; Each face I see is new to me, Along my native river. Where Father was is now the Son, And he grown out of kenning. The unborn then are stalwart men Along the banks of Wenning. And those I meet look cold and shy, Once hearts knit as for ever. They pass and bow as strangers now, Along my native river. O’er world divided one has gone To western world or prairie, Australia’s plains or golden gains And some to oust the Maori. The ties and scenes of boyhood years The man no more reneweth. A few are still in Greystonegill, Or thrifty farms of Mewith. Some names come sad as epitaphs, Whose memories I am penning, For they are gone, while ripple on The constant waves of Wenning. In grim December frost and cold On her we cease to shiver, In thy cool wave we’re wont to lave, My sunny summer river. Thy mottled trout our groping arms Shot through with thrilling quiver; We nutted through the hazel bough By Thee, familiar river. Still dear shall be those boyhood days Till death shall me deliver, And dear to me each hill and lea Along my native river. My heart is green as spring to thee Though long I’ve been a liver: My sun shall set ere I forget My bonnie winding river. A note on the River Wenning The Wenning, one of the less celebrated but much loved rivers of the North Yorkshire/Lancashire border, links together some of the notable landscapes of Northern England. The Wenning is formed from three principal sources: Clapham Beck, which drains the southeastern flanks of Ingleborough, dropping down into Gaping Ghyll and emerging at Ingleborough Cave; Austwick Beck, which flows from a cave southwest of Moughton Scars and collects the waters of Crummackdale; and Fen Beck, with its substantial feeder Kettlesbeck, which drain the head of the Wenning valley, westwards from Lawkland. The three streams meet a little to the east of Clapham Station, and flowing westwards are soon joined by Keasden Beck running down from the ridge of Bowland Knotts. The Wenning, continually augmented by other small becks and gills, flows on through the settlements of Keasden, Mewith, High and Low Bentham, Wennington, Lower Tatham and Hornby. Just east of Hornby it is joined by the river Hindburn, which at Wray has also been joined by the Roeburn. In its final stages the Wenning flows with dignity past Hornby Castle, in a landscape notably recorded by the painter J. M. W. Turner, and joins the Lune at a confluence about a mile west of Hornby. Mewith Publications, Bentham,1991 (Originally) printed by The Bentham Print Shop, Main Street, Bentham.