The Song of the Querns was written by An Unknown author during the Archaeological dig at Littleborough in 1970. The Original is held at Bassetlaw Museum.
Littleborough’s digging toast – or the song of the Querns.Should you ask me whence these potsherds, Whence these querns and coins various, With the odours of the cesspit, With the odours of the blue clay, I should answer, from the strata, From the postholes and the features Where the Bargees sit at noon, Where Pete sits upon a bucket, Where John sticks his Samian ware, I should send you to the dig, To the pits and the Vicarage, With no looting, with no fighting, And a B.A. For director, He knows just as much as you do, But because he’s an ape much better, He has come from Durham City, Hatfield college on the river, With its drunkards, half of whom, Are in the pit now, half of whom, Will drop in later, High Storrs School has, Also sent a score of diggers, Sweepers, backups, choppers, scrubbers, With a gibbon and a banana, There is too the Reindeer Tavern, Down the road in Sturton village, Where each night from nine o’clock, The Durham men will sup their ale, Meeting locals (some are yokels), But they mostly know a bit, Have a quern dug from their garden, Neatly placed upon the mantel, Back now to the vicarage, Where Marie has decorated, doors and Kitchen and a small room, With the emblem of the face, The happy face that every morning, Greets you as you wash yourself, Cook your breakfast, or perhaps, Perform some other vital chore, At ten o’clock each morning silence, Shatters to Paul’s efforts strenuous, As he starts his bike vociferous, You should know, ere I progress, That all provisions for the digger, Must be brought from nearby Retford, Retford, where all chemists now, Are used to Pauls strange purchases, Used to odd requests for hand cream, Shampoo, olive oil etcetera, At the butchers too, poor Paul, Has often gained a look surprising, 6 pounds of stewing steak he bought, From that metropolis to the dig, Upon the carrier of the Triumph. There are at least two people, That require a mention glowing, In volusian lines like these, One such wields a canny camera, Trowels profoundly round the features, But yet leaves the spoil for others, They must lift the muck he leaves, In his drawings all is perfect, He can show so slight a difference, As between brown sandy soil and clay, Mixed with charcoal and it’s darker, Lower brother, sister Daphne, With a pressure cooker stately, Assist Maurine in making wonder, (Mostly:- the shape of dumplings) To propitiate the demons, Found in our brave diggers stomachs, How would I conclude my tale, Save that coins have been mentioned, So I call to mind Phil Isaacs, Gloucestershire’s first northern scholar, Who readily can tell between, The face of Claudius’ golden coin, And that found upon his as, Now at length the tale is right, The experts are all shown herein, There is of course one visage missing, But I am not and expert …… yet!