I have visited Yorkshire on a few occasions, and I found it and its inhabitants to be lovely. With regard to the following poem, I consider all of us to be Yorkshiremen who frequent pub gardens. To be specific: "the man in charge of the boating pool" eventually calls for each of us.
Yorkshiremen in Pub Gardens
As they sit there, happily drinking,
their strokes, cancers and so forth are not in their minds.
Indeed, what earthly good would thinking
about the future (which is Death) do? Each summer finds
beer in their hands in big pint glasses.
And so their leisure passes.
Perhaps the older ones allow some inkling
into their thoughts. Being hauled, as a kid, upstairs to bed
screaming for a teddy or a tinkling
musical box, against their will. Each Joe or Fred
wants longer with the life and lasses.
And so their time passes.
Second childhood; and 'Come in, number 80!'
shouts inexorably the man in charge of the boating pool.
When you're called you must go, matey,
so don't complain, keep it all calm and cool,
there's masses of time yet, masses, masses . . .
And so their life passes.
Gavin Ewart, Selected Poems 1933-1988 (1988).
"Wharfedale Looking Towards Grassington, Yorkshire"