Over thirty years ago, I had a day "ower t' top" with another fell pack. After a long hard day we ended up in the pub. One guy told the following story about one of his friends. I thought it might be fun to reproduce it as a poem.

The mist came down a good hour ago
It's turning cold and the forecast gives snow,
Hunt’s gone away and isn’t gain t' come back
No bugger around so I can’t have a craic.

I’d ga down t' bottom, but don’t knar where I am
Wish I were in t' pub or even at yam.
There’s a gurt drop near by, so I'd better sit tight
Hope to god I isn’t up here all night.

On t' lower fell they soon will have rain
But on t' higher grund, its garn t' snow yet again,
Grass will be slippery and ice on the track
All I have agin t' weather is this auld plastic mac.

A wind gits up, it moans in the rocks
But no view of t' hunt or that bloody fox
Mist is blowing out now, over yonder’s the track
T' missus be disappointed, ah’s on mi way back!