Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.

THE
Folk-Speech of Cumberland
AND SOME DISTRICTS ADJACENT;

BEING

SHORT STORIES AND RHYMES

IN THE DIALECTS OF THE WEST
BORDER COUNTIES.

BY

ALEXANDER CRAIG GIBSON, F.S.A.

What hempen Home-spuns have we swaggering here.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise.

The Excursion.

LONDON: JOHN RUSSELL SMITH;
CARLISLE: GEO. COWARD.
MDCCCLXIX.

TO

WILLIAM DICKINSON,

OF NORTH MOSSES AND THORNCROFT,

F. L. S.,

Author of “A Glossary of Cumberland Words and Phrases,”
“Lamplugh Club,” “A Prize Essay on the Agriculture
of West Cumberland,” “The Botany of
Cumberland,” &c., &c., &c.,

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED,

IN CORDIAL RECOGNITION OF THE PRE-EMINENT
INDUSTRY AND SKILL DISPLAYED IN HIS ELUCIDATIONS
OF THE HOMELY SPEECH
OF OUR NATIVE COUNTY, AND IN GRATEFUL
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE UNFAILING SYMPATHY
AND THE KINDLY HELP WITH WHICH HE
HAS BRIGHTENED A FRIENDSHIP
OF MANY YEARS.

PREFACE.

One or two of the Cumberland stories included in this volume, as well as some of the pieces in rhyme, have already been circulated very largely in newspapers, pamphlets, and collections. Their reappearance, along with many hitherto unpublished additions, in this aggregated form, is due mainly to the popularity attained by them separately. Whether they may be as popular in this more pretentious guise as in their humbler, and perhaps, more appropriate form, remains to be tried.

I claim superiority over most of the earlier workers in the same philological ground in respect of the greater purity of my dialect. The Cumberland speech as written herein is pure Cumbrian, as the speech of the Scottish pieces, introduced for variety’s sake, is pure Scotch. Miss Blamire, Stagg, Anderson, Rayson, and others, have all written their dialect pieces, more or less, in the Scoto-Cumbrian which prevails along the southern side of the west Border. In other respects my inferiority to those deservedly popular writers is sufficiently evident. But, as expositions of the folk-speech of those parts of the County where, and where only, the unadulterated old Norse-rooted Cumbrian vernacular is spoken, I claim for these Tales and Rhymes the distinction of surpassing all similar productions, excepting only the dialect writings of my friend Mr. Dickinson, and perhaps the Borrowdale Letter of Isaac Ritson, and the Gwordie and Will of Charles Graham. I should not omit to state, however, that Mr. John Christian of London, and a writer who assumed the nom de plume of Jack Todd, have evinced in their contributions to the local press, a mastery over the dialect of Whitehaven and its vicinity which makes us wish that their pens had been more prolific.

For the illustrations I have attempted of the speech of High Furness and its Westmorland border, I ask no such distinction. The dialect there, as in the adjacent parts of Cumberland, is vitiated by an intermixture of that of the County Palatine, of which Furness forms a portion; and as it is spoken, so, if written at all, should it be written. These appear here for the reason already assigned for the introduction of the Rhymes given in the dialect of Dumfriesshire.

The work rests its claims to favourable consideration entirely on its value as a faithfully rendered contribution to the dialect literature of the country. No higher estimate is sought for it. The production of its various contents has been an occasional amusement indulged in during some of the intervals of leisure and repose afforded by pursuits of a more important, more engrossing, and it is hoped, a more useful character, with which, had it in any wise interfered, it had not been proceeded with. Its composition has been a relaxation, not a task; a divertisement, not an occupation; and had its success when published been deemed incompatible with these conditions, it had not appeared.

Bebington,
December 18th, 1868.

CONTENTS.

JOE AND THE GEOLOGIST.

A het foorneun, when we war oa’ gaily thrang at heàm, an oald gentleman mak’ of a fellow com’ in tul ooar foald an’ said, whyte nateral, ’at he wantit somebody to gà wid him on’t fells. We oa’ stopt an’ teuk a gud leuk at him afoor anybody spak; at last fadder said, middlin’ sharp-like—(he ola’s speaks that way when we’re owte sa thrang, does fadder)—“We’ve summat else to deu here nor to gà rakin ower t’fells iv a fine day like this, wid nèabody kens whoa.” T’gentleman was a queerish like oald chap, wid a sharp leuk oot, grey hair and a smo’ feàce—drist i’ black, wid a white neckcloth like a parson, an’ a par of specks on t’top of a gay lang nwose at wasn’t set varra fair atween t’ e’en on him, sooa ’at when he leuk’t ebbem at yan through his specks he rayder turn’t his feàce to t’ya side. He leuk’t that way at fadder, gev a lal chèarful bit of a laugh an’ said, iv his oan mak’ o’ toke, ’at he dudn’t want to hinder wark, but he wad give anybody ’at ken’t t’fells weel, a matter o’ five shillin’ to gà wid him, an’ carry two lāl bags. “’Howay wid tha, Joe,” sez fadder to me, “it’s a croon mair nor iver thou was wūrth at heàm!” I meàd nèa words aboot it, but gat me-sel’ a gud lūmp of a stick, an’ away we set, t’oald lang nwos’t man an’ me, ebbem up t’ deàl.

As we war’ climmin’ t’fell breist, he geh me two empty bags to carry, meàd o’ ledder. Thinks I to me-sel’, “I’s gān to eddle me five shillin’ middlin’ cannily.” I niver thowte he wad finnd owte on t’ fells to full his lal bags wid, but I was misteàn!

He turn’t oot to be a far lisher oald chap nor a body wad ha’ thowte, to leuk at his gray hair and his white hankecher an’ his specks. He went lowpin owre wet spots an’ gūrt steàns, an’ scrafflin across craggs an’ screes, tul yan wad ha’ sworn he was sūmmat a kin tul a Herdwick tip.

Efter a while he begon leukin’ hard at oa’t steàns an’ craggs we com’ at, an’ than he teuk till breckan lūmps off them wid a queer lal hammer he hed wid him, an’ stuffin t’ bits intil t’ bags ’at he geh me to carry. He fairly cap’t me noo. I dudn’t ken what to mak o’ sec a customer as t’is! At last I cudn’t help axin him what meàd him cum sèa far up on t’fell to lait bits o’ steàns when he may’d finnd sèa many doon i’t deàls? He laugh’t a gay bit, an’ than went on knappin’ away wid his lal hammer, an’ said he was a jolly jist. Thinks I to me-sel’, thou’s a jolly jackass, but it maks nèa matter to me if thou no’but pays me t’ five shillin’ thou promish’t ma.

Varra weel, he keep’t on at this feckless wark tul gaily leàt at on i’t efter-neun, an’ be that time o’ day he’d pang’t beàth o’t ledder pwokes as full as they wad hod wid bits o’ steàn.

I’ve nit sèa offen hed a harder darrak efter t’ sheep, owther at clippin time or soavin time, as I hed followin’ that oald grey heidit chap an’ carryin’ his ledder bags. But hooiver, we gat back tul oor house afoor neeght. Mūdder gev t’ oald jolly jist, as he co’t his-sel’, some breid an’ milk, an’ efter he’d teàn that an’ toak’t a lal bit wid fadder aboot sheep farming an’ sec like, he pait ma me five shillin’ like a man, an’ than tel’t ma he wad gi’ ma ūdder five shillin’ if I wad bring his pwokes full o’ steàns doon to Skeàl-hill be nine o’clock i’t mwornin’.

He set off to woak to Skeàl-hill just as it was growin’ dark; an’ neist mwornin’, as seun as I’d gitten me poddish, I teuk t’ seàm rwoad wid his ledder bags ower me shoolder, thinkin’ tul me-sel’ ’at yan may’d mak a lal fortune oot o’ thūr jolly jists if a lock mair on them wad no’but come oor way.

It was anūdder het mwornin’, an’ I hedn’t woak’t far till I begon to think that I was as gūrt a feul as t’oald jolly jist to carry brocken steàns o’t’ way to Skeàl-hill, when I may’d finnd plenty iv any rwoad side, clwose to t’ spot I was tackin’ them tul. Sooa I shack’t them oot o’ t’ pwokes, an’ then stept on a gay bit leeter widout them.

When I com nār to Skeàl-hill, I fūnd oald Aberram Atchisson sittin on a steul breckan steàns to mend rwoads wid, an’ I ax’t him if I med full my ledder pwokes frae his heap. Aberram was varra kaim’t’ an’ tell’t ma to tak them ’at wasn’t brocken if I wantit steàns, sooa I tell’t him hoo it was an’ oa’ aboot it. T’ oald maizlin was like to toytle of his steul wid laughin’, an’ said me mūdder sud tak gud care on ma, for I was ower sharp a chap to leeve varra lang i’ this warld; but I’d better full my pwokes as I liked, an’ mak’ on wid them.

T’ jolly jist hed just gitten his breakfast when I gat to Skeàl-hill, an’ they teuk ma intil t’ parlour tul him. He gūrned oa’t feàce ower when I went in wid his bags, an’ tell’t me to set them doon in a neuk, an’ than ax’t ma if I wad hev some breakfast. I said I’d gitten me poddish, but I dudn’t mind; sooa he tell’t them to bring in some mair coffee, an’ eggs, an’ ham, an’ twoastit breid an’ stuff, an’ I gat sec a breakfast as I never seed i’ my time, while t’ oald gentleman was gittin’ his-sel’ rūddy to gang off in a carriage ’at was waitin’ at t’ dooar for him.

When he com doon stairs he geh me t’udder five shillin’ an’ pait for my breakfast an’ what he’d gitten his-sel’. Than he tell’t ma to put t’ ledder bags wid t’ steàns in them on beside t’ driver’s feet, an’ in he gat, an’ laugh’t an’ noddit, an’ away he went.

I niver owder seed nor heard mair of t’ oald jolly jist, but I’ve offen thowte ther mun be parlish few steàns i’ his country, when he was sooa pleas’t at gittin’ two lāl ledder bags full for ten shillin’, an’ sec a breakfast as that an’. It wad be a faymish job if fadder could sell o’ t’ steàns iv oor fell at five shillin’ a pwokeful—wadn’t it?

T’ REETS ON’T;

BEING

Another Supplement to “Joe and the Geologist.”[1]

BY JOE HIS-SEL’.

HAT Tommy Towman’s a meàst serious leear—an’, like o’ leears, he’s a desper’t feùl. By jing! if I hed a dog hoaf as daft I wad hang’t, that wad I! He gits doon aboot Cockerm’uth an’ Wūrki’ton, noo’s an’ than’s; an’ sūm gentlemen theear, they tak’ him inta t’ Globe or t’ Green Draggin, an’ jūst for nowte at o’ else but acoase they think he kens me, they feed him wid drink an’ they hod him i’ toak till he can hardly tell whedder end on him’s upbank; an’ than they dro’ him on to tell them o’ mak’s o’ teàls—o’ mak’s but true an’s—aboot me; an’ t’ pooar lāl gowk hesn’t gumption aneuf to see ’at they’re no’but makin’ ghem on him. But, loavin’ surs! if he’d hed t’ sense of a gūrse gā’n gezlin he wad niver ha’ browte oot sec a lafter o’ lees as he’s gitten yan o’ them Wūrki’ton gentlemen (yan ’at ken’s weel hoo to write doon oor heàmly toke) to put inta prent; an’ what mak’s yan madder nor o’ t’ rest,—to put them i’ prent jūst as if I’d tel’t them me-sel’. I’s nūt t’ chap to try to cum ower an oald jolly jist wid whinin’ oot “Fadder’s deid!” when ivery body kens ’at fadder’s whicker nor meàst on us. My sarty! he’s nin o’ t’ deein’ mak’ isn’t fadder. Wes’ hev to wūrry fadder when his time cūms, for he’ll niver dee of his-sel’ sa lang as ther’s any wark to hoond yan on tull. An’ I needn’t tell any body ’at knows me, ’at I was niver t’ chap to tak’ in owder a jolly jist or any udder feùl; an’ if I was, I’s nūt a likely fellow to be freeten’t for what I’d done. But ther’s m’appen sūm ’at doesn’t; an’ mebbee ther’s a lock ’at doesn’t know what a leear Tommy Towman is, an’ sooa, bee t’ way o’ settin’ me-sel’ reet wid beath maks, I’ll tell yé what dūd gā forret ’atween me an’ t’ jolly jist t’ seckint time he com tul Skeàl-hill.

I said afooar ’at I’d niver seen mair o’ t’ oald jolly jist, an’ when I said that, I hedn’t; but yā donky neet last summer fadder hed been doon Lorton way, an’ ’t was gaily leàt when he gat heàm. As he was sittin’ iv his oàn side o’ t’ fire, tryin’ to lowse t’ buttons of his spats, he says to me, “Joe,” says he, “I co’t at Skeàl-hill i’ my rwoad heàm.” Mudder was sittin’ knittin’ varra fast at hūr side o’ t’ hārth; she hedn’t oppen’t her mooth sen fadder co’ heàm,—nay, she hedn’t sa mūch as leuk’t at him efter t’ ya hard glowre ’at she gev him at t’ fūrst; but when he said he’d been at Skeàl-hill, she gev a grunt, an’ said, as if she spak till nèabody but hur-sel’, “Ey! a blinnd body med see that.” “I was speakin’ till Joe,” says fadder. “Joe,” says he, “I was at Skeàl-hill”—anudder grunt—“an’ they tel’t me ’at thy oald frind t’ jolly jist’s back ageàn—I think thu’d better slip doon an’ see if he wants to buy any mair brocken steàns; oald Aberram has a fine heap or two liggin aside Kirgat. An’, noo, ’at I’ve gitten them spats off, I’s away to my bed.” Mudder tok a partin’ shot at him as he stacker’t off. She said, “It wad be as weel for sūm on us if yé wad bide theear, if yé mean to carry on i’ t’ way ye’re shappin’!” Noo, this was hardly fair o’ mudder, for it’s no’but yance iv a way ’at fadder cū’s heàm leàt an’ stackery; but I wasn’t sworry to see him git a lāl snape, he’s sae rūddy wid his snapes his-sel’. I ken’t weel aneuf he was no’but mackin’ ghem o’ me aboot gittin’ mair brass oot o’t’ oald jolly jist, but I thowte to me-sel’, thinks I, I’ve deun many a dafter thing nor tak’ him at his wūrd, whedder he meen’t it or nūt, an’ sooa thowte, sooa deùn; for neist mwornin’ I woak’t me-sel’ off tull Skeàl-hill.

When I gat theear, an’ as’t if t’ jolly jist was sturrin’, they yan snùrtit an’ anudder gurn’t, till I gat rayder maddish; but at last yan o’ them skipjacks o’ fellows ’at ye see weearin’ a lāl jacket like a lass’s bedgoon, sed he wad see. He com back laughin’, an’ said, “Cūm this way, Joe.” Well, I follow’t him till he stopp’t at a room dooar, an’ he gev a lal knock, an’ than oppen’t it, an’ says, “Joe, sur,” says he. I wasn’t gā’n to stand that, ye know, an’ says I, “Joe, sur,” says I, “he’ll ken it’s Joe, sur,” says I, “as seùn as he sees t’ feàce o’ me;” says I, “an’ if thoo doesn’t git oot o’ that wid thy ‘Joe, sur,’” says I, “I’ll fetch the’ a clink under t’ lug ’at ’ll mak’ the’ laugh at t’ wrang side o’ that ugly mug o’ thine, thoo gūrnin yap, thoo!” Wid that he skipt oot o’t’ way gaily sharp, an’ I stept whietly into t’ room. Theear he was, sittin at a teàble writin—t’ grey hair, t’ specks, t’ lang nwose, t’ white hankecher, an’ t’ black cleàs, o’ just as if he’d niver owder doff’t his-sel’ or donn’t his-sel’ sen he went away. But afooar I cūd put oot my hand or say a civil wūrd tull him, he glentit up at mé throo his specks, iv his oan oald sideways fashion—but varra feùrce-like—an’ grūntit oot sum’at aboot wūnderin’ hoo I dār’t to shew my feàce theear. Well! this pot t’ cap on t’ top of o’. I’d chow’t ower what fadder said, an’ hoo he’d said it i’ my rwoad doon, till I fūnd me-sel’ gittin rayder mad aboot that. T’ way ’at they snurtit an’ laugh’t when I com to Skeàl-hill meàd me madder; an’ t’ bedgoon cwoatit fellow wid his “Joe, sur,” meàd me madder nor iver; but t’ oald jolly jist, ’at I thowte wad be sa fain to see mé agean, if t’ hed no’but been for t’ seàk of oor sprogue on t’ fells togidder—wùnderin’ ’at I dar’t show my feàce theear, fairly dreàv me rantin’ mad, an’ I düd mak a brūst.

“Show my feàce!” says I, “an’ what sùd I show than?” says I. “If it cūms to showin’ feàces, I’ve a better feàce to show nor iver belang’t to yan o’ your breed,” says I, “if t’ rest on them’s owte like t’ sample they’ve sent us; but if yé mūn know, I’s cūm’t of a stock ’at niver wad be freetn’t to show a feàce till a king, let aleàn an oald newdles wid a creùkt nwose, ’at co’s his-sel’ a jolly jist: an’ I defy t’ feàce o’ clay,” says I, “to say ’at any on us iver dūd owte we need shām on whoariver we show’t oor feàces. Dār’ to show my feàce, eh?” says I, “my song! but this is a bonnie welcome to give a fellow ’at’s cum’t sa far to see yé i’ seckan a mwornin!” I said a gay deal mair o’t’ seàm mak’, an’ o’t’ while I was sayin’ on’t—or, I sūd say, o’t’ while I was shootin’ on’t, for I dudn’t spar’ t’ noise—t’ oald divel laid his-sel’ back iv his girt chair, an’ keept twiddlin’ his thooms an’ glimin’ ūp at mé, wid a hoaf smūrk iv his feàce, as if he’d gitten sum’at funny afooar him. Efter a while I stopt, for I’d ron me-sel’ varra nār oot o’ winnd, an’ I begon rayder to think shām o’ shootin’ an’ bellerin’ sooa at an oald man, an’ him as whisht as a troot throo it o’; an’ when I’d poo’t in, he just said as whietly as iver, ’at I was a natteral cur’osity. I dùdn’t ken weel what this meen’t, but I thowte it was soace, an’ it hed like to set mé off ageàn, but I beàtt it doon as weel as I cūd, an’ I said, “Hev yé gitten owte ageān mé?” says I. “If yé hev, speak it oot like a man, an’ divn’t sit theear twiddlin yer silly oald thooms an’ coa’in fwoke oot o’ ther neàms i’ that rwoad!” Than it o’ com oot plain aneuf. O’ this illnater was just acoase I hedn’t brong him t’ steàns ’at he’d gedder’t on t’ fells that het day, an’ he said ’at changin’ on them was ayder a varra dūrty trick or a varra clumsy jwoke. “Trick!” says I. “Jwoke! dud yé say? It was rayder past a jwoke to expect me to carry a leàd o’ brocken steàns o’t’ way here, when ther’ was plenty at t’ spot. I’s nūt sec a feùl as ye’ve teàn me for.” He tok off his specks, an’ he glower’t at mé adoot them; an’ than he pot them on ageàn, an’ glower’t at mé wid them; an’ than he laugh’t an’ ax’t mé if I thowte ther’ cud be nèa difference i’ steàns. “Whey,” says I, “ye’ll hardly hev t’ feàce to tell me ’at ya bag o’ steàns isn’t as gud as anudder bag o’ steàns—an’ suerlye to man, ye’ll niver be sa consaitit as to say yé can break steàns better nor oald Aberram ’at breaks them for his breid, an’ breaks them o’ day lang, an’ ivery day?” Wid that he laugh’t agean an’ tel’t mé to sit doon, an’ than ax’t me what I thowte meàd him tak so mickle trùble laitin’ bits o’ stean on t’ fells if he cud git what he wantit at t’ rwoad side. “Well!” says I, “if I mun tell yé t’ truth, I thowte yé war rayder nick’t i’ t’ heid; but it meàd nea matter what I thowte sa lang as yé pait mé sa weel for gān wid yé.” As I said this, it com into my held ’at it’s better to flaitch a feùl nor to feight wid him; an’ efter o’, ’at ther’ may’d be sum’at i’t’ oald man likin steans of his oan breakin’ better nor ūdder fwoke’s. I remember’t t’ fiddle ’at Dan Fisher meàd, an’ thowte was t’ best fiddle ’at iver squeak’t, for o’ it meàd ivery body else badly to hear’t; an’ wad bray oald Ben Wales at his dancing scheùl boal acoase Ben wadn’t play t’ heàm meád fiddle asteed of his oan. We o’ think meàst o’ what we’ve hed a hand in oorsel’s—it’s no’but natteral; an’ sooa as o’ this ron throo my heid, I fūnd me-sel’ gitten rayder sworry for t’ oald man, an’ I says, “What wad yé gi’ me to git yé o’ yer oan bits o’ steàn back ageàn?” He cockt up his lugs at this, an’ ax’t mé if his speciments, as he co’t them, was seàf. “Ey,” says I, “they’re seàf aneùf; nèabody hereaboot ’ill think a lal lock o’ steans worth meddlin’ on, sa lang as they divn’t lig i’ the’r rwoad.” Wid that he jūmpt ūp an’ said I mud hev sum’at to drink. Thinks I to me-sel’, “Cūm! we’re gittin’ back to oor oan menseful way ageàn at t’ lang last, but I willn’t stūr a peg till I ken what I’s to hev for gittin him his rubbish back, I wad niver hear t’ last on’t if I went heàm em’ty handit.” He meád it o’ reet hooiver, as I was tackin’ my drink; an’ he went up t’ stair an’ brong doon t’ ledder bags I kent sa weel, an’ geh mé them to carry just as if nowte hed happen’t, an’ off we startit varra like as we dūd afooar.

T’ Skeàl-hill fwoke o’ gedder’t aboo’t dooar to leùk efter us, as if we’d been a show. We, nowder on us, mindit for that, hooiver, but stump’t away togidder as thick as inkle weavers till we gat till t’ feùt of oor girt meedow, whoar t’ steans was liggin, aside o’ t’ steel, just as I’d teem’t them oot o’t’ bags, only rayder grown ower wid gūrse. As I pick’t them up, yan by yan, and handit them to t’ oald jolly jist, it dūd my heart gūd to see hoo pleas’t he leùkt, as he wipet them on his cwoat cūff, an’ wettit them, an’ glower’t at them throo his specks as if they wer’ sum’at gud to eat, an’ he was varra hungry—an’ pack’t them away into t’ bags till they wer’ beàth chock full ageàn.

Well! t’ bargin was, ’at I sud carry them to Skeàl-hill. Sooa back we pot—t’ jolly jist watchin’ his bags o’t’ way as if t’ steans was guineas, an’ I was a thief. When we gat theear, he meàd me’ tak’ them reet into t’ parlour; an’ t’ fūrst thing he dūd was to co’ for sum reed wax an’ a leet, an’ clap a greet splatch of a seal on t’ top of ayder bag; an’ than he leūkt at me, an’ gev a lal grunt of a laugh, an’ a smartish wag of his heid, as much as to say, “Dee it agean, if thoo can, Joe!” But efter that he says, “Here, Joe,” says he, “here five shillin’ for restworin’ my speciments, an’ here anudder five shillin’ for showin’ mé a speciment of human natur’ ’at I didn’t believe in till to-day.” Wid that, we shak’t hands an’ we partit; an’ I went heàm as pleas’t as a dog wi’ two tails, jinglin’ my mūnny an’ finndin’ sūm way as if I was hoaf a jolly jist me-sel’—an’ whoa kens but I was? For when I gat theear, I says to fadder, “Fadder,” says I, “leùk yé here! If o’ yer jibes turn’t to sec as this, I divn’t mind if ye jibe on till yé’ve jibed yer-sel’ intul a tip’s whorn;” says I, “but I reckon yé niver jibed to sec an’ end for yer-sel’ as ye’ve jibed for me this time!”

BOBBY BANKS’ BODDERMENT.
(A Sup of Coald Keàl het up ageàn.)

HE was ola’s a top marketer was ooar Betty, she niver miss’t gittin’ t’ best price gā’n beàth for butter an’ eggs; an’ she ken’t hoo to bring t’ ho’pennies heàm! Nūt like t’ meàst o’ fellows’ wives ’at thinks there’s nèa hūrt i’ warin’ t’ odd brass iv a pictur’ beuk or gūd stūff for t’ barnes or m’appen sūm’at whyte as needless for ther’sels,—Betty ola’s brong t’ ho’pennies heàm.

Cockerm’uth’s ooar reg’lar market—it’s a gay bit t’ bainer—but at t’ time o’ year when Kes’ick’s full o’ quality ther’s better prices to be gitten theear; an’ sooa o’ through t’ harvest time, an’ leater on, she ola’s went to Kes’ick. Last back-end, hooiver, Betty was fashed sadly wid t’ rheumatics iv her back, an’ yā week she cūd hardly git aboot at o’, let alean gā to t’ market. For a while she wadn’t mak’ ūp her mind whedder to send me iv her spot, or ooar eldest dowter, Faith; but as Faith was hardly fowerteen—stiddy aneuf of her yeàge, but rayder yūng,—Betty thowte she’d better keep Faith at heàm an’ let me tak’ t’ marketin’ to Kes’ick.

Of t’ Setterda’ mwornin’, when it com’, she hed us o’ ūp an’ stūrrin, seùner nor sūm on us liket; an’ when I’d gitten sūm’at to eat, iv a hūgger mūgger mak’ of a way, says Betty till me, says she—“Here’s six an’ twenty pūnd o’ butter,” says she. “If thoo was gud for owte thoo wad git a shilling a pūnd for’t, ivery slake. Here’s five dozen of eggs,” says she, “I wadn’t give a skell o’ them mair nor ten for sixpence,” says she, “but thoo mun git what thoo can,” says she, “efter thu’s fūnd oot what ūdder fwoke’s axin. When thu’s meàd thy market,” says Betty, “thu’ll gā to t’ draper’s an’ git me a yard o’ check for a brat, a knot o’ tape for strings tūl’t, an’ a hank o’ threed to sowe’t wid—if I’s gud for nowte else, I can sowe yit,” says she, wid a gurn; “than thoo mūn git hoaf a pūnd o’ tea an’ a quarter of a steàn o’ sugger—they ken my price at Crosstet’s—an’ hoaf a steàn o’ soat, an’ a pūnd o’ seàp, an’ hoaf a pūnd o’ starch, an’ a penn’orth o’ steàn-blue, an’ git me a bottle o’ that stùff to rūb my back wid; an’ than thoo ma’ git two oonces o’ ’bacca for thysel’.

If thoo leùks hoaf as sharp as thoo sūd leùk thu’ll be through wid beàth thy marketin’ an’ thy shoppin’ by twelve o’clock; an’ thoo ma’ gā an’ git a bit o’ dinner, like ūdder fwoke, at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall. Efter that t’ seùner thoo starts for heàm an’ t’ better. Noo thu’ll mind an’ forgit nowte? Ther’ t’ check, an’ t’ tape, an’ t’ threed, that’s three things—t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ soat, an’ t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue, an’ t’ rūbbin’ stūff, an’ t’ ’bacca—I’s up-ho’d the’ nūt to forgit that!—elebben. Ten things for me, an’ yan for thysel’! I think I’ve meàd o’ plain aneùf; an’ noo, if thoo misses owte I’ll say thoo’s a bigger clot-heid nor I’ve teàn the’ for—an’ that ’ill be sayin’ nèa lal!”

Many a fellow wad tak t’ ’frunts if his wife spak till him i’ that way—but bliss yè I leev’t lang aneùf wid Betty to know ’at it’s no’but a way she hes o’ shewin’ her likin’. When she wants to be t’ kindest an’ best to yan, yan’s ola’s suer to git t’ warst wūrd iv her belly.

Well, I set off i’ gŭd fettle for Kes’ick, gat theear i’ gradely time, an’ pot ūp at Mistress Boo’s. I hed a sharpish market, an’ seùn gat shot o’ my būtter an’ eggs at better prices nor Betty toak’t on. I bowte o’ t’ things at she wantit, an’ t’ ’bacca for mysel’, an’ gat a gud dinner at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall an’ a crack.

He wad be a cliverish fellow ’at went ta Kes’ick an’ gat oot on’t adoot rain; an’ suer aneùf, by t’ time ’at I’d finished my pint an’ my crack, it was cūmmin’ doon as it knows hoo to cūm doon at Kes’ick.

But when it rains theear, they hev to deù as they deù ūnder Skiddaw, let it fo’! an’ wet or dry, I hed to git heàm tūll Betty.

When I was aboot startin’, I begon to think ther’ was sum’at mair to tak wid me. I coontit t’ things ower i’ my basket hoaf a dozen times. Theear they o’ warr—ten for Betty, yan for me! Than what the dang-ment was’t I was forgittin? I was suer it was sūm’at, but for t’ heart on me I cūdn’t think what it med be. Efter considerin’ for a lang time, an’ gittin’ anūdder pint to help mé to consider, I set off i’ t’ rain wid my basket an’ t’ things in’t, anonder my top-sark to keep o’ dry.

Bee t’ time I gat to Portinskeàl, I’d begon to tire! T’ wedder was slattery, t’ rwoads was slashy, t’ basket was heavy, an’ t’ top sark meàd me het; but t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ forgitten sūm’at tew’t mè t’ warst of o’. I rūstit theear a bit—gat anudder pint, an’ coontit my things ower and ower, “Ten for Betty!—yan for my-sel.” I cūd mak nowder mair nor less on them. Cockswūnters!—what hed I forgitten? Or what was’t ’at meàd mè suer I’d forgitten sūm’at when I’d o’ t’ things wid mè?

I teuk t’ rwoad agean mair nor hoaf crazy.

I stop’t ūnder a tree aside Springbank, an’ Dr.—— com’ ridin’ up through t’ rain, on his black galloway. “Why, Robert,” says he, “ye look as if ye’d lost something.” “Nay, doctor,” says I, “here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed—I’ lost nowte—that’s three. Here t’ soat, an’ t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue—that’s sebben—I’ lost nowte, but I’ forgitten sum’at. Here t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ rūbbin’ bottle—that’s ten; an’ here t’ ’bacca—that’s elebben.—Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me! Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me!! Doctor, doctor,” says I, “fwoke say ye ken oa things—what hev I forgitten?” “I’ll tell ye what ye haven’t forgotten,” says he, “ye haven’t forgotten the ale at Keswick. Get home, Robert, get home,” says he, “and go to bed and sleep it off.” I believe he thowte I was drūnk; but I wasn’t—I was no’but maizelt wid tryin’ to finnd oot what I’d forgitten.

As I com nār to t’ Swan wid two Necks I fell in wid greet Gweordie Howe, and says I, “Gweordie, my lad,” says I, “I’s straddelt,” says I, “I’s fairly maiz’t,” says I. “I left sūm’at ahint me at Kes’ick, an’ I’ve thowte aboot it till my heid’s gā’n like a job-jūrnal,” says I, “an’ what it is I cannot tell.” “Can t’e nūt?” says Gweordie. “Can t’e nūt? Whey, than, cūm in an’ see if a pint o’ yall ’ll help thé’.” Well, I steud pints, an’ Gweordie steud pints, an’ I steud pints ageàn. Anūdder time I wad ha’ been thinkin’ aboot what Betty wad say till o’ this pintin’, but I was gittin’ despert aboot what I’d forgitten at Kes’ick, an’ I cūd think o’ nowte else.

T’ yall was gud aneùf, but it dùdn’t kest a morsel o’ leet on what was bodderin’ on ma sa sair, an’ I teuk t’ rwoad ageàn finndin’ as if I was farder off’t nor iver.

T’ rain keep’t cūmmin’ doon—t’ rwoad gat softer an’ softer—t’ basket gat heavier an’ heavier—t’ top sark hetter an’ hetter, an’ my heid queerer an’ queerer. If I stopt anonder ya tree i’ t’ wūd, I stopt anonder twenty, an’ coontit ower t’ things i’ t’ basket till they begon to shap’ theirsels intil o’ mak’s o’ barnish sangs i’ my heid, and I fūnd mysel’ creunin’ away at sec bits of rhymes as thūrr—

Ten things an’ yan, Bobby,

Ten things an’ yan;

Here five an’ five for Betty Banks,

An’ yan for Betty’s man.

“Lord preserve oor wits—sec as they ūrr,” says I. “I mūn be gā’n wrang i’ my heid when I’ve teàn till mackin’ sangs!” But t’ queerest break was ’at I dūddn’t mak’ them—they meàd thersel’s—an’ they meàd me sing them an’ o’, whedder I wad or nūt—an’ off I went ageàn till a different teùn—

Says Betty—says she; says Betty till me—

“If owte thou contrives to forgit,

“I’ll reckon thè’ daizter an’ dafter,” says she,

“Nor iver I’ve reckon’t thè’ yit.”

I’s daizter an’ dafter nor iver, she’ll say,

An’ marry, she willn’t say wrang!

But scold as she will, ey, an’ gūrn as she may,

I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang, lāl sang,

I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang.

“Well! It hes cūm’t till whoa wad hae thowte it,” says I, “if I cannot stop mysel’ frae mackin’ sangs an’ singin’ them of a wet day i’ Widdup Wūd; I’ll coont t’ things ower ageàn,” says I, “an’ see if that’ll stop ma.” Ye ma’ believe ma or nūt, as ye like, but iv anūdder tick-tack there was I coontin’ t’ things ower iv a sang:—

Here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed, oald lad!

Here t’ soat an’ t’ sugger an’ t’ tea—

Seàp, starch, steàn-blue, an’ t’ bottle to rub,

An’ t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me,

Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me, me, me,

Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me.

I’ll niver git heàm while Bobby’s my neàm,

But maffle an’ sing till I dee, dee, dee,

But maffle an’ sing till I dee!

“Weel, weel,” says I, “If I is oot o’ my senses—I IS oot o’ my senses, an’ that’s oa’ aboot it,—but

Loavins what’ll Betty think, Betty think, Betty think,

Loavins what’ll Betty think if Bobby bide away?

She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink,

She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink this varra market-day.

She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass,

She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter brass, but willn’t thrimle lang.

For Bobby lad thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce,

For Bobby lad, thū’s hūr to feàce; she’ll m’appen change thy sang.

Sang or nèa sang, t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ “hūr to feàce,” an’ that gaily seùn, rayder brong me to my oan oald sel’ ageàn. I set off yance mair, an’ this time, I dūdn’t stop while I gat fairly into t’ foald. Faith seed me cūmmin’, an’ met me oot side o’ t’ hoose dooar, an’ says Faith, “Whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car, fadder?” I dropp’t my basket, an’ I geàp’t at her! Lal Jacop com runnin oot, an’ says Jacop, “Fadder, whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car?” I swattit mysel’ doon on t’ stean binch, an’ I glower’t at them—furst at yan an’ than at t’ tudder on them. Betty com limpin’ by t’ God-speed, an’ says Betty, “What hes t’e meàd o’ t’ car an’ t’ meear, thoo maizlin?” I gat my speech ageàn when Betty spak’, an’, hoaf crazet an’ hoaf cryin’, I shootit oot, “’Od’s wūns an’ deeth, that’s what I’s forgitten!” That was what I said. What Betty said I think I willn’t tell yè.”

WISE WIFF.

T was a fine job for Wilfrid Wankelthet ’at his fadder was bworn afooar him. If he’d cùm’t into t’ warld pooar, he wad ha’ bidden pooar, an’ geàn pooarer an’ pooarer still, till he’d finish’t on t’ parish.

He was yan o’ t’ hafe-rock’t mack, was Wiffy, varra lāl in him but what was putten in wid a speùn, an’ that hed run a gay deal mair to body nor brains.

For o’ that he wasn’t a bad fellow, an’ he wasn’t badly thowte on. Many a body said ’at Wise Wiff, if he hedn’t mūch in him, t’ lāl he hed in him wasn’t of a bad pattren; an’ es for his manishment, if he’d nò’but stuck till his fadder’ advice, he needn’t ha’ gitten sa varra far wrang.

T’ way he gat his fadder’ advice was this. When t’ oald man fund ’at he was gà’n whoar he cūdn’t carry his land an’ his morgidges, an’ his mūnney, an’ his moiderment alang wid him—whoar they wadn’t dee him mickle gūd if he cūd—he sent for Jobby Jinkison, o’ Jūrtinsyke, a smo’ farmer of his ’at hed deùn a gūd deal o’ bisness for him at fairs, an’ markets, an’ seàles, an’ sec like, efter he’d growne ower frail to git fray heàm his-sel; an’, says he, “Jobby, I’s leavin’t o’,” he says, “I’ve meàd a fair scraffle, Jobby,” says he, “an’ I’ve gedder’t a gay bit togidder, but I can’t tack it wid me, Jobby, an’ I’s wantin to speak till thé’ aboot that pooar lad o’ mine, ’at it o’ hes to cūm till. Nèabody kens better nor thee what he’s shwort on—nèabody kens so weel hoo I’ve triet to git a bit o’ edication drūven intūl him, an’ hoo lāl we’ve meàd on’t. Ya scheùlmaister said he was shwort o’ apprehension; anūdder, ’at he wantit ability; an’ a thūrd, ’at he hed nèa capacity. If thúr hed been things ’at mūnny wad ha’ bowte, he sūd hed them o’, but they warn’t. What God’s left oot we cannot o’ put in, thoo knows, an’ we mūn sūbmit—we mūn sūbmit, Jobby,” says he, “an’ mack t’ best o’ things as they ūrr. But I cūd súbmit better—I cūd dee easier if thoo wad promish to leùk efter things for him when I’s geàn. I divn’t want him to be idle o’ togidder, an’ sooa I wad wish him to keep t’ Booin-leys iv his oan hand—it’ll give him sūm’at to think aboot, an’ mack fwoke leùk up till him mair nor if he was deùin nowte at o’; an’ I fancy ’at if thoo wad agree to deù o’ his buyin an’ sellin for him, an’ seàv him fray bein teán in an’ laugh’t at, I cūd be happier noo. Wil’tè?” Jobby wasn’t a man o’ many wūrds, but he said “I will, maister! I’ll dee o’ for him t’ seám as if ye wer heear to worder it yersel’ an’ see it deùn. Wid t’ farms o’ weel set—wid t’ Booin-leys liggin i’ girse, an’ wid me to leùk efter his barg’ins, I wad like to see t’ fellow ’at wad laugh at ooar Wiff.” “I believe the’, Jobby—I believe the’, my lad,” says t’ deein man, “I leùk’t for nēa less at thy hand. Fetch him in here, an’ I’ll tell him afooar the’ what I wis him to deù when I’s geàn. Wiffy, my lad,” says he, as his son com in, leùken, as he thowte, mair sackless nor iver. “Wiffy, my pooar lad, thy oald fadder’s gā’n to leave thee. Whey, whey, gūd lad! it’s reet aneùf thoo sūd be sworry to lwoase sec a fadder, but divn’t gowl i’ that way,” for Wiff hed brassen oot wid a meàst terrable rooar. “I say I hev to leave thee, an’ that afooar lang. Hod thy noise, thoo bellerin coaf, an’ hear what I’ve to say,” says t’ fadder, as he got oot o’ patience at Wiff’s gowlin, an’ went back tūll his oald hard way o’ speakin til him. “Stop thy beelin, I say, an’ lissen to me. I’ve hed Jobby here browte ower, ebben o’ pûrpose, to mack him promish ’at he’ll leùk efter thee when I’s away. Hod t’ noise on the’, wil’té! I’s leavin the’ weel providit for, an’ o’ t’ land mūn be let but t’ Booin-leys; thoo mūn keep them i’ thy oan hand—thūrty yacre o’ gûd grūnd. Ey,” says he, hoaf till hissel, “t’ best land ’at iver laid oot o’ dooars. Whativer way ye gang fray’t ye warsen! Thoo’ll hod them i’ thy oan hand, for t’ seàk o’ hevin sūm’at to deù. Thoo’ll hev to leùk efter t’ fences, an’ t’ yatts, an’ t’ water-coorses. Keep them i’ order; an’ keep t’ plew oot o’ t’ land; it ’ill give t’ meàst liggin t’ green side ūp. Jobby ’ill deù thy tradin’ for the’. Dūnnot thee mell wid buyin or sellin. Leave o’ that to Jobby, an’ pay him whativer he charges for his trūble. He’ll deù what’s reet, will Jobby. An’ noo I’s aboot deùn. Gi’ me yer hands, beàth on yé, an’ say ye’ll deù what I tell yè. Wilfrid! thoo’ll be advised by Jobby. Jobby! thoo’ll be true frind to my pooar lad, as if I was theear to see. Promish!”

This was a langish noration for a body wid t’ breath leavin him, an’ when it was done he laid back on his pilliver, an’ leùk’t at them varra wistful-like, till they promish’t, an’ it was a bit afooar they cūd, for by this time they war beáth on them yewlin, t’ yan ower t’ ùdder, whedder to yewl t’ hardest.

When t’ oald man was bury’t oot o’ geàt, Wilfrid an’ Jobby wūrk’t away togidder varra cannily. Job bowte stock for t’ Booin-leys, an’ selt them as they fatten’t off, an’ enter’t o’ iv a big beùk ’at Wiff niver so mūch as leùk’t atween t’ backs on. He’d his fadder’s last wūrds for Jobby deein what was reet, an’ they war aneùf.

Nowte com to put owder on them oot of his way, till Wiff gat a wife—or mebbe I wad be narder t’ truth if I said, a wife gat Wiff—for when ivery body seed ’at he went on i’ sec a stiddy soort of a way—gittin heavy incomins i’ rent, an’ interest, an’ shares, an’ néabody kent what; an’ makin varra leet ootgangins, it was plain aneùf ’at he wad seùn be yan o’ t’ yablest men i’ thur parts, an’ t’ lasses begon to cock ther caps at him of o’ sides—’specially them ’at thowte a man isn’t wūrth hevin if he hesn’t gitten a bit o’ t’ feàce o’ t’ yūrth; an’ efter a while yan o’ that mack fassen’t Wiffy.

She meàd him a fairish wife, as wives gang, an’ if she’d no’but been wise aneùf ta tack him as he was, an’ let things gā on as they hed deùn, o’ wad been weel; but she cūdn’t bide t’ thowtes of oanin’, owder till hersel or ūdder fwoke, ’at she’d weddit a Tommy Moakison for t’ seàk of his brass; an’ sooa she keept eggin him on to dee his oan tūrns, an’ let fwoke see ’at he wasn’t sec a natteral as he was co’t. It was this whim-wham o’ t’ wife’s ’at gat him t’ nick-neām of Wise Wiff, an’ it com tūl him i’ this geàt. Amang t’ stock ga’n on t’ Booin-leys ya year there happen’t to be hoaf a scwore of as bonnie Galloway Scots as iver hed yār o’ t’ ootside on them. Jobby hed bowte them i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year at a gūddish price, acoase he seed ther was mūnny to be gitten oot on them efter a sūmmer’s rūn iv a gūd pastur’. Jūst as they war rūddy for a cūstomer, an’ Wiff was thinkin o’ gā’n doon to Jobby to toke aboot sellin on them, t’ wife says, “Ther’s a butcher cūmmin fray Cockerm’uth to-day aboot buyin them Scots.” “Whey than,” says Wilfrid, “I’s just step doon to Jobby, an’ tell him to cūm up an’ meet t’ butcher.” “Thoo’ll dee nowte o’ t’ mack,” says t’ mistress, “Thoo’ll set to wark, as a gentleman sūd dee, an’ let Jobby Jinkison, an’ ivery body else, see ’at thoo wants néabody to cūm atween thee an’ thy oan bisness.” “Well, but,” says Wiff, “I promish’t fadder on his deith-bed ’at Jobby sūd dee o’ t’ buyin’ an’ sellin.” “Niver thee mind that,” says she, “fadder willn’t cūm back to claim thee promish, an’ if he dūd, I wad tell him ’at if a promish isn’t reet it’s wrang to keep it. Thoo’ll dee as I tell thee.” “Well, but,” says pooar Wiffy ageàn, “fadder meàd me varra nār sweear tul’t.” “Shaff o’ thee fadder!” says she, “What sense is ther i’ flingin a deid fadder iv a leevin wife’s feàce i’ this ugly fashin. Does t’e know what t’ scriptur’ says aboot it?—’at a man mūn leave his fadder and mudder, an’ stick till his wife! I say ageàn, sell thee oan gūds thee oan sel’, an’ mack t’ best thoo can on them.” “But hoo’s I to ken what price to ex?” says he. “Whey,” says she, “cannot thoo leuk into t’ beuk ’at Jobby writes o’ doon in, an’ finnd t’ price he pait for them? That ’ill be a guide for the’. But I wad rayder loase a pūnd or two, if I was thee, nor be meàd a barne on any lang-er.” Like many a cliverer fellow, pooar Wiff fūnd ther was nowte for’t but lettin his wife hev her way; an’ when t’ butcher com, he went reet ower wid him to t’ fields whoar t’ bullocks was gā’n, an’ sel’t them tūll him oot o’ hand.

Iv his rwoad heàm he went roond by Jūrtinsyke to tell Jobby of his mwornin’s wark. Jobby leuk’t rayder strūcken iv a heap when he hārd it; but efter considerin a lāl bit, he said, “Weel, maister,” (he oalas spack respectful-like to pooar Wilfrid, dūd Jobby hissel, an’ he wadn’t let any body else dee udder ways when he was theear.) “Weel, maister,” says Jobby, “I willn’t oalas be here to mannish for yé, an’ yé may as weel begin noo as efter I’s geàn to try yer fist at tradin. But what gat yé for t’ Scots?” “I dūd bravely, lad,” says Wiff, “I dūd bravely. I gat nine pūnd ten a heid for them.” “Nine pūnd ten!” Jobby shootit, “Whey, that’s what I geh for them, mair nor five mūnth sen!” “I ken that,” says Wiff, “I teùk a peep into t’ girt beùk, an’ fūnd theear what thu’d gi’én for them.” “An yé jūst gat what they cost i’ t’ spring?” says Jobby. “I think if yé carry on a trade like that owte sa lang, yé’ll be mackin’ t’ oald maister’s mūnny bags leùk gaily wankle.” “Mūnny bags,” says Wiff, “What’s t’ use o’ toakin aboot mūnny bags? T’ mūnny bags is seàf aneùf sa lang as I git as mūch for beasts as I gi’ for them. I think I’ve meàd a varra fair trade, whativer thoo may think.” “Aih dear! aih dear!” says Job, “it wad mack t’ oald maister git up oot o’ his grave, if he cūd hear this. Whoar’s t’ rent o’ t’ land to cūm fray wid yer fair trade?” “T’ rent o’ t’ land, thoo oald neudles,” says Wiff, “t’ rent o’ what land? T’ land’s my oan!”

Sooa Mistress Wanklethet fūnd ’at her fadder-in-lo’, kent his sūn better nor she dūd her man; an’ o’ ’at com of her middlin was to git her husband a nickneàm an’ mack him a by-wūrd; for iver sen, when any body theear aboots macks a queerish bargin, somebody else is suer to say, “T’ land’s my oan, says Wise Wiff!”

LAL DINAH GRAYSON.

AL Dinah Grayson’s fresh, fewsome, an’ free,

Wid a lilt iv her step an’ a glent iv her e’e;

She glowers ebbem at mé whativer I say

An’ meàstly mak’s answer wid “M’appen I may!”

“M’appen I may,” she says, “m’appen I may;

Thou thinks I believe the’, an’ m’appen I may!”

Gay offen, when Dinah I mannish to meet

O’ Mūndays, i’t’ market i’ Cockerm’uth street,

I whisper “Thou’s nicer nor owte here to day,”

An’ she cocks up her chin an’ says, “M’appen I may!

M’appen I may, my lad, m’appen I may;

There’s nowte here to crack on, an’ m’appen I may!”

She’s smart oot o’ dooars—she’s tidy i’t’ hoose;

Snod as a mowdy-warp—sleek as a moose.

I’ blue goon, i’ black goon, i’ green goon or grey,

I tell her she’s reeght, an’ git “M’appen I may!”

“M’appen I may,” she’ll say, “m’appen I may,

Thou kens lal aboot it, but m’appen I may!”

There’s nūt mickle on her,—we ken ’at gud stuff

Laps up i’ lal bundles, an’ she’s lal aneuf;

There’s nowte aboot Dinah were better away

But her comical[2] ower-wūrd “M’appen I may.”

“M’appen I may,” it’s still, “m’appen I may.”

Whativer yan wants yan gits “m’appen I may!”

An’ it shaps to be smittal; whoariver I gang,

I can’t tell a stwory—I can’t sing a sang—

I can’t hod a crack, nay!—I can’t read nor pray

Widout bringin’ in her dang’t “M’appen I may.”

“M’appen I may,” it cūms, “m’appen I may;”

Asteed of Amen, I say “m’appen I may.”

But she met me ya neeght aside Pards’aw Lea yatt—

I tock her seàf heàm, but I keep’t her oot leàt,

An’ offen I said i’ my oan canny way,

“Will t’é like me a lal bit?”—“Whey,—M’appen I may!

M’appen I may, Harry—m’appen I may;

Thou’s rayder a hoaf-thick, but m’appen I may!”

I prist her to wed mé—I said I was pooar,

But eddlin aneuf to keep hung-er frayt’ dooar.

She leuk’t i’ my feàce, an’ than, hoaf turn’t away,

She hung doon her heid an’ said “M’appen I may!

M’appen I may”—(low doon)—“m’appen I may,

I think thou means fairly, an’ m’appen I may.”

We’re hingin’ i’t’ bell reàps[3]—to t’ parson I’ve toak’t,

An’ I gev him a hint as he maffelt an’ jwoak’t,

To mind when she sud say “love, honour, OBEY,”

’At she doesn’t slip through wid her “M’appen I may.”

M’appen I may, may be—m’appen I may,

But we moont put up than wid a “m’appen I may.”

JWOHNNY, GIT OOT!

“Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny, thou’s no’but a fash;

Thou’ll come till thou raises a desperat clash;[4]

Thou’s here ivery day just to put yan aboot,

An’ thou moiders yan terrably—Jwohnny, git oot!

What says t’e? I’s bonnie? Whey! That’s nowte ’at’s new.

Thou’s wantin’ a sweetheart?—Thou’s hed a gay few!

An’ thou’s cheatit them, yan efter t’ t’udder, nèa doubt;

But I’s nūt to be cheatit sèa—Jwohnny, git oot!

There’s plenty o’ lads i’ beàth Lamplugh an’ Dean

As yabble as thee, an’ as weel to be seen;

An’ I med tak’ my pick amang o’ there aboot—

Does t’é think I’d ha’e thee, than? Hut, Jwohnny, git oot!

What? Nūt yan amang them ’at likes mé sa weel?

Whey, min—there’s Dick Walker an’ Jonathan Peel

Foorsettin’ mé ola’s i’t’ lonnins aboot,

Beàth wantin’ to sweetheart mé—Jwohnny, git oot!

What?—Thou will hev a kiss?—Ah, but tak’t if thou dar!

I tell the’, I’ll squeel, if thou tries to cŭ’ nār.

Tak’ care o’ my collar—Thou byspel, I’ll shoot.

Nay, thou sha’n’t hev anudder—Noo Jwhonny, git oot!

Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny—Thou’s tew’t me reet sair;

Thou’s brocken my comb, an’ thou’s toozelt my hair.

I willn’t be kiss’t, thou unmannerly loot!

Was t’ere iver sec impidence! Jwohnny, git oot!

Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny—I tell the’, be deùn.

Does t’e think I’ll tak’ up wid Ann Dixon’s oald sheùn?

Thou ma’ gā till Ann Dixon, an’ pu’ hur aboot,

But thou s’alln’t pu’ me, sèa—Jwohnny, git oot!

Well! That’s sent him off, an’ I’s sworry it hes;

He med ken a lass niver means hoaf ’at she says.

He’s a reet canny fellow, howiver I floot,

An’ it’s growin o’ wark to say Jwohnny, git oot!”

THE RUNAWAY WEDDING.

My fadder said “Nay”—an’ my mudder said “Niver!”

When Willie furst telt them we wantit to wed;

We mud part—they said, beàth—part at yance an’ for iver,

An’ they deavet me to deeth aboot foats ’at he hed.

A sailor was Will, forret, free-tonguet, an’ funny,

An’ gi’en till o’ manner o’ teulment was he;

Rayder lowce i’ religion, an’ careless o’ money,

But dear was my wild, thowtless Willie to me.

His life seemed meàd up of arrivin’s an’ sailin’s—

Rough hardship at sea, an’ fair daftness at heàm.

I cry’t ow’r his danger—I pray’t ow’r his failin’s,

An’ offen forgev what I cudn’t but bleàm.

An’ many a frind, an’ relation, an’ neighbour

Brong hints an’ queer teàls aboot Will to poor me;

But neighbours an’ frinds gat the’r pains for the’r labour,

For t’mair they misco’t him t’mair thowte on was he.

An’t’ upshot of o’ the’r fine hints an’ advices

Was ’at, ya neet, weel happ’t i’ Will’s greet sailor cwoat,

We dreàv, afoor dayleet, to Foster Penrice’s,

An’ slip’t ow’r till Annan i’t’ Skinburneese bwoat.

An’ theer we wer’ weddit, i’ their way o’ weddin’;—

I dudn’t hafe like’t, but they said it wad dee;

An’ I dār-say it may’d—for a lass ’at was bred in

Their ways—but it wasn’t like weddin’ to me.

An’ when Will brong me back, varra shām-feàcet an’ freetent,

Ower t’ sin an’ disgrace on’t my mūdder went wild.—

Sair, sair dud my heart sink, but bravely it leeten’t

When Will prist me close up beside him, an’ smil’d.

My fadder said lāl, no’but whishtit my mudder,

An’ pettit an’ blest me wid tears iv his e’e;

Till beàth on us ru’t what hed gi’en him sec bodder,

An’ shām’t of our darrak steud Willie an’ me.

Eigh—for loave, he was kind! an’ he wad hev us weddit,

As t’ rest of his barns hed been—menseful an’ reet—

He leuk’t at oor Scotch weddin’-writin’ an’ read it,

But went up to t’ Priest’s aboot t’ license that neet.

An’ he keep’t me at heàm, though we hed a hoose riddy.

He said he mud hev me, while Will follow’t t’ sea.

An’ Will! weddin’ meàd him douce, careful, an’ stiddy,

An’ he’s hoddenly been a gud husband to me.

He seun hed a ship of his oan, an’ meàd money,

An’ seàv’t it, what he reckoned harder by far;

An’, ola’s weel-natur’t, free-heartit an’ funny,

He meàd his-sel frinds wid whativer com’ nār.

An’ es for my mūdder, ’at thowte me so silly,

An’ lang nowte but bad i’ poor Willie wad see,

I’s thenkful she leevet to say—“Bless thee son Willie,

“Many cūmforts we’ve hed but meàst cūmfort i’ thee.”

BILLY WATSON’ LONNING.

O for Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

When t’ stars come few an’ flaytely, efter weerin’ oot day-leeght—

When t’ black-kite blossom shews itsel’ i’ hafe-seen gliffs o’ grey,

An’ t’ honey-suckle’s scentit mair nor iver it is i’ t’ day.

An’ nūt a shadow, shap’ or soond, or seeght, or sign ’at tells

’At owte ’at’s wick comes santerin’ theer but you, yer oan two sel’s.

Ther’ cannot be anudder spot so private an’ so sweet,

As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

T’ Hempgarth Broo’s a cheersome pleàce when t’ whins bloom full o’ flooar—

Green Hecklebank turns greener when it’s watter’t wid a shooar—

There’s bonnie neuks about Beckside, Stocks-hill, an’ Greystone Green—

High Woker Broo gi’es sec a view as isn’t offen seen—

It’s glorious doon ont’ Sandy-beds when t’ sun’s just gān to set—

An’ t’ Clay-Dubs isn’t far aslew when t’ wedder isn’t wet;

But nin was meàd o’ pūrpose theer a bonnie lass to meet

Like Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght.

Yan likes to trail ow’r t’ Sealand-fields an’ watch for t’ comin’ tide,

Or slare whoar t’ Green hes t’ Ropery an’ t’ Shore of ayder side—

T’ Weddriggs road’s a lāl-used road, an’ reeght for coortin toke—

An’ Lowca’ lonnin’s reeght for them ’at like a langsome woke—

Yan’s reeght aneuf up t’ Lime-road, or t’ Waggon-way, or t’ Ghyll,

An’ reeght for ram’lin’s Cūnning-wood or Scattermascot hill.

Ther’s many spots ’at’s reeght aneuf, but nin o’ ways so reeght

As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght.

Sec thowtes as thur com’ thick lang sen to yan, a lonterin’ lad,

Wid varra lal to brag on but a sperrit niver sad,

When he went strowlin’ far an’ free aboot his sea-side heàm,

An’ stamp’t a mark upon his heart of ivery frind-like neàm;—

A mark ’at seems as time drees on to deepen mair an’ mair—

A mark ’at ola’s breeghtens meàst i’ t’ gloom o’ comin’ care;

But nowte upon his heart has left a mark ’at hods so breeght

As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

Oor young days may’d be wastet days, but dār their mem’ry’s dear!

And what wad yan not part wid noo ageàn to hev them here?

Whativer trubles fash’t us than, though nayder leet nor few,

They niver fash’t us hafe so lang as less an’s fash us noo;

If want o’ thowte brong bodderment, it pass’t for want o’ luck,

An’ what cared we for Fortun’s bats, hooiver feurce she struck?

It mud be t’ time o’ life ’at meàd oor happiness complete

I’ Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

LONE AND WEARY.

Deid winter’s nūt sa dark to me

As t’ lang leet days o’ t’ spring;—

I hate to see a swallow flee,

Or hear a throssle sing;

I greàn at t’ fresh green leaves on t’ trees;

I turn frae t’ flooers o’ May,

For t’ croft was white wid dog-daisies

When Jwohn was teàn away.

We coortit lang, dud Jwohn an’ me—

We waitit lang an’ sair—

He thowte oor weddin’ mūdn’t be

While beàth war poor an’ bare;

An’ sep’rat’, I gat past my prime,

Jwohn barrow-back’t an’ grey;—

Reet sair I grudg’t that wastit time,

When Jwohn was teàn away.

Jwohn pinch’t an’ spar’t, an’ tew’t an’ streàv,

Till t’ heart wid-in him brak’—

Still aimin’ brass aneuf to seàv,

Some lal bit farm to tak’:

An’ when he’d gitten t’ farm an’ me,

’Twas plain he mūdn’t stay;—

He dwined through t’ winter dark an’ dree—

I’ t’ spring was teàn away.

We may’d hed many a happy year,

If thowte to t’ winds we’d flung,

An’ join’t oor strength life’s leàd to beear,

When beàth war lish an’ yūng:

But widdert was oor flooer o’ life

Afoor oor weddin’ day;

An’ I’d nūt been ya year a wife

When Jwohn was teàn away.

Sooa t’ spring o’ life na sūmmer browte,

To my poor man or me;

An’ t’ spring o’ t’ year noo brings me nowte

But t’ mind o’ misery.

I can’t see what anudder sees

I’ t’ fields an’ t’ flooers o’ May,

For t’ croft was white wid dog-daisies

When Jwohn was teàn away.

T’ CLEAN NED O’ KES’ICK.

This phrase is proverbial in central Cumberland, and is generally used in a negative sense; thus, of a person whose character for upright conduct will not bear the full light of day, it is said, “He’s nūt t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick.”

Lang an’ leàt we ma’ lait throo fray Fiend’s-fell[5] to Fles’ick,[6]

Afooar we’ll finnd mair ner yā fellow or two

Yan can fairly an’ freely co’ t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick;

Oald Cūm’erlan’ t’sel’ on’t hods no’but a few!

An’ hoo mūn us tell when we div happen on them?

Whey, that, just off-hand, isn’t easy to say!

But sūm of o’ yages hev marks plain upon them

Showin’ they’re nin o’ t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—nūt they!

We ma’ leet on a barne wid t’ leùk of ill-natur’

An’ spite glowerin’ oot of a widderful feàce;

A lean, discontentit, slee, gyversome creetur’,

’At kens hoo to mak’ its-sel’ t’ maister o’ t’ pleàce—

’At yowls when it wants owte, an’ glumps when it gits it,

Till o’ but it’s mūdder wad droon’t iv a kit;

’An’ t’ mair ’at she dantles, an’ pampers, an’ pets it,

T’ less like to growe t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick growes it.

Or mayhap, a lāl lad ’at tells teàls of his brudders,

An’ cocks his-sel’ up, an’ example to t’ rest—

’At seàvs his oan laikins an’ laiks wid anudder’s,

An’ geaps for owte gud like a gorb iv a nest;

’At boggles at lowpy-back, rack-ups, or shinny,

An’ keeps his-sel’ ootside o’ t’ ruck at foot-bo’;—

They ma’ praise him ’at hes him—I’d lay my last guinea

He s’ niver be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick for o’.

Or a rovin’ yūng chap ’at ga’s hard efter t’ lasses,

An’ stuffs them wid o’ maks o’ flaitchment an’ lees;

Ol’a’s smùrkin’ an’ smilin’ an’ fair to the’r feàces,

But skiftin’ his mattie as fancy ma’ please—

Tackin’ up at t’ lang last, efter feùlin a duzzen,

Wid sūmbody’s dowter he thinks weel to dee;—

A taggelt like that sūd be hatit like puzzen—

He’ll niver be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick, nūt he!

Or a man ’at likes brass, an’ cheats o’ maks o’ ways for’t,

An’ clowks at advantage whoariver he can;

An’ taks drink gaily free when anudder chap pays for’t,

But wi’n’t stand his share iv a shot like a man:

’At ol’a’s for sūm dūrty profit ligs watchin’;

’At keeps o’ he cares for anonder ya hat;

An’ pays what he owes fwok wid phraisin’ or fratchin’—

He munnet be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—moon’t that!

Or a swaddlin’ oald sneak, wid a snowk an’ a snivel,

’At kests up his e’en when he hears a rūff jwoke;

Co’in’ sangs an’ queer stwories o’ ’ticements o’ t’ divel—

An’ snirrups his nwose ūp at t’ praise o’ poor fwok:

’At grùnts ageàn wrusslin’s, fairs, hoond-trails an’ reàces,

An’ sec-like divarsions, as sinful an’ vain,

Winkin’ hard at t’ seàm time at wār sins i’ hee pleàces—

He niver was t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—that’s plain.

Nay! for be what it may be—his yeàge, steàt or station,

A man hollow heartit, unfrindly, unfair,

Makin’ mair nor reet use of a lofe or occasion,—

Grippin’ hard by his oan, ah, still grankin’ for mair;

’At can toak like a bishop, an’ hod back his meanin’,

But can’t wid his neighbours or kinsfwoke agree;

Keepin’ bleàmin’ an’ backbitin’, grudgin’ an’ pleenin’—

He cannot be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—can’t he.

BEN WELLS.

Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!—

Nowte’s left like what it used to be—

T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew—

An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see—

T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart,

For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils,

An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heart

Like “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.

“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn,

When stars war breet an’ frost was keen,

Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn,

Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen.

An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed,

An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt,

An’ hear, at ivery stave they played,

Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.

Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet,

Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels,

For few cud whyet hod the’r feet

When Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels.

Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel,

Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance;

An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal

’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.

Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn—

His marrow willn’t seùn be seen;

But rare top dancers many a yan,

He’s left to keep his memory green.

Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neet

We’ll see his gud reet elbow jog;

An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet,

T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.

Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair,

An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang;

We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to care

For heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang.

An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here,

T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails,

An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer;

Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!

NOTE.

The late Benjamin Wells was, for about half a century, the best known and most popular of all the dancing-masters who have plied their vocation amongst the country people of West Cumberland; and, as a teacher of the old-fashioned style of dancing, in which vigour, activity, and precision are, rather than gracefulness, the main desiderata, he has never been surpassed. As a violin player his performance was remarkably correct, distinct, and strongly marked as to time—in fact, the best possible fiddling to dance to. The last time I met with him was about twenty years ago, in the bar-parlour of an inn in the southern part of the Lake district, which was somewhat out of his ordinary beat, and where the strains of his fiddle, produced at my request, caused such excitement that a general and very uproarious dance (of males only) set in, and was kept up with such energy that, the space being confined, the furniture was seriously damaged, and Ben was at last ejected by the landlady as the readiest, indeed the only method of putting a stop to the riot. He was light, muscular, and springy, and, in his earlier years, wonderfully swift of foot, so much so that the late Dr. Johnstone, of Cockermouth, told me that he once (at Scale Hill) saw him, without any assistance, run down and capture a wild rabbit—a proof of activity rarely paralleled. Poor old Ben! It will be long ere his erect, compact little figure, his bright, cheery expression, his sprightly address, and his quick firm step are altogether forgotten in the western dales and seaward parishes of Cumberland. Requiescat!

SANNTER, BELLA!

Sannter, Bella!—Bliss the’, sannter,

Th’u’ll be seun aneuf at heàm;

Gā’n frae t’ chūrch at sec a cannter,

Fwoke ’ll sweer th’u’s thinkin’ shām’—

Shām’ ’at I sud woak aside the’!

Does t’e, Bella, shām’ o’ me?

Whey than, bide the’, dar it, bide the’!—

Few’s sa leet o’ t’ feut as thee.

Si’s t’e, Bella, nay but, si’s t’e,

Hoo th’u’s makin’ t’ ne’bours laugh;

Th’u’s a taistrel fair ’at is t’e,

But I like thee weel——Hŭt, shaff!—

Whoa can tell his stwory rūnnin?—

Whoa can coort an’ win a reàce?—

If th’u’s flay’t I’s foase, or fūnnin’,

Stop, an’ leuk me fair i’ t’ feàce!

Leuk, an’ see if I wad cheat the’—

Leuk, I tell the’, glimes wont dee!

Whativer wrang’t the’, I wad reet the’,

Whoa-iver fails the’, trust i’ me.

Wait! Nay, tak’ mair time, I pray the’—

Shūttin’ frae yan like a dart—

Nowte for nowte I’s axin’ frae the’—

Nowte for nowte, but heart for heart.

Sannter, than! Nay, Bella, sannter!

I’ll nūt say ya wūrd ’at’s wrang,

But th’u’s a wannter!—I’s a wannter!

An’ nowder sud be wannters lang.

Thoo kens what sec a heàm I’ve gitten—

Ken’s o’ ’s reet, an’ straight, an’ square—

Ken’s o’ wad fit the’ like a mitten;

What the hangment wad t’e mair?

Sannter! sannter!! sannter, Bella!!!

Gi’ me time to tell my teàl;

’Tis n’t kind to mak’ a fellow

T’ laughin-stock of hoaf o’ t’ deàl.

Does t’e think o’ ’s nūt fairation?

Hes t’e any foat to finnd?

Nay! Whey than, ther’s nèa ’casion—

Hŭh—By jing, I’s oot o’ wind!

’Beàt thy speed! Dar sonn, I’ll ho’d the’!

Ho’d the’ till I’ve said my say—

Till my heart’s ya wish I’ve shew’d the’,

Gittin’ back for ’t ey or nay.

Wil’t’e than, say, wil’t’e wed me?

Ah! Thou wadn’t still say—no!

Faith! a bonnie dance th’u’s led me,

But that lāl squeeze mak’s up for o’!—

T’ squeeze frae thy smo’ fing-ers, Bella!

Trimlin’ here i’ my rough hand;

It’s queer a touch sa leet can tell a

Teàl sa plain to understand;

It’s queerer thoo sūd be sa freeten’t,—

Flay’t when nowte at o’ ’s amiss.

Loavin! How thy feàce has breeten’t,

Reedenin’ up at t’ furst fair kiss.

BRANTHET NEUK BOGGLE.
(A TEAL FOR A WINTER NEEGHT.)

’At Marron Beck’s a bonnie beck, what mazelin wad deny?

An’ what compares wi’ Branthet Neùk ’at Marron Beck gā’s by?

Wid hoozes white, an’ worchets green, an’ Marron runnin’ clear,

Eigh! Branthet Neùk’s a heartsome spot i’ t’ sūnny time o’ year!

But loave! it is a dowly pleàce when winter neeghts growe lang;

For t’ lwoan ligs dark atween it’s banks,—- a flaysome rwoad to gang

When t’ wind rwoars wild in t’ trees abeùn, an’ Marron rwoars below,—

An’ Branthet Neuk’s a hantit spot, as I’ve some reeght to know.

They say a heidless woman woaks at sartin neeghts o’ t’ year,

An’ greàns an’ yewls at sec a rate as freeghtens fwoke to hear;

I wadn’t mind sec teàls, but yance I gat a freeght me-sel’

I’ Branthet Neùk, an’ hoo it was, just lissen an’ I’ll tell.

Yā neeght, lang sen, at Cursmass time, wid Cursmass mak’ o’ wedder,

A lock on us at Branthet met, to hev a glass togidder;

We crack’t, an’ jwok’t, an’ drank, an’ smeuk’t, while hoaf o’ t’ neeght went by,

For Isbel Simon’ drink was gud, an’ we war rayder dry!

’Twas lownd an’ leàt—past yan o’clock—wid nūt a spark o’ moon:

An’ like a clood o’ cardit woo’, thick snow keep’t sinkin’ doon,

When reeght up t’ Neùk three Jwohn’s an’ me went wādin’ heàm through t’ snow—

Jwohn Suntan, an’ Jwohn Bell o’ t’ Rayes, an’ Jwohn o’ Craypless Ho’.

We’d gitten hoaf o’ t’ way up t’ lwoan,—nār Edward Beeby’ yat,

An’ theear we stopp’t, for marcy me! a parlish freeght we gat,

Lood greàns we heard—lang hollow beels, ’at shak’t oor varra beàns,

“For God-seàk, lads, mak on,” sez yan, “them’s t’ heidless woman’ greàns!”

“But nay,” sez I, “if wantin’ t’ heid, she raises sec a rout,

I’d like to see what way she taks to fetch sec haybays oot;

They say yan stops a woman’s noise when yan taks off her heid,

But this, by gock! wad mak yan sweer they’re noisy whick or deid.”

It’s Burns ’at sez Jwohn Barleycworn can mak yan bold as brass;

An’ Isbel’ drink meàd me quite keen this greànin’ thing to feàce.

We shootit Edward Beeby up an’ meàd ‘im git a leeght—

He grummel’t sair to be disturb’t at sec a time o’ neeght,

But brong yan oot;—an’, led bee t’ lugs, we follow’t efter t’ soond,

While clwose t’ swine-hull dooar we com, an’ stopt, an’ gedder’t roond.

“By gockers, lads!” Jwohn Suntan said, “It’s no’but Edward’ swine!”

“Nay, nay,” sez Edward, “mine’s i’ soat—it’s nèa pig o’ mine!”

“Well, I’ll gā in, an’ see,” sez I. O’ t’ rest steud leukin on

As in I creept wid t’ leeght, an’ fund greit lang Joe Nicholson

Hoaf cover’t up wid mucky strea,—soond asleep,—and snworin’,

As if o’ t’ bulls o’ Dean war theear, an’ ivery bull was rwoarin’.

We trail’t him oot, an’ prop’t him up ageàn t’ oald swine-hull wo’—

An’ dazet wid coald he glower’t aboot, an’ dadder’t like to fo’—

We help’t ‘im in, an’ hap’t ‘im weel, on t’ squab aback o’ t’ dooar,

He said his wife had barr’t ‘im oot, as oft she’d deun afooar.

Sez Jwohn o’ t’ Rayes, “If iv’ry neeght he maks sa gurt a din,

It’s rayder queer a wife like his sud iver let ‘im in;

It’s varra weel we hārd ‘im though, he med ha’ dee’t o’ coald!

Come, let’s git yam!”—an’ laughin’ loud, we lonter’t oot o’ t’ foald.

Jwohn Suntan’s rwoad left oor’s gay seun, an’ sooa dud Jwohn Bell’s,

An’ Jwohn o’ Craypless Ho’ an’ me went poapin’ on oorsells,

An’ no’but slow, for t’ snow was thick, an’ meàd it bad to woke,

Sooa mid-leg deep we striddel’t on, but offen steud to toke.

Jwohn hed a faymish crack in ‘,—his fadder hed afooar ‘,—

At teàls an’ sangs, an’ sec like fun not many cud cum ower ‘;

An’ theàr an’ than, dud Jwohn set on, at t’ furst gud rist we teuk,

To tell me hoo ther com to be a ghost i’ Branthet Neùk.

Sez Jwohn, sez he, “I’ Branthet Neùk, as varra weel thoo knows,

’Tween t’ beck an’ Edward Beeby’ hoose ther stands some brocken wo’s;

Lang sen, when they hed roofs on them, yance, leàtish on i’ t’ year,

Some tinkler fwoke gat leave fray t’ lword, an’ com to winter theear.

“Two oald fwoke, wid a scrowe o’ barns, an’ yā son, jūst a man,—

A handy chap to shap’ a speun, or cloot a pot or pan,—

An’ this chap hed a bonnie wife, ’at dūdn’t leuk like t’ rest,

But fair, clean-skinn’t, an’ leàdy-like, an’ ol’as nicely drest.

‘An’ hoo she com to be wid them was niver reeghtly known,

But nebbers so’ she wasn’t used as if she’d been ther oan;

For t’ oald fwoke soas’t her neet an’ day,—her man—a dūrty tike!—

Wad bray her wid a besom-stick, a thyvel, or sec like;

“Tull yance a nebber teùk her in, when t’ tinklers flang her oot,

An’ she let fo’ a wūrd or two ’at brong a change aboot;

She telt o’ sūm stown geese an’ sheep, an’ whoar they hed them hidden;

Of mutton up on t’ sleeping loft, an’ skins anonder t’ midden.

“It wasn’t many wūrds she said,—but wūrds she said anew

To bring t’ oald tinkler and her man tull what was weel ther due;

For lang i’ Cārel jail they laid, an’ when t’ assize com on,

T’ Jūdge let t’ oald waistrel lowce ageàn, but hang’t his whopeful son.

“An’ back frae Cārel t’ tinkler com, to Branthet reeght away,

An’ ’ticet t’ poor lass frae t’ nebber’s hoose whoar she’d beep fain to stay;

He promish’t fair to treat her weel, and dūd while t’ seckint neeght,

An’ than, (reeght pleas’t was Branthet fwok,) he meàd a moonleeght fleeght.

“An’ days went by an’ neàbody went nār to t’ tinkler’s dooar,

At last some barns peep’t in an’ so’ some huller’t bleùd on t’ flooar,

An’ than t’ hoose dooar was drūven in, an’ sec a seeght was theer,

’At sūm ’at so ’t went reid wid reàge, an’ sūm went white wid fear.

“Squeez’t up intull a dūrty neùk, an’ bleùdy, stark, an’ deid,

They fūnd that nice young lass’s corp, bit niver fūnd her heid;

T’ oald tinkler hoond hed hagg’t it off afooar he meàd a fleeght on ’t,

An’ teàn it wid him, fwoke suppwos’t, to gud his-sel’ wid t’ seet on’t.

“An’ nin o’ t’ clan at efter that i’ t’ country side was seen.

But iver sen a hantit spot hes that Neùk-lonning been,

For t’ mūrder’t woman wokes aboot, an’ greàns, for o’ she’s deid,

As lood as what we hārd to-neeght,—they say she laits her heid!”

“Wey, weel deùn, Jwohn!” to Jwohn sez I, “an’ thenks ta for thy teàl,

It’s meàd me hoaf forgit hoo t’ snow maks o’ my teeàs geàl;

Th’u’s just at heàm,—gud neeght, my lad, but fūrst hear this fray me,

If iv’ry teàl ’at’s telt be true, thy stwory’s neà lee!”

MARY RAY AN’ ME.

Bonnie Mary Ray an’ me

Wer’ barnish sweethearts lang,

But I was wild an’ yūng, an’ she

Was niver reetly strang;

Sooa frinds o’ beàth sides threep’t it sair

’At partit we sud be—

An’ life was darken’t t’ lang-er t’ mair

To Mary Ray an’ me.

But yance lāl Mary Ray an’ me

Met oot on Woker Broo,

When t’ clouds burn’t reid far oot at sea,

An’ t’ sūn com’ bleezin’ through,

An’ sent ya lang-droan glissenin’ ray

Across that dowly sea,

Like t’ promish of a happier day

To Mary Ray an’ me.

An’ “Sees t’e, Mary Ray,” I says,

“That lang low line o’ leet;—

It cūms to say oor leàter days

May yit be fair an’ breet,

An’ t’ cloods ’at darken owre us noo

May rive like yon we see,

An’ t’ sūn o’ love cūm glentin through,

To shine on thee an’ me.”

But Mary lean’t her sinkin heid

Ageàn my heavin’ breist

“Tūrn roond,” she said, “an’ say asteed,

What reads t’e here i’ t’ East;

For t’ East’s mair sure to guide us reet,

If dark an’ coald it be;

It’s liker life—nor that reid leet—

To Mary Ray an’ thee.”

I turn’t an’ leùk’t wid bodeful glooar,

Whoar o’ was coald an’ gray,

An’ like a ghost reàse t’ white church tooar,

To freeten whope away;

An’ Woker’s shadow heap’t a gloom

Owre beck, an’ field, an’ tree,

’At said far darker days mud cūm

To Mary Ray an’ me.

An’ niver mair on Woker Broo

I strowl’t wid Mary Ray;

They partit us that winter through—

An’ than I went away.

An’ Mary in her grave they’d laid

When I com’ back frae t’ sea;—

’Twas true what Woker’s shadow said

To Mary Ray an’ me.

THE BANNASYDE “CAIRNS.”
(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)

yer jornas ooer Wa’na Scar to Seeathet ye’ll offen aneeuf ha nooatish’t a lot o’ round heeaps o’ steeans strinklet heear an’ theear ooer t’ feeace o’ Bannasyde mooer: an’ if ye leuk inta them fine maps ’at t’ gūverment’s putten owt ye’ll see ’at t’ pleeace ’at’s meeant for Bannasyde has cairns, cairns, cairns dottit o’ ooer ’t. They wor sharp fellows wor t’ surveyors ’at went ooer t’ grund ùt meeak thor maps. Yā lot o’ them com’ efter anudder for iver so many years, sūm wi’ reed cooats an’ sūm wi’out; an’ they teeuk for iver o’ pains wi’ the’r wark. Why, when t’ doctor gat a lile lūmp off àld Geoordie Flimming’ field ùt meeak his-sel’ a bit of a gardin, efter they’d survey’t an’ mizzer’t it, they went o’ ooer t’ grūnd a-fresh, just ùt put it in; an’ theear it is i’ t’ maps, as plain as t’ field its-sel’.

Bit about thor cairns. I mun tell yé ’at when I furst hard o’ them, I cùdn’t meeak end nor side o’ what they cud be, an’ I went tull Rodger Forness ut ex about them. Rodger kna’s meear about sike things nor a deeal o’ fooak; sooa I went tull him, an’ he telt mé ’at cairns was heeaps o’ lilely steeans ’at hed been rais’t ooer t’ graves o’ girt men lang sen, afooer ther was any kirk-garths ut bury t’em in—’at Dunmal Raise is t’ biggest cairn i’ t’ country, an’ ’at it was pilet up ooer a king ’at was kil’t theear. Rodger an’ me hed a gūd laugh togidder ooer t’ Bannasyde cairns, for we beeath kna’t gaily weel how they com to be theear, but we said t’ yan til’t’ tudder, “Let’s hear, an’ see, an’ say nowte.”

Bit howiver, when them ’cute ordnance chaps, as they co’t thersel’s, was teean in wi’ thor heeaps, it’s lile wūnder ’at a gentleman ’at leev’t here—yan Mr. Rowlins, sud ha’ meead his-sel’ cock suer ’at they wor nowder meear nor less nor sooa many lile Dunmal Raises, an’ thowte he wod like ut see what they hed in belā’ t’em; an’ as it wodn’t be like a gentleman ut keep o’ t’ fun till his-sel’, he ex’t a lot of udder gentlemen, frinds o’ his, mainly what parsons, fray about Ooston, ut come an’ see t’ cairns oppen’t, an’ t’ grūnd under t’em groven up, ut finnd out what they cūver’t.

Well! they o’ torn’t up true to t’ day. Ald Billy Bamthet, Tommy Thackra, an’ yan or two meear Cunniston chaps hed been hired ut due t’ wark, an’ away they o’ went, out on Bannasyde, an’ at it they set.

O’ t’ fun ’at they gat, howiver, was a bit of a laugh noos an’ thans at āld Bamthet. He was a queer āld dog was Bamthet, an’ he keep’t exin’ on them o’ manner o’ questions about what they wor laitin on. At ya time he wod say till a parson varra seriously “Irr yé expectin’ ut finnd a Bishop?” at anudder he wod ex t’em if they thowte Moses was buriet theear. Bit nowte’s nowte, whativer may be laitit for! an’ suer aneuf ther’ was nowte ut be fūnd under t’ heeaps o’ steeans.

It was a cāld, sleety, slattery sooart of a day o’ through, but they steeak tull the’r wark like Britons, tull it was turnin’ sooa dark ’at āld Bamthet says “Irr we ut hod at it any lang-er, Mr. Rowlins? Tommy Thackra’s gittin’ terrable teer’t, an’ it’s growan sooa dark ’at we’ll seeùn nit be yable ut say whedder what we may finnd be t’ beeans of a bishop or t’ beeans of a billy-gooat, wi’out ther’s some amang ye ’at knā’s beeans by greeapin’ at ’em.”

Well, they o’ thowte they mud give it up for a bad job. They’d torn’t ooer meear nor a scooer o’ t’ steean heeaps, an’ they hedn’t fūnd sa mich as t’ shin beean of a cracket ut egg ’em on any farder. Sooa Mr. Rowlins tel’t his men ut gidder up the’r hacks an’ the’r speeads an’ things, an’ git away heeam.

As they wor o’ trailin away varra slā’ an’ varra whishtly, down Willy Garnett girt intak’, āld Bamthet sidelt up till amang t’ gentlemen, an’ says, “Now, Mr. Rowlins,” says he, “just tell us what ye thowte was to be fūnd i’ t’ clearin’s o’ t’ Bracken-beds.” “What do you call clearin’s of Bracken-beds, William?” Mr. Rowlins ex’t. “Why! dunnot yè knā,” says Bamthet, “dunnot yè knā ’at t’ farmers mā’s t’ brackens i’ t’ back-end, ut bed the’r beeas’s wi’?” “Of course I know that,” says Mr. Rowlins, “but what has mowing brackens to do with these cairns?” “Due wi’ them?” says t’ tudder, “why, ivery thing ut due wi’ them! How d’yè think the’r leys wad cūm on if t’ cobble steeans wor left liggin howe-strowe amang t’ brackens when they com ut mā’ t’em? They gidder ’em off, to be suer, an’ pile ’em up into t’ heeaps ’at we’ve been wrowkin’ amang o’ t’ day, an’ yee co’ cairns. I reckon cairns is t’ genteel wūrd for t’ clearin’s o’ t’ bracken-beds, bit I niver heer’t ’em co’t cairns afooer, an’ I’ll niver co’ t’em cairns ageean—t’ āld neeam’s reet aneeuf for fellows like me!”

Well, when they heer’t t’is, t’ parsons leeuk’t at t’ gentlemen, an’ t’ gentlemen leeuk’t at t’ parsons, an’ than they leeuk’t t’ yan at t’ tudder o’ round as they steeud, an’ than they brast out wi’ a laugh loud aneeuf ut raise o’ t’ ravens on t’ Bell Crag an’ o’ t’ gleads i’ Buckbarrow. Efter they’d whyeten’t down a bit, Mr. Rowlins says, “Well but, William, why didn’t you tell us this before?” “Nay, nay,” says t’ āld thief, “I wosn’t gā’n ut spoil yer day’s spooart i’ that fashi’n, when ye’d browte yer frinds sa far ut see’t. That wodn’t ha’ been manners!” An’ away down t’ intak’ he went sneeakin an’ sniggerin till Tommy Thackra an’ t’ rist o’ them. But Tommy an’ t’ rist o’ them didn’t snigger back ageean. They o’ growl’t at him, an’ yan o’ them said, “It’s an āld tūrkey! What for cudn’t it hod t’āld tūng on’t till we’d gitten anudder gud day’s weeage or two, an’ plenty ut itt an’ drink wi’t, out o’ t’ clearin’s o’ t’ bracken-beds? T’er’s anew o’ t’em left too ha’ keep’t us gā’n for a week!”

BETTY YEWDALE.
(Extract from a Lecture on “The People of the English Lake Country, in their Humorous Aspect.”)

TILL harping upon married life, I wish to draw your attention to one of the finest passages in Wordsworth’s greatest poem—The Excursion, which abounds in fine passages. In that I refer to, the poet gives a very charming account of the daily life of a humble couple in Little Langdale, on whose hospitality he describes himself, or his hero, as being thrown, when benighted and lost in that narrow vale, where, as I have found occasionally, the closely encircling belt of high mountains makes a dark night very black indeed. The poet says—

“Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell,

And night succeeded with unusual gloom,

So that my feet and hands at length became

Guides better than mine eyes—until a light

High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought,

For human habitation.”

Climbing the heights, however, he finds that the light proceeds from a lantern, held out by a woman to guide her husband homewards from the distant slate quarry. The poet proceeds to tell of his hospitable reception, the husband’s arrival, and the unusual beauty of the good-man’s face, adding—

“From a fount

Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time,

But honoured once, those features and that mien

May have descended, though I see them here.

In such a man, so gentle and subdued,

Withal so graceful in his gentleness,

A race illustrious for heroic deeds,

Humbled, but not degraded, may expire.”

Thus much for Jonathan Yewdale. His wife, Betty, is made to speak for herself—but to speak in language very different from that she really used, as may be seen in a still more remarkable work than that I quote from—The Doctor, namely, by Robert Southey, wherein Betty Yewdale, in her “oan mak’ o’ toke,” relates “The true story of the terrible knitters of Dent.” In The Excursion, however, she is made to speak thus—

“‘Three dark mid-winter months

Pass,’ said the Matron, ‘and I never see,

Save when the sabbath brings its kind release,

My helpmate’s face by light of day. He quits

His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns.

And through Heaven’s blessing, thus we gain the bread

For which we pray; and for the wants provide

Of sickness, accident, and helpless age.

Companions have I many; many friends,

Dependants, comforters—my wheel, my fire,

All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear,

The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood,

And the wild birds that gather round my porch.

This honest sheep-dog’s countenance I read;

With him can talk; nor seldom waste a word

On creatures less intelligent and shrewd.

And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds

Care not for me, he lingers round my door,

And makes me pastime when our tempers suit;—

But, above all, my thoughts are my support.’”

This, no doubt is, as I have said, a very charming picture of humble house life in a lonely home; but the picture is drawn by a poet, and, in his words—certainly not in those of the worthy dame from whose lips they are made thus melodiously to flow.

I have conversed with many elderly people who knew this couple familiarly, and several have told me of the almost seraphic beauty of the old man’s features, lowered, as it was, by a lack of expression, denoting a weakness of mind and character, which, in the opinion of neighbours, perfectly justified Betty in maintaining full domestic supremacy and undisputed rule.

Of the manner in which she sometimes asserted that supremacy, and brought her husband back to his allegiance, when, as was rare, he happened to stray from it, an amusing instance was told to me by a respectable widow, who for many years occupied the farm of Oxenfell, a lonely spot, amid the wild craggy uplands on the Lancashire side of Little Langdale, and nearly opposite to Hackett, where the Yewdales resided. Were it only to show how differently great poets and ordinary people regard the same subject, this is worthy of preservation, and I give it, very nearly, in my informant’s own phraseology.

“Ther’ hed been a funeral fray about t’ Ho’garth, an’ varry nār o’ t’ men fooak about hed geean wi’ ’t till Cūnniston. Nixt fooarneeun, Betty Yewdale com’ through fray Hackett, an’ says she till me, ‘Hes yower meeaster gitten back fray t’ funeral?’ ‘Nay,’ says I, ‘he hesn’t!’ ‘An’ irrn’t ye gān ut lait him?’ says Betty. ‘Lait him!’ says I, ‘I wodn’t lait him if he didn’t cù heeam for a week.’ ‘Why, why!’ says she, ‘yee ma’ due as ye like, but I mun bring mine heeam, an’ I will!’ An’ off she set i’ t’ rooad till Cūnniston. On i’ t’ efterneeun, she co’ back, driving Jonathan afooer her wi’ a lang hezle stick—an’ he sartly was a sairy object. His Sūnda’ cleeas leeūk’t as if he’d been sleepin i’ them on t’ top of a durty fluer. T’ tye of his neckcloth hed wūrk’t round till belā’ t’ ya lug, an’ t’ lang ends on’t hung ooer ahint his shoulder. His hat hed gitten bulged in at t’ side, an’ t’ flipe on ’t was cock’t up beeath back an’ frūnt. O’ togidder, it wod ha’ been a queerly woman body ’at wod ha’ teean a fancy till Jonathan that day.

“Says I till Betty, ‘What, ye hev fūnd him than?’ ‘Fūnd him!’ says she, ‘ey, I’ fūnd him! I knā’t whār ut lait him! I fūnd him at t’ Black Bull, wi’ yower meeaster, an’ a lock meear o’ t’ seeam sooart. They wor just gān ut git the’r dinner, wi’ a girt pan o’ beef-steeaks set on t’ middle o’ t’ teeable. I meead t’ frying pan an’ t’ beef-steeaks flee gaily murrily out o’ t’ duer, an’ I set on an’ geh them o’ sike a blackin’ as they willn’t seeun forgit. Than I hail’t Jonathan out fray amang them; bit when I’d gitten him out wi’ mè, I shām’t ut be seen on t’ rooads wi’ him. Dud iver yè see sike a pictur’?’ ‘Why, nay! nit sa offen, indeed,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says Betty, ‘as I wodn’t be seen i’ t’ rooads wi’ him, we hed to teeak t’ fields for’t, an’, as it wosn’t seeaf ut let him climm t’ wo’s, I meead him creep t’ hog-hooals.[7] I meead him creep t’ hog-hooals,’ says Betty, ‘an’ when I gat him wi’ his heead in an’ his legs out, I dūd switch him.’”

This true story shows Wordsworth’s humble heroine in not quite so romantic a light as he throws round her in the passages I have quoted; but I don’t see that it need lower her in our esteem.

THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH.
A Reminiscence of Windermere.
(CHIEFLY IN THE DIALECT OF WESTMORLAND.)

REEN verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres,

How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spell

That bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d years

And held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel.

’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills,

And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail,

And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,[8]

Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel.

And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long,

A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,)

Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong,

Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame.

Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray;

The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere,

And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay—

The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere.

And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest,

Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone,

And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast—

The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone.

And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day,

And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky,

By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay,

We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I.

Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong,

And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride,

As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long,

He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide.

“Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I,

When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell;

For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky,

And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell.

“And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long,

Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time;

The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song,

So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.”

Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim—

For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade—

And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim,

He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.

“A house ligs lā’ an’ leànsome theear, doon in that oomer dark,

Wi’ wide, heigh-risin’ chimla-heeads, lā’ roof, an’ crum’lin’ wo’,

O’ wedder-gnā’n an’ weed-be-grown—for time hes setten t’ mark

O’ scooers an’ scooers o’ weearin’ years on hantit Co’garth Ho’.

“T’ āld Philipson’s o’ Windermer’ lang, lang hed theer the’r heeam;[9]

An’ far an’ wide the’r manors spread ooer forest, field, an’ fell;

But now ther’s nit i’ t’ cūntryside a steeatsman o’ their neeam—

Ther’s Philipsons, but o’ work hard for breead like me mysel’.

“For niver thinkin’ they’d aneeuf, and strivin’ still for meear,

They wantit ivery scrap o’ land the’r nebbers held aboot;

An’ many a pooer man’s grund they gat, by meeans nit ol’a’s fair—

An’ lang o’ that grund-greed o’ their’s, this teeal o’ mine fell out.

“An’ āld-ly man nār Burthet leev’t, his neeam was Kraster Cook,

An’ whyetly his life hed ron wi’ Dorot’y his deeam.

A conny lile bit farm was theirs, a lown an’ sunny neeuk,

An’ t’ house ’at’s theear upon it still keeps up āld Kraster’ neeam.

“Myles Philipson wad often toak wi’ Kraster Cook an’ t’ wife,

An’ priss them hard the’r bit o’ land ut swap wi’ him or sell;

But beeath o’ t’em at last spak’ oot—they’d rayder part wi’ life

Ner sell or swap a single yird of infield land or fell.

“‘Ye s’ part wi’ ’t than,’ said Philipson, as rantin’ mad he rooar’d,

‘I’ll hev that bit o’ land o’ yours, sud yee be ’live or deead.’

An’ Kraster fūnd ’at efter that as if ther was a sooard

’At hed to fo’ when t’ time co’ round, still hingin’ ooer his heead.

“Bit nowte com on’t till t’ Kersmas time, an’ than till āld Co’garth

They went wi’ t’ tudder nebbors, kindly ex’t to t’ Kersmas feeast;

An’ t’ best o’ t’ seeats at t’ sūpper booard, an’ warmest neeuk at t’ hearth

Wer’ theirs, for t’ squire hed ooerder’t ’at they sud be that mitch greac’t.

“Bit seeun they fūnd that Kersmas treeat mud cost ’em parlish dear,

For Philipson pertendit ’at they’d stown a silver cūp,

An’ Cook’s house was ratch’t through an’ through, an’ t’ silver cup fund theear,

Heead theear, girt like, o’ purpose—an’ t’ āld cūpple wer’ teean up.

“An’ for the’r lives they triet ’em beeath, an’ beeath condemn’t to dee.

Myles Philipson was theear, an’ Dolly glooer’t him hard i’ t’ feeace,

As meear ner plowmb she rais’t hersel’, an’, terrable ut see,

She spak’ thir wūrds i’ seccan a skrike as rung through t’ justice pleeace:—

“‘Ey, gūd thysel’, Myles Philipson—thou thinks th’u’s mannish’t grand;

Thou thinks th’u’s hooal’t our lile bit grund, and gitten’t o’ for nowte,

Bit, harks te’ here, Myles Philipson—that teenie lump o’ land

Is t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;

“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed;

Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand,

Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed,

A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.

“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day,

Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’;

Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away,

Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’

“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead,

(They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,)

Two skulls steead in a hooel i’ t’ wo’, aside o’ t’ wide stair heead,

At āld Co’garth, an’ theear they gurn’t, a warnin’ fray aboon.

“An’, ivery mak’ o’ pains they teeuk ut git ’em druven away—

They buriet them, they born’t them weel, they bray’t them till they brak’,

They sunk ’em full’t wi’ leed i’ t’ lake, they pash’t ’em deep i’ clay,

But just as Dolly said they wod, they still co’ gurnin’ back.

“An’ theear they’ve gurn’t an’ gurn’t ageean, for many a hundert year.

An’ scòoars o’ fooak ha’ seen ’em theear—it’s neea lees I tell—

Till t’ Bishop[10] wo’t ’em up i’ t’ hooal, bit still they’re gurnin’ theear,

For just afooar he wo’t ’em up, I seed them theear mysel’.

“An’t’ Philipsons went doon an’ doon, the’r schemin’ o’ went wrang,

Though offen for a sinkin’ coase they meead a gallant stand;

Fray t’ steeat rowls about Windermer’ the’r neeam hes vanish’t lang,

I divn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”

MAP’MENT.
(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)

Māp’ment—Martha—māp’ment!

Thow knā’sn’t what thow says—

An’ thow fair torments my heart owt

Wi’ thy lile contrairy ways—

It’s oa’ a heeap o’ māp’ment

Ut say ’at this or that,

Sūd meeak us put it off ageean—

Thow toaks thow knā’sn’t what!

We irrn’t rich, an’ mayn’t be;

What than!—wi’ time an’ keear,

An’ pu’in’ weel togidder,

We may meeak our little meear.

We s’ niver, I’s insuer us,

Be neeàk’t or clemm’d or cāld

But spār’ a ho’penny or two

Ut cheer us when we’re āld.

Let’s feeace, Martha, feeace it,

Whativer cūms behint!

God niver sends a mowth wi’owt

A sūm’at ut put in’t.

We s’, happen, hev a mowth or two

Ut feed besides owr ā’n,

What matter—they s’ be welcome o’

Ut share whativer’s gā’n!

We s’ ol’a’s hing togidder weel,

An’ beeath du what we can—

A borden ’s leeter shared by two,

Nor when it’s borne by yan.

But if we’s plagued wi’ trūbble,

(An’ whā’s fray trūbble free?)

I’ s’ try ut lig thy share tull mine,

An’ kep it oa’ fray thee.

An’ if we’s pooer, we s’ sham’ nin,

For rich fooak’s no’but fooak;

An’ whā can tell, we s’ happen drā

Sūm’ prize fray fortun’s pooak.

But wrowte-for punds gā’s farder far

Nor hundreds ’s gi’en or fūnd;

An’ sūm’ may be to t’ fooer for t’ barnes

When we gā ūnder t’ grūnd.

Cūm let’s hev neā meear māp’ment,

But gradely feeace owr chance;

I ’s off ut put owr exin’s in,

An’ git it deeun at yance.

Cūm! gi’ ’s a kiss o’ t’ heead on ’t,

An’ meeak na meear ut du;

My hand ’s here, wi’ my heart in ’t,

Tak’ them beeath—thou s’ niver rue!

OXENFELL DOBBY.
A Reminiscence of Langdale.

CCOMPANIED by the holder of a small farm in the dales, I was once riding up Yewdale sometime beyond the middle of a winter night. The fields on our right and the slopes and ledges of the screes and fells to the left and in front were shrouded in a vestment of frozen snow, which glared under the starlight with a brilliancy of reflection that rendered the absence of the moon unnoticed and uncared for. But the scattered groves and coppices to the eastern side, and the perpendicular craggs elsewhere, on neither of which the snow could rest as it fell, stood out black and dismal—blotches sable on a field argent—(queer heraldry this, but fair description) —with an intensity of gloom, a weird dreariness of aspect, which may hardly be realized by those who have looked upon Yewdale only when arrayed in the light verdure of spring, the matured leafiness of summer, or the marvellous variegation of autumn, under any one of which conditions that fair vale may fairly claim pre-eminence in beauty over all other minor dales of the Lake country.

On the occasion I tell of, the solemn desolation of the scenery, and the oppressive silence, broken only by the quick tramp of our ponies’ feet on the crisp snow, combined to discourage all thought of conversation or remark; and we traversed the whole length of the vale without the interchange of sentence or word. When, however, we had reached the point where the road to Tilberthwaite and Langdale Head diverges from that to Skelwith, and I was about to follow the latter, my companion laid his hand upon my rein, and said, in a rather peremptory tone, “We s’ teeak t’ tudder rooad, if yee pleease;” and on my objecting to quit the smoother and shorter road for the longer and rougher, he persisted—“It may bee as yee say, beeath t’ better an’ t’ bainer, bit nowte wad hire me to teeak t’ rooad ooer Oxenfell at this hour o’ t’ neet, an’ that’s o’ about it.” “But why?” I remonstrated, disinclined to yield in a matter of such importance to reasoning like this. “I s’ tell yee why,” he replied, “when we’s seeaf at my awn fireside, if ye sud ha’e time ut lissen.” “Is it a story?” I asked with some interest. “It’s nowte mitch of a stooary,” said he, “bit what ther’s on’t ’s true, an’ that’s meear ner can be said for many a better stooary. Bit cūm on, an’ ye s’ happen hear.” I resisted no longer, and we pursued our journey through Tilberthwaite, where the piebald dreariness of the scenery was even more marked and more depressing than in Yewdale. We reached our destination without disaster, but not without danger. The broad, deep ford in the stream, which there divides the two counties, and which we had to cross, was edged on either bank by a high, abrupt shelf of strong ice, very dangerous to slidder off and very difficult to scramble up on. Indeed, my fellow traveller, with his rough, clumsy little steed, more accustomed to the stangs of muck-cart or peat sledge than to saddle work, had a roll on the farther side—luckily rolling towards the land, and not into the water. But my sagacious old “Targus,” who, as I was wont in those days to boast, could carry me over any ground on which a mountain goat or a Herdwick sheep could find a foot-hold, after testing the strength of each slippery ledge by a heavy paw or two, traversed the dangerous passage with the same steadiness with which I had known him pace over others where a slip or a stumble would have had much more serious results.

Seated comfortably at the grateless peat fire of my travelling companion, now my host, and assured of the probability of leisure to hear his story out, I reminded him of the condition under which he had induced me to take the longer and less practicable way to his fell-girt house; and after some coy deprecation, which sat awkwardly enough upon his homely features and dale nurtured manner, he began.

“Jūst about ten year syne, of jūst sec anudder neet as t’is, only t’ snā’ wasn’t frozzen, I was out efter t’ yārs.” “Poaching?” I interpolated. “Co’t as yè like,” said he, in a tone of indifference. “I was out efter t’ yārs. I’d gitten a yār or two ooer about Holme grūnd way, an’ I was meeakin’ heeam alang t’ rooad atween Hodge Clooas an’ Oxenfell, when I thowte I was gā’n ut meet sūm fellows I cud heear toakin’, bit cudn’t see. Ye knā’, t’ rooad’s o’ heets an’ hooals theear about, an’, for that reeason, I dudn’t think mitch o’ nit seein’ ’em; bit whoaiver they med be, I dudn’t want them ut see me. Sooa I gat ooer t’ steean fence wi’ t’ gun an’ t’ yārs, an’ croodel’t doon aback on’t ut let ’em git whyetly by. Well, they com on, an’, as I cūd hear, they wor fratchin cruelly o’ t’ way as t’ey com. Ther’ was two on ’em, plain aneeuf, for sùm’times yan spak’, an’ sùm’times anudder, an’, gaily oft, they beeath spak’ at yance. As they co’ narder till whār I was hidin, t’ fratch gat feurcer an’ louder ner iver, an’ they shoutit, t’ yan ooer t’ tudder, whedder ut shout t’ harder; bit for o’ that, I cudn’t meeak out a wūrd ’at they said. When they gat ebben fornenst me, yan o’ them let out a meeast terrable skrike, an’ I lowpt back ooer t’ wo’ ut seeav life. Ther’ was neàbody theear! They wor rooarin’ an’ screeamin’ wi’in six yirds o’ mè, as I streetent mysel’ up ut lowp t’ wo’, an’ when I gat to me feet o’ t’ tudder side ther’ was nowte! An’ meear ner that, ther’ wasn’t a feeut-mark i’ t’ snā’ bit my awn, an’ they co’ t’ tudder way. How I gat heeam wi’ my gun an’ my yārs I knà’n’t, an’ I niver mun knā’—bit when I wācken’t i’ t’ mooernin’ theear was t’ gun an’ yārs atop o’ t’ teeable, an’ theear was I i’ my bed.

“An’ now I’ve telt yé t’ reeason ’at I wodn’t cū’ heeam by Oxenfell Cross. I niver hev been, ’cept i’ dayleet, on t’ rooad whār them fellows woaks, an’ I niver will, sa lang as I can git anudder ’at’s less nor a scooer o’ miles about.”

“Then is that road said to be haunted?” I enquired. “Said to be hā’ntit!” he exclaimed, in a tone of wonder and contempt. “Whār ha’e yee been o’ yer life, if yé hevn’t hard o’ Oxenfell Dobby?” “Has it been seen by any one besides you?” “Ey,” replied he, “by hunderts o’ fooak! Why, bliss yé! āld Ben Grave gat seckan a torn as he was cūmin’ heeam yance leeat frae Hāks’ed fair, ’at he dūd na meear gūd. He niver wod tell what it was, bit ivery body was suer ’at it was flayin’ o’ sūm mak’, an’ a varry sairious mak’ tue, for, as I said, āld Ben niver dūd no meear gūd efter that neet—bit dwinet away an’ deet.”

“Is it known,” I asked, “how the place came to be haunted?” “Why! It is—partly. It’s knā’n an’ it isn’t knā’n as a body may say—bit I can tell yé o’ ’at’s knā’n about it, if yé like ut hear.” “Tell away then,” said I, “I like to hear.” “Well!” he again began, “Ya Kersmas, afooer I can mind, ther’ was a hake about Clappersgeeat, an’ ther’ was a stranger at it ’at varry few knà’t owte about—bit it seeun gat out ’at he was a new Scotch gardener ’at hed just cūm’t tull Rydal Ho’. As t’ neet went ooer fooak nooatisht ’at he was girtly teean up wi’ lile Betty Briggs—a lively, rooesy-cheek’t bit of a winch ’at com’ frae Tilberthet. Betty hed an’ āld sweetheart theear ’at they co’t Jack Slipe; bit she was sa pleeas’t wi’ t’ new an’ ’at she wodn’t hev owte ut say tull Jack. It was plain aneeuf tull o’ theear ’at he dudn’t hoaf like’t; an when t’ Scotchman kiss’t Betty i’ t’ cushion dance, t’ fooak aside o’ Jack cūd hear his teeth crack as he grūnd ’em togidder.

“When t’ dance brak’ ūp t’ gardener wod see Betty heeam, an’ as Betty bed nowte ut say ageean it, they set off togidder up t’ rooad alang t’ Brathay—an’ Jack Slipe follow’t by his-sel’ a gay bit behint ’em.

“T’ Scotch gardener niver co’ back tull Rydal Ho’. He was niver seen ageean wi’ neàbody. He partit wi’ Betty at her fadder duer i’ Tilberthet—she said—an’ that was t’ last on him!” “And was nothing ever heard of him?” I enquired. “Why! nowte ’at was owte. Theear was a hoaf silly lass about Chapel-Steel ’at said she’d hed t’ Scotchman’ heead iv her brat ya meeunleet neet—bit when she was teean up an’ quees’t about it, they cūd meeak nowte out on her, an’ they let her lowce. It was said ’at Jooahn Tūrner, ’at hed t’ Oxenfell farm afooar Grave fooak, fund t’ beeans of a Christian yance when he was cūttin’ a drain iv his pastur’, bit it was niver leuk’t intull, an’ Jooahn said lile about it.”

“And what about Jack Slipe?” “Well! queerly aneeuf, he weddit t’ lass ’at dūd o’ t’ mischief, ān’ dee’t afooar he was an āld man, leeavin’ Betty wi’ a yūng family. He was niver knà’n ut smile or teeak part iv any spooart. He ol’a’s hed a wild scār’tly leeuk: as he woak’t alang a rooad he keept glimin’ fūrst ooer t’ ya shou’der an’ than ooer t’ tudder, an’ he niver durst bide by his-sel’ efter t’ darkenin’. He leev’t sarvant for a while wi’ āld Jooasep Tyson of Yakrow, an’ wheniver āld Joo’ep seed any o’ them signs of a bad conscience, he wod say, ‘Cūm! Dyne the’, Jack, thou med as gūd confess. Thou knā’s thou dud it!’ Bit whedder Jack dud it or nit neàbody can tell for suer. An’ that’s t’ way it mun rist!”

MEENIE BELL.

ULL ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye tryste yince mair wi’ me?

Where the sauchs half hide the burnie as it wimples on its way?

When the sinking sun comes glentin’ through the feathery birken tree,

Till ye’d trow a thousand fairy fires wer’ flichterin’ on the brae.

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye say ye’ll meet me there?

An’ come afore the gloamin’ fa’s to hear what I’ve to tell?

For I’m gaun away the morn, an’ I’ll weary lang an’ sair

’Or I see ye’re bonnie face again—sae meet me, Meenie Bell!

I’ll be far away frae Middlebie for monie an’ monie a day;

An’ I want ae curl o’ gowden hair to treasure evermore.

I’ve a keepsake braw for you, an’ I’ve something mair to say—

Aye! a hantle mair to tell ye than I’ve ever tell’t afore.

Thus I fleech’t wee Meenie Bell till her heart grew soft and kin’

An’ she met me near the burnie as the simmer gloamin fell;

We pairtit or ’twas day, an’ o’ a’ the nichts I min’

The brichtest in my mem’ry is that nicht wi’ Meenie Bell.

I thocht her heart was troth-fast, but my image faded oot,

An’ a stranger took the place in’t that she said she’d keep for me;

For time gaed creeping on, an’ her hopes changed into doobt

An’ doobt to caul’ mistrustin’, while I toilt ayont the sea.

I’ve warselt wi’ the worl’ weel—I’ve run a wunnin’ race,

But, aih! I’m of’en wushin’ when I maunder by mysel’,

An’ a’ my weary strivin’s through lang lanesome years I trace,

I had bidden puir i’ Middlebie and mairiet Meenie Bell.

“A LOCKERBYE LYCKE.”[11]
(MODERN ANTIQUE.)

Ye’ve aiblins heard o’ Wullye Smyth,

Ane hosteler wychte was he;

Quha wonn’t at the sygne o’ the bonnie Black Bull,

I’ the toon o’ Lockerbye.

For Wullye, he drawyt the best o’ wyne,

An’ brewyt the best o’ yelle,

An’ mixyt the best o’ brandye punch,

As neebour Lairds coulde telle.

For aft the neebour Lairds conveent

At Wullye’s to drynke theyre wyne,

An’ hech! quhan they yokyt the brandye punch,

They raysyt ane unco schyne.

An’ ance, on the nychte o’ a huntan’ tryste,

A blythesome companye

There lychtyt doon i’ the Black Bull closse,

Wychte Wullye’s wyne to pree.

An’ there war Johnstones an’ Jardines routh

Amang that rattlan’ crewe,

Wi’ Herbert Herryes o’ fayre Ha’ Dykes,[12]

An’ his buirdlye byllye Hughe;

An’ gallaunte Wullye o’ Becks was there,

Wi’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone:[13]

Sae they byrl’t awaye at the reid, reid wyne,

As the toasts gaed roun’ an’ roun’.

Whyle up an’ spak wylde Wullye o’ Becks,

An’ there fusionless toasts he curst,

“We’ll toom a glasse tylle ilk man’s lasse,

An’ Ha’ Dykes maun name his first!”

Than up gatte the Laird o’ bonnie Ha’ Dykes—

“Weel! rayther nor marre fayre myrthe,

Here’s wynsome Jean o’ the Wylye Hole,

The flower o’ Tundergayrthe;

“An’ he quha wunna drynke fayre to thatte

Maun quytte thysse companye;

An’ he quha lychtlyes thatte sweet lasse,

Maun answer it weel tylle me.”

Than up spak’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone,

(A sleekye deevil I trowe,)

“Folke say, up the Water o’ Mylke, that she lykes

Ye’re byllye farre better nor yowe!”

The reid marke brunt on the Herryes his bree,

An’ wow but he lookyt grymme:

“Can ye thynke that the flower o’ the Mylke suld bloom

For a beggarlye loon lyke hymme?

“Can ye thynke that ane haughtye dame lyke her

Coulde looke wi’ a kyndlye e’e

On ane quha for everye placke that he spens,

Or wastes, maun sorn on me?”

“An’ div ye thynke,” cryet the wrathfu’ Hughe,

“It’s noo my turne to speer—

That ever a leal heartyt lassie could lo’e

A sumph for the sake o’ his gear?

“An’ div ye thynke”—mayre scornfu’ wordes

Younge Hughe essayet to speake,

But his brither’s rychte han’ rase high in wrathe,

An’ fell on his lowan’ cheeke.

Than doon at that wanbritherly strayke

Dyd Hughe the Herryes fa’,

An’ for to redde this fearsome fraye,

Uppe lappe the gentles a’:

An’ auld Wullye Smyth cam toytlan’ benne—

“Quhat’s wrang amang ye noo?

It’s a wonnerfu’ thynge that ’sponsible menne

Maun fechte or they weel be fou.”

Fu’ slawlye did Hughe Herryes ryse,

An’ the never a worde he sayde,

But he gloom’t an’ he tore his gluve wi’ his teeth,

As furthe frae the room he gaed.

He muntyt his gude grey meare i’ the closse,

An’ he gallopyt aff lyke wudde.

“Eh, sirs!” quo auld Wullye Smyth, “Eh, sirs!

This never maun come tille gude;

For quhan ever a Herryes he chows his gluve,

It’s ane earnest o’ deidlye feud!”

That myrthsome band they tynte theyre myrthe,

The gude wyne tynte its power,

An’ ilke man glower’t at his neebour’s face

Wi’ a glum an’ eerye glower.

The Herryes he lootyt his heid to the board,

I’ sorrowe but an’ shame;

The lawin’ was ca’t—ilk took tille his horse,