 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
CAREL FAIR.
Just swat down, and lissen my sang:
I'll mappen affword some divarsion,
An tell ye how monie things gang.
Crops o' aw maks are gud; tateys lang as lapstens, an dry as meal. Teymes are sae sae; for the thin-chop'd, hawf-neak'd, trimlin beggars, flock to our house, leyke bees tot' hive: an our Cwoley bit sae monie, I just tuck'd him up i' th' worchet. Mudder boils tem a tnop o' Lunnen Duns, ivery day; an fadder gies temt' barn to lig in. If onie be yebel to work, wey he pays tem reet weel. Fwok sud aw dui, as they'd be duin tui; an it's naturable, to beg, rader nor starve or steal; efter aw the rattle!
An laugh to see onie repeyne:
I's nae pollytishin, that's sarten,
But Englan seems in a decleyne!
An went owre to see Carel Fair;
Odswinge! how they mek the fwok stare!
Thur flay-crows wear lasses stays; an buy my Lword Wellinten's buits; cokert but nit snout-bandet. Mey sarty! sec a laugh I gat, to see a tarrier meakin watter on yen o' ther legs! They're seerly mungrels, hawf monkey breed; shept for awt warl leyke wasps, smaw it' middle. To see them paut pauten about, puts me i' meyn o' our aul gander; an if they meet a canny lass, they darn't turn roun to luik at her. The “Turk's Heed,” an “Tir'd Spwortsman,” are bonny seynes, but a dandy wad be far mair comical; efter aw the rattle!
Thur hawf-witted varmen bang aw:
They'd freeten aul Nick, sud tey meet him—
A dandy's just fit for a show!
An gleymt at ther lumps o' fat meat;
They've aw maks the gully can dive at—
It meks peer fwok hungry to see't.
“What d'ye buy! what d'ye buy?”—“Weya, boutcher, wul te be out et our en o't' country, suin? we've a famish bull, nobbet eleebem year aul; twee braid-backt tips, an a bonny sew.” “Nea bull, tips or sweyne for me!”—“Hes te got onie coves heeds
Up hobbles an aul chap, an begs—
Oh' wad our girt heeds o' the nayshen
Just set the peer fwok on their legs!
Whoar aw wer as busy as bees;
Sec lurryan, an trotten, an scamprin—
Lord help tem!—they're meade up o' lees!
“Try a canter, Deavie.”—Whoar gat te t' powny, Tim?”—Wey at Stegshe.”—“That's a bluid meer,” says aul Breakshe, “she was gitten by Shrimp, an out o' Madam Wagtail; she wan t' King's plate at Dongkister, tudder year.”—“Wan the deevil!” says yen tull him, “tou means t' breydle at Kingmuir, min!”—“Here's a naig! nobbet just nwotish his een! he can see thro' a nine-inch waw. Fuils tell o' fortifications; what he hes a breest leyke a fiftification. Dud ye iver see yen cock sec a tail, widout a peppercworn?”—“What dus te ax for em, canny man?”—“Wey, he's weel worth twonty pun; but I'll teake hawf.”—“Twonty deevils! I'll gie thee twonty shillin; efter aw the rattle!”
They mek the best bargain they can:
Fwok say, it's the seame in aw countries—
Man leykes to draw kelter frae man!
A famish rough rumpes I saw;
For Rickergeate lwoses her charter,
Sud theer be nae feghtin at aw.
Aa! what a hay-bay! it was just leyke the battle o' Watterlew. Men an women, young an aul, ran frev aw quarters. Theer was sec shoutin, thrustin, pushin, an squeezin; what they knock'd down staws; an brak shop windows, aw to flinders. Thur leed-heedet whups dui muckle mischief; a sairy beggar gat a bluidy nwose, an broken teeth, i' the fray. Hill-top Tom, an Low-gill Dick, the twea feghtin rapscallions, wer luggt off by the bealies, to my lword Mayor's offish; an thrussen into the black whol. I whop they'll lig theer: for it's weel nae leyves wer lost; efter aw the rattle!
That slink into Carel to feght!
Deil bin them! when free frae hard labour,
True plishure sud be their deleyte.
“Aa! gies ty fist, Ellik! how's tou?”
“Wey, aw bais'd, an bluitert, an queerish;
We'll tek a drop gud mountain dew.”
“Sees te, Ellik, theer'st puir-luikin chap, et meks aw t' bits o' Cummerlan ballets!”—“The deevil! fye, Jobby, let's off frev him, for fear!”—“Here's yer whillymer; lank an lean, but cheap and clean!” says yen. “Buy a pair o' elegant shun, young gentleman,” cries a dandy snob, “they wer meade for Mr. Justice Grunt. Weages are hee, and ledder's dear; but they're nobbet twelve shillin.” Then a fat chap wid a hammer, selt clocks, cubberts, teables, chairs, pots and pans, for nought at aw. What, I seed fadder talkin to t' lawyer, an gowl'd tull my een wer sair: but nae mischief was duin; efter aw the rattle!
In leggins, were struttin about;
Wer teymes gud, they'd aw become dandies—
We'll ne'er leeve to see that, I doubt!
I crap up the stairs, to be seer;
But suin trottet down by the waiter,
For deil a bit cap'rin was theer.
What lads an lasses are far owre proud to dance, now-a-days. I stowtert ahint yen desst out leyke a
Few husseys, leyke Jenny, ye'll see:
O hed we but taen off to Gratena,
Nin wad been sae happy as we!
An neist tuik a rammel thro' t' streets:
What, Carel's the pleace for feyne houses,
But monie a peer body yen meets!
Aye! yen in tatters, wi'ae ee, shoutet, “Here'st last speech, confession, an deein words o' Martha Mumps: she was hang't, for committin a reape on—” Hut shap! I forgit his neame. Anudder tatterde-mallion says, “Come buy a full chinse Indy muslin; nobbet sixpence hawpenny a yard!” Jenny bowt yen; an it was rotten as muck. Then theer was bits o' things, wi' their neddys, rwoarin upt' lanes, “Bleng-ki-ship cwoals!” An chaps cawin
Sad changes ilk body mun share:
To-day we're just puzzen'd wi' plishure;
To-mworn we're bent double wi' care!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |