Ballads in the Cumberland dialect by R. Anderson, with notes and a glossary, and a biographical sketch of the author |
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DINAH DUFTON. |
 | Ballads in the Cumberland dialect |  |
DINAH DUFTON.
Peer Dinah Dufton's e'en wi' bairn,
Oh, but I's unco sworry for't!
A bonnier or a teydier lass,
No niver yet fell i' the durt:
Auld Tim, her fadder, turn'd her out
At mid neet, tho' 'twas frost and snaw;
She owre the geate,—what cud she de?—
And sobb'd and gowl'd, and telt us aw.
Oh, but I's unco sworry for't!
A bonnier or a teydier lass,
No niver yet fell i' the durt:
Auld Tim, her fadder, turn'd her out
At mid neet, tho' 'twas frost and snaw;
She owre the geate,—what cud she de?—
And sobb'd and gowl'd, and telt us aw.
My fadder shuik his head at furst,
But spak and acted leyke a man;
‘Dinah!’ says he, ‘tou sannot want,
Sae keep thy heart up, if tou can;
I've lads and lasses o' my awn,
And nin can tell what they may de:
To turn thee out! peer luckless bairn!
Thy fadder e'en mun hardened be!’
But spak and acted leyke a man;
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Sae keep thy heart up, if tou can;
I've lads and lasses o' my awn,
And nin can tell what they may de:
To turn thee out! peer luckless bairn!
Thy fadder e'en mun hardened be!’
God niver meade a heartier lass,
For she wad sing for iver mair;
Yet, when peer fwok were in distress,
To hear on't, Oh! it hurt her sair!
This luive, they say, hides monie fau'ts;
Peer thing! the warl she little knew!
But if she'd been by me advis'd,
She wadden't hed sec cause to rue.
For she wad sing for iver mair;
Yet, when peer fwok were in distress,
To hear on't, Oh! it hurt her sair!
This luive, they say, hides monie fau'ts;
Peer thing! the warl she little knew!
But if she'd been by me advis'd,
She wadden't hed sec cause to rue.
At Rosley Fair she chanc'd to leet
O' mangrel Wull, that wicked tuil;
He'd larn'd to hannel weel his feet,
And kept a bit o' dancin schuil:
A fortune-teller neist he brib'd,
To say the match was meade abuin;
But when he'd brong his ends about,
He nobbet laugh'd and left her suin.
O' mangrel Wull, that wicked tuil;
He'd larn'd to hannel weel his feet,
And kept a bit o' dancin schuil:
A fortune-teller neist he brib'd,
To say the match was meade abuin;
But when he'd brong his ends about,
He nobbet laugh'd and left her suin.
Now Dinah's apron's grown quite shwort;
Dull, downcast, outcry o' the lave!
Aw day she whinges in our loft,
And wishes she were in her grave:
But mangrel Wull, that wicked tuil,
My fadder says sall lig in jail;
And he that ruins onie lass,
De'il tek the man that wad him bail.
Dull, downcast, outcry o' the lave!
Aw day she whinges in our loft,
And wishes she were in her grave:
But mangrel Wull, that wicked tuil,
My fadder says sall lig in jail;
And he that ruins onie lass,
De'il tek the man that wad him bail.
July 16, 1804.
| Ballads in the Cumberland dialect | |