Ballads in the Cumberland dialect by R. Anderson, with notes and a glossary, and a biographical sketch of the author |
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TIB AND HER MAISTER. |
 | Ballads in the Cumberland dialect |  |
TIB AND HER MAISTER.
I's tir'd wi' liggin aye my leane;
This day seems fair and clear;
Seek th'auld grey yad, clap on the pad,
She's duin nae wark te year:
Furst, Tib, get me my best lin sark,
My wig, and new-greas'd shoon;
My three-nuik'd hat, and mittens white—
I'll hev a young weyfe suin!
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
A young weyfe for me;
She'll scart my back whene'er it yuks,
Sae married I mun be!
This day seems fair and clear;
Seek th'auld grey yad, clap on the pad,
She's duin nae wark te year:
94
My wig, and new-greas'd shoon;
My three-nuik'd hat, and mittens white—
I'll hev a young weyfe suin!
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
A young weyfe for me;
She'll scart my back whene'er it yuks,
Sae married I mun be!
‘Wey, maister! you're hawf blin and deef—
‘The rain comes pouring down;—
‘Your best lin sark wants beath the laps,
‘Your three-nuik'd hat the crown;
‘The rattens eat your clouted shoon;
‘The yad's unshod and leame;
‘You're bent wi' yage leyke onie bow,
‘Sae sit content at heame.
‘A young weyfe for ye, man!
‘A young weyfe for ye!
‘They'll rank ye wi' the horned nowt
‘Until the day ye dee!’
‘The rain comes pouring down;—
‘Your best lin sark wants beath the laps,
‘Your three-nuik'd hat the crown;
‘The rattens eat your clouted shoon;
‘The yad's unshod and leame;
‘You're bent wi' yage leyke onie bow,
‘Sae sit content at heame.
‘A young weyfe for ye, man!
‘A young weyfe for ye!
‘They'll rank ye wi' the horned nowt
‘Until the day ye dee!’
O, Tib, thou aye talks leyke a fuil!
I's faild, but nit sae auld;
A young weyfe keeps yen warm i' bed,
When neets are lang and cauld:
I've brass far mair than I can count,
And sheep, and naigs, and kye;
A house luiks howe widout a weyfe—
My luck I'll e'en gae try.
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
A young weyfe for me;
I yet can lift twee pecks o' wots,
Tho turn'd o' eighty-three.
I's faild, but nit sae auld;
A young weyfe keeps yen warm i' bed,
When neets are lang and cauld:
I've brass far mair than I can count,
And sheep, and naigs, and kye;
A house luiks howe widout a weyfe—
My luck I'll e'en gae try.
95
A young weyfe for me;
I yet can lift twee pecks o' wots,
Tho turn'd o' eighty-three.
‘Weel, maister, ye maun ha'e your way,
‘And sin ye'll wedded be,
‘I's lish and young, and stout and strang,
‘Sae what think ye o' me?
‘I'll keep ye teydey, warm, and clean,
‘To wrang ye I wad scworn.’
Tib! gi'es thy hand!—a bargain be't—
We'll of to kurk to-mworn!
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
Tou was meade for me;
We'll kiss and coddle aw the neet,
And aye we'll happy be!
‘And sin ye'll wedded be,
‘I's lish and young, and stout and strang,
‘Sae what think ye o' me?
‘I'll keep ye teydey, warm, and clean,
‘To wrang ye I wad scworn.’
Tib! gi'es thy hand!—a bargain be't—
We'll of to kurk to-mworn!
A young weyfe for me, Tib,
Tou was meade for me;
We'll kiss and coddle aw the neet,
And aye we'll happy be!
November 11, 1804.
| Ballads in the Cumberland dialect | |