Ballads in the Cumberland dialect by R. Anderson, with notes and a glossary, and a biographical sketch of the author |
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KING ROGER. |
 | Ballads in the Cumberland dialect |  |
KING ROGER.
'Twas but tudder neet, efter darknin,
We sat owre a bleezin turf fire;
Our deame she was sturrin a cow-drink,
Our Betty milk'd kye in the byre:
‘Ay, fadder!’ cried out our lal Roger,
‘I wish I wer nobbet a king!’
‘Wey, what wad te dui? (says I,) Roger,
‘Suppwose tou cud tek thy full swing?’
We sat owre a bleezin turf fire;
Our deame she was sturrin a cow-drink,
Our Betty milk'd kye in the byre:
‘Ay, fadder!’ cried out our lal Roger,
‘I wish I wer nobbet a king!’
‘Wey, what wad te dui? (says I,) Roger,
‘Suppwose tou cud tek thy full swing?’
‘Furst, you sud be lword judge, and bishop;
‘My mudder sud hev a gold crutch;
‘I'd build for the peer fwok feyne houses,
‘And gi'e them—aye, ever sae much!
‘Our Betty sud wed Charley Miggins,
‘And wear her stamp'd gown ev'ry day;
‘Sec dancin we'd hev in the cock-loft,
‘Bill Adams the fiddle sud play.
‘My mudder sud hev a gold crutch;
‘I'd build for the peer fwok feyne houses,
‘And gi'e them—aye, ever sae much!
‘Our Betty sud wed Charley Miggins,
‘And wear her stamp'd gown ev'ry day;
‘Sec dancin we'd hev in the cock-loft,
‘Bill Adams the fiddle sud play.
‘A posset I'd hev to my breakfast,
‘And sup wid a breet siller spuin;
‘For dinner I'd hev a fat crowdy,
‘And strang tea at mid efternuin:
‘I'd wear neyce cottinet stockins,
‘And new gambaleery clean shoes,
‘Wi' jimp lively black fustin briches,
‘And ev'ry feyne thing I cud choose.
‘And sup wid a breet siller spuin;
‘For dinner I'd hev a fat crowdy,
‘And strang tea at mid efternuin:
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‘And new gambaleery clean shoes,
‘Wi' jimp lively black fustin briches,
‘And ev'ry feyne thing I cud choose.
‘I'd hev monie thousands o' shippen,
‘To sail the weyde warl aw about;
‘I'd say to my soldiers, gang owre seas,
‘And kill the French dogs, out and out!
‘On our lang-tail'd naig I'd be mounted,
‘My footmen in silver and green;
‘And when I'd seen aw foreign countries,
‘I'd mek Aggy Glaister my queen.
‘To sail the weyde warl aw about;
‘I'd say to my soldiers, gang owre seas,
‘And kill the French dogs, out and out!
‘On our lang-tail'd naig I'd be mounted,
‘My footmen in silver and green;
‘And when I'd seen aw foreign countries,
‘I'd mek Aggy Glaister my queen.
‘Our meedow sud be a girt worchet,
‘And grow nought at aw but big plums;
‘A schuil-house we'd build—As for maister,
‘We'd e'en hing him up by the thums.
‘Joss Feddon sud be my head huntsman,
‘We'd keep seeben couple o' dogs,
‘And kill aw the hares i' the kingdom;
‘My mudder sud wear weel-greas'd clogs.
‘And grow nought at aw but big plums;
‘A schuil-house we'd build—As for maister,
‘We'd e'en hing him up by the thums.
‘Joss Feddon sud be my head huntsman,
‘We'd keep seeben couple o' dogs,
‘And kill aw the hares i' the kingdom;
‘My mudder sud wear weel-greas'd clogs.
‘Then Cursmas sud last, ay for iver!
‘And Sundays we'd ha'e tweyce a-week;
‘The muin sud show leet aw the winter;
‘Our cat and our cwoley sud speak:
‘The peer fwok sud leeve widout workin,
‘And feed on plum-puddin and beef;
‘Then aw wad be happy, for sarten,
‘There nowther cud be rwogue or thief.’
‘And Sundays we'd ha'e tweyce a-week;
‘The muin sud show leet aw the winter;
‘Our cat and our cwoley sud speak:
‘The peer fwok sud leeve widout workin,
‘And feed on plum-puddin and beef;
‘Then aw wad be happy, for sarten,
‘There nowther cud be rwogue or thief.’
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Now thus ran on leytle king Roger,
But suin aw his happiness fled;
A spark frae the fire brunt his knockle,
And off he crap whingin to bed:
Thus fares it wi' beath young and auld fwok,
Frae king to the beggar we see;
Just cross us i'th' midst o' our greatness,
And peer wretched creatures are we!
But suin aw his happiness fled;
A spark frae the fire brunt his knockle,
And off he crap whingin to bed:
Thus fares it wi' beath young and auld fwok,
Frae king to the beggar we see;
Just cross us i'th' midst o' our greatness,
And peer wretched creatures are we!
| Ballads in the Cumberland dialect | |