The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." Now for the first time collected by Henry Lonsdale; With a preface, memoir, and notes by Patrick Maxwell |
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| SONGS IN THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT. |
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 | The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." |  |
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SONGS IN THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT.
THE TOILING DAY HIS TASK HAS DUIN.
The toiling day his task has duin,
And night sits on yon mountain's brow,
She's luikt her last luik o' the sun,
An' muffl'd up the vales below.
The weary ploughman seeks his heaam,
His blythsome ingle far he sees;
An' oft peeps out his winsome deame,
While the wee things rin aroun' the bleeze.
And night sits on yon mountain's brow,
She's luikt her last luik o' the sun,
An' muffl'd up the vales below.
The weary ploughman seeks his heaam,
His blythsome ingle far he sees;
An' oft peeps out his winsome deame,
While the wee things rin aroun' the bleeze.
At last he cums, and on his knee
The wee tots a' thegether cling,
An' ilk ane strives to catch his ee,
Syne tugs his cwoat an' bids him sing.
An' when the halesome supper's duin,
An' noisy prattlers laid asleep,
A lad you spy by blink o' muin,
Wha says he seeks a strayand sheep.
The wee tots a' thegether cling,
An' ilk ane strives to catch his ee,
Syne tugs his cwoat an' bids him sing.
An' when the halesome supper's duin,
An' noisy prattlers laid asleep,
A lad you spy by blink o' muin,
Wha says he seeks a strayand sheep.
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The father bids the chiel cum in,
Sweet Bessy blushes rosy red;
She ne'er luiks up, for she mun spin,
An' fine she draws the slender thread.
But the sly dad aft blinks his ee,
An' her flush'd cheek the redder grows;
“Cum, Bess, fling by the wheel,” says he,
“An' gie's the Broom o' Cowdenknows.”
Sweet Bessy blushes rosy red;
She ne'er luiks up, for she mun spin,
An' fine she draws the slender thread.
But the sly dad aft blinks his ee,
An' her flush'd cheek the redder grows;
“Cum, Bess, fling by the wheel,” says he,
“An' gie's the Broom o' Cowdenknows.”
And now the sang an' tale gaes roun,
An' the pint smiles wi' heartsome ale;
An' mony a glance sweet Bessy's found
Has power to tell a flattering tale.
The stranger rises to be geane,
Treads Bessy's gown, and whispers low,
“O when, sweet lassie, ye're your leane,
This heart o' mine wad joy to know.”
An' the pint smiles wi' heartsome ale;
An' mony a glance sweet Bessy's found
Has power to tell a flattering tale.
The stranger rises to be geane,
Treads Bessy's gown, and whispers low,
“O when, sweet lassie, ye're your leane,
This heart o' mine wad joy to know.”
WEY, NED, MAN!
Wey, Ned, man! thou luiks sae down-hearted,
Yen wad swear aw thy kindred were dead;
For sixpence, thy Jean and thee's parted,—
What then, man, ne'er bodder thy head!
There's lasses enow, I'll uphod te,
And tou may be suin as weel match'd;
Tou knows there's still fish i' the river
As guid as has ever been catch'd.
Yen wad swear aw thy kindred were dead;
For sixpence, thy Jean and thee's parted,—
What then, man, ne'er bodder thy head!
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And tou may be suin as weel match'd;
Tou knows there's still fish i' the river
As guid as has ever been catch'd.
Nay, Joe! tou kens nought o' the matter,
Sae let's hae nae mair o' thy jeer;
Auld England's gown's worn till a tatter,
And they'll nit new don her, I fear.
True liberty never can flourish,
Till man in his reets is a king,—
Till we tek a tithe pig frae the bishop,
As he's duin frae us, is the thing.
Sae let's hae nae mair o' thy jeer;
Auld England's gown's worn till a tatter,
And they'll nit new don her, I fear.
True liberty never can flourish,
Till man in his reets is a king,—
Till we tek a tithe pig frae the bishop,
As he's duin frae us, is the thing.
What, Ned! and is this aw that ails thee?
Mess, lad! tou deserves maist to hang!
What! tek a bit lan frae its owner!—
Is this then thy fine Reets o' Man?
Tou ploughs, and tou sows, and tou reaps, man,
Tou cums, and tou gangs, where tou will;
Nowther king, lword, nor bishop, dar touch thee,
Sae lang as tou dis fwok nae ill!
Mess, lad! tou deserves maist to hang!
What! tek a bit lan frae its owner!—
Is this then thy fine Reets o' Man?
Tou ploughs, and tou sows, and tou reaps, man,
Tou cums, and tou gangs, where tou will;
Nowther king, lword, nor bishop, dar touch thee,
Sae lang as tou dis fwok nae ill!
How can tou say sae, Joe! tou kens, now,
If hares were as plenty as hops,
I durstn't fell yen for my life, man,
Nor tek't out o' auld Cwoley's chops:
While girt fwok they ride down my hedges,
And spang o'er my fields o' new wheat,
Nought but ill words I get for my damage;—
Can ony man tell me that's reet?
If hares were as plenty as hops,
I durstn't fell yen for my life, man,
Nor tek't out o' auld Cwoley's chops:
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And spang o'er my fields o' new wheat,
Nought but ill words I get for my damage;—
Can ony man tell me that's reet?
Why, there I mun own the shoe pinches,
Just there to find faut is nae shame;
Ne'er ak! there's nae hard laws in England,
Except this bit thing about game:
Man, were we aw equal at mwornin,
We coudn't remain sae till neet;
Some arms are far stranger than others,
And some heads will tek in mair leet.
Just there to find faut is nae shame;
Ne'er ak! there's nae hard laws in England,
Except this bit thing about game:
Man, were we aw equal at mwornin,
We coudn't remain sae till neet;
Some arms are far stranger than others,
And some heads will tek in mair leet.
Tou coudn't mend laws an' tou wad, man;
'Tis for other-guess noddles than thine;
Lord help te! sud beggars yence rule us,
They'd tek off baith thy cwoat an' mine.
What is't then but law that stands by us,
While we stand by country and king?
And as to being parfet and parfet,
I tell thee, there is nae sec thing.
'Tis for other-guess noddles than thine;
Lord help te! sud beggars yence rule us,
They'd tek off baith thy cwoat an' mine.
What is't then but law that stands by us,
While we stand by country and king?
And as to being parfet and parfet,
I tell thee, there is nae sec thing.
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THE CUMBERLAND SCOLD.
Our Dick's sae cross—but what o'that!
I'll tell ye aw the matter;
Pou up yer heads; ay, deil may care,
Say, women-fwok mun chatter.
And sae they may; they've much to say,
But little are they meynded;
Obey! is sec a fearfu' word,
An' that the married find it.
I'll tell ye aw the matter;
Pou up yer heads; ay, deil may care,
Say, women-fwok mun chatter.
And sae they may; they've much to say,
But little are they meynded;
Obey! is sec a fearfu' word,
An' that the married find it.
Our Dick came in, and said it rain'd,
Says I, it meks nae matter;
“Ay, but it dis, tou silly fuil!—
But women-fwok mun clatter:
They're here an' there, an' ev'ry where,
And meakin sec a rumble,
Wi' te-te-te, an' te-te-te,
An' grumble, grumble, grumble!”
Says I, it meks nae matter;
“Ay, but it dis, tou silly fuil!—
But women-fwok mun clatter:
They're here an' there, an' ev'ry where,
And meakin sec a rumble,
Wi' te-te-te, an' te-te-te,
An' grumble, grumble, grumble!”
“Says I to Dick, to Dick, says I,
There's nought i' life can match thee!
Thy temper's ayways bursting out,
And nought I say can patch thee.
I's ass, and fuil, and silly snuil,
I's naething but a noodle;
I's ayways wrang, and never reet,
And doodle, doodle, doodle.”
There's nought i' life can match thee!
Thy temper's ayways bursting out,
And nought I say can patch thee.
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I's naething but a noodle;
I's ayways wrang, and never reet,
And doodle, doodle, doodle.”
“Deil bin!” says Dick, “if what I say
Is nit as true as beyble!
And gin I put te into print,
The fwok wad caw't a reyble:
For deil a clout can tou set on,
In ony form or fashion,
Or dui or say a single thing
To keep yen out o' passion.”
Is nit as true as beyble!
And gin I put te into print,
The fwok wad caw't a reyble:
For deil a clout can tou set on,
In ony form or fashion,
Or dui or say a single thing
To keep yen out o' passion.”
“Tou is a bonny guest, indeed!
Tou is a toppin fellow!
I think thy breast is meade o' brass,
Tou dis sae rwoar and bellow:
I nobbet wish that I were deef,
There's ayways sec a dingin;
I never ken what I's about,
There's sec a ring, ring, ringing.”
Tou is a toppin fellow!
I think thy breast is meade o' brass,
Tou dis sae rwoar and bellow:
I nobbet wish that I were deef,
There's ayways sec a dingin;
I never ken what I's about,
There's sec a ring, ring, ringing.”
“Whea ever kens what tou's about?
Tou's ayways in a ponder;
Ay geavin wi' thy open mouth,
And wonder, wonder, wonder!
But of aw the wonders i' this warl,
I wonder we e'er married;
It wad hae been a bonny thing
Had that breet thout miscarried.”
Tou's ayways in a ponder;
Ay geavin wi' thy open mouth,
And wonder, wonder, wonder!
But of aw the wonders i' this warl,
I wonder we e'er married;
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Had that breet thout miscarried.”
“But, hark ye, Dick! I'll tell ye what,—
'Twas I that meade the blunder;
That I tuik up wi' leyke o' thee,
Was far the greetest wonder!
For tou was nowther guid nor rich,
And tempert leyke auld Scratchum!
The deil a day gangs owre my head,
But, fratchum, fratchum, fratchum!”
'Twas I that meade the blunder;
That I tuik up wi' leyke o' thee,
Was far the greetest wonder!
For tou was nowther guid nor rich,
And tempert leyke auld Scratchum!
The deil a day gangs owre my head,
But, fratchum, fratchum, fratchum!”
BARLEY BROTH.
If tempers were put up to seale,
Our Jwohn's wad bear a duced preyce;
He vow'd 'twas barley i' the broth,—
Upon my word, says I, it's reyce.
Our Jwohn's wad bear a duced preyce;
He vow'd 'twas barley i' the broth,—
Upon my word, says I, it's reyce.
“I mek nea faut,” our Jwohnny says,
“The broth is guid and varra neyce;
I only say—it's barley broth.”
Tou says what's wrang, says I, it's reyce.
“The broth is guid and varra neyce;
I only say—it's barley broth.”
Tou says what's wrang, says I, it's reyce.
“Did ever mortal hear the leyke!
As if I hadn't sense to tell!
Tou may think reyce the better thing,
But barley broth dis just as well.”
As if I hadn't sense to tell!
Tou may think reyce the better thing,
But barley broth dis just as well.”
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“And sae it mud, if it was there;
The deil a grain is i' the pot;
But tou mun ayways threep yen down,—
I've drawn the deevil of a lot!”
The deil a grain is i' the pot;
But tou mun ayways threep yen down,—
I've drawn the deevil of a lot!”
“And what's the lot that I have drawn?
Pervarsion is a woman's neame!
Sae fares-te-weel! I'll sarve my king,
And never, never mair come heame.”
Pervarsion is a woman's neame!
Sae fares-te-weel! I'll sarve my king,
And never, never mair come heame.”
Now Jenny frets frae mworn to neet;
The Sunday cap's nae langer neyce;
She aye puts barley i' the broth,
And hates the varra neame o' reyce.
The Sunday cap's nae langer neyce;
She aye puts barley i' the broth,
And hates the varra neame o' reyce.
Thus treyfles vex, and treyfles please,
And treyfles mek the sum o' leyfe;
And treyfles mek a bonny lass
A wretched or a happy weyfe!
And treyfles mek the sum o' leyfe;
And treyfles mek a bonny lass
A wretched or a happy weyfe!
THE MEETING.
If I hae been a week away,
My Jenny rins to meet me;
Wi' aw the chat o' this bit pleace
My Jenny's fain to treat me:—
“There's Rob has married Mary Gray,
And Bella's past aw tellin!
And Greace has fun the little cat,
And Dick can say his spellin.
My Jenny rins to meet me;
Wi' aw the chat o' this bit pleace
My Jenny's fain to treat me:—
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And Bella's past aw tellin!
And Greace has fun the little cat,
And Dick can say his spellin.
Peer Dick has broken deddy's dish,
And durstn't come to meet ye;
But he has sent ye this bit cake,
He thought that he mud treat ye.
Our butter tells to fourteen pun;
Our cheese hes fill'd the rimmer;
And uncle Megs hes sent us beef
Will sarra us aw at dinner.
And durstn't come to meet ye;
But he has sent ye this bit cake,
He thought that he mud treat ye.
Our butter tells to fourteen pun;
Our cheese hes fill'd the rimmer;
And uncle Megs hes sent us beef
Will sarra us aw at dinner.
And uncle Megs hes heard frae Gworge;
He's gane to—I've forgittin;
But it's some hard-word pleace owre seas,
I'll hae the neame on't written;
I think they caw'd it Jemmycaw,
Or else it is St Christit;
And if it isn't yen o' they,
I'faikins, I hae mist it!
He's gane to—I've forgittin;
But it's some hard-word pleace owre seas,
I'll hae the neame on't written;
I think they caw'd it Jemmycaw,
Or else it is St Christit;
And if it isn't yen o' they,
I'faikins, I hae mist it!
And peer auld Wully's telt his teale;
He'll never tell anudder!
And they've been up wi' uncle Megs,
To wreyte it till his brudder:
For he was varra nwotishin
Of ought that Wully wanted;
And mony time wad wreyte and tell
They wadn't see him scanted.
He'll never tell anudder!
And they've been up wi' uncle Megs,
To wreyte it till his brudder:
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Of ought that Wully wanted;
And mony time wad wreyte and tell
They wadn't see him scanted.
They brought him varra canny up,—
He had the best o' linnen,
And keept it just to mense his death,—
'Twas peer auld Marget's spinnin.
The house, and aw the bits o' things,
Will just be for the brudder;
I only wish he'd meade tem owre
To Mary and her mudder!”
He had the best o' linnen,
And keept it just to mense his death,—
'Twas peer auld Marget's spinnin.
The house, and aw the bits o' things,
Will just be for the brudder;
I only wish he'd meade tem owre
To Mary and her mudder!”
WE'VE HED SEC A DURDUM.
We've hed sec a durdum at Gobbleston parish,
For twonty lang years there's nit been sec a fair;
We'd slack reape, and tight reape, and dogs that wer dancin,
Wi' leytle roun hats on to gar the fwok stare:
A leytle black messet danc'd sae leyke auld Jenny,
I thought it wad niver run out o' my head;
It was last thing at neet, and the first i' the mworning,
And I rwoar'd leyke a fuil as I laid i' my bed!
For twonty lang years there's nit been sec a fair;
We'd slack reape, and tight reape, and dogs that wer dancin,
Wi' leytle roun hats on to gar the fwok stare:
A leytle black messet danc'd sae leyke auld Jenny,
I thought it wad niver run out o' my head;
It was last thing at neet, and the first i' the mworning,
And I rwoar'd leyke a fuil as I laid i' my bed!
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And we had stage playing, and actors frae Lunnon,
At hed sec a canny and bonny leyke say;
I forgat the black messet, and gowl'd leyke a ninny,
Tho' I said to mysel, “Wey, its nobbet a play!”
But aw that was naething, for mony wer blinded,
And Jemmy, that brags aw the town for a feght,
He twistet and twirlt—it was just for an off-put,
But aw wadn't dui, for he gowl'd hawf the neet.
At hed sec a canny and bonny leyke say;
I forgat the black messet, and gowl'd leyke a ninny,
Tho' I said to mysel, “Wey, its nobbet a play!”
But aw that was naething, for mony wer blinded,
And Jemmy, that brags aw the town for a feght,
He twistet and twirlt—it was just for an off-put,
But aw wadn't dui, for he gowl'd hawf the neet.
And Betty Mac Nippen, and five of her dowters,
As feyne as May garlans, were clwose at my back;
I was flayt they wad hinder fwok hear aw the speeching,
But they gowl'd sec a guid'n, that nin o' them spak:
And Betty hes heard frae her sister in Lunnon,
And she's sent the bairns sec a mwort o' feyne things,
That if Betty Mac Nippen wad mek tem stage players,
She cud fit tem out, ay leyke queens or leyke kings.
As feyne as May garlans, were clwose at my back;
I was flayt they wad hinder fwok hear aw the speeching,
But they gowl'd sec a guid'n, that nin o' them spak:
And Betty hes heard frae her sister in Lunnon,
And she's sent the bairns sec a mwort o' feyne things,
That if Betty Mac Nippen wad mek tem stage players,
She cud fit tem out, ay leyke queens or leyke kings.
Then down-the-brow Wully tuik up his cwoat lappet,
And held til his een, for he's given to jeer;
But I had it frae yen that was even fornenst him,
'Twas weel for his sel his cwoat lappet was near.
Oh—Venus perserv'd was the neame o' the actin,
And Jaffer was him hed the beautiful weyfe;
Tho' I gowl'd aw the teyme, it's a wonder to tell on't,
I niver was hawf sae weel pleas'd i' my leyfe!
And held til his een, for he's given to jeer;
But I had it frae yen that was even fornenst him,
'Twas weel for his sel his cwoat lappet was near.
Oh—Venus perserv'd was the neame o' the actin,
And Jaffer was him hed the beautiful weyfe;
Tho' I gowl'd aw the teyme, it's a wonder to tell on't,
I niver was hawf sae weel pleas'd i' my leyfe!
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AULD ROBIN FORBES.
And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance,
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance;
I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen,
And skipp'd wi' the best upon Forbes's green.
Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer,
It brings that that's by-past and sets it down here;
I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace,
When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.
I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance;
I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen,
And skipp'd wi' the best upon Forbes's green.
Of aw things that is I think thout is meast queer,
It brings that that's by-past and sets it down here;
I see Willy as plain as I dui this bit leace,
When he tuik his cwoat lappet and deeghted his feace.
The lasses aw wonder'd what Willy cud see
In yen that was dark and hard featur'd leyke me;
And they wonder'd ay mair when they talk'd o' my wit,
And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it:
But Willy he laugh'd, and he meade me his weyfe,
And whea was mair happy thro' aw his lang leyfe?
It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane,
That he offen said—nea pleace was leyke his awn heame!
In yen that was dark and hard featur'd leyke me;
And they wonder'd ay mair when they talk'd o' my wit,
And slily telt Willy that cudn't be it:
But Willy he laugh'd, and he meade me his weyfe,
And whea was mair happy thro' aw his lang leyfe?
It's e'en my great comfort, now Willy is geane,
That he offen said—nea pleace was leyke his awn heame!
I mind when I carried my wark to yon steyle
Where Willy was deykin, the time to beguile,
He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast,
And I hammer'd my noddle to mek out a jest.
But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell
There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel;
And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack
When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.
Where Willy was deykin, the time to beguile,
He wad fling me a daisy to put i' my breast,
And I hammer'd my noddle to mek out a jest.
But merry or grave, Willy often wad tell
There was nin o' the leave that was leyke my awn sel;
And he spak what he thout, for I'd hardly a plack
When we married, and nobbet ae gown to my back.
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When the clock had struck eight I expected him heame,
And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;
Of aw hours it telt eight was dearest to me,
But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee.
O Willy! dear Willy! it never can be
That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me!
For that spot on earth that's aye dearest to me,
Is the turf that has cover'd my Willy frae me!
And wheyles went to meet him as far as Dumleane;
Of aw hours it telt eight was dearest to me,
But now when it streykes there's a tear i' my ee.
O Willy! dear Willy! it never can be
That age, time, or death, can divide thee and me!
For that spot on earth that's aye dearest to me,
Is the turf that has cover'd my Willy frae me!
| The poetical works of Susanna Blamire "The Muse of Cumberland." | |