A Miscellany of Poems consisting of Original Poems, Translations, Pastorals in the Cumberland Dialect, Familiar Epistles, Fables, Songs, and Epigrams, by the late Reverend Josiah Relph ... With a Preface and a Glossary |
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St. AGNES FAST;
or the
AMOROUS MAIDEN.
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 | A Miscellany of Poems |  |
94
St. AGNES FAST; or the AMOROUS MAIDEN.
A PASTORAL.
How lang I've fasted and 'tis hardly four;
This day I doubt 'ill neer be gitten owr:
And theer as lang a night aleis beside;
I lall thought Fasts seck fearful things to bide.
This day I doubt 'ill neer be gitten owr:
And theer as lang a night aleis beside;
I lall thought Fasts seck fearful things to bide.
Fie, Roger, fie—a fairy lass to wrang,
And let her aw this trouble undergang:
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duine:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
For come thou mun, aw Mothers wise agree;
And Mothers wise can never seer aw lee.
And let her aw this trouble undergang:
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duine:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
For come thou mun, aw Mothers wise agree;
And Mothers wise can never seer aw lee.
95
As I was powen Pezz to scawd ae night;
O' ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster lied,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasent dreem I's neer forgit:
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pippin frae an apple fair I cut,
And clwose at ween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, whore wons my Luive, come tell me true:
And even forret stright away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
O' ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster lied,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasent dreem I's neer forgit:
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pippin frae an apple fair I cut,
And clwose at ween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, whore wons my Luive, come tell me true:
And even forret stright away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
I laited last aw Hallow-Even lang
For growen nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and beith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a-bit:
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
For growen nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and beith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a-bit:
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
96
Turnips ae saturday I pair'd and yell
A pairing seav'd my Sweet-heart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And cawt it like a C---but cawt not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit.
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pairing seav'd my Sweet-heart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And cawt it like a C---but cawt not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit.
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A Fortune-teller leately com about,
And my twea guid King-Gweorges I powt out.
Baith, baith (and was not that a pity) went,
And yet I cannot caw them badly spent.
She sign'd a bonny Lad and a large kit;
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And my twea guid King-Gweorges I powt out.
Baith, baith (and was not that a pity) went,
And yet I cannot caw them badly spent.
She sign'd a bonny Lad and a large kit;
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
When t'other night the Bride was put to bed,
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owr the shouder flung the stockin fell,
But not yen hat the mark except my sell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owr the shouder flung the stockin fell,
But not yen hat the mark except my sell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And ah this cruel Roger comes not yet.
97
But what need I fash me any mare,
He'll be obleeg'd avoid it neer sae sare,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I waite what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come, and thur fulfill;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest my sell just wittenly away.
He'll be obleeg'd avoid it neer sae sare,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I waite what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come, and thur fulfill;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest my sell just wittenly away.
She said, and softly slipping cross the floor
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown
Thrice lick'd her lips and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to dye of ought than love.
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown
Thrice lick'd her lips and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to dye of ought than love.
| A Miscellany of Poems | |