Ballads in the Cumberland dialect :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come, Gwordie lad, unyoke the yad,
Let's gow to Rosley Fair;
Lang Ned's aswore, wi' Symie' lad,
Peed Dick, and monie mair:
My titty Greace and Jenny Bell
Are gangen bye and bye,
Sae doff thy clogs, and don thysel—
Let fadder luik to t'kye.

GWORDIE.

O, Wully! leetsome may ye be!
For me, I downa gang;
I've often shek'd a leg wi' tee,
But now l's aw wheyte wrang;
My stomich's geane, nae sleep I get;
At neet I lig me down,
But nobbet pech, and gowl, and fret,
And aw for Betty Brown.

Sin' Cuddy Wulson' murry-neet,
When Deavie brees'd his shin
I've niver, niver yence been reet,
And aw for her, I fin:
Tou kens we danc'd a threesome reel,
And Betty set to me—
She luik'd sae neyce, and danc'd sae weel,
What cud a body de?

My fadder fratches sair eneugh,
If I but steal frae heame;
My mudder caws me peer deyl'd guff,
If Betty I but neame:
Atween the twee there's see a frase,
O but it's bad to beyde!
Yet, what's far war, aye Betty says,
She wunnet be my breyde.

WULLY.

Wey, Gworge! tou's owther fuil or sont,
To think o' see a frow;
In aw her flegmagaries donn'd,
What is she?—nought 'at dow:
Theer's sceape-greace Ben, the neybors ken,
Can git her onie day—
Er I'd be fash'd wi' sec a yen,
I'd list, or rin away!

Wi' aw her trinkum's on her back,
She's feyne eneugh for t'squire;
A sairy weyse I trow, she'd mak,
'At cuddn't muck a byre.—

But, whisht! here comes my titty Greace,
She'll guess what we're about—
To mworn-o'mworn, i' this seame pleace,
We'll hae the stwory out.

December 19, 1801.

BARBARY BELL.

[_]

Tune—“Cuddle and Cuddle us aw thegether.”

O but this luive is a serious thing!
It's the beginner o' monie waes;
And yen had as guid in a helter swing,
As luik at a bonny feace now-a-days:
Was there ever peer deevil sae fash'd as me?
Nobbet sit your ways still, the truth I's tell,
For I wish I'd been hung on our codlen tree,
The varra furst time I seed Barbary Bell!

Quite lish, and nit owr thrang wi' wark,
I went my ways down to Carel fair,
Wi' bran new cwoat, and brave ruffl'd sark,
And Dicky the Shaver pat flour i' my hair;
Our seyde lads are aw for fun,
Some tuik ceyder, and some drank yell;
Diddlen Deavie he strack up a tune,
And I caper'd away wi' Barbary Bell.

Says I, ‘Bab,’ says I, ‘we'll de weel eneugh,
‘For tou can kurn, and darn, and spin;

‘I can deyke, men car-gear, and hod the pleugh;
‘Sae at whussenday neist we'll t'warld begin:
‘I's turn'd a gayshen awt' neybors say,
‘I sit like a sumph, nae mair mysel',
‘And up or a bed, at heame or away,
‘I think o' nought but Barbary Bell.’

Then whee sud steal in but Rob o' the Nuik,
Dick o' the Steyle, and twee or three mair
Suin Barb'ry frae off my knee they tuik,
‘Wey, dang it!’ says I, ‘but this is nit fair!’
Robbie he kick'd up a dust in a crack,
And sticks and neeves they went pel-mel,
The bottles forby the clock feace they brack,
But, fares-te-weel, wheyte-fit, Barbary Bell!

'Twas nobbet last week, nee langer seyne,
I wheyn'd i' the nuik, I can't tell how;
‘Get up,’ says my fadder, ‘and sarra the sweyne!’
‘I's bravely, Bab!’ says I, ‘how's tou?’
Neist inworn to t'cwoals I was fworc'd to gang,
But cowp'd the cars at Tindle Fell,
For I cruin'd aw the way, as I trotted alang,
‘O that I'd never kent Barbary Bell!’

That varra seame neet up to Barbary' house,
When aw t'auld fwok were liggin asleep,
I off wi' my clogs, and as whisht as a mouse,
Claver'd up to the window, and tuik a peep;

There whee sud I see, but Watty the laird—
Od wheyte leet on him! I munnet tell!
But on Setterday neist, if I live and be spar'd
I'll wear a reed cwot for Barbary Bell.

April 14, 1802.

Carlisle fair.

Noted pugilists.

THE WORTON WEDDING.

[_]

Tune—“Daintie Davie.”

O, sec a weddin Ive been at!
De'il bin, what cap'rin, feghtin, vap'rin!
Priest and clark, and aw gat drunk—
Rare deins there were there:

The Thuirsby lads they fit the best;
The Worton Weavers drank the meast;
But Brough seyde lairds bang'd aw the rest
For braggin o' their gear,
And singin,—Whurry whum, whuddle whum,
Whulty whalty, wha-wha-wha,
And derry dum, diddle dum,
Derry eyden dee.

Furst helter skelter frae the kurk;
Some off like fire, through dub and mire;
‘De'il tek the hindmost!’ Meer' lad cries—
Suin head owre heels he flew:
‘God speed ye weel!’ the priest rwoar'd out,
‘Or neet we's hae a hearty bout’—
Peer Meer' lad gat a bleaken'd snout—
He'd mickle cause to rue—
It spoil'd his—Whurry whum, &c.

When on the teable furst they set
The butter'd sops, sec greasy chops,
'Tween lug and laggen! oh what fun,
To see them girn and eat!
Then lisping Isbel talk'd sae feyne,
'Twas 'vathly thockin thuth to dine;
‘Theck griveth wark! to eat like thweyne!’
It meade her sick to se'et;
Then we sung—Whurry whum, &c.

Neist stut'rin Cursty, up he ruse,
Wi' a-a-a, and ba-ba-ba;

He'd kiss Jen Jakes, for aw lang seyne,
And fearfu' wark meade he;
But Cursty, souple gammerstang
Ned Wulson brong his lug a whang;
Then owre he flew, the peets amang,
And grean'd as he wad dee;
But some sang—Whurry whum, &c.

Aunt Ester spoil'd the gurdle ceakes,
The speyce left out, was wrang, nae doubt;
Tim Trummel tuik nine cups o' tea,
And fairly capp'd tem aw:
The kiss went roun; but Sally Slee,
When Trummel cleek'd her on his knee,
She dunch'd and punch'd, cried, ‘fuil, let be!’
Then strack him owre the jaw,
And we sung—Whurry whum, &c.

Far maist I leugh at Grizzy Brown,
Frae Lunnon town she'd just come down,
In furbelows, and feyne silk gown,
Oh, man, but she was crouse!
Wi' Dick the footman she wad dance,
And ‘wonder'd people could so prance;’
Then curtchey'd as they dui in France
And pautet like a geuse.
While aw sang—Whurry whum, &c.

Young sour-milk Sawney, on the stuil,
A whornpeype danc'd, and keav'd and pranc'd;
He slipp'd, and brak his left-leg-shin,
And hirpl'd sair about:

Then cocker Wully lap bawk heet,
And in his clogs top teyme did beat;
But Tamer, in her stockin feet,
She bang'd him out and out,
And lilted—Whurry whum, &c.

Now aw began to talk at yence,
O' naigs and kye, and wots and rye,
And laugh'd and jwok'd, and cough'd and smuik'd,
And meade a fearfu' reek;
The furm it brak, and down they fell,
Lang Isaac leam'd auld granny Bell;
They up, and drank het suggar'd yell,
Till monie cudn't speak,
But some sang—whurry whum, &c.

The breyde she kest up her accounts
In Rachel' lap, then poud her cap;
The parson' wig stuid aw ajy;
The clark sang Andrew Car;
Blin Staig the fiddler, gat a whack,
The bacon fleek fell on his back,
And neist his fiddle stick they brak,
'Twas weel it was nee war,
For he sang—Whurry whum, &c.

Now on the midden some were laid,
Aw havey skavey, and kelavey;
The clogger and the teaylear fit,
Peer Snip gat twee black een:
Dick Wawby he began the fray,

But Jemmy Moffat ran away,
And crap owre head amang the hay,
Fwok say nit varra clean;
Then they sang—Whurry whum, &c.

Neist Windy Wull, o' Wample seyde,
He bang'd them aw, beath girt and smaw;
He flang them east, he flang them west,
And bluidy pates they gat;
To him they wer but caff and san;
He split the teable wi' his han,
But in the dust wi' dancin Dan,
They brunt his Sunday hat;
Then aw sang—Whurry whum, &c.

The breyde now thowt it time for bed;
Her stocking doff'd, and flang 't quite soft—
It hat Bess Bleane—Wull Webster blush'd,
And luik'd anudder way:
The lads down frae the loft did steal;
The parish howdey, Greacey Peel,
She happ'd her up, aw wish'd her weel,
Then whop'd to meet neist day,
And sing her—Whurry whum, &c.

The best on't was, the parson swore
His wig was lost, a crown it cost,
He belsh'd and heccupp'd, in and out.
And said it was'nt fair:
Now day-leet it began to peep,
The breydegruim off to bed did creep,

I trow he waddn't mickle sleep,
But—whist! I'll say nee mair,
Nobbet sing—Whurry whum, whuddle whum,
Whulty, whalty, wha-wha-wha,
And derry dum, diddle dum,
Derry eyden dee.

July 10, 1802.

Vastly shocking.

Such greivous.

Swine.

SALLY GRAY.

[_]

Tune—“The mucking o' Geordie's byre.”

Come, Deavie, I'll tell thee a secret,
But tou mun lock't up i' thee breast,
I wadden't for aw Dalston Parish
It com to the ears o' the rest;
Now I'll hod te a bit of a weager,
A groat to thy tuppens I'll lay,
Tou cannot guess whee I's in luive wi',
And nobbet keep off Sally Gray.

There's Cumwhitton, Cumwhinton, Cumranton,
Cumrangen, Cumrew, and Cumcatch,
And mony mair cum's i' the county,
But nin wi' Cumdivock can match;
It's sae neyce to luik owre the black pasture,
Wi' the fells abuin aw, far away—
There is nee sec pleace, nit in England,
For there lives the Sweet Sally Gray!

I was sebenteen last Collop-Monday,
And she's just the varra seame yage;
For ae kiss o' the sweet lips o' Sally,
I'd freely give up a year's wage;
For in lang winter neets when she's spinnin,
And singin about Jemmy Gay,
I keek by the hay stack, and lissen,
For fain wad I see Sally Gray.

Had tou seen her at kurk, man, last Sunday,
Tou coudn't ha'e thought o' the text;
But she sat neist to Tom o' the Lonnin,
Tou may think that meade me quite vext;
Then I pass'd her gawn owre the lang meedow,
Says I, ‘Here's a canny wet day!’
I wad ha'e said mair, but how cou'd e,
When luikin at sweet Sally Gray!

I caw'd to sup cruds wi' Dick Miller,
And hear aw his cracks and his jwokes;
The dumb weyfe was tellin their fortunes,
What! I mud be like other fwokes!
Wi' chawk, on a pair of auld bellows,
Twee letters she meade in her way—
S means Sally, the wide warl owre,
And G stands for nought else but Gray.

O was I but lword o' the manor,
A nabob, or parliament man,
What thousands on thousands I'd gi' her,
Wad she nobbet gi' me her han!

A cwoach and six horses I'd buy her,
And gar fwok stan out o' the way,
Then I'd lowp up behint like a footman—
Oh! the warl for my sweet Sally Gray!

They may brag o' their feyne Carel lasses,
Their feathers, their durtment, and leace;
God help them! peer deeth-luikin bodies,
Widout a bit reed i' their feace!
But Sally's just like allyblaster,
Her cheeks are twee rwose-buds in May—
O lad! I cou'd sit here for ever,
And talk about sweet Sally Gray!

July 24, 1802.

WILL AND KATE.

[_]

Tune—“John Anderson my jo.

Now, Kate, full forty years ha'e flown,
Sin we met on the green;
Frae that to this the saut, saut tear
Has oft stuid i' my een:
For when the bairns were some peet-heet,
Tou kens I leam'd my knee—
Lal todlen things, in want o' bread—
O that went hard wi' me!

Then tou wad cry, ‘Come, Wully, lad,
‘Keep up thy heart—ne'er fear!
‘Our bits o' bairns 'll scraffle up,
‘Sae dry that sworry tear:

‘There's Matthew's be an alderman;
‘A bishop we'll mak Guy;
Lal Ned sal be a clogger;
‘Dick sal work for tee and I.’

Then when our crops were spoil'd wi' rain,
Sir Jwohn mud hev his rent;
What cud we dee? nee geer had we—
Sae I to jail was sent:
'Twas hard to starve i' sec a pleace,
Widout a frien to trust;
But when I thought o' thee and bairns,
My heart was like to brust.

Neist, Etty, God was pleas'd to tek,
What then, we'd seeben still;
But whee kens what may happen—suin
The smaw-pox did for Bill:
I think I see his slee-black een,
Then he wad chirm and talk,
And say, Ded, ded; Mam, mam, and aw,
Lang, lang ere he cud walk.

At Carel, when, for six pound ten,
I selt twee Scotty kye,
They pick'd my pocket i' the thrang,
And de'il a plack had I;
‘Ne'er ack!’ says tou, ‘we'll work for mair,’
‘It's time eneugh to fret;
A pun o' sorrow wunnet pay
‘Ae single ounce o' debt.’

Now, todlen down the hill o' leyfe,
Auld yage has brought content;
And, God be thank'd our bairns are up,
And pay Sir Jwohn his rent:
When, seyde by seyde aw day we sit,
I often think and grieve,
It's hard that deeth sud part auld fwok,
When happy they can leve.

July 29, 1802.

THE BUNDLE OF ODDITIES.

[_]

Tune—“Fie let us a' to the bridal!”

Sit down, and I'll count owre my sweethearts,
For faith a brave number I've had,
Sin I furst went to schuil wi' Dick Railton,
But Dick's in his greave, honest lad!
I mind, when he cross'd the deep watter,
To get me the shilapple's est,
How he fell owrehead, and I skirl'd sae,
Then off we ran heame, sair distrest.

Then there was a bit of a teaylear,
That work'd at our house a heale week,
He was sheap'd aw the warl like a trippet,
But niver a word durst he speak;
I just think I see how he squinted
At me, when we sat down to meat;
Owre went his het keale on his blue breeks,
And de'il a bit Snippy cud eat.

At partin he poud up his spirits,
Says he, ‘Tou hes bodder'd my head,
‘And it sheks yen to rags and to tatters,
‘To sew wi' a lang double thread:’
Then, in meakin a cwoat for my fadder,
(How luive dis the senses deceive!)
Forby usin marrowless buttons,
To th'pocket-whol he stitch'd a sleeve.

The neist was a Whaker, caw'd Jacob,
He turn'd up the wheyte o' his een,
And talk'd about flesh and the spirit—
Thowt I, what can Gravity mean?
In dark winter neets, i' the lonnins,
He'd weade thro' the durt 'buin his knee,
It cuil'd his het heart, silly gander!
And there let him stowter for me.

A lang blue-lipt chap, like a guidepwost,
(Lord help us and keep us frae harm!)
Neist talk'd about car-gear and middens,
And the reet way to manage a farm;
'Twas last Leady Fair I leet on him,
He grummell'd and spent hawf-a-crown—
God bless him! hed he gowd i' gowpens,
I waddn't ha'e hed sec a clown.

But, stop! there was lal wee deef Dicky,
Wad dance for a heale winter neet,
And at me aw the time wad keep glowrin—
Peer man, he was nobbet hawf reet!—
He grew jealous o' reed-headed Ellek,
Wi' a feace like a full harvest muin;
Sae they fit till they just gat eneugh on't,
And I laugh'd at [illeg.]eath when 'twas duin.

There's annudder worth aw put together,
I cud, if I wad, tell his neame;
He gangs past our house to the market,
And monie a time he's set me heame:

O wad he but ax me this question,
‘Will tou be my partner for life?’
I'd answer without ony blushes,
And aye try to mek a guid wife.

August 1, 1802.

LUCKLESS JONATHAN.

[_]

Tune—“Erin go bragh.”

O heale be thy heart! my peer merry auld cronie,
And never may trouble draw tears frae thy e'e;
It's reet, when he can, man sud rise abuin sorrow,
For pity's nit common to peer fwok like me:
When I think how we lap about mountain an' meedow,
Like larks in a mwornin, a young happy pair,
Then I luik at mysel, and I see but a shadow,
That's suffered sae mickle, it cannot beyde mair.

Tou minds, when I buried my honest auld fadder,
O how cud I ever get owre that sad day!—
His last words were, ‘Jonathan, luik to thy mudder,
‘And God 'll reward thee, nae mair cud he say.
My mudder she stuid, and she fain wad ha'e spoken
But tears wadn't let her—O man, it was hard!—
She tuik till her bed, and just thurteen weeks efter,
Was laid down ayont him in Aikton kurk-yard.

My friend, Jemmy Gunston, went owre seas to Inde,
For me, his auld comrade, a venture he'd tak;

I'd screap'd up a lock money—he gat it—but leately
Peer Jemmy was puzzen'd, they say, by a black:
'Twas nit for my money I fretted, but Jemmy,
I'll ne'er forget him, as lang as I've breath;
He said, ‘Don't cry mudder! I'll mek you a leady!’
But sairy auld Tamer! 'twill e'en be her death.

To mek bad far war, then I courted lal Matty,
Her bonnie blue een, how they shot to my heart!
The neet niver com but I went owre to see her,
And when the clock struck we were sworry to part:
An aunt ayont Banton a canny house left her,
(What but health and contentment can money nit buy?)
Wi' laird Hodgson o' Burgh off she canter'd to Gretna,
The varra seame mworn we our fortune sud try.

'Twas nobbet last Cursmas I fain wad be murry,
Sae caw'd in Dick Toppin, Tom Clarke, and Jwohn Howe;
We sung, and we crack'd, but lal thowt ere neist mwornin,
That aw our heale onset wad be in a lowe;
They gat me poud out, and reet weel I remember,
I stamp'd, ay, like mad, when the sad seet I saw,
For that was the pleace my grandfadder was bworn in,
Forbye my twee uncles, my fadder and aw.

Now, widout owther fadder, or mudder, or sweetheart,
A friend, or a shelter to cover my head,
I mazle and wander, nor ken what I's dein,
And wad, (if I nobbet durst) wish I were dead.
O heale be thy heart! my peer auld cronie,
And niver may trouble draw tears frae thy e'e;
It's reet, when he can, man sud rise abuin sorrow;
For pity's nit common to peer fwok like me.

August 1, 1802.

DICK WATTERS.

[_]

Tune—“Crowdy.”

O, Jenny! Jenny! where's tou been?
Thy fadder is just mad at tee;
He seed somebody i' the croft,
And gulders as he'd wurry me.
O monie are a mudder's whopes,
And monie are a mudder's fears,
And monie a bitter, bitter pang,
Beath suin and leate her bosom tears!

We brong thee up, pat thee to schuil,
And clead te weel as peer fwok can;
We larn'd thee beath to dance and read,
But now tou's crazy for a man.
O, monie are, &c.

When tou was young, and at my knee,
I dwoated on thee, day and neet;
But now tou's rakin, rakin still,
And niver, niver i' my seet.
O, monie are, &c.

Tou's proud, and past aw guid adveyce—
Yen mud as weel speak till a stean;
Still, still thy awn way reet or wrang—
Mess, but tou'll rue't when I am geane!
O, monie are, &c.

Dick Watters, I ha'e tel't thee oft,
Ne'er means to be a son o' mine;
He seeks thy ruin, sure as deeth,
Then like Bet Baxter tou may whine.
O, monie are, &c.

Thy fadder's comin frae the croft,
A bonny hunsup faith he'll mek;
Put on thy clogs and auld blue brat—
Heaste, Jenny! heaste! he lifts the sneck!
O, monie are a mudder's whopes,
And monie are a mudder's fears,
And monie a bitter, bitter pang,
Beath suin and leate, her bosom bears!

August 2, 1802.

THE LASS ABUIN THIRTY.

[_]

Tune—“Jockey's Grey Breeks.”

I've wonder'd sin I kent mysel,
What keeps the men swok aw frae me;

I's as guid-like as cousin Tib,
And she can hae her choice o' three:
For me, still moilin by mysel,
Life's just a bitter widout sweets;
The simmer brings nae pleasant days,
And winter tires wi' lang, lang neets.

I had some whopes o' Wully yence,
And Wully was the only yen;
I dreamt and dreamt about him lang,
But whopes and Wully aw are geane:
A kiss he'd hev, I gev him twee,
Reet weel I mind, amang the hay;
Neist time we met, he glump'd and gloom'd,
And turn'd his head anither way.

A feyne pink sash my uncle sent
Frae Lunnon yence; about my waist
I wore't and wore't, but de'il a lad
At me or sash a luik e'er cast:
My yellow gown I thought was sure
To catch some yen at Carel Fair,
But, Oh! fareweel to gown and sash,
I'll niver, niver wear it mair!

The throssle, when cauld winter's geane,
Aye in our worchet welcomes spring,—
It mun be luive, did we but ken,
Gars him aroun his partner sing;—
The cock and hen, the duck and drake,
Nay e'en the smawest birds that flee,

Ilk thing that lives, can get a mate,
Except sec sworry things as me.

I often think how married fwok
Mun lead a sweet and happy life;
The prattlin bairns rin toddlin roun,
And tie the husband to the wife:
Then, oh! what joy when neet draws on!
She meets him gangen frae his wark;
But nin can tell what cheerfu' cracks
The tweesome ha'e lang efter dark.

The wise man lives nit far frae this,
I'll hunt him out suin as I can;
He telt Nan Dobson whee she'd wed,
And I'm as likely, sure, as Nan;
But still, still moilin by mysel,
Life's just a bitter widout sweets:
The summer brings nee pleasant days,
And winter tires wi' lang, lang neets!

August 3, 1802.

THE HAPPY FAMILY.

[_]

Tune—“O'er Bogie.”

The hollow blast blows owre the hill,
And comin down's the sleet;
God help them, widout house or hauld,
This dark and stormy neet!
Come, Jobby, gi'e the fire a prod,
Then steek the entry duir;
It's wise to keep cauld winter out,
When we ha'e't in our pow'r.

Heaste, Jenny! put the bairns to bed,
And mind they say their pray'rs;
Sweet innocents! their heads yence down,
They sleep away their cares!
But gi' them furst a butter-shag,
When young, they munnet want,
Nor ever sal a bairn o' mine,
While I've a bite to grant.

O wife! that weary rheumatism,
E'en gars thee luik but thin;
I mind when tou was fresh and fair,
And fattest o' thy kin;
But yage comes on, dui what we can—
We munnet think it hard;—
A week at Gilsland tou salt try,
Neist summer, if we're spar'd.

Now, seated at my own fire-nuik,
Content as onie king,
For hawf an hour aswore we sleep,
Bess, quit thy wark and sing:
Try that about the beggar lass,
'Twill please thy mudder best,
For she, tou kens, can always feel
For peer fwok when distrest.

Nay! what it's owre! tou cannot sing,
But weel I guess the cause;
Young Wulliam sud ha'e come to neet—
Consider, lass! it snows!

Another neet 'll suin be here,
Sae divvent freet and whine:
Co' when he will, he's welcome still
To onie bairn o' mine.

I'll ne'er forget when we were young,
(Thy mudder kens as weel,)
We met but yence a month, and then
Out she was fworc'd to steal:
The happiest day we e'er had known,
Was when I caw'd her mine,
But monie a thousand happier days
We beath ha'e kent sin-seyne.

August 5, 1802.

PEACE.

[_]

Tune—“There's nae luck about the house.”

Now, God be prais'd! we've peace at last,
For Nichol he's been down,
And sec a durdem, Nichol says,
They've hed in Lunnon town;
The king thowt war wad ruin aw,
And Bonnyprat the seame,
And some say teane, and some say beath,
Ha'e lang been much to bleame.

Now monie a weyfe will weep for joy,
And monie a bairn be fain,
To see the fadders they'd forgot,
Come seafe and sound agean;
And monie a yen will watch in vain,
Wi' painfu' whopes and fears,
And oft the guilty wretches bleame,
That set fwok by the ears.

My Cousin Tommy went to sea,
And lost his left-hand Thum;
He tells sec teales about the feight,
They mek us aw sit dum;
He sys it is reet fearfu wark,
For them that's fworc'd to see't—
The bullets whuzzing past yen's lugs,
And droppen down like sleet.

But Peter, our peer sarvant man,
Was far owre proud to work,—
They said a Captain he sud be,
Alang wi't Duke o' York:
Wi' powder'd heed away he marched,
And gat a wooden leg;
But monie a time he's rued sin seyne,
For now he's fworc'd to beg.

Ay, but our Sally wull be fain,
Sud Lanty but cum back!
Then owre the fire, i' winter neets,
We wull ha'e monie a crack;—
He'll tell us aw the ins and outs,
For he can write and read;
But Sally's heart for sure 'll brek,
If he's amang the dead.

O! but I us'd to wonder much,
And think what thousands fell;
Now what they've aw been feightin for,
The deil a yen can tell;—

But God be prais'd! we've peace at last,
The news hes spread afar;
O may our bairns and bairns' bairns hear
Nae mair o' murderous war.

August 6, 1802.

THE CUMBERLAND FARMER.

I've thought and I've thought, agean and agean,
Sin I was peat-heet, now I see it quite plain,
That farmers are happier far, tho' we're peer,
Than thur they caw gentlefwok, wi'aw their gear;
Then why about riches aye mek sec a fuss,
Gi'e us meat, drink, and cleading, it's plenty for us:
Frae the prince to the ploughman, ilk hes but his day
And when Deeth gi'es a beckon, we aw mun obey.

There's our 'squire, wi' his thousands, jant jantin about,
What! he'd gi'e aw his gear to get shot o' the gout:
Nowther heart-ach nor gout e'er wi' rakin had I,
For labour brings that aw his gold cannot buy:
Then he'll say to me, ‘Jacob, thou whussels and sings,
Mess, lad, but you've ten times mair pleasure than kings;
‘I mean honest simplicity, freedom, and health;
‘Those are dearer to man, than the trappings o' wealth.’

Can ought be mair sweet than, like larks in a mworn
To rise wi' the sunshine, and luik at the cworn?
Tho' in winter, it's true, dull and lang are the neets,
But thro' life fwok mun aye tek the bitters wi' sweets.
When God grants us plenty, and hous'd are the crops,
How we feast on cruds, collops, and guid butter-sops
Let your feyne fwok in town brag o' dainties whee will,
Content and the country for my money still.

They may tell o' their gardens as lang as they like,
Dont the flow'rs bluim as fair under ony thworn dike?
The deil a guid bite they wad e'er get I trow,
Wer't not for the peer man that follows the plough.
If we nobbet get plenty to pay the lairds rent,
And keep the bairns teydey, we aye sleep content;
Then, ye girt little fwok, niver happy in town,
Blush, blush, when ye laugh at a peer country clown.

August 25, 1802.

THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

[_]

Tune—“Ettrick Banks.”

The muin shone breet at nine last neet,
When Jemmy Sharp com owre the muir;
Weel did I ken a lover's fit,
And heard him softly tap the duir:

My fadder started i' the nuik,
‘Rin, Jenny! see what's that,’ he said:
I whisper'd, ‘Jemmy, come to-mworn,’
And then a leame excuse suin meade.

I went to bed, but cudn't sleep,
This luive sae breks a body's rest;
The mwornin dawn'd, then up I gat,
And seegh'd, and aye luik'd tow'rds the west;
But when far off I saw the wood,
Where he unlock'd his heart to me,
I thought o' monie a happy hour,
And then a tear gush'd frae my e'e.

To-neet my fadder's far frae heame,
And wunnet come these three hours yet;
But, O! it pours, and I'd be leath
That Jemmy sud for me get wet!
Yet, if he dis, guid heame-brew'd yell
Will warm his chearfu' honest heart;
Wi' him, my varra life o' life!
I's fain to meet, but leath to part.

August 28, 1802.

AULD MARGET.

Auld Marget in the fauld she sits,
And spins, and sings, and smuiks by fits,
And cries as she had lost her wits—
‘O this weary, weary warl!’

Yence Marget was as lish a lass
As e'er in summer trod the grass;
But fearfu' changes come to pass
In this weary, weary warl!

Then, at a murry-neet or fair,
Her beauty meade the young fwok stare;
Now wrinkled is that feace wi' care—
O this weary, weary warl!

Yence Marget she hed dowters twee,
And bonnier lasses cudna be;
But nowther kith nor kin has she—
O this weary, weary warl!

The eldest, wi' a soldier gay,
Ran frae her heame, ae luckless day,
And e'en lies buried far away—
O this weary, weary warl!

The youngest she did nought but whine
And for the lads wad fret and pine,
Till hurried off by a decline—
O this weary, weary warl!

Auld Andrew toild reet sair for bread—
Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead,
Nae wonder that turn'd Marget's head—
O this weary, weary warl!

Peer Marget! oft I pity thee,
Wi' care-worn cheek and hollow e'e,
Bowed down by yage and poverty—
O this weary, weary warl!

August 28, 1802.

FIRST LUIVE.

[_]

Tune—“Cold and raw.”

It's just three weeks sin Carel fair,
This sixteenth o' September;
There the furst loff of a sweetheart I gat,
Sae that day I'll remember.
This luive meks yen stupid—ever sin seyne
I's thinkin and thinkin o' Wully:
I dung owre the knop, and scawder'd my fit,
And cut aw my thoum wi' the gully.

O, how he danc'd! and, O how he talk'd!
For my life I cannot forget him;
He wad hev a kiss—I gev him a slap—
But if he were here I'd let him.
Says he, ‘Mally Maudlin, my heart is thine!’
And he brong sec a seegh, I believ'd him:
Thought I, Wully Wintrep, thou's welcome to mine,
But my head I hung down to deceive him.

Twee yards o' reed ribbon to wear for his seake,
Forby ledder mittens he bought me;
But when we were thinkin o' nought but luive,
My titty, deil bin! come and sought me:
The deuce tek aw clashes off she ran heame,
And e'en telt my tarn'd auld mudder;
There's sec a te-dui—but let them fratch on—
Miss him, I'll ne'er get see annudder!

Neist Sunday, God wullin! we promised to meet,
I'll get frae our tweesome a baitin;
But a lee mun patch up, be't rang or be't reet.
For Wully he sha'not stan waitin:
The days they seem lang, and lang are the neets,
And, waes me! this is but Monday!
I seegh, and I think, and I say to mysel,
O that to-morrow were Sunday!

September 16, 1802.

LAL STEPHEN.

[_]

Tune—“Hallow Fair.”

Lal Stephen was bworn at Kurkbanton,
Just five feet three inches was he;
But at plowing, or mowing, or shearin,
His match you but seldom cud see;
Then at dancin, O he was a capper!
He'd shuffle and lowp till he sweat;
And for singin he ne'er hed a marrow,
I just think I hear his voice yet.

And then wid a sleate and a pencil,
He capp'd aw our larned young lairds;
And played on twee jew-trumps together,
And aye come off winner at cards:
At huntin a brock or an otter,
At trackin a foumert or hare,
At pittin a cock or at shootin,
Nae lad cud wi' Stephen compare.

And then he wad feight like a fury,
And count fast as hops aw the stars,
And read aw the news i' the paper,
And talk about weddins and wars;
And then he wad drink like a Briton,
And spend the last penny he had,
And aw the peer lasses about him,
For Stephen were runnin stark mad.

Our Jenny she writ him a letter,
And monie a feyne thing she said—
But my fadder he just gat a gliff on't,
And faith a rare durdem he meade;
Then Debby, that leev'd at Drumleenin,
She wad hev him aw till hersel,
For ae neet when he stuil owre to see her,
Wi' sugar she sweetened his keale.

Then Judy she darned aw his stockins,
And Sally she meade him a sark,
And Lizzy, the laird's youngest dowter,
Kens weel whe she met efter dark;
Aunt Ann, o' the wrang seyde o' fifty,
E'en thowt him the flower o' the flock—
Nay, to count yen by yen aw his sweethearts,
Wad tek a full hour by the clock.

O! but I was vext to hear tell on't,
When Nichol the teydens he brought,
That Stephen was geane for a soldier—
Our Jenny she gowled, ay, like ought:

Sin' that we've nae spwort efter supper,
We nowther get sang or a crack;
Our lasses sit beytin their fingers,
Aw wishin for Stephen seafe back.

November 15, 1802.

THE BASHFU' WOOER.

[_]

Tune—“Dainty Davie.”

Whene'er ye come to woo me, Tom,
Dnnnet at the window tap,
Or cough, or hem, or gi'e a clap,
To let my fadder hear, man;
He's auld and fealed, and wants his sleep,
Sae by the hallan softly creep,
Ye need nae watch, and glower, and peep,
I'll meet ye, niver fear, man:
If a lassie ye wad win,
Be chearfu' iver, bashfu' niver;
Ilka Jock may get a Jen,
If he hes sense to try, man.

Whene'er we at the market meet,
Dunnet luik like yen hawf daft,
O talk about the cauld and heat,
As ye were weather-wise, man;
Haud up yer head, and bauldly speak,
And keep the blushes frae yer cheek,
For he whee hes his teale to seek,
We lasses aw despise, man:
If a lassie, &c.

I met ye leately, aw yer leane,
Ye seemed like yen stown frae the dead,
Yer teeth e'en chattered i' yer head,
But ne'er a word o' luive, man;
I spak, ye luik'd annudder way,
Then trimmel'd as ye'd got a flay,
And owre yer shou'der cried ‘guid day,’
Nor yence to win me, struive, man:
If a lassie, &c.

My aunty left me threesewore pun,
But De'il a ven of aw the men,
Till then, did bare-legg'd Elcy ken,
Or care a strae for me, man;
Now, tiggin at me suin and late,
They're cleekin but the yellow bait;
Yet, mind me, Tom, I needn't wait,
When I ha'e choice o' three, man:
If a lassie, &c.

There lives a lad owre yonder muir,
He hes nae fau't but yen—he's puir;
Whene'er we meet, wi' kisses sweet,
He's like to be my deeth, man;
And there's a lad ahint yon trees,
Wad weade for me abuin the knees;
Sae tell yer mind, or, if ye please,
Nae langer fash us beath, man:
If a lassie, &c.

January 5, 1803.

THE AUNTY.

We've roughness amang hands, we've kye i' the byre,
Come live wi' us, lassie, it's aw I desire;
I'll lig i' the loft, and gi'e my bed to thee,
Nor sal ought else be wantin that guidness can gi'e:
Sin the las o' thy kin, thy peer aunty, we've lost,
Thou frets aw the day, and e'en luiks like a ghost.

I mind when she sat i' the nuik at her wheel,
How she'd tweyne the slow thread, and aye counsel us weel,
Then oft whisper me, ‘Thou wad mek a top wife;’
‘And pray God to see thee weel sattl'd in life;’
Then what brave funny teales she cud tell the neet through,
And bless the peer fwok, if the stormy win blew.

That time when we saunter'd owre leate at the town,
'Twas the day, I weel mind, when tou gat thy chintz gown,
For the watters were up, and pick dark was the neet,
And she lissen'd and cry'd, and thought aw wasn't reet;
But, Oh! when you met, what a luik did she give!—
I can niver forget her as lang as I live.

How I like thee, dear lassie' thou's oft heard me tell;
Nay, I like thee far better than I like mysel;
And when sorrow forsakes thee, to kurk we'll een gang,
But tou munnet sit pinin thy leane aw day lang;

Come owre the geate, lassie, my titty sal be
A companion to her that's aye dearest to me.

January 6, 1803.

THE RURAL VISIT.

[_]

Tune—“The sutor's dowter.”

I went to see young Susy,
Bonny, teydy, blithe was she;
I slyly kiss'd her cherry lips,
And mark'd the magic o' her e'e,
That in my fancy rais'd desire;
But purer passion never burn'd
In onie lover's bosom;
And aye may sorrow wet his cheek,
Who'd crush sae rare a blossom!

And now the rwosie lassie
The cleath she laid, and teable spread
Wi' monie a dainty quickly,
And monie a welcome thing she said;
But nit sae sweet the honey-cwom,
As Susy's temptin cherry lips,
That fir'd at once my bosom:
O may no rude destroyer dare
To crop sae fair a blossom!

And now, to greet the stranger,
The wearied auld fwok dander'd heame,

And village news recounted:
The guid man bade his sonsy deame
Trim up the fire and mek the tea;
The gurdle-cakes as Susy turn'd,
I watch'd her heaving bosom,
And pleasure beam'd in ilka feace,
To see sae sweet a blossom.

And now, to please the auld fwok,
The sang and teale went gaily round,
Till neet had drawn her curtain
Some full five hours; I ruse, and fan
Young Susy half consenting
To set me out a mile a-geate;
I held her to my bosom,
And, parting, kiss'd, and pray'd kind Heav'n
To guard this beauteous blossom.

January 8, 1803.

JENNY'S COMPLAINT.

[_]

Tune—“Nancy's to the greenwood gane.”

O, lass! I've fearfu' news to tell!
What thinks te's come owre Jemmy?
The sowdgers hev e'en pick'd him up,
And sent him far, far, frae me:
To Carel he set off wi' wheat;
Them ill reed-cwoated fellows
Suin wil'd him in—then meade him drunk:
He'd better geane to th'gallows.

The varra seet o' his cockade
It set us aw a-crying;
For me, I fairly fainted tweyce,
Tou may think that was tryin:
My fadder wad ha'e paid the smart,
And show'd a gowden guinea,
But, lack-a-day! he'd kiss'd the buik,
And that 'll e'en kill Jenny.

When Nichol tells about the wars,
It's war than deeth to hear him;
I oft steal out, to hide my tears,
And cannot, cannot bear him;
For aye he jeybes, and cracks his jwokes,
And bids me nit forseake him;
A brigadier, or grandidier,
He says, they're sure to meake him.

If owre the stibble fields I gang,
I think I see him ploughin,
And ev'ry bit o' bread I eat,
It seems o' Jemmy's sowing:
He led the varra cwoals we burn,
And when the fire I's leetin,
To think the peats were in his hands,
It sets my heart a beatin.

What can I de? I nought can de,
But whinge and think about him:
For three lang years he follow'd me,
Now I mun live widout him?
Brek heart, at yence, and then it's owre!
Life's nought widout yen's dearie.
I'll suin lig in my cauld, cauld grave,
For, oh! of life I'm weary!

April 19, 1803.

MATTHEW MACREE.

[_]

Tune—“The wee pickle tow.”

Sin I furst work'd a sampleth at Biddy Forsyth's,
I ne'er saw the marrow o' Matthew Macree;
For down his braid back hing his lang yallow locks,
And he hes a cast wi' his bonny grey e'e;
Then he meks us aw laugh, on the stuil when he stands,
And acts like the players, and gangs wi' his hands,

And talks sec hard words as nit yen understands—
O, what a top scholar is Matthew Macree!

'Twas nobbet last Easter his cock wan the main,
I stuid i' the ring rejoicin to see;
The bairns they aw shouted, the lasses were fain,
And the lads o' their shou'ders bore Matthew Macree:
Then at lowpin he'll gang a full yard owre them aw,
And at rustlin, whilk o' them dare try him a faw?
And whee is't that aye carries off the fit-baw?
But the King of aw Cumberland, Mathew Macree

That time when he fit full two hours at the fair,
And lang Jemmy Smith gat a famish black e'e;
Peer Jemmy I yence thought wad never paw mair,
And I was reet sworry for Matthew Macree:
Then he wad shek the bull-ring, and brag the heale town,
And to feight, rin, or russle, he put down a crown;
Saint Gworge, the girt champion, o' fame and renown,
Was nobbet a waffler to Matthew Macree.

On Sundays, in bonny wheyte weastcoat when dress'd,
He sings i' the kurk, what a topper is he!
I hear his strang voice far abuin aw the rest,
And my heart still beats time to Matthew Macree.

Then his feyne eight-page ditties, and garlands sae sweet,
They mek us aw merry the lang winter neet,
But, when he's nit amang us, we never seem reet,
Sae fond are the lasses o' Matthew Macree.

My fadder he left me a house on the hill,
And I's get a bit lan sud my aunty dee,
Then I'll wed bonny Matthew whenever he will,
For gear is but trash widout Matthew Macree:
We'll try to shew girt fwok content in a cot,
And when in our last heame together we've got,
May our bairns and their neybors oft point to the spot
Where lig honest Matthew and Jenny Macree,

June 12, 1803.

CALEP CROSBY.

[_]

Tune—“Auld Rob Morris.”

O wife! I wad fain see our Sukey dui reet,
But she's out wi' the fellows, aye neet efter neet,
Them that's fash'd wi' nae bairns iver happy mun be,
For we've yen, and she's maister o' baith thee & me.

I can't for the life o' me get her to wark,
Nor aw the lang Sunday to ga near a kurk,
Nor frae week en to week en a chapter to read,
For the Bible ligs stoury abuin the duir head.

She yence cud ha'e scrammel'd and writ her awn neame,
And, Sunday and warday, was teydey at heame
Now, to see her whol'd stockins, her brat and her gown,
She's a shem and a byzen to aw the heale town.

O wad she be guided, and stick till her wheel,
There's nin kens how fain I wad see her dui weel;
For she's thy varra picture, and aw that we have,
But thur neets' warks 'll bring my grey hairs to the grave.

'Twas nobbet last week, in a passion I flew,
And gev her a trounce—bur sair did I rue;
Then I bid her e'en pack up her duds, and we'd part,
For to streyke my ain bairn it just breks my auld heart.

There's that ill Calep Crosby, he's never away,
He's gleymin and watchin her beath neet and day;
Sud he come in my clutches a ken-guid he's get,
For, tho' auld, leame, and feeble, I'll maister him yet

I'll away owre to Whitten a press-gang to seek,
And they's lig him in irons, ay this varra week;
On his back he may tie her, a donnet is she,
And sha'not be maister o' beath thee and me!

July 2, 1803.

Whitehaven.

FECKLESS WULLY.

Wee Wully wuns on yonder brow,
And Wully he hes dowters twee;
But nought cud feckless Wully dui,
To get them sweethearts weel to see.

For Meg she luik'd baith reet and left,
Her een they bwor'd a body thro';
And Jen was deef, and dun, and daft,
And de'il a yen com there to woo.

The neybor's wink'd, the neybors jeer'd,
The neybors flyr'd at them in scworn,
And monie a wicked trick they play'd
Peer Meg and Jen, beath neet and mworn.

As Wully went ae day to wark,
He kick'd a summet wid his shoe;
And Wully glowr'd, and Wully girn'd,
‘Guide us!’ quoth he, ‘what ha'e we now?’

And Wully cunn'd owre six scwore pun,
And back he ran wi' nimmle heel,
And aye owre his shou'der glym'd,
And thought he'd dealins wi' the de'il.

And Wully's bought a reet snug house,
And Wully's bought a bit o' lan;
And Meg and Jen are trig and crouse,
Sin he the yellow pwokie fan.

Nae mair the neybors wink and jeer,
But aw shek hans wi' them, I trow;
And ilk yen talks o' William's gear,
For Wully's chang'd to William now.

And some come east, and some come west,
And some come monie a mile to woo;
And Meg luiks straight, and Jen has sense,
And we aw see what gear 'll dui.

Ye rich fwok aw, ye'll aye dui reet;
Ye peer fwok aw, ye'll aye dui wrang;
Let wise men aw say what they will,
It's money meks the meer to gang.

July 3rd, 1803.

THE DELIGHTS OF LOVE.

[_]

Tune—“Farewell to Bamf.

The summer was out o' seet,
His partin beams danc'd on the fluid:
The fisher watch'd the silver fry,
As i' the stream he bending stuid;

The blackburd mourn'd the clowsin day,
And caw'd his partner to his nest;
When I up Caldew tuik my way,
And met the lass I aye like best.

I gaz'd upon her matchless feace,
That fairer than a lily seem'd;
I mark'd the magic o' her e'e,
That wi' luive's powerfu' leetnin beam'd;
I saw her cheek of breetest red,
That, blushing, telt a lover's pain,
And seiz'd a kiss, if 'twas a crime,
Ye Gods! oft may I sin again!

Fast flew the hours—now ruse the muin,
And telt us it was time to part;
I set her to her mudder's duir,
She whisper'd low, ‘Thou's stown my heart!’
I thro' the lattice stule a glance,
And heard her angry mudder chide:
Then thought of awa parents cares,
As frae her cottage heame I hied.

I've teasted pleasures dearly bought,
And read mankind in monie a page:
But woman, woman, sweetens life,
Frae giddy youth to feeble age.
Ye fuils, aye court coy Fortune's smile;
Ye rakes, in quest of pleasure rove:
Ye drunkards, drown each sense in wine;
Be mine the dear delights of love!

July 8, 1803.

RUTH.

[_]

Tune—“My auld guidman.”

The crackets were chirping on the hearth;
Our wife reel'd gairn, and sat i'th' nuik;
I tuik a whiff o' my cutty black peype;
Lal Dick by fire-leet plied his buik;
The youngermer bairns at heeds and cross,
Sat laikin merrily in a row;
The wind clash'd tui the entry duir,
And down the chimney fell the snow.

‘O! says our weyfe, then fetch'd a seegh,
‘Guidman, we sud reet thankfu' be!
‘How monie a scwore this angry neet,
‘Wad like to sit wi' tee and me;
‘Sae wad our dowter Ruth, I trow,
‘A silly peer luckless bairn she's been;
‘For her, nae day gangs owre my head,
‘But painfu' tears gush frae my een.

‘She aye was honest and weel to see,
‘I sayt—she hed nae faut but yen—
‘She off wid a taistrel sowdger lad,
‘And niver yence sent the scribe of a pen:
‘O man! we sud forget and forgive;
‘The brute beast for its awn 'll feel;
‘Were mine awt' warl, ay ten times mair,
‘I'd gi'e't to see her alive and weel.

‘Whea kens, peer thing! what she's endur'd,
‘Sin that sad hour she left her heame;

‘Thou turn'd her out; it hurt me sair,
‘And aw our neibors cried out shem.’
Here stopped our weyfe, and shuik her head,
While tears ran tricklin down her cheek;
I fan the truth o' what she said,
But deil a word cud owther speak.

Just then the latch was lifted up;
‘Ay, that's a boggle,!’ cried out lal Ann;
In bounc'd my bairn, and, at my feet,
Cried, ‘O, forgi'e me!—here's my guidman!’
Our dame she shriek'd, and dropp'd her wark;
I bless'd them beath—the bairns were fain;
We talk'd the stormy neet away,
And, God be prais'd, we've met again!

July 24, 1803.

THE PECK O' PUNCH.

'Twas Rob and Jock, and Hal and Jack,
And Tom and Ned forby,
Wi' Archy drank a Peck o' Punch,
Ae neet when they were dry;
And aye they jwok'd, and laugh'd, and smuik'd,
And sang wi' heartfelt glee,
“To-night were yen, to-morrow geane,
“Syne let us merry be!”

Saint Mary's muckle clock bumm'd eight,
When each popp'd in his head;

But ere they rose, they'd fairly drank
The sheame-feac'd muin to bed;
And aye they jwok'd, &c.

To monie a bonnie Carel lass,
The fairest o' the town,
And monie a manly British chiel,
The noggin glass went roun;
And aye they jwok'd, &c.

A neybor's fau'ts they ne'er turn'd owre,
Nor yence conceal'd their ain—
Had Care keak'd in, wi' wae-worn feace,
They'd kick'd him out again;
For aye they jwok'd, &c.

The daily toil, the hunter's spoil,
The faithless foreign pow'rs,
The Consul's fate, his o'ergrown state,
By turns beguil'd the hours;
And aye they laugh'd, &c.

Let others cringe, and bow the head,
A purse-proud sumph to please;
Fate, grant to me aye liberty
To mix with souls like these;
Then oft we'll jwoke, and laugh, and smuik,
And sing wi' heartfelt glee,
“To-night we're yen, to-morrow geane,
“Syne let us merry be!”

November 3, 1803.

THE THUIRSBY WITCH.

[_]

Tune—“Oer Bogie.”

There's Harraby and Tarraby,
And Wigganby beseyde;
There's Oughterby and Souterby,
And bys beath far and weyde;—
Of strappin, sonsy, rwosy queens,
They aw may brag a few;
But Thuirsby for a bonny lass
Ban cap them aw I trow.

Her mudder sells a swope o' drink,
It is beath stout and brown,
And Etty is the hinny fowt
Of aw the country roun;
Frae east and west, beath rich and peer,
A-horse, a-fit, caw in—
For whee can pass sae rare a lass,
He's owther daft or blin.

Her een are leyke twee cursmass sleas,
But tweyce as breet and clear;
Nae rwose cud iver match her feace,
That yet grew on a breer;
At toun, kurk, market, dance or fair,
She meks their hearts aw stoun,
And conquers mair than Bonyprat,
Whene'er she keeks aroun.

Oft graith'd in aw their kurk-gawn gear,
Leyke nowble lwords at cwort,
Our lads slink in, and gaze and grin,
Nor heed their Sunday spwort;
If stranger leets, her een he meets,
And fins he can't tell how;
To touch the glass her hand has touch'd,
It sets him in a lowe.

Yence Thuirsby lads were—whea but we,
And cud ha'e bang'd the lave,
But now they hing their lugs, and luik
Leyke fwok stown frae the grave;
And what they ail in head or heart
Nae potticary knows—
The little glancin Thuirsby Witch,
She is the varra cause.

Of Black-eyed Susan, Mary Scott,
The lass o' Patie's Mill,
Of Barbara Allan, Sally Gray,
The Lass o' Richmond-hill,
Of Nancy Dawson, Molly Mog,
Though thousands sing wi' glee,
This village beauty, out and out,
She bangs them aw to see.

November 10, 1803.

Names of Cumberland Villages.

DICKY GLENDININ.

[_]

Tune—“As Patie came up frae the glen.”

My fadder was down at the mill,
My mudder was out wid her spinnin,

When, whea sud slip whietly in,
But canny lal Dicky Glendinin;
He poud off his muckle top cwoat,
And drew in a stuil by the hallen,
Then fworc'd me to sit on his knee,
And suin a sad teale began tellin

“O, Jenny! O Jenny!” says he,
“My leykin for tee I can't smudder;
It meade me as sick as a peet,
To think tou'd teane up wid anudder:
What! there's been a bonny te-dui
About a lang hulk of a miller!
He's weyde-gobb'd and ill-natur'd tui,
But ae word says aw—he hes siller.

“The lasses aye flyre and mak gam,
And ax me, what's got Jenny Forster?
The lads, when we meet i' the lwones,
Cry out, ‘Sairy Dick! what, tou's lost her!’
When Rowley, the miller, last neet
I met, as we come in frae sheerin,
Had the sickle but been our lang gun,
I'd shot him, ay, dead as a herrin.

“O! hes te forgotten the time,
Tou said tou leyk'd me best of onie?
And hes te forgotten the teyme,
Tou said luive was better than money?
And hes te forgotten the teyme,
I mark'd our twea neames on a shillin?

Tou promised to wear't neist thy heart,
And then to wed me tou was willin.

“The furst teyme you're cried i' the kurk,
I'll step my ways up and forbid it;
When cauld i' my coffin, they'll say,
'Twas e'en Jenny Foster that did it!
My ghost, the lang neet, aw in wheyte,
Will shek thee, and gar thee aw shiver—
O the tears how they hop owre my cheeks,
To think I sud lwose thee for ever!”

“O, Dicky! O, Dicky!” says I,
“I nowther heed house, lan, or siller;
Tou's twenty teymes dearer to me,
Than onie lang hulk of a miller!”
A match we struck up in a crack,
And Dicky's got sticks and got beddin;
My fadder and mudder are fain—
Then hey for a guid merry weddin!

December 10th, 1803

THE INVASION.

[_]

Tune—“Lingo's Wedding.”

How fens te, Dick? There's fearfu' news—
Udsbreed! the French are comin!
There's nought at Carel but parades,
And sec a drum, drum, drummin:
The volunteers and brigadiers
Are aw just mad to meet them;

And England e'en mun hing her head,
If Britons dunnet beat them.

Then there's the Rangers aw in green,
Commanded by brave Howard—
Of aw his noble kin, nit yen
Was iver caw'd a coward;—
They'll pop the Frenchmen off leyke steyfe,
If e'er they meet, I'll bail them:
Ti' sec true Britons at their heeds,
True courage cannot fail them.

Thur French are dispert wicked chiels,
If it be true they tell us,
For where they've been, fwok curse the day
They e'er saw sec sad fellows;
They plant the tree o' liberty,
And hirlings dance around it;
But millions water't wi' their tears,
And bid the de'il confound it.

Our parson says, “We bang'd them still,
And bang them still we mun, man;
For he desarves a coward's deeth,
That frae them e'er wad run, man:
What feckless courts and worn-out states,
They've conquered just by knavery;
But every volunteer will pruive,
A Briton kens nae slavery.”

I've thowt and thowt, sin I kent ought,
Content's the greatest blissin,—

And he that seizes my bit lan
Desarves a guid soun drissin.
Auld England, though we count thy fau'ts,
For iver we'll defend thee!
To foreign tyrants sud we bow,—
They'll mar, but niver mend thee!

December 20th, 1803.

GRIZZY.

[_]

Tune—“My auld guidman.”

The witch weyfe begg'd in our backseyde,
But went unsarra'd away i'th' pet;
Our Ester kurn'd at e'er she kurn'd,
But Butter the deuce a crum cou'd get.
The pez-stack fell, and crush'd my fadder;
My mudder cowp'd owre, and leam'd hersel
Neist, war and war, what dud we see,
But Jenny' pet lam drown'd i' the well.

Auld Grizzy the witch, as some fwok say,
Meks paddock-rud ointment for sair een,
And cures the tuith-wark wi' a charm,
Of hard words neane ken what they mean.
She milks the kye, the urchin's bleam'd;
She bleets the cworn wi' her bad e'e;
When cross'd by lasses, they pruive wi' bairn,
And if she grummel, they're seafe o' twee.

I yence sweethearted Madge o'th' Mill,
And whea sae thick as she and I;

Auld Whang he promis'd tweescore pun,
A weel-theek'd house, and bit of a stye;
Ae neet we met at our croft head,
But Grizzy was daund'ring aw her leane,
And scarce a week o' days were owre,
Till Madge to kurk Wull Weer had teane.

When Deef Dick Maudlin lost his weyfe,
And said 'twas weel it was nae war;
When Jerry' black filly pick'd the fwoal,
And hawf-blin Calep fell owre the scar;
When Manten Marget brunt her rock;
When smuggler Mat was lost i' the snaw;
When wheezlin Wully was set i' the stocks;
Auld Grizzy aye gat the weyte of aw.

Her feace is like the stump of a yek;
She stoops and stowters, sheks and walks;
Bleer-e'ed and tuithless, wi' a beard;
She coughs and granes, and mumps and talks;
She lives in a shill-house, burns dried sticks,
And there hes dealins wi' the de'il.
O war she whietly in her grave,
For where she bides few can dui weel.

February 3, 1804.

GWORDIE GILL.

[_]

Tune—“Andrew wi' his cutty gun.”

Of aw the lads I see or ken,
There's yen I like abuin the rest;

He's neycer in his war day duds,
Than others donn'd in aw their best.
A bodys' heart's a body's awn,
And they may gi'e't to whea they will;
Had I got ten where I ha'e neane,
I'd gi'e them aw to Gwordie Gill.

Whea was't that brak our landlword' garth,
For me, when bairns we went to schuil?
Whea was't durst venture mid-thie deep,
To get my clog out o' the puil?
And when the filly flang me off,
And lang and lang I laid sae ill,
Whea was't gowl'd owre me day and neet,
And wish'd me weel? 'Twas Gwordie Gill.

Oft mounted on his lang-tail'd naig,
Wi' seyne new buits up till his knee,
The laird's daft son leets i' the faul,
And keaves as he wad wurry me;
Tho' fadder, mudder, uncle tui.
To wed this maz'lin teaze me still,
I hear of aw his lan and brass,
But oft steal out to Gwordie Gill.

Frae Carel cousin Fanny com,
And brong her whey-feac'd sweetheart down,
Wi' sark-neck stuck abuin his lugs,
A peer clipt dimment frae the town:
He minc'd and talk'd, and skipp'd and walk'd,
But tir'd a gang in up the hill,

And luik'd as pale as onie corp,
Compar'd to rwosie Gwordie Gill.

My Gwordie's whussle weel I ken,
Lang ere we meet, the darkest neet;
And when he lilts and sings skewball,
Nit playhouse music's hawf sae sweet.
A body's heart's a body's awn,
And they may gi'e't to whea they will;
I yence had yen, now I ha'e neane,
For it belangs to Gwordie Gill.

February 10, 1804.

A WEYFE FOR WULLY MILLER.

[_]

Tune—“Maggy Lawder.”

Hout, Wully, lad! cock up thy head,
Nor fash thysel about her;
Nought comes o' nought, sae tek nae thought,
Tou's better far widout her.
Peer man! her fadder weel we ken,
He's but an ass-buird meaker;
But she's town-bred, and, silly gowk!
Thou'd gi'e thy teeth to teake her.

I've seen thee flyre and jwoke like mad,
At aw our country fellows;
But now thou seeghs and luiks like death,
Or yen gawn to the gallows;

Thou's sous'd owre head and ears i' luive—
Nay, nobbet luik at Cwoley!
He wags his tail, as if to say,
‘Wey, what's the matter, Wully?’

There's lads but few in our town,
And lasses wanters plenty,
And he that fain wad wed a weyfe
May weale yen out o' twenty:—
There's Tamer Toppin, Aggy Sharp,
And clogger Wilkin' Tibby;
There's Greacy Gurvin, Matty Meer,
And Thingumbob' lal Debby:

Then there's Wully Guffy' dowter Nan
At thee aye keeks and glances,
For tou's the apple o' their een
At cairdin neets and dances;
My titty, tui, ae neet asleep,
Cried, ‘Canny Wully Miller!’
I poud her hair, she blush'd rwose reed,
Sae gang thy ways een till her.

Tell mudder aw the news tou kens;
To fadder talk o'th' weather;
Then lilt tem up a sang or twea,
To please tem aw together;
She'll set thee out, then speak thy mind—
She'll suit thee till a shevin;
But town-bred deames to sec as we,
Are seldom worth the hevin.

February 28, 1804.

THE TWEE AULD MEN.

MATTHEW.
What, Gabriel! come swat thy ways down on the Sattle,
I lang for a bit of a crack;
Thy granson I sent owre the geate for some 'bacco—
The varment 'll niver come back!—
Nay, keep on thy hat: we heed nought about manners:
What news about your en' o' the town?
They say the king's badly; thur times gang but oddly;
The warl just seems turn'd upseyde down;
Ay, what alterations, and out-o'-way fashions,
Sin lal todlin callans were we!

GABRIEL.
O, Matthew! they've cutten the yeks and the eshes,
That grew owre anent the kurk waw!
How oft dud we lake just like wild things amang them;
But suin we, like them, mun lig low!
The schuil-house is fawn, where we beath larn'd our letters.
For tee, tou cud figure and write;
I mind what a monstrous hard task and a lickin
Tou gat when tou fit wi' Tom Wheyte;
Wherever yen ranges, the chops and the changes
Oft mek a tear gush frae my e'e.

MATTHEW.
Then, Gabey, thou minds when we brak Dinah' worchet—
Stown apples bairns aw think are sweet—
Deuce tek this bad 'bacco! de'il bin, it 'll draw nin,
Yen mud as weel smuik a wet peat!—
What, yonder's Rob Donaldson got a lang letter,
And some say it talks of a peace;
But that 'll nit happen i' thy time or my time,
Widout we can get a new lease.
Here, lass! bring some yell in, drinkin's nae failin,
Let's moisten our clay ere we dee.

GABRIEL.
Ay, Matt! what they buried auld Glaister last Monday—
Peer Jwosep! we went to ae schuil!—
He married deef Marget, the Gammelsby beauty,
A silly proud cat-witted fuil:
Ae son pruiv'd a taistrel, and brak up at Lunnon,
But Jwosep he gat aw to pay;
Anudder they said, turn'd out nit quite owre honest,
Sae gat off to Botany Bay.—
O, man! this frost pinches, and kills fwok by inches,
It's een meade a cripple o' me!

MATTHEW.
Ay, Gabey! it's lang sin thou married Ann Lawson;
Tou minds when we off like the win
Frae kurk to the yell-house?—What, I was weel mounted,
And left them aw twea mile behin.
Then there was Young Gabey, our weyfe was his goddy,
A brave murry cursnin we had;
We kent nought o' tea, or sec puzzen i' thar days,
But drank tweyce-brew'd yell till hawf mad:
There was Kitt and Ned Neilson, and Dan and Wat Wilson,
They've aw geane and left thee and me.

GABRIEL.
There's ae thing, guid Matthew, I've lang thought of axin,
And that tou mun grant if tou can;
When I's stiff and cauld, see me decently coffin'd,
And laid down aseyde my weyfe Ann.
My peer granson Jwosep, he thrives and he grows up,
O luik till him when I's low laid!
Mind he gaes to the kurk, and sticks weel till his larnin,
And get him a bit of a trade;
The neybors will bless thee, it wunnet distress thee,
And happy auld Gabriel can dee.

MATTHEW.
Keep up thy heart, Gabey! nae guid comes o' grievin;
Aye laugh at the warl, if thou'd thrive;
I've buried three weyves, and mun e'en hev anudder,
I's quite young and rash—eighty-five;
Then sec a hard drinker, a wustler, a feghter,
A cocker I've been i' my time;
And as for a darrak, in barn or in meadow,
Whea match'd me, when just i' my prime?
I ne'er thought o' whinin, or gowlin or pinin—
We're wise when we chearfu' can be.

GABRIEL.
Nay but, neighbour Matthew, when ninety lang winters
Ha'e bent you, and powder'd the pow,
We grane i'th' nuik, wi' few friens or acquaintance,
And just fin we cannot tell how:
For me, l's sair fash'd wi' a cough and the gravel,
And ae single tuith i' my head;
Then, sin my peer bairn they tuik off for a sowdger,
I've wish'd I were nobbet weel dead;—
The house uncle ga'e me, the squire's e'en ta'en frae me;
There's nought but the warkhouse for me!

MATTHEW.
My fadder, God rust him! wi'pinchin and pleenin,
Screap'd up aw the gear he cud get;
I've been a sad deevil, and spent gowd i' gowpens,
But still ha'e a hantle left yet:
Come gi'es thy hand, Gabey! tou's welcome as may be,
My purse and my ambrie to share;
We'll talk of auld times,—eat, drink, and be merry:
Thy granson sall get what we spare:—
Then leet thy pipe, Gabey! tou's welcome as may be,
They's ne'er mek a beggar o' thee!

March 14, 1804.

UNCLE WULLY.

[_]

Tune—“Woo'd and married an' a'.”

‘It's a comical warl this we live in,’
Says Calep, and Calep says reet;
For Matty, that's got aw the money,
Has e'en geane and wedded deyl'd Peat.
He's nobbet a heather-feac'd maz'lin,
And disn't ken whisky frae yell;
But her, weel brong up and a scholar,
Has just meade a fuil o' hersel!
De'il bin but she'd little to de,
To tek sec a hawflin as he,
That nowther kens A, B, nor C!—
Nay, what sec a pair can ne'er 'gree!

He ne'er hes a teale widout laitin,
And hardleys can grease his awn clogs;
He marry a decent man's dowter!
He's fitter to lig amang hogs!
At the clock for an hour he'll keep glymin,
But de'il e'er the time he can tell;
And my niece, for that ae word husband,
Has e'en geane and ruin'd hersel.
De'il bin, &c.

Her fadder, God keep him! my billy,
Ay, thought her the flow'r o' them aw;
And said on his deeth-bed, ‘O, Wully!
‘Luik till her, man! when I lig low!’
I meade her beath reader and writer—
Nin bang'd her, the maister can tell;—
But, speyte o' beath larnin and manners,
She's e'en meade a guff of hersel.
De'il bin, &c.

When lasses get past aw advisin,
Our's then turns a piteous case;
A cwoat or sark yen may shep them,
But aw cannot gi'e them God's grace:
For me, I'll e'en deet my hands on her,
And this aw our neybors I'll tell;
She's meade a bad bed, let her lig on't,
And think how she's ruin'd hersel.
De'il bin but she'd little to de,
To tek seck a mazlin as he,
That nowther kens A, B, nor C!—
Nay, what sec a pair can ne'er 'gree!

April 10, 1804.

GUID STRANG YELL.

Our Ellek likes fat bacon weel,
And haver-bannock pleases Dick;
A cowd-lword meks lal Wully fain,
And cabbish aye turns Philip sick;
Our deame's for gurdle-keake and tea,
And Betty's aw for thick pez-keale;
Let ilk yen fancy what they wull,
Still my delight is guid strang yell.

I ne'er had muckle, ne'er kent want,
Ne'er wrang'd a neybor, frien, or kin;
My wife and bairns 'buin aw I prize—
There's music i' their varra din:
I labour suin, I labour leate,
And chearfu' eat my humble meal;
My weage can feed and clead us aw,
And whiles affords me guid strang yell.

What's aw the warl widout content?
Wi' that and health man can't be peer;
We suin slip off frae friens and foes,
Then whea but fuils wad feight for gear:
'Bout kings and consuls gowks may fratch;
For me I scworn to vex mysel,
But laugh at courts and owre-grown knaves,
When I've a hush o' guid strang yell.

April 22, 1804.

BURGH RACES.

O, Wully! had tou nobbet been at Burgh Races!
It seem'd, lad, as if aw the warl were met;
Some went to be seen, others off for divarsion,
And monie went there a lock money to bet;
The cup was aw siller, and letter'd reet neycely,
A feyne naig they've put on't, forby my lword's neame;
It hods nar a quart, for monie drank out on't,
And open'd their gills till they cu'dn't creep heame.

There was, ‘How fens te, Tommy?’—‘What Jwosep! l's gaily:
‘Wey, is there ought unket i' your country seyde
‘Here, landlword! a noggin!’—‘Whea rides the Collector?’
‘What Meason' auld meer can bang aw far and weyde!’
There wur snaps, yell, nuts, ginger-bread, shwort keakes, and brandy,
And tents full o' ham, beef, and nowble veal pye;
There was Greenup wi' a reet and true list o' the horses,
The neames o' the the awners and reyders forby.

Ere they saddl'd, the gamlers peep'd sair at the horses;
See scrudgin, the fwok were just ready to brust;

Wi' swearin and bettin they meade a sad hay-bay:
‘I'll lig six to four!—‘Done! cum down wi' the dust!’
‘What think ye o' Lawson?’—‘The field for a guinea!’
‘I'll mention the winner! dare onie yen lay?’
Jwohn Blaylock' reed handkitcher wav'd at the dissnens;
At startin, he cried, ‘Yen, twee, three, put away!’

They went off leyke leetnin—the auld meer's a topper—
She flew like an arrow, and shew'd tem her tail;
They hugg'd, whupp'd, and spurr'd, but cud niver yence touch her—
The winners they rear'd, and the lwosers turn'd pale;
Peer Lawson gat dissen'd, and sae sud the tudders,
Furst heat was a chase, and the neist a tek-in;
Then some drank their winnins;—but, wofu' disaster,
It rain'd, and the lasses gat wet to the skin.

Leyke pez in a pot, neist at Sansfield they caper'd,
The lads did the lasses sae kittle and hug;
Young Crosset, i' fettle, had got bran new pumps on,
And brong fisher Jemmy a clink i' the lug;
The lasses they belder'd out, ‘Man thysel, Jemmy!’
His comrades they poud off his cwoat and his sark;

They fit, lugg'd, and lurry'd, aw owre blood and batter,
The landlword com in, and cried, ‘Shem o' sec wark!’

There wur smugglers, excisemen, horse-cowpers, and parsons,
Sat higglety-pigglety, aw fare a-leyke;
And mowdy-warpJacky—ay, man it was funny!—
He meade them aw laugh when he stuck in a creyke.
There were lasses frae Wigton, and Worton, and Banton—
Some o' them gat sweethearts, while others gat neane;
And bairns yet unbworn 'll oft hear o' Burgh Races,
For ne'er mun we see sec a meetin agean.

May 4, 1804.

BIDDY.

[_]

Tune—“Since love is the plan.”

'Twas frost and thro' leet, wid a greymin o' snaw,
When I went to see Biddy, the flow'r o' them aw;
To meet was agreed on at Seymy' deyke nuik,
Where I saunter'd wi' monie a seegh and lang luik,
But poud up my spirits and off till her heame,
For when swok mean reet, wey, what need they think sheame!

I peep'd through the window to see what was duin:
Her fadder sat whusslin, and greasing his shoon;
Her mudder sat darnin, and smuikin the while;
And Biddy was spinnin, the neet to beguile;
Her thread it aye brak, she seem'd sad as cud be,
And yen sat aside her, a stranger to me.

She turn'd her head frae him, and niver yence spak;
He struive for a kiss, then she up in a crack,
And suin i' the faul, wi' great pleasure we met,
But that happy moment we ne'er can forget:
To be mine she promis'd agean and agean,
And the priest, if God spares us, will suin mek us yen.

May 15, 1804.

DINAH DUFTON.

[_]

Tune—“Good night, and joy be wi' you a”

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.

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!’

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.

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.

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.

July 16, 1804.

NED CARNAUGHAN.

[_]

Tune—“The Miller of Dee.”

My mudder was teakin her nuin's rest,
My fadder was out at the hay,
When Ned Carnaughan com buncin in,
And luik'd as he'd gotten a flay:
‘O, Sib!’ says he, ‘I's duin wi' te;—
‘Nay, what, thou blushes and staires!—
‘I seed thee last neet wi' bow-hough'd Peat,
‘And de'il tek them that cares!’

Says I to Ned, to Ned says I,
‘What's aw this fuss about?
‘I's soer he's a reet lish country lad,
‘And tou's just a parfet lout:
‘But whea were liggin i' Barney's croft,
‘And lakin like twea hares?
‘And whea kiss'd Suke frae lug to lug?
‘Wey, de'il tek them that cares!’

Says Ned, says he, ‘the thimmel gi'e me
‘I brong thee frae Branton fair,
‘And gi'e back the broach and true-love knot,
‘And lock o' my awn reed hair;
‘And pay me the tuppence I wan frae thee
‘Ae neet at pops and pairs;
‘Then e'en tek on wi' whea thou leykes—
The de'il tek them that cares!’

The broach and thimmel I flang at his feace,
The true-love knot i' the fire;
Says I, ‘tou's nobbet a hawflin bworn—
‘Fash me nae mair, I desire;—
‘Here, tek thy tuppence, a reape to buy,
‘And gi'e thysel nae mair airs;
‘But hing as hee as Gilderoy—
‘The de'il tek them that cares!’

July 27, 1804.

THE COCKER O' CODBECK.

[_]

Tune—“Patrick's day i'th' morning.”

There was ill gusty Jemmy, the cocker of Codbeck,
He follow'd blin Leethet 'lass years twee or three;
She laid in o' twins, and was e'en broken-hearted,
For Jemmy had left her—and, neist, what did he,
But ran owre to Hesket, and wedded anudder;
Suin peer Greacy Leethet was laid in her grave;
The last words she spak were, ‘O God, forgi'e Jemmy!
‘I may rue the day when he stuil my heart frae me!
‘Tho' I's gawn to leave you, my innocents save!
Her twea bairns she kiss'd,
And then sunk into rest.
O but sec like fellows sud suffer!

I ne'er can forget when the corpse cross'd the lonnin,
Amang auld and young there was nit a dry e'e;

Aw whop'd she was happy—but, O man! her fadder
When they cover'd the coffin, we thought he wad dee!
He cried, ‘Ive nae comfort sin I've lost my Greacy!
O that down aseyde her my head I could lay!’
For Jemmy, de'il bin him! he's kent nought but crosses,
He's shunn'd by the lads, and he's hiss'd by the lasses,
And Greacy's Ghost haunts him by neet and by day;
Nae neybor luiks near him,
The bairns they aw fear him;
And may sec like fellows still suffer!

July 28, 1804.

JEFF AND JOB.

[_]

Tune—“Fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae!”

JEFF.
Come, Job, let's talk o' weel kent pleaces,
When young tearin chaps were we:
Now nin nar us but fremm'd feaces—
Few to seyde wi' thee and me!—
Years are geane by twee and twonty,
Sin I kent thy curly pow—
Aye the furst at wark and spwortin,
Were Jeff Heyne and Jwosep Howe.

JOB.
Ay, Jeff! we've lang kent yen anudder;
Monie a time when chaps were crouse,
And meade a brulliment and bodder,
Jeff and Job ha'e clear'd the house;
Nin leyke thee cud fling the geavelick;
Nin leyke me lak'd at fit-baw;
Wi' pennysteans tou was a darter—
I at trippet bang'd tem aw.

JEFF.
Then, Job, I mind at your kurn-supper,
When I furst saw Elcy Greame,
I cuddent eat—my heart it flutter'd—
Lang Tom Leytle watch'd us heame.
We were young, and beath i' fettle—
He wad feight—we e'en set tui;

In the clarty seugh I sent him—
Elcy skirl'd—what cud she dui?

JOB.
And, Jeff, when met at Cursmas cairdins,
Few durst lake wi' thee and me;
When we'd hack'd the lads aw roun us,
Off to the lasses bed went we;
The ass-buird sarrat as a teable,
Legs anunder t'claes were laid;
Forby laughin, kissin, jwokin,
Monie a harmless prank we play'd.

JEFF.
Now, Job, we pay for youthfu' follies—
Aw our happy days are geane;
Tou's turn'd grousome, bare, and dozen'd,
I's just worn to skin and beane.
But maister's comin in a flurry—
Sarvents aye sud meyn'd their wark;
I mun off to deetin havver—
Fares-te-weel till efter dark!

October 12, 1804.

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!

‘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!’

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.

‘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!

November 11, 1804.

JWOHNY AND MARY.

[_]

Tune—“Come under my plaidie.”

Young Mary was canny and bonny as onie lass,
Jwohny was lusty and weel to be seen;
Young Mary was aye the best dancer at murry neets,
Jwohny had won monie a belt on the green:
Lang, lang they were sweethearts, and nwotish'd by neybors;
Th'auld fwok they talk'd, and oft bragg'd o' the twee,

For Jwohny thought nin i'th' warl like young Mary
And Mary thought Jwohny aw she wish'd to see

A wee swope guid yell is a peer body's comfort,
But wo be to him that oft drinks till blin fou!
Young Jwohny ae day off wi' big to the market,
And drank wi' some neybors, he little thought how.
His auld fadder watch'd till the black hour o' midneet;
Widout his deer Jwohny, the naig gallop'd heame:
They sought, and they fan him that mwornin i' Eden,
Amang the green busses that nod owre the stream.

Auld Gibby he gowls, and aye talks of his Jwohny,
And sits by his greave, and oft meks a sad meane;
Peer Mary, the flow'r of aw flow'rs i' the parish,
Ne'er hods up her head, now her Jwohny is geane.
The dangerous yell-house kills monie brave fellows,
To get heame quite swober can ne'er be thought wrang;
Nae guid comes o' drinkin.—Ye lads aw around me,
At fair, or at market, aye think o' my sang!

November 11, 1804.

THE CLAY DAUBIN.

[_]

Tune—“Andrew Carr.”

We went owre to Deavie' Clay Daubin,
And faith a rare caper we had,
Wi' eatin, and drinkin, and dancin,
And rwoarin, and singin leyke mad;
Wi' crackin, and jwokin, and braggin,
And fratchin, and feightin and aw;
Sec glorious fun and divarsion
Was ne'er seen in castle or haw.
Sing hey for a snug clay biggin,
And lasses that leyke a bit spwort;
Wi' friens and plenty to gi'e them,
We'll laugh at King Gworge and his cwort.

The waws were aw finish'd er darknin;
Now, greypes, shouls, and barrows thrown by,
Auld Deavie spak up wid a hursle—
‘Od rabbit it! lads, ye'll he dry;
‘See, deame, if we've got a swope whusky—
‘I's sworry the rum bottle's duin—
‘We'll starken our keytes, I'll uphod us—
‘Come, Adams, rasp up a lal tune!’

When Bill kittl'd up “Chips and Shavins,”
Auld Philip poud out Matty Meer,
Then nattl'd his heels like a youngen,
And caper'd about the clay fleer;
He deeted his gob, and he buss'd her,
As lish as a lad o' sixteen;

Cries Wull, ‘Od dy! fadder's i' fettle!
‘His marrow 'll niver be seen!’

Reet sair did we miss Jemmy Coupland—
Bad crops, silly man, meade him feale;
Last Sunday fwornuin, efter sarvice,
I'th' kurk-garth, the clark caw'd his seale.
Peer Jemmy! of aw his bit oddments
A shettle the bealies ha'e ta'en,
And now he's reet fain of a darrak,
For pan, dish, or spuin, he hes neane.

Wi' scons, leather-hungry, and whusky,
Auld Aggy cried, ‘Meake way for me!
‘Ye men fwok, eat, drink and be murry,
‘Wheyle we i' the bower get tea.’
The whillymer eat teugh and teasty,
Aw cramm'd fou o' grey pez and seeds;
They row'd it up teane agean tudder—
Nae dainties the hungry man needs.

Now in com the women fwok buncing—
Widout tem there's niver nee fun;
Wi' whusky aw weeted their wizzens,
But suin a sad hay-bay begun;
For Jock, the young laird, was new wedded,
His auld sweetheart Jenny luik'd wae;

While some were aw titterin and flyrin,
The lads rubb'd her down wi' pez strae.

Rob Lowson tuik part wi' peer Jenny,
And brong snift'ring Gwordie a cluff;
I'th' scuffle they leam'd Lowson' mudder,
And fain they'd ha'e stripp'd into buff:
Neist Peter caw'd Gibby a rebel,
And aw rwoar'd out, that was wheyte wrang;
Cried Deavie, ‘Shek hans, and nae mair on't—
‘I's sing ye a bit of a sang.’

He lilted “The King and the Tinker,”
And Wully strack up “Robin Hood;”
Dick Mingins tried “Hooly and Fairly,”
And Martha “The Babs o' the Wood:”
They push'd round a glass leyke a noggin,
And bottom'd the greybeard complete;
Then crack'd till the muin glowr'd amang them,
And wish'd yen anudder guid neet.

December 21, 1804.

This is a ludicrous name given to a poor sort of cheese made of skimmed milk, and made use of by some of the peasants of Cumberland as a part of their meals. It is also sometimes called Whillymer, and sometimes Rosley Cheshire.

103

THE DAWSTON PLAYER-FWOK.

[_]

Tune—“Derry Down.”

Come, stur the fire, Shadrich! and hearken to me;
I went up to Dawston their play-fwok to see,
And paid my cruik'd tizzy, and gat a front seat;
Thrang as three in a bed, they were wedg'd in that neet.
Derry Down, &c.

Furst the ban on their hoyboys and peypes did sae cruin,
Tho' they blew oft and sair, it aye seem'd the seame tune:

104

Aw was famish confusion—but when they began
Lack-a-day! the fair penitent pruiv'd but a man.
Derry Down, &c.

When they chink'd a lal bell, there was yen summet spak,
But he hung down his head, and he held up his back;
The picture caw'd Garrick abuin the stage stood,
I thought it yence laugh'd, and i' faith weel it mud!
Derry Down, &c.

Like a hawf white-wash'd sweep, yen Orashi bunc'd in,
And he tweyn'd leyke an edder, and cock'd up his chin;
In his yallow plush breeks, and lang black rusty sword,
Wid his square gob weyde open—thought I, what a Lword!
Derry Down, &c.

He was drucken, (that's sarten;) he cuden't get on;
‘Loavins!’ cried an auld woman; ‘what, that's Rutson' Jwohn!’
‘Mess, but he's a darter!’ ‘a topper!’ says I,
Was he but in a meedow, he'd freeten the kye.
Derry Down, &c.

105

In bonnie flower'd weastcwoat, and full-bottom'd wig,
Auld Siholto he squeek'd leyke a stuck guinea pig;
Then his dowter he fratch'd, and her sweetheart forby,
O man! it was movin, and meade the bairns cry!
Derry Down, &c.

Yen whisper'd me softly—‘that's Clogger Jwohn Bell.’
Says I, ‘leyke eneugh, of that man I've heard tell.’
Now a tweesome talk'd loud, but nit varra discreet,
For they promis'd twea whores afore nuin they wad meet.
Derry Down, &c.

Frae tae fit to tudder, Lothari he hopp'd,
Aw leyke clock-wark; his words tui how neycely he chopp'd!
Peer body! he waddent lig whiet, when dead,
Sae they e'en lugg'd him out by the heels and the head.
Derry Down, &c.

There was yen wid a weast thick as onie barrel kurn,
He poud up his pettikits, then gev a gurn;
And he luik'd as to say, ‘Now what think ye o'me?’
A lal lass spak the truth—it was shocken to see!
Derry Down, &c.

106

Neist a cliver lish chap, wid his feyne reed leed cheeks,
Blew his nwose wi' his fingers, and hotch'd up his breeks;
Then he tuik a fresh chow, and the auld'n threw out,
And said, ‘Dui be whiet—what's aw this about?’
Derry Down, &c.

The schuilmaister, gager, and twee or three mair,
Hed seen Mister Punch play his pranks at a fair;
Efter far-larned threepin, at last, at the Bell,
'Twas agreed, nit ev'n Punch cud thur heroes excel.
Derry Down, &c.

See struttin and wheynin may please dwoatin fuils,
Or rough-headed callans, just sent off to schuils:
But hedst tou e'er dreamt o' sec actin, dear Rowe!
For sarten, thou ne'er wad ha'e written at aw.
Derry Down, &c.

Ye wise men o' Dawston, stick clwose to your wark,
Sit at heame wi' your weyves and your bairns efter dark;
To be caw'd kings and heroes is pleasin indeed,—
But before you turn player-fwok, furst larn to read!
Derry Down, &c.

The manner in which they pronounced the different names.

Two hours.

107

OUR JWOHNY.

[_]

Tune—“Lillibulero.”

Our Jwohny's just turn'd till a parfet atomy,
Nowther works, eats, drinks, or sleeps as he sud;
He seeghs in a nuik, and fins fau't wid his poddish,
And luiks levke a deyl'd body, spoil'd for aw gud.
He reaves in his sleep, and reads buiks o' luive letters,
Ae turn efter dark, nae, he'll nit dui at aw!
But ae neet, last week, I detarmin'd to watch him,
And suin, wi' his sweetheart our Jwohnny I saw.

I cowr'd my ways down, ahint our young eshes,
And by went the tweesome,—he seem'd nit the seame;
They laugh'd, kiss'd and cutter'd—nought bad past atween them;
I 'gat what I wanted, and sae crap off heame;
Our landlword' lass, Letty, his heart hes in keepin,
To be seer she's a sarvent, but weel to be seen;
She's lish, young and bonnie, and honest as onie,
In hard workin poverty I see nought that's mean!

The fadder o' Jwohnny was my fellow-sarvent;
God rust him! his marrow I's ne'er to see mair!
Auld Matthew hed gear, and follow'd me weekly,
And cut me a lock of his gray grizzled hair.
Hed I wedded Matthew, I'd now been a leady,
But fourscwore and twonty can niver agree:

108

Our Jwohnny may e'en try his luck, and git wedded.
And they sal ha'e baith stock and crop when I dee.

KING ROGER.

[_]

Tune,—“Hallow Fair.”

'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?’

‘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.

‘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:

109

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.’

110

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!

113

ELIZABETH' BURTH-DAY.

[_]

Tune—“Lillibulero.”

JENNY.
Ay, Wulliam! neist Monday's Elizabeth' burth day!
She is a neyce lass, tho' she were nin o' mine.
We mun ax the Miss Dowsons, and auld Brodie’ young fwok:
I wish I'd seav'd a swope geuseberry wine.
She'll be sebenteen; what, she's got thro' her larnin;
She dances as I did, when furst I kent thee.
As for Tom, her cruik'd billy, he stumps leyke a cwoach-horse;
We'll ne'er mek a man on him, aw we can dee.”

WULLIAM.
“Hut, Jenny! hod tongue o' thee! praise nae sec varment,
She won't men' a sark, but reads novels, proud brat!
She dance! What she turns in her taes, thou peer gonny,
Caw her Bet, 'twas the neame her auld granny ay gat.
No, Tommy for my money! he reads his beyble,
And hes sec a lovinly squint wid his e'en;
He sheps as leyke me, as ae been's leyke anudder;
She snurls up her neb, just a shem to be seen!”

114

JENNY.
“Shaf, Wully! that's fashion—tou kens no[illeg.] about it;
She's streyt as a resh, and as reed as a rwose,
She's sharp as a needle, and luiks leyke a leady
Thou talks, man—a lass cannot meake her aw nwose!
She's dilicate meade, and nit fit for the country
For Tom, he's knock-knee'd, wi' twea girt as buird feet;
God help them he sheps leyke! they've little [illeg.] brag on;
Tho' ours, I've oft thought, he was nit van[illeg.] reet.”

WULLIAM.
“O, Jen! thou's run mad wi' thy gossips and trumpery:—
Our lal bit o' lan we maun sell, I declare;
I yence thought thee an angel,—thou's turn just a deevil,
Has fash'd me reet lang, and oft vexes me sai[illeg.]
This fashion and feasting brings monie to ruin,
A duir o' my house they shall nit come within
As for Bet, if she dunnet gang off till a sarvice
When I's dead and geane she shall nit hev a pin.

JENNY.
“Stop, Wull! whee was't brong thee that fortune peer gomas!
Just thurteen gud yacres as lig to the sun;

115

When I tuik up wi' thee, I'd lost peer Gwordy Glossip,
I've rue'd sin that hour to the kurk when we run:
Were thou cauld and coffin'd, I'd suin get a better;
Sae creep off to bed, nit a word let us hear!
They shall come, if God spare us, far mair than I mention'd—
Elizabeth' burth-day but comes yence a-year!

January 2, 1807.

120

THE AULD BEGGAR.

I met the auld man, wid his starv'd grey cur near him,
The blast owre the mountain blew cauld i' the vale;

121

Nae heame to receive him, few strange fwok to hear him,
And thin wer his patch'd duds, he mickle did ail:
A tear dimm'd his e'e, his feace furrow'd by sorrow,
Seem'd to say, he frae whope nit ae comfort cud borrow,
And sad was the beggarman's teale.

‘Behold,’ he cried, seeghing, ‘the spwort of false fortune!
‘The peer wretched outcast, the beggar you see,
‘Yence boasted o' wealth, but the warl is uncertain,
‘And friens o' my youth smeyle nae langer on me:
‘I's the last o' the flock, my weyfe Ann for Heaven left me,
‘Of my only lad, Tim, accurst war neist bereft me;
‘My yage's suppwort lang was he!

‘Yence in the proud city, I smeyl'd amang plenty,
‘Frae east and frae west, monie a vessel then bore
‘To me the rich cargo, to me the feyne dainty,
‘And the peer hungry bodies still shar'd of my store;
‘A storm sunk my shippen, by false friens surrounded,
‘The laugh o' the girt fwok, this meade me confounded,
‘Ilk prospec for iver was o'er!

122

‘I creep owre the mountains, but meast in the vallies,
‘And wi' my fond dog share a crust at the duir;
‘I shun the girt fwok, and ilk house leyke a palace,
‘For sweetest to me is the meyte frae the puir:
‘At neet, when on strae wi' my faithfu' dog lyin,
‘I thank him that meade me, for what I's enjoying;
‘His promise I whope to secure.”

THE BUCK O' KINGWATTER.

[_]

Tune—“The Breckans of Brampton.”

When I was single, I rid a feyne naig,
And was caw'd the Buck o' Kingwatter;
Now the cwoat o' my back hes got but ae sleeve,
And my breeks are aw in a tatter.

Sing, Oh! the lasses! the lazy lasses!
Keep frae the lasses o' Branton!
I ne'er wad ha'e married, that day I married,
But I was young, feulish, and wanton.

I courted a lass—an angel I thought—
She's turn'd out the picture of evil;
She geapes, yen may count ev'ry tuith in her head,
And shouts, fit to freeten the deevil.
Sing, Oh, the lasses, &c.

123

To-day she slipt out, some 'bacco to buy,
And bade me mind rock the cradle;
I cowp'd owre asleep, but suin she com in,
And brak aw my head wi' the ladle.
Sing, Oh! the lasses, &c.

I ne'er hed a heart to hannel a gun,
Or I'd run away, and leave her.
She pretends to win purns, but that's aw fun,
They say she's owre kind wi' the weaver.
Sing, Oh! the lasses, &c.

I dinnerless gang ae hawf o' the week;
If we get a bit meat on a Sunday,
She cuts me nae mair than wad physic a sneype;
Then we've tatey and point ev'ry Monday.
Sing, Oh! the lasses, &c.

Tho' weary o' leyfe, wi' this gud-for-nought weyfe,
I wish I cud get sec anudder;
And then I cud gi'e the deevil the teane,
For teakin away the tudder!
Sing, Oh! the lasses! the lazy lasses!
Beware o' the lasses o' Branton!
I ne'er wad ha'e married, that day I married,
But I was young, feulish, and wanton.

January 6, 1807.

The river King, near Gilsland.

MARGET O' THE MILL.

[_]

Tune—“Tom Starboard.”

Her fadder's whope, her mudder's preyde,
Was black-ey'd Marget o' the Mill,

124

And summer day, or winter neet,
Was happy, cheerfu', busy still;
And Ralph, her fadder, oft declar'd,
His darlin forty punds shou'd have
The day a husban tuik her han,
And mair, if lang he skeap'd the greave.

The lilly and the deyke-rwose beath,
Were mix'd in Marget's bonny feace;
Her form mud win the cauldest heart,
And her's was nature's modest greace;—
Her luik drew monie a neybor laird,
Her een luive's piercin arrows fir'd;
But nae rich laird cud gain the han
Of this fair flow'r, by aw admir'd.

Oh, luckless hour! at town ae day,
Yen in a sowdger's dress she saw;
He stule her heart—and frae that hour,
May Marget date a leyfe of woe;—
For now she shuns aw roun the mill,
Nae langer to her bosom dear;
And faded is her bonny feace,
And dim her e'e wi' monie a tear.

Peer Marget! yence a fadder's preyde,
Is now widout a fadder left;
Deserted, aw day lang she moans,
Luive's victim, of ilk whope bereft!
Ye lasses, aw seducers shun,
And think o' Marget o' the Mill;
She, crazy, daunders wid her bairn,
A prey to luive and sorrow still.

125

MADAM JANE.

[_]

Tune—“I will ha'e a weyfe.”

Money meks us bonny,
Money meks us glad;
Be she auld or ugly,
Money brings a lad.
When I'd ne'er a penny,
De'il a lad hed I—
Pointin ay at Jenny,
Laughin they flew by.

Money causes flatt'ry,
Money meks us vain;
Money changes aw things—
Now I'm Madam Jane.
Sen auld Robby left me
Houses, fields, nit few.
Lads thrang round i' clusters,
I'm a beauty now!

Money meks us merry,
Money meks us bra;
Money gets us sweethearts—
That's the best of a'!
I ha'e fat and slender,
I ha'e shwort and taw;
I ha'e rake and miser—
I despise them aw!

Money they're aw seeking,
Money they's git neane;

126

Money sends them sneaking
Efter Madam Jane!
There's ane puir and bashfu',
I ha'e i' my e'e;
He's git han and siller,
Gin he fancies me.
Money meks us bonny, &c.

January 6, 1807.

YOUNG SUSY.

[_]

Tune—“Dainty Davie.”

Young Susy is a bonny lass,
A canny lass, a teydey lass,
A mettled lass, a hearty lass,
As onie yen can see;
A clean-heel'd lass, a weel-spok lass,
A buik-larn'd lass, a kurk-gawn lass,
I watena how it com to pass,
She's meade a fuil o' me.

I's tir'd o' workin, plowin, sowin,
Deeting, deykin, threshin, mowin;
Seeghin, greanin, never knowin
What I's gawn to de.
I met her—aye, 'twas this day week!
Od die! thought I, I'll try to speak;
But tried in vain the teale to seek,
For sec a lass is she!

127

Her jet black hair hawf heydes her brow,
Her een just thirl yen thro' and thro'—
But, Oh! her cheeks and churry mou
Are far owre sweet to see!
I's tir'd o' workin, &c.

Oh, cud I put her in a sang!
To hear her praise the heale day lang,
She mud consent to kurk to gang;
There's puirer fwok than me!
But I can nowther rhyme nor rave,
Luive meks yen sec a coward slave;
I'd better far sleep i' my grave—
But, Oh! that munnet be!

I's tir'd o' workin, plowin, sowin,
Deetin, deykin, threshin, mowin,
Seeghin, greanin, never knowin
What I's gawn to de.

January 6, 1807.

128

THREESCWORE AND NINETEEN.

[_]

Tune by the Author.

Aye, Aye, I's feeble grown,
And feckless—weel I may!
I's threescwore and nineteen,
Aye, just this varra day!

129

I ha'e nae teeth, my meat to chew,
But little sarras me!
The best thing I eat or drink,
Is just a cup o' tea!

Aye, aye, the bairns mak gam,
And pleague me suin and late;
Men fwok I leyke i' my heart,
But bairns and lasses hate!
This gown o' meyne's lang i' the weast,
Aul-fashion'd i' the sleeve;
It meks me luik leyke fourscwore,
I varily believe!

Aye, aye, what I's deef,
My hearin's quite geane;
I's fash'd wi' that sad cough aw neet,
But little I complain.
I smuik a bit, and cough a bit,
And then I try to spin;
And then I daddle to the duir,
And then I daddle in!

Aye, aye, I wonder much,
How women can get men;
I've tried for threescwore years and mair,
But never cud get yen.
De'il tek the cat—what is she at?
Lie quiet on the chair:
I thowt it e'en was Daniel Strang,
Comin up the stair!

130

Aye, Aye, I've bed and box,
And kist, and clock, and wheel,
And tub, and rock, and stuil, and pan,
And chair, and dish, and reel;
And luiking-glass, and chammer-pot,
And bottles for smaw beer;
Mouse-trap, sawt-box, kettle, and—
That's Danny sure I hear!

Aye, aye, he's young eneugh,
But, oh! a reet neyce man;
And I wad ne'er be caul in bed,
Cud I but marry Dan.
Deuce tek that cough! that weary cough—
It never let's me be;
I's kilt wi' that and gravel beath—
Oh, Daniel, come to me!

January 8, 1807.

SILLY ANDREW.

[_]

Tune—“Wandering Willie.”

O how can I get a bit weyse? says lang Andrew
Shadric, come tell me, lad, what I mun dee
Tou kens I's just twenty,
Hae houses, lans plenty,
A partner I want—ay—
But nin 'll ha'e me!

131

'Twas furst blue-e'ed Betty that meade my mouth watter,
She darn'd my auld stockins, my crivet and aw;
Last harvest, when sheerin,
Wi' jeybin and jeerin,
She fworc'd me to swearin—
Bett ne'er mair I saw!

Neist reed-heeded Hannah to me seem'd an angel,
And com to our house monie a neet wid her wark;
I yence ax'd to set her,
She said she kent better:
Whea thinks te can get her?
E'en dast Symie Clark!

Then smaw-weasted Winny meade gowns for our Jenny;
Andrew, man, stick tull her! mudder oft said;
She hes feyne sense, and money,
Young, lish, smart and bonny,
Is a match, aye for onie.—
But she's for Black Ned!

Then how can I get a bit weyfe? tell me, Shadric!
Tou mun be reet happy, they're aw fond o' thee!
I've followed Nan, Tibby,
Sall, Mall, Fan, and Sibby,
Ett, Luke, Doll, and Debby;
But nin 'll ha'e me!

132

AULD ROBBY MILLER.

[_]

Tune—“Gin I had a wee House.”

Oh, cud I but see the blythe days I ha'e seen,
When I was a lish laughin lass o' sixteen!
Then lads lap around, and said nin was leyke me,
Now they're aw fled away, and I's turn'd thurty-three.
A single leyfe's but a comfortless leyfe,
It sounds unco sweet to be caw'd a weyfe;
To get a bit body I've tried aw I can—
Waes me for the lassie that can't get a man.

When day-leet's aw geane, and I sit down to spin,
I wish some young fellow wad only step in;
At the market I saunter, and dress at the fair,
But nae lad at peer Keaty a luik will e'er spare.
A single leyfe's but a weary dull leyfe,
It sounds unco sweet to be caw'd a weyfe;
In vain a peer lassie may try ilka plan,
Caw her rich, and I'll venture she'll suin get a man

There's auld Robby Miller, wi' his siller pow,
Bent double, and canna creep up the hill now;
Tho' steane-deef and tuithless, and bleer-e'ed and aw,
He hes gear, and I's thinking to gi'e him a caw.
A single leyfe's a heart-breakin leyfe,
It sounds unco sweet to be caw'd a weyfe;
I'll keame his lank locks, and dui what I can—
There's monie a young lassie wad tek an auld man!

133

He lives aw his leane; but he's surely to bleame,
When a wanter leyke me may be had sae near heame:
Wer we weddet to-morrow, he'd nit be lang here,
Then I'd buy a man to my mind wid his gear:
A single leyfe's a sorrowfu' leyfe,
It sounds unco sweet to be caw'd a weyfe;
I'll off to auld Robby,—aye, that's the best plan,
And cwoax him, and wed him, the canny auld man.

NANNY PEAL.

Eyes there are that never weep;
Hearts there are that never feel;
God keep them that can dui baith,
And sec was yence sweet Nanny Peal.
Tom Feddon was a sailor lad,
A better never sail'd saut sea;
The dang'rous rocks reet weel he knew,
The captain's favourite was he.

When out, and cronies drank or sang,
Or danc'd the jig, or leetsome reel,
Peer Tom wad sit him on the yard,
And fondly think o' Nanny Peal.
For, Oh she was a hearty lass,
A sweeter feace nin e'er did see;
And luive lurk'd in her twea breet een,
And innocence itsel was she.

134

Oft, i' the kurk, the neybor lads
At her a bashfu' luik wad steal;
Oft, at the markets, stare and point,
And whisper—“See! that's Nanny Peal.”
But Tom was aw her heart's deleyte;
And, efter voyages twee or three,
(In which he wad feyne presents bring,)
Baith fondly whop'd they'd married be.

And now this teyde they quit the pwort;
Tom wid a kiss his faith did seal;
They cry'd, they seegh'd, whop'd suin to meet—
'Twas hard to part wi' Nanny Peal!
The sea was cawm, the sky was clear,
The ship she watch'd while eye cud see;
“The voyage is shwort!” she tremblin said,
“God send him seafe and suin to me!”

Afwore her peer auld mudder's duir,
She sung, and thowt, and turn'd her wheel;
But when that neet the storm com on,
Chang'd was the heart of Nanny Peal.
And sad was she the next lang day;
The third day warse—still warse grew she;
Alas! the fourth day brought the news,
Baith ship and men were lost at sea!

She heard, she fainted on the fluir;
Much did her peer auld mudder feel;
The neybors roun, baith auld and young,
Dropt monie a tear for Nanny Peal.

135

Sin that, she wanders aw day lang,
And gazes weyldly on the sea;
She's spent, peer thing, to skin and beane,
And ragged, wretched now is she.

Oft reydin on the wheyte-topp'd waves,
She sees her Tom towerts her steal;
And then she laughs, and caws aloud,
“O come, O come to Nanny Peal!”
God keep thee! helpless, luckless lass!
On earth thou munnet happy be;
But leyfe is wearin fast away—
Thou suin in Heav'n peer Tom wilt see.

ANDREW'S YOUNGEST DOWTER.

[_]

Tune by the Author.

Where Irthin rows to Eden's streams,
Thro' meedows sweetly stealin,
Owrhung by crags, hawf hid by furs,
There stands a cwozey dwellin;
And there's a lass wi' witchin feace,
Her luik gi'es pain or pleasure,
A rwose-bud hid frae pryin een,
The lads deleyte and treasure;
For when I saw her aw her leane,
I mair than mortal thought her,
And stuid amaz'd, and silent gaz'd
On Andrew's youngest dowter.

136

Her luik a captive meade my heart,
How matchless seem'd ilk feature!
The sun, in aw his yearly course,
Sheynes on nae fairer creature;
I watch'd her thro' the daisied howmes,
And pray'd for her returnin;
Then track'd her foot-marks through the wood,
My smitten heart aw burnin;—
Luive led me on; but when, at last,
In fancy meyne I thowt her,
I saw her awn dear happy lad
Meet Andrew's youngest dowter.

Sing sweet, ye wild birds i' the glens,
Where'er young Lizzy wanders;
Ye streams of Irthin, please her ears
Aw day wi' soft meanders;
And thou, the lad ay neist her heart,
Caress this bonny blossom—
Oh, never may the thworn o' care
Gi'e pain to sec a bosom!
Had I been king o' this weyde warl,
And kingdoms cud ha'e bought her,
I'd freely parted wi' them aw,
For Andrew's youngest dowter!

A river in the neighbourhood of Brampton.

SOLDIER YEDDY.

[_]

Tune—“The widow can bake.”

Peer Yeddy was brought up a fadderless bairn,
His jacket blue duffle, his stockins cworse gairn;

137

His mudder, sad greaceless! liv'd near Talkin Tarn,
But ne'er did a turn for her Yeddy.

Weel shep'd, and fair feac'd, wid a bonny blue e'e
Honest-hearted, ay merry, still teydey was he;
But nae larnin had gotten, nor kent A B C;—
There's owre monie leyke silly Yeddy.

Suin tir'd o' the cwoal-pit, and drivin a car,
Won by feathers, cockades, and the fuil'ries o' war,
He wad see feyne fwok, and grand pleaces afar—
The bad warl was aw new to lal Yeddy.

How temptin the liquor, and bonny bank nwote!
How temptin the pouder, sash, gun, and reed cwoat!
Then the Frenchmen, die bin them! we'll kill the whole twote!
These, these were his thoughts, honest Yeddy.

Awhile wi' his cronies he'll smuik, laugh, and sing,
Tell of wonders, and brag of his country and king,
And swagger, and larn of new oaths a sad string—
These little avail simple Yeddy.

For suin he may sing to another-guess tune,
His billet a bad yen, his kelter aw duin;
And faint at his post, by the pale winter muin,
Nae comfort awaits luckless Yeddy.

When Time steals his colour, and meks his pow grey,
May he tell merry stories, nor yence rue the day,

138

When he wander'd, peer lad! frae the fell seyde away;
This, this is my wish for young Yeddy.

Of lads sec as him may we ne'er be in want,
And a brave soldier's pocket of brass ne'er be scant;
Nit the brags o' proud Frenchmen auld England can daunt,
While we've plenty leyke young soldier Yeddy.

THE DAWTIE.

[_]

Tune—“I'm o'er young to marry yet.”

JENNY.
“Tho' weel I leyke ye, Jwohnny lad,
I cannot, munnet marry yet!
My peer auld mudder's unco bad,
Sae we a wheyle mun tarry yet;
For ease or comfort she has neane—
Leyfe's just a lang, lang neet o' pain;
I munnet leave her aw her leane,
And wunnet, wunnet marry yet!”

JWOHNNY.
“O Jenny! dunnet brek this heart,
And say, we munnet marry yet;
Thou cannot act a jillet's part—
Why sud we tarry, tarry yet?

139

Think, lass, of aw the pains I feel;
I've leyk'd thee lang, nin kens how weel!
For thee, I'd feace the varra de'il—
O say not, we mun tarry yet!”

JENNY.
“A weddet leyfe's oft dearly bowt;
I cannot, munnet marry yet:
Ye ha'e but little—I ha'e nought,
Sae, we a wheyle mun tarry yet!
My heart's yer awn, ye needna fear,
But let us wait anudder year,
And luive, and toil, and screape up gear—
We munnet, munnet marry yet!
'Twas but yestreen, my mudder said,
“O, dawtie! dunnet marry yet!
I'll suin lig i' my last cauld bed;
Tou's aw my comfort—tarry yet.”
Whene'er I steal out o' her seet,
She seeghs, and sobs, and nought gangs reet—
Whist!—that's her feeble voice;—Guid neet!
We munnet, munnet marry yet!”

145

THE BEGGAR AND KEATIE.

[_]

Tune—“O'er the muir amang the heather.”

KEATIE.
Whee's rap rappin at the duir,
Now when our aul fwok are sleepin?
Thou'll git nowt here if thou's puir—
Owre the hills thou'd best be creepin!

146

When sec flaysome fuils we see,
Decent fwok may start and shudder;
I'll nit move the duir to thee—
Vagrant-leyke, thou's nowt but bodder!

BEGGAR.
Oh! guid lassie, let me in!
I've nae money, meat, or cleedin—
Starv't wi' this caul angry win;
Aul an helpless—deeth ay dreedin!
Let me lig in barn or byre;
Ae brown crust will pruive a dainty;—
Dui, sweet lass! what I desire,
If thou whop'st for peace and plenty!

KEATIE.
Beggars yen may weel despise—
To the sweyne-hull hie an swat thee,
Rap nae mair if thou be wise—
Here's a dog wad fain be at thee:
Sec leyke hawf-wits, far and weyde,
Beggin breed, and meal, and money,
Some may help to shew their preyde—
I'll ne'er lift mey han to onie!

BEGGAR.
Move the duir to sec as me;
Lift thy han to fwok when starvin;
Meynd, er lang, thou peer may be;
Pity beggars, when desarvin.

147

Nobbet lissen to the storm,
Think how monie now mun suffer i
Let me in thur limbs to warm,
And wi' preyde, due thanks I'll offer!

KEATIE.
I've a sweetheart; sud he caw,
Monstrous vex'd I'd be to see him;
He helps beggars, yen and aw,
Leyke a fuil; nae guid 'twill dee him!
He hes gear; I'll ne'er be peer—
Say nowt mair, or Snap sal beyte thee;
Noisy sumph! what, our fwok hear
Thy crazy voice—Be off! od wheyte thee!

BEGGAR.
Keate, It's teyme to change mey voice—
Heartless wretch, they weel may caw thee;
Fain I meade thee ay mey choice,
Sin the hour when furst I saw thee:
Lang thy sweetheart I ha'e been;
Thowt thee gude, an lish, an cliver—
Ne'er will I wi' thee be seen,
Come what will!—Fareweel for ever!

THE HAPPY COUPLE.

[_]

Tune—“Ettrick Banks.”

Come, Mary, let's up Eden seyde,
An chat the ebemin hours away;

148

Tho' hard we toil, leyke millions mair,
Industrious fwok sud ay be gay;—
Far frae the slanderous noisy town,
It's sweet the murmerin streams to hear,
An share the joys o' peace an luive,
Wheyle some buy plishure far owre dear.

Just mark that peer bit freetent hare,
Now neet draws on, frae heame she'll steal
The weyld burds sweet, in deyke or wood,
Now bid the sinkin sun fareweel;
They joyfu' sing the sang ov thenks,
On rock, on meedow, bush, or tree;
Nor try their partners to deceive—
O, that ilk mortal sae wad be!

That savage hawk, owre hill an glen,
Seeks some weak warbler to destroy;
True emblem o' the tyrant, man,
To crush the peer oft gi'es him joy:
The burds rejoice, an ha'e their toil,
Unshelter'd, blithe the blasts they beyde;
Wheyle oft, wi' plenty, man compleens,
Snug, seated by his awn fire-seyde.

Our sons come runnin, Dick and Ned,
Twee feyner niver went to schuil;
I'd suiner see them coffin'd low,
Than owther turn a fop or fuil.
The maister says Dick's fit for kurk;
And Ned in law peer fwok may seave:

149

What, judge and bishop they may sit,
When thee an me lig i' the greave.

[illeg.]a, Mary! nowt e'er hurts mey meynd,
But when I cross the kurk-garth gang,
I think I see our aul fwok still,
For nowther wad dui onie wrang!
A helpless orphan tou was left,
An fadder, mudder, scarce e'er saw;
[illeg.]eath lost at sea—Nay, dunnet cry;
A better warl let's whop they know.

Sweet bloom'd aw roun, that summer mworn,
I carv'd our neames, now pleas'd we see;
Leyke us the tree was in its preyme,
But now it withers, sae mun we!
Sworn foes to streyfe, the joys of leyfe
We've shar'd sin furst I meade thee meyne;
Reet cheerfu' still, we'll bear ilk ill,
But come what will, let's ne'er repeyne!

155

PEGGY PEN.

The muin shone breet, the tudder neet;
The kye were milk't, aw wark was duin;
I shav'd mysel, en cwom't my hair,
Threw off the clogs, pat on greas'd shoon;

156

The clock strack eight, as out I stule;
The rwode I tuik, reet weel I ken;
An crosst the watter, clam the hill,
I whops to meet wi' Peggy Pen.

When i' the wood, I hard some talk;
They cuttert on, but varra low;
I hid mysel ahint a yek,
An Peggy wid a chap suin saw:
He smakt her lips, she criet, “give owre!
We lasses aw er pleaguet wi' men,”
I trimlin stuid, but dursent speak;
Tho' fain wad coddelt Peggy Pen!

He cawt her Marget, sometymes Miss;
He spak queyte feyne, an kisst her han;
He braggt ov aw his fadder hed—
I seeght; for we've na house er lan:
Said he, “My dear, I've watch'd you oft,
And seen you link through wood and glen,
With one George Moor, a rustic poor,
Not fit to wait on sweet Miss Pen!”

She drew her han, and turn'd her roun;
“Let's hae nae mair sec tawk,” says she;
“Tho' Gwordie Muir be nobbet puir,
He's dearer nor a prince to me!
Mey fadder scauls, mworn, nuin, and neet;
Mey mudder fratches sair, what then?
Aw this warl's gear cud niver buy
Frae Gworge, the luive o' Peggy Pen,”

157

“O Miss!” says he, “forget such fools;
Nor heed the awkward stupid clown;
If such a creetcher spoke to me,
I'd quickly knock the booby down!”
“Come on!” says I, “thy strength een try;
An heed owre heels sec chaps I'd sen;
Lug off thy cwoat; I'll feight aw neet,
Wi' three, leyke thee, for Peggy Pen!”

Now off he flew; my airms I threw
About her weast; away we went;
I ax'd her, if she durst be meyne;
She squeez'd my han, an gev consent:
We tawkt and jwokt, as lovers sud;
We partet at their awn byre en;
An ere anudder month be owre,
She'll change, to Muir, frae Peggy Pen!

CURSENMESS EVE.

[_]

Tune—“The young May Moon.”

“What, Jwosep! how go?”—“Wey, bluitert and baizt,
We've hed a meast tarrible rig, ye tnow;
I's thin as a lat, greypt, tharsty, and seeck,
For ye, ye're as fat as a pig, ye tnow:
I thowt to mysel, this mworn, as I ruse,
It's a monstrous warl this were in, ye tnow;
For nine out o' ten, beath women and men,
Er peer silly taistrels, we fin, ye tnow!

158

“Last neet, efter dark'nin, 'twas Cursenmess Eve,
I walkt up towerts Naig's Head, ye tnow;
Theer whee sud I see, but sweyne Sam, an ruff Rob,
Treype Tom, smiddy Dick, an deef Reid, ye tnow:
Ther was limpin Lanty, and bottlenwost Jack,
Mug Matthew, and Kursty Cumcatch, ye tnow;
Aul wry-gobb'd Seymie, an turn-cwoat Jemmy—
Thowt I, we mun suin hev a fratch, ye tnow.

“What they'd laik at lanter, the cairds were brong in,
They drew up, drank, laught, an jwokt, ye tnow;
It's best to sit whiet, thinks I to mysel,
Sae I crap nar the chimley, and smuikt, ye tnow:”
“Come! down wi' yer lanters! ruff Robin wan last”—
“Whee deals?”—“Prod, shiffle, and cut, ye tnow”—
“Tnock roun”—“I've nowt”—Here's a deuce an twee trays”—
“Wey that's nobbet a han fer Put, ye tnow!’

“Mug Matthew just yen and threehopens lost,
For turn-cwoat was ay a big cheat, ye tnow;
What, he hid king and queen anunder his tnee—
Sec gamlin can niver be reet, ye tnow!
“Buck up!”—“What's trumps?”—“That's meyne”—“Nay meyne!”
Cries turn-cwoat, “Ye beath tell a lee ye tnow!”

159

They seed him lug out the king and the queen—
Mug Matthew suin bleakent his ee, ye tnow.

“Sec cleekin at brass! what, the teable they splat,
An kickt up a row in a crack, ye tnow;
Sweyne Sam tnockt out peer Treype Tom' teeth,
Ruff Rob felt bottlenwost Jack, ye tnow;
Deef Reid and Lanty, leyke twee bull dogs,
They splattert about, here an theer, ye tnow;
Cumcatch kickt roun in his snout-ban clogs,
'Till Smiddy laid him on the fleer, ye tnow!

“Now weyves an dowters com bouncin in;
Bett bottlenwose brong in a cruteh, ye tnow;
She aimt at Ruff Rob, but the lanleady hat;
Peer Meable was leamt varra much, ye tnow:
The lanlword sawt, an he cleekt up t'por,
His silly aul deame to seave, ye tnow;
An swore, if onie yen clincht a fist,
“Od rot him! he's lig in his greave, ye tnow!”

“Aul wry-gobb'd Seymie neist meade a lang speech,
Bad tem drop aw their fratchin and speyte, ye tnow;
“What, neybors!” says he, “ye'd far better gree,
Nor for lawyers and doctors thus feight, ye tnow!
It's best to sit whiet, and laugh at ilk riot—
Let's whop better teymes 'll suin come, ye tnow!”
The hay-bay now ceast, what, he spak leyke a priest,
An cawt fer a bottle ov rum, ye tnow.

160

“They swattet tem down, tuikt' weyves on the tnee—
Treype Tom gev a Cummerlan sang, ye tnow;
Some crackt an jwokt, some chowt and smuikt,
And some thowt it teyme for to gang, ye tnow:
The clock strack yen er ae hawf wer geane,
What, udders the house waddent leave, ye tnow
They drank, they rwoart, they sleept, they snwoart—
Sae muckle fer Cursenmess Eve, ye tnow!”

END OF THE BALLADS.