The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson

They sing of a weddin at Worton,
Where aw was feght, fratchin, and fun;
Feegh! see a yen we've hed at Codbeck,
As niver was under the sun:
The breydegruim was weaver Joe Bewley,
He com frae about Lowthet Green;
The breyde Jwohnny Dalton' lish dowter,
And Betty was weel to be seen.

Sec patchin, and weshin, and bleachin,
And starchin, and darnin auld duds;
Some lasses thought lang to the weddin;
Unax'd, others sat i' the suds:
Theer were tweescwore and seebem inveyted,
God speed tem 'gean Cursenmas-day;
“Dobson' lads, tui, what they mun cum hidder!”
I think they were better away!

147

Furst thing, Oggle Willy, the fiddler,
Caw'd in wi' auld Jonathan Strang;
Neist stiff and stout, lang, leame and lazy,
Frae aw parts com in wi' a bang:
Frae Brocklebank, Fuilduirs, and Newlands,
Frae Hesket, Burk-heads, and the Height,
Frae Warnell, Starnmire, Nether Welton,
And awt' way frae Eytonfield-street.

Furst auld Jwhonny Dawton we'll nwotish,
And Mary, his canny douse deame;
Son Wully, and Mally, his sister;
Goffet' weyfe, Muckle Nanny by neame;
Wully Sinclair, Smith Leytle, Jwohn Aitchin,
Tom Ridley, Joe Sim, Peter Weir,
Gworge Goffet, Jwohn Bell, Miller Dyer,
Joe Head, and Ned Bulman were theer.

We'd hay-cruiks, and hen-tails, and hanniels,
And nattlers that fuddle for nought;
Wi' sceape-greaces, skeybels, and scruffins,
And maffs better fed far than taught;
We'd lads that wad eat for a weager,
Or feght, aye, till bluid to the knees;
Fell-seyders, and Sowerby riff-raff,
That deil a bum-bealie dar seize.

148

The breyde hung her head, and luik'd sheepish,
The breydegruim as wheyte as a clout;
The bairns aw gleym'd thro' the kurk windows,
The parson was varra devout:
The ring was lost out of her pocket,
The breyde meade a bonny te-dee;
Cries Goffet' weyfe, “Meyne's meade o' pinchback,
And, la ye! it fits till a tee!”

Now buckl'd, wi' fiddlers afwore them,
They gev Michael Crosby a caw;
Up spak canny Bewley the breydegruim,
“Get slocken'd, lads! fadder pays aw.”
We drank till aw seem'd blue about us,
We're ay murry deevils, tho' peer;
Michael' weyfe says, “Widout onie leein,
A duck mud ha'e swam on the fleer.”

Now, aw 'bacco'd owre, and hawf-drucken,
The men fwok wad needs kiss the breyde;
Joe Head, that's ay reckon'd best spwokesman,
Whop'd “guid wad the couple beteyde:”
Says Michael, “I's reet glad to see you,
Suppwosin I gat ne'er a plack.”
Cries t' weyfe, “That'll nowther pay brewer,
Nor git bits o' sarks to yen's back.”

149

The breyde wad dance ‘Coddle me, Cuddy;’
A threesome then caper'd Scotch Reels;
Peter Weir cleek'd up auld Mary Dalton,
Leyke a cock roun a hen neist he steals;
Jwohn Bell yelp'd out ‘Sowerby Lasses;’
Young Jwosep, a lang Country dance,
He'd got his new pumps Smithson meade him,
And fain wad shew how he cud prance.

To march roun the town, and keep swober,
The women fwok thought was but reet;
“Be wise, dui, for yence!” says Jwohn Dyer;
The breydegruim mud reyde shouder heet:
The youngermak lurried ahint them,
Till efter them Bell meade a brek;
Tom Ridley was aw baiz'd wi' drinkin,
And plung'd off the steps i' the beck.

To Hudless's now off they sizell'd,
And theer gat far mair than eneugh;
Miller Hodgson suin brunt the punch ladle,
And full'd ev'ry glass wid his leuf;
He thought he was tekin his mouter,
And deil a bit conscience hes he;
They preym'd him wi' stiff punch and jollup,
'Till Sally Scott thought he wad dec.

150

Joe Sim rwoar'd out, “Bin, we've duin wonders!
Our Mally's turn'd howe i' the weame!”
Wi' three strings atween them, the fiddlers
Strack up, and they reel'd towerts heame;
Meyner Leytle wad now hoist a standert,
Peer man! he cud nit daddle far,
But stuck in a pant buin the middle,
And yen tuik him heame in a car.

For dinner, we'd stew'd geuse, and haggish,
Cow'd-leady, and het bacon pye,
Boil'd fluiks, tatey-hash, beastin puddin,
Saut salmon, and cabbish; forby
Pork, pancakes, black puddins, sheep trotters,
And custert, and mustert, and veal,
Grey-pez keale, and lang apple dumplins:—
I wish ev'ry yen far'd as weel!

The breyde, geavin aw roun about her,
Cries, “Wuns! we forgat butter sops!”
The breydegruim fan nae teyme for talkin,
But wi' stannin pye greas'd his chops.
We'd loppar'd milk, skim'd milk, and kurn'd milk,
Well watter, smaw beer, aw at yence;
“Shaff! bring yell in piggens!” rwoars Dalton,
“Deil tek them e'er cares for expence!”

151

Now aw cut and cleek'd frae their neybors,
'Twas even down thump, pull and haul;
Joe Head gat a geuse aw together,
And off he crap into the faul:
Muckle Nanny cried, “Shem o' sec weastry!”
The ladle she brak owre ILL Bell;
Tom Dalton sat thrang in a corner,
And eat nar the weight of his sel.

A hillibuloo was now started,
'Twas “Rannigal! whee cares for tee?”
“Stop, Tommy! whee's weyfe was i' th' carras!
Tou'd ne'er been a man, but for me!”
“Od dang thee!”—“To jail I cud sen thee,
Peer scraffles!”—“Thy lan grows nae gurse.”
“Ne'er ak! it's my awn, and it's paid for—
But whee was't stuil auld Tim Jwohn' purse?”

Ned Bulman wad feght wi' Gworge Goffet,
Peer Gwordy he nobbet stript thin,
And luik'd leyke a cock out o' fedder,
But suin gat a weel-bleaken'd skin;
Neist, Sanderson fratch'd wid a hay-stack,
And Deavison fught wi' the whins:
Smith Leytle fell out wi' the cobbles,
And peel'd aw the bark of his shins.

152

The hay-bay was now somewhat seyded,
And young fwok the music men miss'd,
They'd drucken leyke fiddlers in common,
And fawn owre ayont an aul kist;
Some mair fwok that neet were a-missin,
Than Wully, and Jonathan Strang—
But decency whispers, “What matter!
Tou munnet put them in the sang!”

Auld Dalton thought he was at Carel;
Says he, “Jacob! see what's to pay!
Come, wosler! heaste—get out the horses,
We'll e'en teake the rwoad, and away!”
He cowp'd off his stuil, leyke a san bag,
Tom Ridley beel'd out, “Deil may care!”
For a whart o' het yell, and a stick in't,
Dick Simson 'll tell ye far mair.

Come, bumper the Cummerlan lasses,
Their marrows can seldom be seen;
And he that won't feght to defend them,
I wish he may ne'er want black een!
May our murry-neets, clay-daubins, races,
And weddins, ay finish wi' glee;
And when ought's amang us worth nwotish,
Lang may I be present to see!

University of Virginia Library

THE CODBECK WEDDIN.