 | Cumberland Ballads |  |
ROBERT ANDERSON'S CUMBERLAND BALLADS.
322
THIS LUIVE SAE BREKS A BODY'S REST.
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.
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 gushed frae my e'e.
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 gushed 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 cheerfu' honest heart;
Wi' him, my varra life o' life!
I's fain to meet, but leath to part.
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 cheerfu' honest heart;
Wi' him, my varra life o' life!
I's fain to meet, but leath to part.
370
THE LAST NEW SHOON OUR BETTY GAT.
The last new shoon our Betty gat,
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud hae them leady like,
Tho' she hes corns for evermair!
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be white, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think o' other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!
They pinch her feet, the deil may care!
What, she mud hae them leady like,
Tho' she hes corns for evermair!
Nae black gairn stockins will she wear,
They mun be white, and cotton feyne!
This meks me think o' other teymes,
The happy days o' auld lang seyne!
Our dowter, tui, a palace
bought,
A guid reed cloak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps—
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear.
Nit ae han's turn o' wark she'll dui,
She'll nowther milk nor sarra t'sweyne—
The country's puzzen'd round wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne!
A guid reed cloak she cannot wear;
And stays, she says, spoil leady's sheps—
Oh! it wad mek a parson swear.
371
She'll nowther milk nor sarra t'sweyne—
The country's puzzen'd round wi' preyde,
For lasses work'd reet hard lang seyne!
We've three guid rooms in our clay house,
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit—what cou'd I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aseyde,
It meeght hae sarra'd me and mine;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house—
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!
Just big eneugh for sec as we;
They'd hev a parlour built wi' bricks,
I mud submit—what cou'd I dee?
The sattle neist was thrown aseyde,
It meeght hae sarra'd me and mine;
My mudder thought it mens'd a house—
But we think shem o' auld lang seyne!
We us'd to gae to bed at dark,
And rose agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only time for wark,
If fwok are only healthy and wad thrive:
Now we get up—nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.
And rose agean at four or five;
The mworn's the only time for wark,
If fwok are only healthy and wad thrive:
Now we get up—nay, God kens when!
And nuin's owre suin for us to deyne;
I's hungry or the pot's hawf boil'd,
And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.
Deuce tek the fuil-invented tea!
For tweyce a-day we that mun have:
Then taxes get so monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan',
Sin' fwok mud like their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san' to auld lang seyne!
For tweyce a-day we that mun have:
Then taxes get so monstrous hee,
The deil a plack yen now can seave!
There's been nae luck throughout the lan',
Sin' fwok mud like their betters sheyne;
French fashions mek us parfet fuils;
We're caff and san' to auld lang seyne!
372
THE BUCK O' KINGWATTER.
When I was single, I rid a feyne naig,
And was caw'd the Buck o' Kingwatter;
Now the cwoat o' my back has 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 hae married, that day I married,
But I was young, feulish, and wanton.
And was caw'd the Buck o' Kingwatter;
Now the cwoat o' my back has 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 hae 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
373
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 snipe;
Then we've 'tatey and point ev'ry Monday.
Sing, Oh, the lasses, &c.
If we get a bit meat on a Sunday,
She cuts me nae mair than wad physic a snipe;
Then we've 'tatey and point ev'ry Monday.
Sing, Oh, the lasses, &c.
Tho' weary o' life, wi' this guid-for-nought wife,
I wish I cou'd get sec anudder;
And then I cou'd gie the deevil the teane,
For teakin away the tudder!
Sing, Oh, the lasses, &c.
I wish I cou'd get sec anudder;
And then I cou'd gie the deevil the teane,
For teakin away the tudder!
Sing, Oh, the lasses, &c.
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