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ANDERSON'S 

CUMBERLAND    BALLADS 

AND    SONGS. 


SOV\j 


ANDERSON'S 

CUMBERLAND  BALLADS 

AND  SONGS. 

CENTENARY     EDITION.* 

EDITED,   WITH 

LIFE  OF  ANDERSON  &  NOTES, 

BY 

REV.  T.   ELLWOOD,  M.A., 

RECTOR  OF  TORVER, 

And   ormerly  Master  in  St.  Bees  Grammar  School. 

Author  of  "  The  English  Dialect  Society's  Glossary  of  the  Dialect  of 

Cumberland,  Westmorland  and  North  Lancashire," 

"  The  Songs  and  Singers  of  Cumberland,"  &c. 

ALSO   WITH 

GLOSSARIAL   CONCORDANCE, 

BY 

GEO.    CROWTHER. 

*The  last  o'  December,  lang  may  we  remember, 
At  five  o'  the  mworn,  eighteen  hundred  an  twee  (three). 
Here's  health  an  success  to  the  brave  Jwohnny  Dawston 
An  monie  sec  meetings  may  we  leeve  to  see." — 

"Blackwell  Murry  Neet,"  page  53. 

ULVERSTON  : 

PRINTED  AND  PUBLISHED  BY  W.  HOLMES,  LTD., 
1904. 


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LIFE    OF    ANDERSON. 


Extracts  from  Autobiography  : — 

"At  six  o'clock  on  the  snowy  morning  of 
February  ist,  1770,  I  beheld  the  light  of  the  world 
at  the  Damside,  in  the  Parish  of  St.  Mary,  in  the 
suburbs  of  the  ancient  city  of  Carlisle.  I  was  a  poor 
little  tender  being  scarce  worth  the  trouble  of  rearing, 
and  was  the  youngest  of  nine  children,  born  of 
parents  getting  up  in  years,  who  with  all  their 
kindred  had  been  kept  in  bondage  by  poverty,  hard 
labour  and  crosses. 

"  At  an  early  age  I  was  placed  in  a  Charity  School, 
supported  at  that  time  by  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of 
Carlisle  for  the  Education  of  children  only.  Having 
studied  my  letters,  the  see-saw  drone  of  the  "Primer" 
and  waded  through  the  "  Reading-Made-Easy,"  and 
"  Dyche's  Spelling  Book"  I  was  now  turned  over  to 
a  long,  lean,  needy  Pretender  to  Knowledge.  He 
devoted  much  time  to  angling,  and  I  was  always 
selected  to  accompany  him  in  those  fishing  expedi 
tions.  It  was  during  those  summer  excursions  that 
an  attachment  to  rural  scenery  first  stole  over  my 
mind.  A  love  of  nature  grew  in  me  from  this  period 
to  manhood  and  such  has  been  the  influence  of  this 
passion  for  nature,  that  it  has  been  the  dearest  wish 
of  my  heart  to  creep  into  retirement  in  the  declining 
years  of  my  life,  and  strike  the  strings  of  my  feeble 
harp  in  the  shades  of  peace.  From  this  teacher  I 
was  removed  by  my  parents  to  the  Quaker's  School, 
under  Mr.  Isaac  Ritson  a  very  learned  and  ingenious 
man. 

"  At  the  age  of  10  years,  I  left  school  to  try  to 
earn  a  little  to  assist  my  father  who  was  now  very 
infirm.  I  was  employed  as  a  Calico  Printer  under 
my  brother  and  my  wages  one  and  sixpence  a  week 
were  presented  to  my  beloved  father.  From 
infancy  I  was  fond  of  drawing,  especially  animals, 
and  to  this  amusement  my  evenings  were  chiefly 
devoted.  For  a  self-taught  artist  my  early  efforts 


viii.  LIFE    OF   ANDERSON. 

afford  evidence  of  industry,  but  they  are  devoid  of 
anything  indicative  of  genius.  My  next  change 
was  to  be  bound  apprentice  to  a  pattern  drawer 
with  Messrs.  T.  Losh  and  Co.,  Denton  Holme  near 
Carlisle  where  I  enjoyed  all  the  happiness  an 
industrious  apprentice  can  hope  for  ;  being  treated 
with  every  mark  of  esteem.  While  here  I  turned  my 
thoughts  to  music,  and  as  from  childhood  a  love 
of  rural  life  had  grown  with  me,  I  let  slip  few  op 
portunities  of  spending  the  Sabbath  more  especially 
in  summer  with  friends  in  some  neighbouring  village. 

"  It  was  on  paying  a  welcome  visit  at  a  friend's 
house  that  I  was  first  smitten  with  female  charms. 
Picture  to  yourself  a  diffident  youth  in  his  sixteenth 
year  daily  pouring  out  the  sigs  of  a  sincere  heart  for 
an  artless  cottager  somewhat  youger  than  myself. 

She  was  all  my  thoughts  by  day, 
And  all  my  dreams  by  night. 

At  church  she  drew  my  attention  from  the  preacher. 
On  her  "  I  could  have  gaz'd  my  soul  away,"  and  I 
have  a  thousand  times  fancied  to  myself  our  joining 
hands  at  the  Hymeneal  altar.  Whatever  I  had  had 
of  worldly  possessions  I  would  gladly  have  bestowed 
upon  her.* 

"When  in  London,  where  I  had  obtained 
employment  before  the  expiration  of  my  appren 
ticeship,  my  first  attempt  at  poetical  composition 
was  made  in  a  song  called  "  Lucy  Grey,"  which 
with  some  others  was  afterwards  set  to  music 
and  sung  at  the  Vauxhall.  While  in  London  my 
poor  father  whom  I  had  regularly  supported  paid 
me  an  unexpected  visit.  He  was  in  his  75th  year,  and 
had  walked  from  Carlisle  to  London  a  distance  of 
301  miles.  Such  however  was  his  aversion  to  the 
noise  and  tumult  of  London  that  I  could  only 
prevail  upon  him  to  remain  with  me  seven  days  at 
the  end  of  which  time  he  returned  to  Carlisle." 

In  1796  Anderson  returned  from  London  to  Car 
lisle  to  support  the  declining  years  of  his  aged  father. 
Employment  was  offered  to  him  by  Messrs.  Lamb, 
Scott,  Foster,  and  Co.,  and  the  situation  in  his  native 
place  proved  in  every  sense  agreeable,  and  he  gives 

*Read  in  this  connexion  the  Ballad  of  "Sally  Gray,"  page  ro 
reads  like  a  page  of  autobiography." 


LIFE    OF   ANDERSON,  ix. 

the  following  account  of  the  first  commencement  of 
his  literary  career  : — "  I  had  now  written  a  great 
number  of  poetical  pieces,  and  in  1798,  ambition 
led  me  like  too  many  of  my  brother  scribblers  to 
publish  a  volume  of  poems,  printed  by  John  Mitchell 
and  dedicated  to  J.  C.  Curwen,  Esq.,  M.P.  From  this 
publication  I  received  little  more  than  dear  bought 
praise.  I  have  already  more  than  once  adverted 
to  the  pleasures  rural  life  afforded  me.  My  only 
poetical  delight  has  been  the  study  of  nature,  and 
ff  any  merit  can  be  claimed  for  any  effusions  of  my 
music  it  is  when  she  appears  in  her  rustic  dress. 
The  manners  and  dialect  of  the  Cumberland  peasantry 
now  occupied  a  great  share  of  my  attention.  In 
December,  1801, 1  published  the  Ballad  called  "  Betty 
Brown "  in  the  Cumbrian  dialect.  The  praise 
bestowed  by  many  but  particularly  my  friend 
Thomas  Sanderson,  himself  a  Poet  of  no  mean 
pretensions,  encouraged  me  to  other  attempts  in 
the  same  species  of  poetry  ;  at  length  a  sufficient 
number  of  pieces  were  produced  to  form  a  volume. 
The  friend  I  have  named  was  kind  enough  to  furnish 
me  with  notes  to  the  volume  and  at  his  request 
it  was  sent  to  the  Press  under  the  title  of  "  Cumber 
land  Ballads."  The  work  became  somewhat  popular, 
the  edition  was  soon  exhausted,  and  a  new  impression 
was  sent  into  the  world  from  the  Press  of  Mr.  Hether- 
ton,  of  Wigton,  who  purchased  the  copyright." 

Prior  to  the  issue  of  this  second  edition,  Ander 
son  had  left  Carlisle  at  the  earnest  entreaty  of  a 
friend  having  the  provision  of  a  more  lucrative 
situation  at  Brookfield,  near  Belfast.  On  reaching 
Dumfries,  he  states  that  his  wish  was  so  great  to  pay 
the  tributary  tear  at  the  Tomb  of  Robert  Burns, 
that  this  alone  induced  him  to  prefer  a  pedestrian 
journey  through  Scotland  to  a  short  sail  from 
Mary  port. 

Owing  to  the  pressure  of  the  times  and  the  want 
of  spirit  in  the  proprietors,  the  Print  Works  at  Belfast, 
were  closed  in  less  than  2  years.  In  that  period  he 
had  published  much  in  the  Belfast  Newspaper 
which  led  him  into  the  Society  of  many  literary 
characters.  He  wrote  and  was  about  to  publish  an 
"  Adieu  to  Erin  "  when  he  met  with  an  unexpected 
engagement  at  Carnmoney  six  miles  from  Belfast. 
His  employer  was  David  Bigger,  of  Belfast,  Proprie- 


x.  LIFE    OF   ANDERSON. 

tor  of  the  Calico  Print  Works  at  Carnmoney.  He 
resided  and  worked  here  until  the  death  of  David 
Bigger  in  1818  and  the  following  record  of  his  sojourn 
in  Ireland  has  been  most  kindly  furnished'  to  me  by 
Francis  Joseph  Bigger,  of  Ardrie,  Belfast,  the 
grandson  of  David  Bigger  above  mentioned,  and 
editor  of  the  Ulster  Journal  of  Archaeology,  a 
magazine  full  of  interest  in  Antiquarian  records 
and  research  in  the  North  of  Ireland. 

Referring  to  this  time  Mr.  Bigger  gives  a  letter 
and  the  following  epitaph  written  to  his  employer's 
\Vidow — the  originals  of  which  are  still  preserved  at 
Ardrie  : — 

EPITAPH  ON  DAVID  BIGGER,  ESQ. 

Affection  tender  rears  this  humble  stone, 
A  mould'ring  mark  of  gratitude  to  one 
Who  in  the  Husband,  Parent  and  the  Friend, 
Love,  fondness  and  sincerity  did  blend  ; 
Whose  thoughts  ambition  never  taught  to  stray, 
Nor  owned  unlawful  pleasures'  dangerous  sway. 
The  love  of  country  warmed  his  feeling  breast, 
And  proud  was  he  to  succour  the  distrest. 
Cheerful  resigned  life's  peaceful  vale  he  trod, 
And  rested  on  the  mercy  cf  his  God. 
Go,  reader,  and  when  in  earth's  silent  womb, 
May  truth  give  such  a  tribute  to  thy  tomb. 

This  epitaph  was  not  published  in  the  loca 
press  in  Ireland  but  appears  (omitting  lines  3  and  4 
in  the  Carlisle  Edition  of  Anderson's  Poems  published 
in  1820,  Vol.  II.  page  91. 

"  It  is  said,"  says  Mr.  Bigger,  ''that  Anderson 
while  resident  at  Carnmoney  almost  rivalled 
Goldsmith  in  his  Charity,  sparing  himself  nothing. 
He  would  have  given  all  his  money,  or  food  or  even 
his  very  clothes  to  those  who  were  in  need."  In  his 
memoir  he  says  :  "  Duty  soon  led  me  to  share  my 
income  with  the  wretched  and  helpless,  which,  my 
friends  well  know,  added  no  little  to  the  happiness 
of  many,  and  afforded  me  true  pleasure.  Charity 
balls,  as  they  are  termed,  were  frequently  held,  and 
at  these  I  collected  considerable  sums,  and  without 
doubt,  saved  numbers  from  the  grave.  Subscriptions 
were  liberally  attended  to  at  the  Print  Works, 
whenever  they  were  deemed  necessary,  not  only  for 
the  wretched  families  employed  there,  but  for  the 
helpless  throughout  the  neighbourhood.  On  these 
occasions  I  was  uniformly  appointed  collector,  and  I 


LIFE    OF    ANDERSON.  xi. 

still  pray  for  the  happiness  of  my  fellow  workmen, 
whose  benevolence  will  seldom  be  equalled." 

During  this  time  his  lodging  was  at  a  retired 
farmhouse,  with  a  peaceable  family,  consisting  of 
Thomas  and  Andrew  Stewart  and  some  female 
members,  the  place  was  known  as  Springtown,  in 
the  townland  of  Ballyearl,  Carnmoney.  So  much 
charity  on  the  part  of  Anderson  led  to  kindness 
of  a  different  sort  being  pressed  upon  him,  and  he 
fell  a  victim  to  inebriety,  a  habit  which  ever  after 
wards  followed  him,  shadowing  him  to  the  grave. 

Anderson  did  not  publish  any  volume  in  Ireland, 
most  of  his  pieces  appearing  from  time  to  time  in 
the  Neivs  Letter  and  Commercial  Chronicle.  Those 
which  appeared  in  the  News  Letter  are  found  in  a 
"  Collection  of  Poems  on  various  subjects,"  Vol.  II. 
(Belfast,  Alexander  Mackay,  1810).  They  are  ten 
in  number,  and  not  in  the  dialect. 

Calico  Printing  in  Ireland  having  now  been  for 
sometime  on  the  decline,  he  found  if  necessary  to 
leave  Belfast,  and  to  return  to  his  native  city,  Carlisle. 
He  had  every  reason  to  be  gratified  with  the  re 
ception  which  he  received  from  all  classes  amongst 
those  to  whom  his  works  had  made  him  known, 
and  he  was  shortly  afterwards  advised  to  publish 
his  works  in  order  to  make  some  provision  for  his 
declining  years.  "  Diffidence,"  he  says,  "  would  have 
prevented  me  from  making  such  an  attempt  had  not 
necessity  forced  me  to  it.  A  committee  was 
appointed  who  have  used  every  exertion  to  insure  my 
happiness  in  the  winter  of  life  and  the  same  anxiety 
has  been  shown  by  many  in  various  parts  of  the 
Kingdom."  Two  volumes  were  accordingly  publish 
ed  at  Carlisle  in  1820  ;  prefixed  by  "An  Essay  on 
the  character  and  manners  of  the  Peasantry  of 
Cumberland,"  from  the  pen  of  his  friend  Thomas 
Sanderson  ;  and  a  memoir  written  by  himself. 

The  issue  of  this  edition  notwithstanding  the  long 
and  most  influential  list  of  subscribers*  by  which  it 
is  headed  does  not  seem  to  have  brought  him  that 
needful  aid  that  was  expected,  there  is  no  certain 
evidence  of  what  he  did  or  what  he  did  not  receive 
from  the  various  edition  of  his  works  for  with  the 
open  handed  generosity  that  is  everywhere  apparent 

*  The  printed  list  of  subscribers  numbers  nearly  one  thousand 
names,  and  includes  Robert  Southey  and  William  Wordsworth. 


xii.  LIFE    OF    ANDERSON. 

in  his  doings  this  would  make  very  little  difference 
to  his  permanent  resources,  and  there  is  certain 
evidence  that  very  shortly  after  this  Edition  had 
appeared  the  position  of  'his  finances  was  just  as 
low  as  ever.*  He  went  to  live  at  Hay  ton,  a  village 
7  miles  from  Carlisle  in  1823,  and  records  this  in  his 
"  Farewell  to  Carel  "  and  many  of  his  later  poems 
appear  to  have  been  written  while  there. 

During  the  latter  portion  of  the  period  that 
lapsed  between  his  return  from  Ireland  and  his 
death  the  poet  at  times  seems  to  have  sunk  into 
those  fits  of  deep  depression  to  which  poets  in  all 
ages  and  under  all  conditions  seem  to  have  been 
subject,  and  he  appears  at  times  to  have  held  that 
same  morbid  fear  of  the  workhouse  that  Burns  in  his 
latter  moments  seems  to  have  had  of  the  jail.  There 
was  much  to  depress  him.  No  one  can  realise  this 
fully  who  has  not  read  through  and  collated  his 
manuscripts,  and  seen  the  most  careful  way  in  which 
he  has  written  and  rewritten  and  worked  out  his 
subjects  some  of  them  with  most  careful  analysis. 
They  take  in  a  range  of  subjects  from  what  were 
evidently  intended  to  be  Epic  Poemsf  and  Plays 
down  to  those  terse  popular  songs  and  ballads  which 
will  live  while  the  Cumbrian  Dialect  lives  and  possess 
a  talismanic  influence  while  Cumbrian  can  grasp  the 
hand  of  Cumbrian  in  the  strong  assurance  that — 

Canny  ole  Cumberland  caps  them  aw  still. 

All  this  had  been  done  by  him  in  what  was  evidently 
a  life  work,  and  while  he  could  work  at  his  trade  he 
did  work  at  it  honestly  and  well.  There  is  an 
excellent  record  of  his  doings  as  a  workman  in 
Ireland.  And  Mr.  Bigger  who  is  well  qualified 
to  speak  in  this  respect  says,  "  Anderson  was  an 
excellent  workman  when  at  Carnmoney  and  many 
beautiful  samples  of  printed  calico  from  his  designs 
are  still  preserved  at  Ardrie."  And  yet  what  was  the 
sum  of  it — poetry  and  workmanship  alike  ?  He 
might  say  of  them  as  another  Robert  had  said  of 
his  life  long  efforts  : — 

*  I  allude  to  an  appeal  he  made  to  the  Publishers  to  purchase 
the  copyright  of  his  Ballads  now  increased  to  177 — this  appea 
was  unsuccessful. 

tThe  Epic  Poem  is  "The  Rose  of  Corbye "  in  ordinary 
English,  containing  1500  or  1600  lines,  and  occupying  60  pages  in 
Vol.  I.  of  the  edition  of  1820. 


LIFE    OF   ANDERSON.  xiii. 

Here  half  fed,  half  mad,  half  sarket, 
Is  aw  the  amount. 

Age  and  want,  "  an  ill  matched  pair,"  were 
rapidly  stealing  upon  him.  His  profession  was  fast 
becoming  a  decaying  industry  in  which  he  could  not 
get  work  if  he  would.  In  one  of  his  hitherto  un 
published  poems  he  seems  to  refer  to  such  a  state 
of  depression  when  he  says  : — 

How  many  aye  are  wrapt  in  care, 
Whea  ne'er  a  mortal  wad  oppress, 
Wheyle  others  plenty  daily  share, 
Still  wishin  brothers  in  distress. 
Years  fifty-five  now  owre  are  flown 
Sin  furst  on  this  weyl  warl  aw  gaz'd  ; 
Weel  rear'd  by  twea  in  want  aye  thrown, 
An  leyke  them  aw  mun  ne'er  be  rais'd. 

About  this  time  occurred  an  event  which  must 
have  tended  much  to  deepen  and  perpetuate  his 
sadness.  The  Poet  Sanderson  had  been  his  life  long 
friend  and  companion.  He  himself  gives  the  date  of 
1795  as  the  time  from  which  he  had  first  known  him 
and  from  thence  they  seem  to  have  been  to  each  other 
as  David  and  Jonathan.  Sanderson  seems  mostly 
to  have  acted  as  Pioneer  in  Anderson's  literary 
efforts.  When  he  had  written  "  Betty  Brown  "  in 
the  dialect  he  says,  "  The  praise  bestowed  upon  it 
by  many,  particularly  by  my  faithful  friend  Thomas 
Sanderson,  himself  a  Poet  of  no  mean  pretensions 
encouraged  me  to  other  attempts  in  the  same  species 
of  Poetry  and  at  length  a  sufficient  number  of  pieces 
were  produced  to  form  a  volume,"  Sanderson 
furnished  notes  to  this  volume  and  at  Sanderson's 
request  it  was  sent  to  the  Press  under  the  title  of 
"  Cumberland  Ballads "  and  when  in  1820  what 
from  a  literary  point  of  view  must  be  considered 
the  most  important*  edition  of  his  works,  appeared 
in  2  volumes  it  was  prefaced  by  an  Essay  upon  the 
character  and  manners  of  the  Peasantry  of  Cumber 
land,  by  Thomas  Sanderson.  His  poems  and  other 
writings  abound  with  references  to  Sanderson.  By 
a  custom  familiar  enough  in  literary  circles  at  that 
time,  ieste  "  Sylvander  and  Clarinda"  of  Burns,  he 

*It  derives  its  importance  from  the  size  and  execution  of  the 
work  and  from  the  number  of  subscribers  ;  from  a  dialect  point  of 
view  it  has  not  much  value,  as  it  only  includes  18  pieces  in  the 
At^i^t  [EDITOR], 


xiv.  LIFE    OF   ANDERSON. 

referred  to  Sanderson  as  Crito.  And  Crito  or  Sander 
son  seems  to  have  been  to  him  in  Cumberland  what 
Andrew  McKenzie  was  to  him  in  Ireland,  at  once 
a  literary  collabrateur  and  a  firm  and  unfailing  friend. 
Sanderson  lived  for  many  years  as  a  teacher  in 
Kirklinton  and  is  sometimes  known  as  the  Kirk- 
linton  or  Levens  Poet.  I  went  and  resided  in  that 
Parish  for  2  or  3  years  at  a  period  of  about  24  or  25 
years  after  his  death ;  my  home  there  was  not  far 
from  where  he  had  lived  and  his  name  and  doings 
still  fresh  in  the  memory  of  the  residents,  I  therefore 
heard  much  about  him.  It  is  always  a  pleasure  to 
me  to  speak  of  Sanderson  and  his  connexion  with 
the  doings  and  literature  of  former  days.  For  a 
period  of  about  50  years  his  life  is  marked  with  a 
devotion  to  the  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Cumberland 
to  its  Dialect  to  its  Place  names,  to  its  Literature, 
that  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  author,  and  add 
to  this  it  is  a  record  of  purity,  of  virtue,  of  kindliness, 
of  heart,  of  abstemiousness  at  times  amounting 
to  ascetism  and  that  I  think  is  literally  true  of  him 
which  I  have  in  Anderson's  own  handwriting  in 
the  notes  to  one  of  his  Poems  that  he  was — 

One  born  to  succour  and  instruct  mankind, 
To  vice,  ambition,  e'en  to  folly  blind. 

He  has,  according  to  an  old  copy  I  have  of  the 
work,  edited  the  first  edition  or  one  of  he  first  editions 
of  the  Songs  and  Poems  in  the  Dialect  of  Rev.  Joshua 
Relph,  vicar  of  Sebergham,  and  singularly  enough 
in  that  volume  which  appeared  in  1797  is  an  ad 
vertisement  of  the  very  first  edition  of  Anderson's 
Poems  not  in  the  Dialect  which  appeared  at  the 
beginning  of  the  following  year,  and  as  a  specimen 
of  his  work  a  Sonnet  to  the  river  Eden  is  given  in 
the  conventional  14  lines  ;  this  Sonnet  appears  again 
at  page  106,  Vol.  II,  of  the  edition  of  1820,  and  is 
probably  the  first  of  his  pieces  that  ever  appeared 
in  Print. 

Burns  says  of  the  muse  of  poetry  : — 

The  Muse,  nae  Poet  ever  found  her, 
Till  by  himsel  he  learn' d  to  wander 
Adown  some  trotting  stream's  meander, 
An  no  think  lang  ; 

Oh  sweet  to  stray  and  pensive  ponder 
Some  heart-felt  sang. 


LIFE    OF   ANDERSON.  xv. 

And  thus  much  of  Sanderson's  time  was  spent  alone 
or  with  Anderson  on  the  margin  of  the  river  Lyne.* 
Near  Shield  Green  where  he  lived  and  died  is  a  stone 
trough  or  well  known  yet  as  Sanderson's  Well. 
It  has  been  cut  by  him  in  the  Sandstone  rock, 
through  which  the  river  Lyne  flows  there  and  is 
situated  in  one  of  the  most  lonely  and  romantic 
recesses  of  the  river.  It  is  filled  by  a  clear  spring 
from  above  and  in  summer  it  is  almost  hidden  by 
the  foliage.  Here  the  Poet  used  to  come  from  his 
cottage  at  Shield  Green,  where  he  lived,  as  early 
as  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  and  perform  his 
ablutions,  and  here  he  spent  a  great  portion  of  his 
time.  The  record  of  his  end  is  a  very  sad  one,  and 
is  thus  told  by  the  Poet  Wordsworth  :  "  Shirley's 
death  reminded  me  of  the  sad  close  of  the  life  of  a 
literary  person,  Sanderson  by  name  in  the  neigh 
bouring  County  of  Cumberland.  He  lived  in  a 
cottage  by  himself,  which,  from  want  of  care  on  his 
part,  took  fire  in  the  night.  The  neighbours  were 
alarmed  ;  they  ran  to  the  rescue  ;  he  escaped, 
dreadfully  burned,  from  the  flames,  and  lay  down 
(he  was  in  his  /oth  year)  under  a  tree,  a  few  yards 
from  the  door.  His  friends  in  the  meanwhile 
endeavoured  to  save  what  they  could  of  his  property 
from  the  flames.  He  inquired  most  anxiously  after 
a  box  in  which  his  manuscripts  had  been  deposited 
with  a  view  to  the  publication  of  a  laboriously 
corrected  edition,  and  on  being  told  that  the  box  was 
consumed  he  expired  in  a  few  minutes,  saying  or 
rather  sighing  out  the  words  "  Then  I  do  not  wish 
to  live." 

The  following  is  the  inscription  on  the  head 
stone,  with  a  brass  platef  which  marks  his  grave  in 
Kirklinton  Churchyard,  near  where  he  died  : — 


*  The  Lyne,  one  of  the  most  romantic  and  picturesque  of 
Cumberland  rivers,  flows  through  Kirklinton,  to  which  it  gives  the 
name  Kirk  Levington  or  Kirk  Lyne  Town,  falls  into  the  Esk  and 
thence  into  the  Solway. 

+  I  owe  the  ability  to  give  this  Inscription  and  Epitaph  to  the 
kindness  of  my  old  friend  G.  J.  Bell,  Esq.,  son  of  Rev.  G.  Bell,  so 
many  years  Rector  of  Kirklinton.  He  kindly  went  to  the  church 
yard  and  copied  them  for  me.  [Editor.] 


xvi.  LIFE    OF    ANDERSON. 

ERECTED 
IN    MEMORY    OF 

THOMAS    SANDERSON, 

A    NATIVE    OF    SEBERGHAM, 
WHO  DIED  AT  SHIELD  GREEN, 

ON   THE    I6TH   OF  JANY.,   1829. 


EPITAPH. 

"  A  far  from  busy  town  "  and  noisy  strife, 
The  Levens  Poet  passed  his  peaceful  life  ; 
Of  manners  simple,  but  of  polished  mind, 
He  knew  the  proper  sphere  to  man  assigned  ; 
In  friendship  warm— the  kindly-feeling  glow 
Illumin'd  all  his  actions  here  below  : 
Esteem'd  by  those  who  modest  worth  regard, 
He  lived  contented  with  their  just  award  : 
Pleas'd  with  the  rural  cot  and  verdant  wood, 
And  gentle  soothings  of  the  limpid  flood, 
Along  the  daisied  mead  he  lonely  trod. 
"  And  followed  Nature  up  to  Nature's  God," 
But  o'er  his  end  the  Muse  must  draw  a  veil, 
Nor  here  relate  the  mind-distressing  tale  ; 
His  friends  deplore  his  loss  with  many  a  tear, 
And  o'er  his  tomb  this  humble  tribute  rear. 

The  lines  are  from  the  pen  of  the  Rev.  Jo*hn 
Hope,  for  many  years  the  respected  Rector  of  Staple- 
ton,  and  equally  well  known  as  a  Scholar,  a  Teacher, 
and  a  Divine, 

It  may  be  taken  for  granted  that  there  was 
much  in  that  box  relating  to  Anderson  and  the 
Cumberland  Ballads,  as  the  two  poets  were  at  that 
time  in  close  communion. 

Anderson  survived  the  death  of  his  friend  about 
3  years  or  thereabouts.  He  lived  amid  the  sur 
roundings  of  depression  and  poverty  and  as  one 
of  those  who  have  written  of  him  says  possibly 
the  gloom  of  intemperance  may  in  some  measure 
have  shadowed  him  almost  to  the  last.  For  the 
concluding  twelve  months  of  his  life  he  was  sup 
ported  from  a  monthly  subscription  entered  into 
by  many  of  his  friends  and  admirers,  chiefly  in 
habitants  of  Carlisle  and  he  died  in  Annetwell  Street, 
Carlisle,  on  the  26th  of  September,  1833,  in  the  63rd 
year  of  his  age,  and  was  interred  in  the  burial  ground 
of  Carlisle  Cathedral.  A  monument,  of  which  the 


SANDERSON'S    TOMB     IN     KIRKLINTON    CHURCHYARD. 


LIFE    OF    ANDERSON.  xvii. 

following  is  an  illustration,  has   since  been  erected 
to  his  memory  in  the  Cathedral. 


The  surplus  of  the  Subscription  Fund  was 
expended  on  a  Headstone  over  the  spot  where 
he  is  interred. 

Many  of  his  Ballads,  Songs  and  Memoranda 
were  scattered  about  in  M.S.S  among  his  friends 
and  relations.*  And  it  has  been  through  their 
kindness  in  letting  me  have  the  loan  of  them  for 

*  My  thanks  are  especially  due  to  Mr.  Alderman  Wigham,  of 
Carlisle.  Through  his  kindness  I  obtained  from  Mr.  Anderson,  the 
Poet's  nephew,  over  200  Songs  in  the  Poet's  handwriting,  with 
other  matter  ;  and  in  everything  else  connected  with  this  volume 
he  has  taken  a  most  helpful  interest.  Dr.  Prevost,  Editor  of 
Dickinson's  "Cumberland  Glossary,"  and  T.  H.  Coward,  Esq.,  of 
Silecroft,  have  also  afforded  me  kind  aid.— [Editor.] 


LIFE    OF    ANDERSON. 


collation  and  examination  that  I  have  been  enabled 
to  add  in  the  present  edition  important  and  character 
istic  Songs  which  have  hitherto  been  unpublished, 
and  to  those  friends  scattered  as  they  are  all  over 
Cumberland  and  some  of  them  far  outside  of  Cumber 
land  I  hereby  tender  my  best  thanks  for  their  aid 
in  the  work.  The  Poet  excelled  in  minute  and  ex 
cellent  writing  of  which  two  specimens,  "  Winter," 


and  *"  Wellington  and  Waterloo  "  are  given  in  exact 
facsimile. 

5?  His  shorter  Poems  and  Songs  are  generally 
written  on  separate  sheets  or  scraps  of  paper  of 
which  I  have  or  have  had  about  250  in  his  own 
handwriting.  An  erasure  or  a  correction  in  them 
occurs  very  rarely  indeed.  Th  handwriting  is  neat 
and  beautiful  and  almost  like  copper  plate  in  some 


*  The  MS.  of  "  Wellingtoi 
Miles  Mark,  Carlisle 


aud  Waterloo  "  was  lent  me  by  Mr. 


LIFE    OF    ANDERSON.  xix. 

instances.  In  some  instances  he  seems  to  have 
written  several  copies  of  the  some  Ballad,  in  fact 
there  are  such  examples  in  his  own  handwriting  in 
s  >me  of  the  copies  that  I  have.  I  had  often  wonder 
ed  at  the  diversity  to  be  found  in  some  of  the  printed 
editions  of  his  works.  The  collation  of  his  Ballads 
discloses  the  reason  of  this  for  the  same  Ballad  he 
has  used  different  words  in  the  different  copies, 
hence  the  "  various  readings  "  that  have  come  forth 
to  the  world.  I  subjoin  two  or  three  instances  of 
variations.  In  the  edition  of  Robertson,  of  Wigton, 
the  first  stanza  of  King  Roger  is — 

'Twas  but  tudder  neet,  efter  darkenin, 
Aroun  the  turf  fire  we  aw  drew  ; 
Our  deame  she  was  sturrin  a  cow-drink, 
Our  Betty  was  winnin  a  clew. 

In  the  edition  of  1828  it  is — 

'Twas  but  tudder  neet  efter  darkenin, 
We  sat  owre  a  bleezing  turf  fire  ; 
Our  deame  she  was  sturrin  a  cow-drink, 
Our  Betty  milked  kye  in  the  byre. 

Of  "Andrew's  Youngest  Dowter,"  I  have  two  copies 
in  the  Poet's  own  writing,  one  is — 

Where  Irthin  mourns  to  Eden's  streams. 
The  other  is — 

Where  Irthin  rows  to  Eden's  streams. 

In  the  edition  of  1805,  "  Johnny  and  Mary,"  Stanza 
4  runs — 

His  aul  fadder  watch'd  till  the  black  hour  o'  midneet, 
Widout  his  dear  Johnny  the  naig  gallop'd  heame  ; 
They  sought  an  they  fan  him  that  mwornin  in  Eden 
Amang  the  green  busses  that  nod  owre  the  stream. 

In  Robertson's  Wigton  edition  it  is — 

At  midneet  the  horse  gallop'd  heame,  but  nea  Johnny, 
The  thowt  made  his  father  and  family  weep  ; 
They  sowt,  an  that  mwornin  the  corp  fan  in  Eden, 
Below  the  green  busses  that  nod  owre  the  deep. 

Many  other  passages  with  such  like  changes  in 
the  different  copies  may  it  be  cited,  and  they  show 
the  extreme  care  with  which  the  Poet  wrote  and 
re-wrote  what  to  him  was  evidently  a  life  work.  He 
has  also  added  in  some  instances  whole  stanzas  to 
the  Poems  at  times  I  think  not  to  their  improvement, 
and  there  are  instances  but  they  are  very  few  in 
which  the  stanzas  have  been  shortened  and  their 
number  curtailed. 


xx.  LIFE    OF    ANDERSON. 

Of  Anderson's  style  of  writing  in  the  Dialect, 
Sanderson,  probably  one  of  the  most  competent 
critics  who  ever  wrote  of  this,  has  the  following 
testimony  : — "  His  Cumberland  Ballads  display 
uncommon  merit,  and  may  be  considered  the  most 
perfect  specimens  of  pastoral  writing  that  have  yet 
appeared.  The  author  has  taken  a  wider  view 
of  rural  life  than  any  of  his  predecessors,  and  has 
been  more  happy  in  describing  the  peculiar  cast 
of  thought  and  expression  by  which  individual 
manners  are  distinguished.  In  delineating  the 
character  of  the  peasantry  he  has  closely  adhered 
to  nature  and  truth,  never  raising  them  above  their 
condition  by  too  much  refinement  and  never  de 
pressing  them  below  it  by  too  much  vulgaritv. 
He  helds  them  up  often  to  laughter  but  never  to 
contempt.  He  has  the  happy  talent  of  catcliing  the 
ludicrous  in  every  thing  that  comes  before  him  and 
expressing  it  with  that  facility  which  gives  its  full 
force  to  the  reader." 

Ere  I  conclude  this  notice  I  may  mention  some 
of  the  reasons  that  have  led  me  to  the  study  of 
Anderson  and  of  the  Cumberland  Dialect  Poets 
generally  in  whose  words  the  Dialect  or  language 
of  our  native  country  may  be  said  in  a  great  measure 
to  be  embalmed.  A  very  strong  reason  which  I 
give  at  the  outset  for  its  study  by  the  Antiquary 
and  the  Philologist  is  the  bearing  which  its  older 
and  more  distinctive  word  forms  have  upon  lan 
guage  generally  and  thus  upon  Comparative  Philo 
logy.  Its  word  forms  derived  as  they  generally 
are  from  the  Norse  in  some  of  its  cognate  languages 
give  the  status  of  a  language  to  this  our  Northern 
Dialect  and  prove  that  it  does  not  derive  its  first 
origin  from  any  merely  accidental  or  corrupted 
source.  These  words  however,  I  have  in  a  great 
measure  dealt  with  in  the  notes  or  in  my  Glossary 
of  the  Cumberland  Dialect,  and  need  not  there 
fore  particularize  them  again.  They  are  however, 
herein  preserved  for  the  future  use  of  the  Anti 
quary  and  Philologist  who  herein  have  a  truthful 
and  unvarnished  record  of  the  language,  the  customs, 
the  manners,  the  superstitions  of  Cumberland  as  they 
existed  over  100  years  ago. 

Our  dialect  Poets  spoke  a  language  which, 
though  fast  dying  out,  still  retains  its  hold  in  many 
of  our  sequestered  valleys,  they  give  truthful  glimpses 


LIFE    OF    ANDERSON.  xxi. 

of  the  manners  and  customs  of  our  forefathers  ;  and 
some  of  the  most  enduring  sketches  of  the  history  of 
our  County  are  preserved,  when  they  are  preserved 
at  all,  in  the  rhyme  and  rhythm  of  their  well 
remembered  lines.  For  retaining  a  vivid  remem 
brance  of  events  ;  for  handing  down  the  memory 
of  manners  and  customs  ;  for  uniting  mankind  in 
one  common  bond  of  brotherhood  ;  for  awakening 
in  them  pure  and  hallowing  remembrances  of  home 
and  friends  ;  and,  I  will  also  add,  for  educating  them 
in  all  that  is  virtuous  and  good  and  noble,  there  is 
no  more  powerful  agency  than  Song. 

I  am  not  now  speaking  of  all  Songs  ;  the  place 
of  light  rnay  be  assumed  by  darkness,  and  evil  may 
usurp  the  character  of  good  ,  and  I  know  that  all 
that  is  lewd,  licentious  and  demoralizing  has  at 
times  been  garbed  in  the  measure  of  a  song.  But 
as  a  rule  Anderson  and  the  rest  of  our  countrymen 
do  not  labour  under  that  imputation.  I  have 
described  elsewhere,*  how  Relph,  the  first  Cumbrian 
dialect  Poet  died.  He  died  with  his  pupils  around 
him,  exhorting  them  to  remember  his  teachings  and 
to  devote  their  lives  to  that  which  was  honourable 
and  dutiful  and  good.  And  his  poetry,  besides 
being  the  reflex  of  the  dialect,  and  manners  of  those 
amongst  whom  he  lived,  is  also  a  reflex  of  purity 
and  simplicity.  Anderson  as  he  had  much  the  widest 
range  of  subejcts  and  has  in  the  dialect  written 
perhaps  as  much  as  all  the  rest  put  together  and 
deals  with  just  the  subjects  that  might  lay  him 
open  to  criticism  in  this  way,  yet  throughout 
inculcates  virtue,  truth,  and  domestic  purity,  and 
though  the  greater  freedom  of  expression  amongst 
the  peasantry  in  those  days  have  brought  about  that 
I  have  occasionally  had  to  omit  a  phrase,  an 
expression,  a  stanza,  or  in  rare  instances  a  whole 
tpoem  yet  the  tout  ensemble  of  his  writings  very 
strongly  evidence  him  to  be  on  the  side  of  temper 
ance,  morality,  purity  and  truth. 

The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  Sanderson,  of 
Wilkinson,  the  Yanwath  Poet  of  Westmorland  and 
others.  I  do  not  claim  for  them  any  high  place  of 
poetic  excellence,  for  the  quiet  and  unobtrusive 

*  In  my  Lecture  on  "  The  Songs  and  Singers  of  Cumberland." 

+  In  this  volume  are  17  Songs  from  Anderson's  MS.  which  have 
not  been  printed  before. 


xxii.  LIFE    OF    ANDERSON. 

manner  in  which  they  placed  their  writings  before 
the  public,  when  they  did  place  them  before  the 
public  at  all,  shows  it  was  the  very  last  claim  that 
they  themselves  would  have  thought  of  making. 
Their  writings  seem  in  many  instances  to  be  but 
the  natural  outcome  of  their  position  and  circum 
stances.  The  quiet  teacher  and  student  relieving 
his  studies  by  translating  into  his  native  dialect  the 
Songs  of  Horace,  or  the  pastorals  of  his  favourite 
Virgil  and  Theocritus.  The  blind  fiddler  describing 
in  the  dialect  the  scenes  of  uproarious  merriment 
to  which  he  himself  had  given  the  key  note,  the  keen 
huntsman  at  the  close  of  a  day's  hunting  dashing  off 
with  his  pen  for  hunting  appointments  "  D'ye  ken 
John  Peel  ?  "  till  John  Peel  is  known  from  the  hills 
of  Cumberland  to  the  woods  of  Tasmania. 

These  are  our  poets,  and  these  are  their  subjects. 
They  serve  to  give  us  a  bond  of  brotherhood  one  to 
another,  and  to  bind  us  with  still  stronger  ties  to  our 
hills  and  valleys,  to  our  native  customs  and  dialects, 
and  to  the  remembrances  of  the  friends  and  the 
scenery  amid  which  our  lives  are  cast  ;  and  they 
seem  to  say  to  use  in  the  words  of  our  own  author 
(Anderson)  with  which  I  may  well  conclude  this 
notice  : — 

We  help  yen  anudder — we  welcome  the  stranger, 

Ourselves  and  our  country  we'll  ivver  defend  ; 
We  pay  bits  o'  taxes  as  well  as  we're  yebble, 

And  pray,  leyke  true  Britons,  the  war  bed  an  end. 
Then  Cummerlan'  lads,  an'  ye  lish  rwosy  lasses, 

If  some  caw  ye  clownish,  ye  needn't  think  shem  ; 
Be  merry  and  wise,  enjoy  innocent  pleasures, 

And  still  seek  for  peace  and  contentment  at  yem. 


THOMAS    ELLWOOD. 


Torver  Rectory, 

December,  1903. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  ANDERSON. 


1798.  —  Poems  on  various  subjects  by  R. 
Anderson,  of  Carlisle,  dedicated  to  J.  C.  Curwen, 
Esq.,  M.P.,  Workington  Hall,  Carlisle,  printed  by  J. 
Mitchell,  for  the  author,  1798,  contains  miscellanies, 
1 6  ;  Epistle,  8,  including  one  to  R.  Burns,  in  Scottish 
dialect  ;  sonnets,  22  ;  epigrams  4  pages,  in  all  227 
pages  in  ordinary  English. 

1805. — Ballads  in  Cumberland  Dialect  by  R. 
Anderson,  Carlisle,  W.  Hodgson,  Ballads  53  all  in 
Dialect,  pages  174  ;  dedicated  to  Colonels  Henry 
Howard,  Esq.,  the  Right  Hon.  Thomas  Wallace, 
Major  Sir  Wilfrid  Lawson,  Bart.,  and  the  Officers  of 
the  Loyal  Cumberland  Rangers. 

1808. — Wigton,  printed  by  R.  Hetherton, 
engraved  frontispiece,  tail  pieces  by  Bewick,  75 
Poems  by  Anderson,  pages  258. 

1809. — Another  edition. 

1811. — Anderson's  popular  songs  selected  from 
his  works,  calculated  to  enliven  the  mind  and  ex 
hilarate  the  spirits  in  difficult  times.  Wigton  printed 
by  R.  Hetherton,  33  pieces,  76  pages. 

1815. — Ballads,  etc.,  Wigton,  Printed  by  E. 
Rook.  Differs  in  no  respect  from  the  edition  of  1808 
except  imprint  on  title. 

1820, — The  Poetical  Works  of  Robert  Anderson, 
author  of  Cumberland  Ballads,  etc.,  to  which  is 
prefixed  the  Life  of  the  Author  written  by  himself. 
An  essay  on  the  character,  manners,  and  customs  of 
the  Peasantry  of  Cumberland,  and  observations  on 
the  style  and  genius  of  the  author  by  Thomas  Sander 
son  in  2  volumes.  Carlisle  :  printed  and  sold  by  B. 
Scott,  English  Street. 

Vol  I.  contains  5  long  Pieces,  4  Enigmas,  15 
Epistles,  in  all  223  pages  ;  vol.  II.  contains  38  Mis 
cellaneous,  9  Sonnets,  18  Ballads,  47  Songs,  in  all 
264  pages.  Almost  all  succeeding  editions  contain 
either  in  whole  or  part  this  Life  of  Anderson,  and 
also  selections  from  essay  and  notes  by  Thomas 
Sanderson. 


xxiv.    BIBLIOGRAPHY    OF    ANDERSON. 

!823. — Ballads  in  the  Cumberland  Dialect  by 
Robert  Anderson  and  others,  Carlisle :  printed  for 
John  Pillie  and  all  Booksellers,  37  pieces,  84  pages. 

!823. Another    edition,    Printed    at   Wigton  ; 

gGi828.— Ballads,  etc.,  Carlisle,  Printed  for  H.  K. 
Snowden,  elegant  vignette,  "  Tib  an  her  maister  "  by 
Lizars.  86  Pieces. 

^34. — Ballads,  etc.,  printed  and  sold  by  John 
Ismay.  (Frontispiece  King  Roger  engraved  from 
a  painting  by  G.  Sheffield.) 

X839. — Dialogues,  Poems,  Songs,  etc.,  of  West 
morland  and  Cumberland,  London,  John  Russell 
Smith,  (contains  35  pieces  of  Anderson's  of  which 
about  12  are  published  for  the  first  time  here,  and 
in  Robertson's  edition  are  none  of  them  to  be  found 
out  of  this  volume. 

!864. — Ballads,  Carlisle,  B.  Stewart,  85  pieces, 
224  pages,  very  like  the  Alnwick  edition. 

!866. — Cumberland  Ballads  by  Robert  Ander 
son,  edited  by  Sidney  Gilpin,  Carlisle  :  G.  Coward. 

!87o. — Ballads,  etc.,  Cockermouth,  printed  at 
the  office  of  J.  Evening. 

Editions  without  date. — Anderson's  Cumber 
land  Ballads.  Wigton,  Printed  and  sold  by  William 
Robertson.  Frontispiece  same  as  editions  of  1808 
and  1815,  contains  195  pieces,  with  notes  and  glossary 
138  pages. 

Ballads  in  the  Cumberland  Dialect  by  Robert 
Anderson,  Alnwick,  printed  by  W.  Davison,  Bond- 
gate  Street.  Frontispiece  is  the  Codbeck  Wedding, 
85  pieces,  224  pages. 

This  edition  was  stereotyped  and  the  types 
being  subsequently  sold  to  T.  W.  Arthur,  Carlisle, 
he  reissued  it,  substituting  his  own  name.  A 
large  portion  of  the  stock  in  sheets  was  purchased 
by  Crosthwaite  and  Co.,  Whitehaven,  who  in  like 
manner  placed  their  name  on  the  Title  and  the 
Book  was  afterwards  sold  by  their  successors, 
Pagen  and  Gill  of  the  same  place.  The  Alnwick 
edition  would  include  with  very  slight  changes 
what  appeared  as  three  or  four  editions. 

With  the  exception  of  Robertson's  edition,  no 
edition  contains  more  than  86  Pieces  in  the  Dialect. 


(Enmterlatib 


BETTY    BROWN. 

TUNE — "  John  Anderson  my  Jo." 

WULLY. 

"  COME,  Gwordie  lad  !  unyoke  the  yad — 

Let's  gow  to  Rosley  Fair  ; 
Lang  Ned's  afwore,  wi'  Symie'  lad, 

Pee'd  Dick,  an  monie  mair. 
Mey  titty  Greace,  an  Jenny  Bell, 

Are  gangen  bye  an  bye  ; 
Sae  doff  thy  clogs — heaste,  don  thysel — 

Let  f adder  luik  to  t'  kye  !  " 

GWORDIE. 

"  O  Wully  !  leetsome  may  ye  be  ! 

For  me,  I  downet  gang  ; 
I've  offen  shekt  a  leg  wi'  thee, 

But  now  I's  aw  wheyte  wrang  ; 
Mey  stomich's  geane,  nae  sleep  I  get 

At  neet  I  lig  me  down  ; 
But  nobbet  pech,  and  gowl,  and  fret. 

An  aw  fer  Betty  Brown  ! 

"  Sin'  Cuddy  Wulson'  murry-neet, 

When  Deavie  brees'd  his  shin, 
I've  niver,  niver  yence  been  reet, 

An  aw  fer  hur,  I  fin  : 
Thoo  kens  we  danc'd  a  threesome  reel, 

An  Betty  set  to  me — 
She  luik'd  sae  neyce,  an  danc'd  sae  weel  '. 

What  cud  a  body  de  ? 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

"  Mey  f adder  fratches  sair  eneugh, 

If  I  but  slink  frae  heame  ; 
Mey  mudder  caws  me  peer  deyl't  guff, 

If  Betty  I  but  neame  : 
Atween  the  twee  theer's  sec  a  frase, 

O,  but  it's  bad  to  beyde  ! 
An  what's  far  war,  ay  Betty  says, 

She  wunnet  be  mey  breyde  ! 

"  Just  tudder  day,  the  dinner  duin, 

I  struive  to  teake  a  nap  ; 
But  mudder  com  an  rous'd  me  suin — 

What,  kye  hed  meade  a  gap  ! 
I  dreem't  I'd  Betty  i'  mey  airms, 

An  busst  her  oft  an  oft — 
I  seed  her  rwosy  cheeks  an  charms, 

As  I  ran  owre  the  croft. 

"  She  sings  i't'  kurk,  beath  hee  an  low, 

Aa  !  music  she  can  read  ; 
At  needle-wark  she  caps  them  aw — 

She  mun  be  larn'd  indeed  ! 
Had  she  but  rid  on  their  rwoan'd  cowt, 

I'd  taen  a  tramp  this  mworn  ; 
But,  luiks-te  ! — She's  at  wark  leyke  owt- 

Her  marra  ne'er  was  bworn  !  " 


"  Wey,  Gworge  !  thoo's  owther  fuil  or  font, 

To  think  ov  sec  a  frow  ! 
In  aw  her  flegmagaries  donnt, 

What  is  she  ? — nowt  'et  dowe  ! 
Ther's  sceape-greace  Ben,  aw  t'  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  weyfe,  I  trowe,  she'd  mak, 

'At  cuddent  muck  a  byre  ! 
But,  whisht  ! — Here  comes  mey  titty  Greace, 

She'll  guess  what  we're  about — 
To  mworn  a-mworn,  i'  this  seame  pleace, 

We'll  hae  the  stwory  out  !  " 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

BARBARY    BELL. 

TUNE — "  Cuddle  us  a'  thegether." 

O,  but  this  luive  is  a  serious  thing  ! 

It  pruives  the  beginner  o'  monie  waes  ! 
An  yen  hed  as  guid  in  a  helter  swing, 

As  luik  at  a  bonny  feace,  now-a-days  : 
Was  iver  peer  deevil  sae  fash'd  as  me  ? 

Nobbet  sit  thy  ways  still,  the  truth  I's  tell 
I  wish  I'd  been  hung  on  our  codlin  tree, 

The  varra  furst  teyme  I  seed  Barbary  Bell 


We  fell  in  togither  ae  het  summer  day  ; 

The  queen  ov  aw  beauties  she  seemt  to  me  : 
She  sang  about  luive,  an  she  reak'd  the  hay, 

But  scearce  a  bit  wark  that  day  I  cud  de. 
Reed  cheeks,  black  een,  an  hair  queyte  breet, 

An  neck  far  wheyter  nor  snow  on  the  fell — 
Luive  meks  yen,  alas  !  leyke  an  idiot,  hawf-reet 

Sin  that  hour,  I've  thowt  ov  Barbary  Bell. 


Queyte  lish,  an  nit  varra  thrang  wi'  wark, 

I  went  my  ways  down  to  Carel  fair,* 
Wi'  bran  new  cwoat,  an  a  brave  ruffelt  sark, 

An  Dick  the  bit  Shaver  pat  flour  on  my  hair  ; 
Our  seyde  lads  er  aw  meade  up  ov  fun, 

Sae  some  tuik  ceyder,  an  some  tuik  yell  ; 
Neest  Diddlen  Deavie  strack  up  an  aul  tune, 

An  I  caper t  away  wid  Barbary  Bell. 


Says  I,  "  Bab,"  says  I,  "  we'll  de  weel  eneugh, 

For  thoo  can  kurn,  an  darn,  an  spin  ; 
I  can  deyke,  men  car-gear,  an  follow  the  pleugh, 

Sae  at  Whussenday  neest  we'll  the  warl  begin, 
I's  turn'd  queyte  a  gayshen  aw  t'neybors  say, 

I  sit  leyke  a  sumph,  nae  mair  mesel', 
An  up,  or  a-bed,  at  heame,  or  away, 

I  think  o'  nowt  but  Barbary  Bell  !  " 

*Carlisle  Fair. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Then  whee  sud  steal  in  but  Robin  Parknuik, 

Wi'  Jwohn  o'  the  Stub,*  an  twee  or  three  mair 
Suin  Barb'ry  off  frae  my  tnee  they  tuik, — 

"  Od,  dangt  !  "  says  I,  "  Wey,  this  is  nit  fair," 
Robin  just  kick'd  up  a  dust  in  a  crack, 

An  sticks  an  neeves  they  went  pel-mel, 
The  clock-feace,  an  bottles,  an  glasses  they  brak, 

But,  fares-te-weel,  wheyte  fit,  Barbary  Bell. 

'  Twas  nobbet  last  week,  nae  langer  seyne, 

I  wheynt  i'  the  nuik  but  can't  tell  how  ; 
"  Git  up,"  says  my  f adder,  "  an  sarra  the  sweyne, 

"  I's  bravely,  Bab  !  "  says  I,  "  how's  thoo  ?  " 
Neest  mworn  to  t'  cwoals  I  was  fworc'd  to  gang, 

But  cowpt  the  cars  nar  Tindal  Fell, 
For  I  cruin'd  aw  the  way,  as  I  trottet  alang, 

"  O  that  I'd  niver  kent  Barbary  Bell." 

That  varra  seame  neet,  up  to  Barbary's  house; 

When  aw  t'aul  fwok  wer  liggin  asleep  ; 
I  off  wi'  my  clogs,  an  as  whisht  as  a  mouse, 

Clavert  up  to  the  window,  an  tuik  a  peep  ; 
Theer,  whee  sud  I  see,  but  Watty  the  laird — 

Od  wheyte  leet  on  him  ! — I  munnet  tell  ! 
On  Setterday  neest,  Tf  I  leeve  an  be  spar'd 

I'll  wear  a  reed  cwot  for  Bar  bar  v  Bell 


NICHOL    THE    NEWSMONGER. 

TUNE — "  The  Night  before  Larry  was  stretch'd. 

"  Come,  Nichol,  an  give  us  thy  cracks, 

I  seed  thee  gang  down  to  the  smiddy 
I've  foddert  the  naigs  an  the  nowt, 

An  wanted  to  hear  thee  'et  did  ee  !  " 
"  Aa  !  Andrew  lad  !  draw  in  a  stuil, 

An  gie  us  a  shek  o'  thy  daddle  ; 
I  got  aw  the  news  far  an  nar, 

Sae,  set  off  as  fast's  I  cud  waddle 

*   Noted  pugilists. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


"  In  France  they've  but  sworrofu  teymes, 

For  Bonnyprat's*  nit  what  he  sud  be  — 
America's  nobbet  sae  sae  ; 

An  Englan  nit  queyte  as  she  mud  be — 
Sad  wark  ther's  amang  blacks  and  whey tes,  f 

Sec  tellin  plain  teales  to  their  feaces, 
Wi'  murders,  and  wars,  an  aw  that, 

But — hod — I  forgit  whoar  the  pleace  is  ! 

"  Our  parson  he  gat  drunk  as  muck, 

Then  leddert  aw  t'lads  roun  about  him  ; 
Some  said  he  was  nobbet  hawf  reet, 

An  fwok  mud  as  weel  be  widout  him — 
The  yell's  to  be  fourpence  a  whart — 

Odswinge,  lad  !  ther  wull  be  rare  drinkin — 
Billy  Pitt's  mad  as  onie  March  hare, 

An  niver  was  reet,  fwok  er  thinkin. 

"  A  weddin  we'll  hev  or  it's  lang, 

Wi'  Bett  Brag  an  lal  Tommy  Tagwally — 
Jack  Bunton's  for  off  to  the  sea  ; 

It'll  e'en  be  the  deeth  of  our  Sally — 
The  clogger  hes  bowt  a  new  wig — 

Dawston  singers  come  here  agean  Sunday — 
Lword  Nelson's  ta'en  three  Spanish  fleets, 

An  the  Dancin  Schuil  oppens  on  Monday. 

"  Carel  badgers  are  monstrous  sad  fwok,  • 

The  peer  silly  deils  how  they  wring  up — 
Lal  bairns  hae  got  pox  frae  the  kye  ;  J 

An  fact'ries,  leyke  mushrems,  they  spring  up 
If  they  sud  keep  their  feet  for  a  wheyle, 

An  guvverment  nobbet  pruive  civil, 
They'll  build  up  as  hee  as  the  muin, 

Ay  !  Carel's  a  match  for  the  deevil  ! 

"  To  the  bewlin-green  yen  tuik  me  down, 

Whoar  proud  bits  o'  chaps  er  owre  chatty  ; 
Yen  stoopt  just  as  he  wad  catch  hens  ; 

An  anudder  cried,  "  Hod  tail  o'  Watty  \  " 
Ae  queer  fellow  went  wid  his  bans, 

Leyke  Bramery  playin  on  t' fiddle  ; 
A  fat  chap  cried  "  Brandy  beath  sides, 

An  sugger,  an  plums  i'  the  middle  !  " 

*  Bonaparte,     f  Alluding  to  the  insurrection  of  the  Blacks. 
Cow  Pox. 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

"  At  Jossy  Brown's  neest  I  cawt  in, 

An  they  suin  meade  me  pay  fer  a  gallon 
For  sittin  on  t'sattle  by  t'  fire  ; 

I'd  just  as  leeve  sat  by  our  hallan  ; 
Ther  was  lees,  news,  an  gay  funny  teales, 

An  wheyles  bits  o'  sangs  they  wer  sin  gin  ; 
They  sat  thrang  as  four  in  a  bed, 

Some  rwoarin  mair  gallons  to  bring  in. 

"  The  king's  meade  a  bit  ov  a  speech, 

An  gentlefwok  say  it's  a  topper — 
An  alderman  dee't  tudder  neet, 

Efter  eatin  a  turkey  to  supper — 
Our  squire's  to  be  parliment  man 

Mess,  lad,  but  he'll  keep  them  aw  busy  ! 
Whee  thinks-te's  comt  heame  i'  the  cwoach, 

Frae  Lunnon  ? — Wey,  grater-feac'd  Lizzy. 

"  The  cock-feghts  er  ninth  o'  neest  month, 

I've  twee,  nit  aw  Englan  can  bang  them — 
Thro'  Irelan  they're  aw  up  in  airms, 

Let's  whop  ther's  nee  Frenchmen  amang  them. 
A  boggle's  been  seen  wi'  twee  heeds, 

Lord  help  us  !  ayont  Wully'  can-as, 
Wi'  girt  saucer  een  an  lang  tail  ; 

Fwok  aw  say  'Twas  aul  Jobby  Barras. 

"  The  muin  was  at  full  this  neet  week — 

The  weather's  now  turn'd  monstrous  daggy — 
I'  the  loft,  just  at  seebem  last  neet, 

Leyle  Steebem  sweethearted  lang  Aggy — 
There'll  be  bonny  wark,  bye  and  bye, 

The  truth  '11  be  out,  ther's  nae  fear  on  't  ; 
But  I  niver  say  nowt,  nay  nit  I, 

For  fear  aw  the  parish  sud  hear  on't. 

"  Our  Tib  at  the  cwose-house  hes  been, 

She  tells  us  they're  aw  monstrous  murry — 
At  Carel  the  brig's  tummel'd  down, 

An  they  tek  the  fwok  owre  in  a  whurry — 
I  carried  our  whye  to  the  bull — 

They've  ta'en  seebern  spies  up  to  Dover — 
My  fadder  compleens  of  his  hip, 

An — The  Gran  Turk  hes  entert  Hanover." 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


"  Daft  Peg's  got  hersel,  man,  wi'  bairn, 

An  silly  Pilgarlic's  the  fadder — 
Leyle  Sim's  geane  and  swapt  the  black  cowt- 

An  cwoley  hes  wurried  the  wedder — 
My  mudder  hes  got  frostet  heels — 

What !  peace  is  the  talk  o'  the  nation  ; 
For  paper  says  varra  neest  week, 

Theer's  to  be  a  grand  humiliation* 

"  Aunt  Meable  has  lost  her  best  sark, 

An  Cleutie  they  bleame  varra  mickle — 
Nowt's  seafe  out  o'  duirs  now-a-days, 

Frev  a  millstone,  e'en  down  to  a  sickle — 
The  clock  it  streykes  eight,  I  mun  heame, 

Or  I's  git  a  deuce  ov  a  fratchin — 
When  neest  we've  a  few  hours  to  spare, 

We's  fin  out  what  mischief's  a  hatchin    " 


THE    WORTON    WEDDING. 
TUNE — "  Dainty  Davie." 

O,  sec  a  Weddin  I've  been  at  ! 

Deil  bin  !  what  cap'rin,  feghten,  vap'rin  ! 
The  priest  an  clerk,  an  aw  gat  drunk — 

Rare  deins  ther  was  theer  : 
The  Thuirsby  chaps  they  fit  the  best  ; 
The  Worton  weavers  drank  the  meast  ; 
The  Bruff-seyde  lairds  bangt  aw  the  rest 

For  braggin  o'  ther  gear, 
And  singin — Whurry-whum,  Whuddle-whum  ! 

Whulty-whalty,  wha-wha-wha  ! 
An  derry-dum  deedle-dum  ! 
Derry-ey  den-dee  ! 

Furst,  helter-skelter,  frae  the  kurk  ; 

Some  off  leyke  fire,  thro'  dub  an  mire  ; 
"  Deil  tek  the  hinmost  !  "  Meer'  lad  cries  ; 

Suin  heed  owre  heels  he  flew  : 
"  God  speed  ye  weel  !  "  the  priest  rwoard  out, 
"  Or  neet  we's  hev  a  hearty  bout  " 
Peer  Meer'  lad  gat  a  bleakent  snout — 

He'd  mickle  cause  to  rue  ; 

It  spoilt  his — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

*   Illumination. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


When  on  the  teable  furst  they  set 

The  butter'd  sops,  sec  greasy  chops, 
'Tween  lug  and  laggin  ! — Aa  !  what  fun, 

To  see  them  girn  and  eat  ! 
Then  lispin  Isbel  talk'd  sae  feyne, 
"  Twas  'vathly  thockiu*  thuth  to  dine  ! 
Theck  grivetht  wark  !  to  eat  like  thweyne  !  "  J 

It  meade  her  seeck  to  see't  ! 

Then  we  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

Neest  stuttrin  Cursty,  up  he  ruse, 

Wi'  aa-aa-aa,  an  ba-ba-ba  ! 
He'd  kiss  Jen  Jakes,  fer  aw  lang-seyne, 

An  f earfu  wark  meade  he. 
But  Cursty,  souple  gammerstang  ! 
Ned  Wulson  brong  his  lug  a  whang  ; 
An  owre  he  flew,  the  peets  amang, 

An  grean'd  as  he  wad  dee  ; 

But  some  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

Aunt  Ester  spoilt  the  gurdle  ceakes, 

The  speyce  left  out,  was  wrang,  nae  doubt  ; 
Tim  Trummel  tuik  nine  cups  o'  tea, 

An  fairly  capp'd  them  aw  : 
The  kiss  went  roun  ;  but  Sally  Slee, 
When  Trummel  cleekt  her  on  his  tnee, 
She  duncht  an  puncht,  cried,  "  Fuil,  let  be  !  " 
Then  strack  him  owre  the  jaw, 
An  we  sung — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

Far  maest  I  leught  at  Grizzy  Brown, 

Frae  Lunnon  town  she'd  just  come  down, 
In  furbelows  an  feyne  silk  gown  ; 

Aa,  man,  but  she  was  crouse  \ 
Wi'  Dick  the  futman  she  wad  dance, 
An  "  wondert  people  could  so  prance  ;  " 
Then  curtcheyt  as  they  dui  in  France, 

An  pautet  like  a  geuse. 

Wheyle  some  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

Young  sour-milk  Sawney,  on  the  stuil, 

A  whornpeype  danc'd,  an  keav'd  an  pranct, 

He  slipp'd  an  brak  his  left-leg  shin, 
And  hurplt  sair  about  : 

*  Vastly  shocking.          +  Such  grievous.          t  Swine. 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

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

Now  aw  began  to  talk  at  yence, 

Ov  naigs  an  kye,  an  wots  an  rye, 
An  laught  an  jwokt,  an  cought  an  smuikt, 

An  meade  a  fearfu  reek  ; 
The  furm  it  brack,  an  down  they  fell, 
Lang  Isaac  learnt  aul  granny  Bell  ; 
They  up  an  drank  het  suggert  yell, 

Till  monie  cuddent  sptak, 

But  some  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

The  breyde  she  kest  up  her  accounts 
In  Rachel's  lap,  then  pou'd  her  cap — 

The  parson's  wig  stuid  aw  a-jy — 
The  clerk  sang  "  Andrew  Car  " — 

Blin  Stagg,  the  fiddler,  gat  a  whack, 

The  bacon  fleek  fell  on  his  back  ; 

An  neest  his  fiddle-stick  they  brack, 
'Twas  weel  it  was  nae  war, 

For  he  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

Now  on  the  midden  some  wer  laid, 

Aw  havey-skavey,  an  kellavey  ; 
The  clogger  an  the  teaylear  fit, 

Peer  Snip  gat  twee  black  een  ; 
Dick  Wawby  he  began  the  fray, 
But  Jemmy  Moffet  ran  away, 
An  crap  owre  heed  amang  the  hay, 

Fwok  say,  nit  varra  clean, 

Then  they  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

Neest  Windy  Wull,  o'  Wample  seyde, 
He  lickt  them  aw,  baith  girt  an  smaw  ; 

He  flang  them  east,  he  flang  them  west, 
An  bluidy  pates  they  gat  ; 

To  him  they  wer  but  caff  an  san  ; 

He  split  the  teable  wid  his  han, 

But  in  the  dust  wi'  dancin  Dan, 
They  brunt  his  kurk-gaun  hat  : 

An  then  sang — Whurry-whum,  &c. 


io  CUMBERLAND   BALLADS. 

The  breyde  now  thowt  it  teyme  fer  bed  ; 

Her  stocking  dofft,  an  flang't  quite  soft  ; 
It  hat  Bess  Bleane,  Wull  Webster  blusht, 

An  luikt  anudder  way  : 
The  lads  down  frae  the  loft  mud  steal  ; 
The  parish  howdey,  Greacey  Peel, 
Suin  happ'd  her  up  ;   aw  wisht  her  weel, 

Then  whop'd  to  meet  neest  day, 

An  sing  her — Whurry-whum,  &c. 

The  best  on't  was,  the  parson  swore, 
His  wig  was  lost,  a  crown  it  cost  : 

He  belsht  and  heccupt,  in  an  out, 
An  said  it  wasn't  fair  ! 

Now  day-leet  suin  began  to  peep, 

The  breydegruim  off  to  bed  did  creep, 

I  trowe  he  waddent  mickle  sleep, 
But — whisht  ! — I'll  say  nae  mair, 

Nobbet  sing — Whurry-whum,  whuddle-whum 

Whulty,  walty,  wha-wha-wha  ! 
And  derry-dum,  diddle  dum  ! 
Derry-ey  den -dee  ! 


SALLY    GRAY. 

TUNE — "  The  mucking  o'  Geor  die's  Byre." 

Come,  Deavie  !  I'll  tell  thee  a  secret, 

But  thoo  mun  lock't  up  i'  thy  breest, 
I  waddent  fer  aw  Dawston  Parish, 

It  com  to  the  ears  ov  our  priest, 
Thy  hand  give,  I'll  hod  thee  a  weager, 

A  groat  to  thy  tuppens  I'll  lay, 
Thoo  cannot  guess  whee  I's  in  luive  wid, 

An  nobbet  keep  off  Sally  Gray. 

Theer's  Cumwhitton,  Cumwhinton,  Cumranton, 

Cumrangen,  Cumrew,  an  Cumcatch, 
An  mony  mair  cums  i'  the  county, 

But  nin  wid  Cumdivock  can  match  ; 
It's  sae  neyce  to  luik  owre  the  black  pasture, 

Wi'  the  fells  abuin  aw,  far  away — 
Ther  is  nee   sec  pleace,  nit  in  Englan, 

For  theer  leeves  the  sweet  Sally  Gray  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  u 


I  was  sebemteen  last  Collop-Monday, 

An  she's  just  the  varra  seame  yage  ; 
For  ae  kiss  o'  the  sweet  lips  ov  Sally, 

I'd  give  up  a  seebem  year's  weage  ; 
In  lang  winter  neets  when  she's  spinnin, 

An  singin  about  "  Jemmy  Gay," 
I  keek  by  the  hay -stack,  and  lissen — 

O,  fain  wad  I  see  Sally  Gray  ! 

Had  thoo  seen  her  at  kurk,  lad,  last  Sunday, 

Thoo  cuddent  hev  thowt  o'  the  text  ; 
But  she  sat  neest  to  Tom  o'  the  Lonnin — 

Thoo  may  think  that  meade  me  quite  vext  ; 
Then  I  pass'd  her  gaun  owre  the  lang  meedow, 

Says  I,  '  Here's  a  canny  wet  day  !  ' 
I  wad  hae  said  mair,  but  how  cud  e, 

When  luikin  at  sweet  Sally  Gray  ! 

I  cawt  to  sup  cruds  wi'  Dick  Miller, 

An  hear  aw  his  cracks  an  his  jwokes  ; 
The  dumb  weyfe  sat  tellin  their  fortunes. 

What  I  mud  be  leyke  udder  fwoks  ! 
Wi'  chawk  on  a  pair  ov  aul  bellows, 

Twee  letters  she  meade  in  her  way — 
S  means  Sally,  the  weyde  warl  aw  owre, 

An  G  stands  fer  nowt  else  but  Gray  ! 

O,  was  I  but  Iword  o'  the  manor, 

A  nabob,  or  parliment  man  ; 
What  thousans  on  thousans  I'd  give  her, 

Wad  she  nobbet  gie  me  her  ban  ; 
A  cwoach  an  six  horses  I'd  buy  her, 

An  gar  fwok  stan  out  o'  the  way, 
Then  I'd  lowp  up  behint  like  a  futman — 

Aw  the  warl  for  my  sweet  Sally  Gray  ! 

They  rnay  brag  o'  their  feyne  Carel  lasses, 

Their  fedders,  silks,  durtment,  an  leace  ; 
God  help  them  !  peer  deeth-luikin  bodies, 

Widout  a  bit  reed  on  ther  feace  ! 
For  Sally,  she's  leyke  allyblaster, 

Her  cheeks  are  twee  rwose  buds  in  May — 
O  lad  !  I  could  stan  here  for  iver, 

An  talk  about  sweet  Sally  Gray  ! 


12  CUMBERLAND   BALLADS. 

WILL  AND  KEATE. 

TUNE — "  Auld  Lang  Seyne." 

Now,  Keate,  full  forty  years  hae  flown, 

Sin  we  met  on  the  green  ; 
Frae  that  to  this  the  saut,  saut  tear 

Hes  oft  stuid  i'  mey  een  : 
For  when  the  bairns  wer  some  peet-heet, 

Thoo  kens  I  leam'd  my  tnee — 
Leyle  todlen  things,  in  want  of  breed — 

O,  that  went  hard  wi'  me  ! 

Then  thou  wad  cry  "  Come,  Wully,  man, 

Keep  up  thy  heart — ne'er  fear  ! 
Our  bits  o'  bairns  '11  scraffie  up, 

Sae  dry  that  sworry  tear  ! 
Theer's  Matthew's  be  an  alderman  ; 

A  bishop  we'll  mek  Guy  ; 
Leyle  Ned  sal  be  a  clogger  ;  Dick 

Sal  work  for  thee  and  I  !  " 

Then  when  our  crops  wer  spoilt  wi'  rain, 

Sur  Jwohn  mud  hev  his  rent  ; 
What  cud  we  de  ? — nae  geer  hed  we — 

Sae  I  to  jail  was  sent  : 
'Twas  hard  to  starve  i'  sec  a  pleace, 

Widout  a  frien  to  trust  ; 
But,  when  I  thowt  ov  thee  an  t'bairns, 

Mey  heart  was  leyke  to  brust  ! 

Neest,  Etty,  God  was  pleas'd  to  tek, 

What  then  ?  we'd  seebem  still  ; 
But  whee  kens  what  may  happen  ?  suin 

The  smaw-pox  did  fer  Bill  : 
I  think  I  see  his  slee-black  een, 

Then  he  wad  churm  an  talk, 
An  say,  "  Ded,  ded  :  Mam,  mam,"  an  aw, 

Lang,  lang  er  he  cud  walk. 

At  Carel  when  fer  six  pun  ten, 

I  selt  twee  Scotty  kye, 
They  pickt  my  pocket  i'  the  thrang, 

An  deil  a  plack  hed  I  ! 
"  Ne'er  ack  ?  "  says  thoo,  "  we'll  work  fer  mair 

It's  teyme  eneugh  to  fret 


A  pun  ov  sorrow  wunnet  pay 
Ae  single  ounce  o'  debt  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  13 

When  our  naig  kickt,  an  brak  thy  airm, 

It  meade  aw  mourn  indeed, 
Hed  thoo  been  soun,  I'd  been  reet  fain, 

Hed  t'naig  but  brok  mey  heed  ! 
Thoo  smeyl'd,  an  sed  to  me  an  t'bairns, 

"  Nae  gowlin  let  us  hear  ! 
Leyfe's  troubles  flay  beath  aul  an  young, 

If  rich  they  be,  or  peer  !  " 

Now  todlin  down  the  hill  o'  leyfe, 

Aul  yage  hes  brong  content  ; 
An,  God  be  thenkt  !  our  bairns  are  up, 

An  pay  Sur  Jwohn  his  rent  : 
When,  seyde  by  seyd^  aw  day  we  sit, 

I  offen  think,  an  grieve, 
'Tis  hard  that  Deeth  sud  pairt  aul  fwok, 

When  happy  they  can  leeve  ! 


THE  IMPATIENT  LASSIE. 
TUNE — "  Low  down  in  the  broom." 

Deuce  tek  the  clock  !  click-clackin  sae, 

Aye  in  a  body's  ear  : 
It  tells,  an  tells,  the  teyme  is  past, 

When  Jwohnny  sud  been  here  : 
Deuce  tek  the  wheel  !  'twill  nit  rin  roun- 

Nae  mair  to-neet  I'll  spin, 
But  count  each  minute  wid  a  seegh, 

Till  Jwohnny  he  steels  in. 

How  neyce  the  spunky  fire  now  burns, 

For  twee  to  sit  beside  ! 
An  theer's  the  seat  whoar  Jwohnny  sits 

An  I  forgit  to  cheyde  ! 
My  fadder,  tui,  how  sweet  he  snwores  ! 

My  mudder's  fast  asleep — 
He  promis'd  oft,  but  oh  ! — I  fear — 

His  word  he  wunnet  keep  ? 


14  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

What  can  it  be  keeps  him  frae  me  ? 

The  ways  are  nit  sae  lang  ! 
An  sleet  or  snow  er  nowt  at  aw,  , 

If  yen  wer  fain  to  gang  ! 
Some  other  lass,  wi'  bonnier  feace, 

Hes  catch'd  his  wicked  e'e, 
An  I'll  be  pointed  at  at  kurk — 

Nay  !  suiner  let  me  dee  ! 

O,  durst  we  lasses  nobbet  gang, 

An  sweetheart  them  we  leyke  ! 
I'd  rin  to  thee,  mey  Jwohnny  lad, 

Nor  stop  at  bog  or  deyke  ! 
But  custom's  sec  a  silly  thing — 

Thur  men  mun  hae  their  way, — 
An  monie  a  bonny  lassie  sit, 

An  wish  frae  day  to  day  ! 

I  yence  hed  sweethearts,  monie  a  yen, 

They'd  weade  thro'  muck  an  mire  : 
An  when  our  fwok  wer  deed  asleep, 

Com  tremlin  up  to  t'  fire  : 
At  Carel  market  lads  wad  stare, 

An  talk  an  follow  me  ; 
Wi'  feyne  shwort  keakes,  ay  frae  the  fair, 

Beath  pockets  cramm'd  wad  be. 


0  dear  !  what  changes  women  pruive, 
In  less  than  seebem  year  ; 

1  walk  the  lonnins,  owre  the  muir, 

But  deil  a  chap  comes  near  ! 
To  Jwohnny  I  nee  mair  can  trust — 

He's  just  leyke  aw  the  lave, 
This  sworry  heart  for  him  '11  brust — 

I'll  suin  lig  i'  me  greave. 

But,  whisht  ! — I  hear  mey  Jwohnny's  fit- 
Ay  !  that's  his  varra  clog  ! 

He  steeks  the  faul-yeat  softly  tui — 
Oh  !  hang  that  cwoley  dog  ! 

— Now  hey  fer  seeghs  an  suggar  words, 
Wi'  kisses  nit  a  few  ! 

This  warl's  a  parfet  paradeyse, 
When  lovers  they  pruive  true  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  15 

THE  BUNDLE  OV  ODDITIES. 
TUNE — "  Fye,  let  us  a'  to  ihe  Bridal." 

Sit  down  !  an  I'll  count  owre  ity  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  meynd,  when  he  cross'd  the  deep  watter, 

To  git  me  the  shill-apple  nest, 
How  he  fell  owreheed,  an  I  skirl'd  sae, 
Then  off  we  ran  heame,  sair  distrest. 


Then  theer  was  a  bit  o\r  a  teaylear, 

That  workt  at  our  house  a  heale  week, 
He  was  shept  aw  the  warl  leyke  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  hot  keale  on  his  blue  breeks, 

An  deil  a  bit  Snippy  cud  eat. 

At  partin  he  pou'd  up  his  spirits — 

Says  he,  "  Thou  hes  boddert  mey  heed, 
An  it  sheks  yen  to  rags  an  to  tatters, 

To  sew  wi'  a  lang  double  threed  :  " 
Then  in  meakin  a  cwot  for  my  fadder, 

(How  luive  dis  the  senses  deceive) 
Forby  usin  marrowless  buttons, 

To  t'  pocket  whol  he  stitcht  a  sleeve. 

Then  efter  that  com  a  ragg't  cobbler — 

Lord  help  her  that  marry's  a  snob  ! 
He  was  bow-hought,  an  stuttert  ;  when  talkin 

.The  slaver  ran  out  ov  his  gob  : 
He  gloriet  in  Cummerlan  sweerin, 

"  Od-dye-thee,  lass  !  thoo  sal  be  meyne  !  " 
"  Go-bon-thee  "  says  I,  "  thoo's  mistaen,  min, 

I'd  just  as  suin  leeve  wid  a  sweyne  !  " 

The  neest  was  a  Whaker  cawt  Jacep, 
He  turnt  up  the  wheytes  ov  his  een, 

An  talkt  about  flesh  an  the  spirit — 
Thowt  I,  what  can  Gravity  mean  ? 


16  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


In  dark  winter  neets,  i'  the  lonnins, 

He'd  weade  thro'  the  durt  buin  his  tnee, 

It  cuilt  his  het  heart,  silly  gander  ! 
An  theer  let  him  stowter  fer  me  ! 

A  lang  blufi-lipt  chap  leyke  a  gueyde-pwost, 

(Lword  help  us  and  keep  us  frae  harm  ! ) 
Neest  talkt  about  car-gear  an  middens, 

An  th'  reet  way  to  mannish  a  farm  ; 
'Twas  last  Leady  Fair  I  leet  on  him, 

He  grummelt  an  spent  hawf-a-croun — 
God  bless  him  !  hed  he  gowd  i'  gowpens, 

I  waddent  hev  taen  sec  a  clown  ! 

But,  stop  ! — ther  was  leyle  wee  deef  Dicky, 

Wad  dance  fer  a  heale  winter-neet  ; 
An  at  me  aw  the  teyme  wad  keep-glowrin — 

Peer  man  !  he  was  nobbet  hawf-reet  ; 
He  grew  jilous  ov  reed -heeded  Ellick, 

Wi'  a  feace  leyke  a  full  harvest  muin  ; 
Sae  they  fit  till  they  gat  eneugh  on  't, 

An  Ilaught  at  beath  when  'twas  duin. 

Ther's  anudder  worth  aw  put  togither, 

I  cud  if  I  wad,  tell  his  neame  ; 
He  gans  past  our  house  to  the  market, 

An  monie  a  teyme  he  sets  me  heame  : 
O  wad  he  but  ax  me  this  question 

"  Will  thoo  be  mey  partner  fer  leyfe  ?  " 
I'd  answer  widout  onie  blushes, 

"  Ay  !  trust  me,  I'll  mek  a  gud  weyfe  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  17 

LUCKLESS  JONATHAN. 
TUNE — "  By  the  Author." 

O,    heale  be   thy  heart  !    mey   peer    merry    aul 

cronie, 

An  niver  may  trouble  draw  tears  frae  thy  ee  ; 
It's  reet,  when  he  can,  man  sud  rise  abuin  sorrow, 

For  pity's  nit  common  to  peer  fwok  leyke  me  : 
When  I  think  how  we  spwortet  owre  mountain 
an  meedow, 

Leyke  larks  in  a  mwornin  a  young  happy  pair, 
Then  I  luik  at  mysel,  an  I  see  just  a  shadow, 

That's  suffer'd  sae  mickle  it  cannot  beyde  mair. 

Thoo  meynds,  when  I  buriet  mey  honest  aul  fad- 

der — 

O,  how  cud  I  iver  git  owre  that  sad  day  ? 
His  last  words  wer,  "  Jonathan,  luik  to  thy  mud- 

der  ! 
An  God   '11  reward   thee  " — nae   mair  cud   he 

say  ! 
My   madder  she  stuid,   seeght,    an   fain  wad  ha 

spoken, 

But  tears  waddent  let  her — O,  man,  it  was  hard, 
She  tuik  to  her  bed,  an  just  thirteen  weeks  efter, 
Was  laid  down  aside  him  in  Aikton  kurk-yard. 

Mey  frien,  Jemmy  Gunston,  went  owre  seas  to 
Indy, 

For  me,  his  aul  comrade,  a  venture  he'd  tak  ; 
I'd  screapt  up  some  money,  he  gat  it,  but  leately, 

Peer  Jemmy  was  puzzent  they  say,  by  a  black  : 
'Twas  nit  fer  mey  money  I  freeted  :  but  Jemmy, 

I  ne'er  can  forgit  him  as  lang  as  I've  breeth  ; 
He  said,  "  Don't  cry  mudder,  !  I'll  mek  you  a 
leady  !  " 

But  sairy  aul  Tamer,  'twill  e'en  be  her  deeth  ! 

To  mek  bad  far  war,  then  I  courted  lal  Matty, — 
Her   bonny   blue   een,    how   they   shot   to   my 

heart  ! 

The  neet  niver  com  but  I  went  owre  to  see  her, 
An  when  the  clock  strack,  we  wer  sworry  to 
part  : 


1 8  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


An  aunt  ayont  Banton  a  canny  house  left  her — 
What  but  hilth  an  contentment  can  money  nit 

buy  ? 
Wi'    laird    Hodgen    o'    Bruff   off  'she    cantert    to 

Gratena, 
That  varra  seame  mworn  we  our  fortune  sud  try. 

'Twas  nobbet  last  Cursmess  I  fain  wad  be  murry, 
Sae  cawt   in   Dick   Toppin,   Tom   Clarke,   and 
Jwohn  Howe  ; 

We  sang,  an  we  crackt,  but  lal  thowt  er  neest 

mwornin, 
That  aw  our  heale  onset  wad  be  in  a  lowe  ; 

They  gat  me  poud  out  an  reet  weel   I  remem 
ber, 

I  stampt,   ay,   leyke    mad,    when    the    sad    seet 
I  saw, 

For   that   was    the   pleace   my   grandfadder   was 
bworn  in, 

Forby  my  twee  uncles,  aunts,  fadder  an  aw. 

Widout   fadder,    mudder,    aunt,    uncle  or   sweet 
heart, 

A  frien  or  a  shelter  to  cover  mey  heed, 
I  mazle  an  wander,  nor  ken  what  I's  dein, 

An  wad,  if  I  nobbet  durst,  wish  I  wer  dead. 
O,  heale  be  thy  heart,  mey  peer  merry  aul  cronie, 

An    niver    may    trouble    draw    tears    frae    thy 

een  ! 
It's  reet,  when  he  can,  man  sud  rise  abuin  sorrow, 

For  pity's  nit  common  to  peer  fwok  leyke  me. 


DICK  WATTERS. 

TUNE — "  Crowdy." 

O,  Jenny  !  Jenny  !  whoar's  thoo  been  ? 

Thy  f adder's  just  turn'd  mad  at  thee  ; 
He  seed  somebody  in  the  croft, 

An  gulders  as  he'd  wurry  me. 
O,  monie  are  a  mudder's  whopes  ; 

And  monie  are  a  mudder's  fears  ! 
An  monie  a  bitter,  bitter  pang, 

Beath  suin  an  leate  her  bwosom  bears  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  19 


We  brong  thee  up,  pat  thee  to  schuil, 
An  cled  thee  weel  as  peer  fwok  can  ; 

We  larnt  thee  beath  to  read  an  dance, 
But  now,  thoo's  crazy  for  a  man  ! 

O,  monie  are,  &c. 

When  thoo  was  young,  an  at  my  tnee, 

I  dwoated  on  thee,  day  an  neet  ; 
But  now,  wi'  lads,  thou's  rakin  still, 

An  niver,  niver  i'  my  sect. 

O,  monie  are,  &c. 

When  just  thy  yage,  reet  weel  I  meynd, 
What  mudder  bad  me  dui,  was  duin  ; 

But  think  what  changes  some  fwok  see — 
Ay  !  to  the  greave  thou'll  sen  me  suin  ! 

O  monie  are,  &c. 

Thou's  proud,  an  past  aw  gud  adveyce — 
Yen  mud  as  weel  speak  till  a  stean  ; 

Still ,  still  thy  awn  way,  iver  wrang — 
Mess,  but  thoo'll  rue't  when  I  am  geane  ! 
O,  monie  are,  &c. 

Dick  Watters,  I  hae  telt  thee  oft, 
Ne'er  means  to  be  a  son  o'  meyne  : 

He  seeks  thy  ruin,  sure  as  deeth, 

Then  leyke  Bet  Baxter  thoo  mey  wheyne  ! 
O,  monie  are,  &c. 

He's  just  a  f  rat  chin,  feghtin  fuil  ! 

An  as  for  wark  he  nowt  can  dui  ; 
Thou'd  better  far  lig  in  thy  greave. 

Than  yen  leyke  him  be  buckl'd  tui. 

O  monie  are,  &c. 

Thy  fadder's  comin  thro'  the  croft — 

A  bonny  hunsup  faith  he'll  mek — 
Put  on  thy  clogs,  an  aul  blue  brat — 

Heaste,  Jenny  !  heaste — he  lifts  the  sneck  ! 
O,  monie  are  a  mudder's  whopes  ! 

An  monie  are  a  mudder's  fears  ! 
An  monie  a  bitter,  bitter  pang, 

Beath  suin  an  leate,  her  bwosom  bears  ! 


20  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

THE  LASS  ABUIN  THIRTY. 

TUNE  —  "  Jockey's  Grey  Breaks." 

I've  wonder'd  sin'  I  kent  mysel, 

What  keeps  the  men  fwok  aw  frae  me  ; 
I've  beauty  mair  than  cousin  Tib, 

Yet  she  can  hev  her  choice  o'  three  ; 
For  me,  still  moilin  suin  an  leate, 

Leyfe's  just  a  bitter  widout  sweets  ; 
The  summer  brings  nae  pleasant  days, 

An  winter  tires  wi'  lang,  lang  neets. 

I  hed  some  whopes  ov  Wully  yence, 

An  Wully  was  the  only  yen  ; 
I  thowt,  seeght,  dreemt  about  him  lang, 

But  whopes  an  Wully  aw  er  geane  : 
A  kiss  he'd  hev,  I  gev  him  twee, 

Reet  weel  I  meynd,  amang  the  hay  — 
Neest  teyme  we  met,  he  glumpt  an  gloomt 

An  turnt  his  heed  anudder  way. 

The  saller-opnin  —  Aa  !  I  meynd, 
When  chaps  frae  Wigton  com  wi' 

Wi'  yen  I  danct,  sat  on  his  tneee, 
An  suin,  he  sed,  I'd  be  a  breyde  ! 

He  praist  my  shep  an  rwosy  cheek, 
But  when  he  larnt  I  was  but  peer, 


He  gript  anudder  roun  the  weast, 
Yen's  thrown  aseyde  for  want  o' 


gear. 


A  f  eyne  silk  sash  my  uncle  sent 

Frae  Lunnon  yence  ;  it  seemt  the  best 
I  wore't  an  wore't,  but  deil  a  lad 

On  me  or  sash  a  luik  e'er  kest  : 
Mey  yallow  gown  I  thowt  was  sure 

To  catch  some  yen  at  Carel  Fair, 
But  now,  fare  weel  to  gown  an  sash, 

I'll  niver,  niver  weer  them  mair  ! 

The  throssle,  when  caul  winter's  geane, 
Ay  in  our  worchet  welcomes  spring  ;' 

It  mun  be  luive,  did  we  but  ken, 
Gars  him  aroun  his  partner  sing  ; 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


The  cock  an  hen,  the  duck  an  drake, 
Nay,  e'en  the  smawest  burds  that  flee, 

Ilk  thing  that  leeves,  can  git  a  mate, 
Except  sec  sworry  things  as  me. 

I  often  think  that  married  fwok 

Mun  lead  a  sweet  an  happy  leyfe  ; 
The  prattlin  bairns  rin  toddlin  roun, 

An  tie  the  husband  to  the  weyfe  : 
Then,  O,  what  joy  when  neet  draws  on  ! 

She  meets  him  gangen  heame  frae  wark 
But  nin  can  tell  what  cheerfu  cracks 

The  tweesome  hev  lang  efter  dark. 

The  wise  man  leeves  nit  far  frae  this, 

I'll  hunt  him  out  suin  as  I  can  ; 
He  telt  Nan  Dobson  whee  she'd  wed — 

What  I'm  as  leykely,  suir,  as  Nan  ! 
But  still,  still  moilin  by  mysel, 

Leyfe's  just  a  bitter  widout  sweets — 
The  summer  brings  nae  pleasant  days, 

An  winter  tires  wi'  lang,  lang  neets  ! 


TOM  LINTON. 
TUNE — "  Come  under  my  Plaidie." 

Tom  Linton  was  bworn  till  a  brave  canny  for 
tune, 

His  aul  fadder  screap'd  aw  the  gear  up  he  cud  ; 
But  Tom,  country  booby,  luik'd  owre  hee  abuin 

him, 

An  mixt  wi'  the  bad,  but  ne'er  heeded  the  guid  : 
At  town  he'd  whore,    gammle,  play  hell,  an  the 

deevil, 

He  wad  hev  his  caper,  nor  car'd  how  it  com  ; 
Than  he  mud  hev  his  greyhounds,  guns,  setter, 

and  hunter, 
An  king  o'  the  cockers,  they  aw  cursen'd  Tom. 


22  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


When  young,  he  deleyted  in  fratchin  an  feghtin, 

An  monie  a  teyme  cawt  his  aul  fadder  a  fuil  ; 
He'd    reyde    off    to    cock-feghts,    or   ledder-plate 

reaces, 
An  twee  days  a  week  he  was  scearce  seen  at 

schuil. 
Let  aw  that  hae  bairns,  mek  them  aye  dui  their 

duty, 
Still  praise  them  when  reet,  but  correct  them 

when  wrang — 

This  playing  the  trowin  leads  thousans  to  ruin — 
To  kurk  an   to  schuil,  may   aw  fworce   them 
to  gang  ! 

I  think  I   just  see  how  the  lads  wad  flock  roun 

him, 
An  fain  they  wad  bow,  an  shek  Tom  by  the 

han, 
Then   he'd   tell  how  he  fit  wi'  the   black guardin 

bullies, 

An  drank  wi'  the  waiter  till  nowther  cud  stan  : 
His  watch  he  wad  shew,  an  his  lists  o'  the  horses, 
An  pou  out  his  purse,  off'ring  handfuls  to  lay, 
Till  our  peer  country  lads  grew  uneasy  an  lazy 
An  Tom  cud  hae  coaxt  hawf  the  parish  away. 

Then  he  drank  wi'  the  squire,  and  laught  wid  his 

worship, 
An   talkt   ov   dukes,   nabobs,    an — deevil   kens 

whee  ; 
He    gat    aw    the    new-fangl'd    oaths    throughout 

Englan, 
And  mock  d  the  peer  beggars  when  onie  he'd 

see. 
His    fields    they    were    morgag'd — about    it    was 

whispert, 

A  farmer  was  robb'd  nit  owre  far  frey  his  house  ; 
At  last  aw  was  selt  his  aul  fadder  had  toil'd  for, 
An  silly  Tom  Linton  left  nit  worth  a  sous. 

His  fortune  aw  spent,  what  he'd  hev  the  laird's 

dowter, 

But  she  packt  him  off  wid  a  flee  in  his  ear  ; 
Neest  thing,  an  aul  cronie,  fer  money  Tom  bor- 

row'd, 
E'en  pat  him  in  prison,  an  bad  him  lig  theer  : 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  23 


At  last  he  gat  out,  efter  lang  he  hed  suffer'd, 
An  sair  he  repented  the  sad  leyfe  he'd  led  : 

Widout  stockings  or  shoon,   in   a  sowdger's  aul 

jacket, 
He  toils  on  the  turnpeyke  reet  hard  for  his  bread. 


Now    folly    seen    intui,    ragg't,    peer    an    down 
hearted 
He  works   an   he   frets,   an   keen   wants   daily 

press  ; 
If  cronies  reyde  by,  wey,  alas  !  they've  forgot  him, 

For  few  will  remember  aul  friens  in  distress. 
Oh  !  pity,  what  pity,  that  through  ev'ry  country, 
Sae  monie  Tom  Lintoas  may  always  be  foun  ! 
Deuce    tek    aw    weyld    nwotions,    an    whurligig 

fashions — 
Contentment's-a  kingdom,  ay  aw  the  warl  rount 


THE  HAPPY  FAMILY. 
TUNE — "  O'er  Bogie.1' 

The  hollow  blast  blows  owre  the  hill, 

An  comin  down's  the  sleet  ; 
God  help  them  widout  house  or  haul, 

This  dark  an  angry  neet  ! 
Come,  Jobby,  gie  the  fire  a  prod, 

Then  steek  the  entry  duir  ; 
It's  wise  to  keep  weyld  Winter  out, 

When  we  hev't  in  our  pow'r. 


Some  fuils  will  oft  caw  weather  bad  ; 

They  mun  be  bad  thersels  ! 
It  comes  frae  Him  wheas  warks  owre  earth. 

His  guidness  hourly  tells. 
O,  bairns  !  aye  leyke  yer  mother  pruive, 

Let  virtue  be  your  preyde  ; 
'Twill  lead  ye  till  a  better  warl, 

Whate'er  in  this  ye  beyde  ! 


24  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Heaste,  Jenny  !  put  the  bairns  to  bed, 

An  meynd  they  say  their  pray'rs  ; 
Sweet  innocents  !  the  heeds  yence  down, 

They  sleep  away  their  cares  ! 
But  gie  them  furst  a  butter-shag, 

When  young,  they  munnet  want, 
Nor  e'er  sal  wife,  or  bairn  ov  meyne, 

Wheyle  I've  a  beyte  to  grant  ! 

Aa,  deame  !  that  weary  rheumatis, 

E'en  gars  thee  luik  but  thin  ; 
I  meynd  when  thoo  was  fresh  and  fair, 

An  fattest  o'  thy  kin  ; 
But  yage  steals  on,  dui  what  we  can, 

We  munnet  think  it  hard — 
A  week  at  Gilslan  thoo  sal  try 

Neest  summer,  if  we're  spar'd. 

That  stuff  I  brong  thee  frae  the  town, 

Hes  duin  nee  guid  at  aw  ; 
It  meks  some  better,  others  worse — 

What,  physic's  just  leyke  law  ! 
But  aye  thou's  cheerfu,  weel  or  ill, 

As  ilka  yen  sud  be  ; 
Thoo  toils  owre  hard  day  efter  day, 

That  plays  the  pleague  wi'  thee. 

Now  seated  at  meyawn  fire-nuik, 

Content  as  onie  king, 
Fer  hawf  an  hour  afwore  we  sleep, 

Bess,  quit  thy  wark  an  sing  : 
Try  that  about  the  beggar  lass, 

'Twill  please  thy  mudder  best  ; 
For  she,  we  tnow,  can  fin  fer  aw, 

Whene'er  they  pruive  distrest. 

Nay,  what  it's  owre  !  thoo  cannot  sing, 

But  weel  I  guess  the  cause  ; 
Young  Wulliam  sud  hae  cawt  to-neet— 

Consider,  lass,  it  snaws  ! 
Anudder  neet  '11  suin  be  here, 

Sae  divvent  freet  an  wheyne  ; 
Co'  when  he  will,  he's  welcome  still 

To  onie  lass  ov  meyne  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  25 

I'll  ne'er  forgit  when  we  wer  young, 

Thy  mudder  kens  as  weel, 
We  met  but  yence  a  month,  an  then, 

Out  she  was  fworc'd  to  steal  : 
The  happiest  day  we  owther  tnew, 

Was  when  I  cawt  her  meyne, 
But  monie  a  thousan  happier  days 

We  beath  hev  kent  sin-seyne. 


THE  AUTHOR  ON  HIMSELF. 
TUNE — "  The  Campbells  aye  coming." 

O,  Eden  !  wheniver  I  range  thy  green  banks. 

An  view  the  sweet  scenes  ov  my  infanteyne 
pranks, 

Whoar  wid  plishure  I  spworted,  ere  sorrow  be 
gan, 

I  seegh,  to  trace  onward  from  bwoy  to  the  man  ! 

To  memory  dear  are  aw  t'days  ov  yen's  youth, 

When  enraptur'd,  we  luikt  at  each  object,  wi' 
truth  ; 

An  leyke  fairies,  a  thousan  weyld  frolics  we  play'd 

But  nowther  did  mischief,  nor  meade  the  bairns 
flay'd. 


I  think  o'  my  play-mates,  seave  kinsfwok,   leykt 

best, 
Now    diveyded,    leyke    larks    efter     leaving    the 

nest  ! 

How  we  trimmelt  to  schuil,  an    wi'  copy  an  buik, 
Oft  read  our  hard  fate  in  the  maister's  starn  luik  ; 
In  summer  let  lowse,  how  we  brush'd    thro'  the 

wood, 

An  meade  seevy  caps,  wheyle  we  sat  nar  the  flood  ; 
Or  watch' d  the  seap-bubbles,      or    ran    wid  the 

keyte, 
Or  launcht  paper  navies — how  dear  the  deleyte  ! 


26  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

Then  Jock  Smith,  the  Boggle,  I  meynd  him  reet 

weel, 

We  twee  to  Bleane's  hay-loft  togither  wad  steal  ; 
An  of  giants,  ghosts,  witches,  an  fairies  oft  read, 
Till  sae  freetent  we  harleys  durst  creep  off  to  bed  : 
Then  in  winter  we'd  caw  out  the  lassies  to  play, 
An  sing  how  the  muin  shone  as  breet  as  the  day  ; 
An  scamper  like  weyld  things  at  huntin  the  hare, 
Tig-touch-wood,  four  corners — aye  twenty  gams 

mair  ! 

When  I  went  to  Scott's  schuil,  my  dear  mudder  I 

lost, — 
What,  aw  this  weyde  warl    er    by  tyrant  Deeth 

crost  ; 

A  better  ne'er  tuik  bits  ov  bairns  on  her  tnee — 
When  I  luik  at  her  greave,  the  tears  run  frae  my 

ee  ! 
Then  at  thurteen,  my  f adder,  God  bliss  him,  oft 

said, 

"  Mey  lad  ;  I  mun  git  the'  a  bit  ov  a  trade  ; 
Oh  !  cud  I  affword  it,  mair  larnin  thou'd  get  !  " 
But,  peer  was  mey  fadder,  an  I's  unlarned  ye  ! 

An  then  mey  furst  sweetheart,  an  angel  was  she, 
But  I  nobbet  meade  luive  thro'  the  tail  ov  mey  ee  ; 
I  meynd,  when  we  met,  how  I  pantet  to  speak, 
But  oft  cuddent,  for  blushes  wer  spread  owre  my 

cheek, 

When  holidays  com,  fain  to  see  her  I'd  gang, 
But  dreemt  nit  sec  teymes  wad   be  neam'd  in  a 

sang  ; 
Leyke  a  rwose-bud  she  fell  to  the   yerth,  ere  her 

preyme, 
An  left  this  weyld  warl  for  a  better,  in  teyme, 

At   last,    aw    the    play-things    of    youth    thrown 

aseyde, 
Now   luive,    whope,    an   fear,    still  the  days   did 

diveyde, 

An  wi'  restless  ambition  leyfe's   troubles  began  ; 
I  seegh  to  trace  onward,  frae  bwoy  to  the  man  ! 
It's  sweet  to  reflect  on  the  days  o'  yen's  youth, 
If  rear'd  to  religion,  industry,  an  truth  ; 
We  spworts  cud  enjoy,  but  nae  harm  did  to  yen, 
Sec  innocent  teymes  fwok  can  scearce  see  agen  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  27 

PEACE. 
TUNE — "  Up,  Wull!  an  war  them  a'  " 

Now  God  be  prais'd  !  we've  peace  at  last, 

For  Nichol  hes  been  down, 
Aa  !  sec  a  durdem,  Nichol  says, 

They've  hed  in  ev'ry  town  ! 
The  King  thowt  war  wad  ruin  aw, 

An  Bonnyprat  the  seame  ; 
What,  some  say  teane,  an  some  say  beath, 

Hae  mickle  been  to  bleame. 


Now,  monie  a  weyfe  '11  weep  fer  joy, 

An  monie  a  bairn  be  fain, 
To  see  the  fadders  they'd  forgot, 

Come  seaf  e  an  soun  agean  ; 
An  monie  a  yen  mun  luik  in  vain, 

Wi'  painfu  whopes  and  fears, 
An  oft  thur  guilty  wretches  bleame, 

That  set  fwok  by  the  ears. 


Mey  cousin  Tom  went  off  to  sea, 

An  lost  his  left-han  thum  ; 
He  tells  sec  teales  about  the  feghts, 

They  mek  us  aw  sit  dum  ; 
He  says,  it  is  reet  fearfu  wark 

To  aw  that's  fworct  to  see't — 
The  bullets  whuzzin  past  yen's  lugs, 

An  droppen  down  leyke  sleet. 

Young  Peter,  our  peer  sarvent  lad, 

Was  far  owre  proud  to  work  ; 
A  captain  suin  he  whopt  to  be, 

Wid  our  girt  Duke  of  York, 
Wi'  poudert  heed  away  he  marcht, 

Brong  heame  a  wooden  leg  ; 
But  monie  a  time  he's  rued,  sin  seyne, 

For  now  he's  fworct  to  beg. 

Aa  !  our  rwose  Sally,  wull  be  fain, 
Sud  Lanty  but  com  back  ! 

Then  owre  the  fire,  in  winter  neets, 
We  wull  hev  monie  a  crack  : 


38  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


He'll  tell  us  aw  the  ins  an  outs — 
What,  he  can  wreyte  an  read  ; 

But  Sally's  heart  for  suir  mun  brek, 
If  he's  amang  the  deed. 


Wer  dang'rous  wars  aw  flung  aseyde, 

How  happy  fwok  wad  be  ! 
But  ruin's  monie  a  Ruler's  preyde, 

Throughout  the  warl,  we  see  ! 
To  fratch  an  feght's  aye  their  deleyte, 

They  leyke  to  crush  the  peer  ! 
Wad  they  dui  guid,  as  aw  fwok  sud — 

Hut  ! — Ills  the  warl  mun  bear  ! 


Oh  !  but  I  us'd  to  wonder  much, 

An  think  what  thousans  fell  ; 
Now,  what  they've  aw  been  feghtin  for, 

Wey,  deil  a  yen  can  tell  ! 
But,  God  be  prais'd  !  we've  peace  at  last, 

The  news  hev  spread  afar  ; 
May  Englan  leyke  the  weyde  warl,  hear 

Nae  mair  ov  murd'rous  wars  ! 


THE  CUMMERLAN  FARMER. 
TUNE — "  The  lads  o'  Dunse." 

I've  thowt  an  I've  thowt,  ay,  agean  an  agean, 
Sin  I  was  peet-heet,  now  I  see  it's  queyte  plain, 
We  farmers  er  happier  by  far,  tho'  we're  peer, 
Than  thur  they  caw  gentlefwok,  wid  aw  their  gear  ; 
Then,  why  about  riches,  aye  meake  sec  a  fuss  ? 
Gie  us  meat,   drink,   an  cleedin  ;  it's  plenty  fer 

us — 

Frae  prince  to  the  plewman,  ilk  hes  but  his  day  ; 
An  when  Deeth  gie's  a  beckon,  we  aw  mun  obey  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  29 


Our    darrick's     hawf-duin,    ere     the     gentlefwok 

rise  ; 

We  see  monie  a  lark  dartin  up  to  the  skies  ; 
An  blithe  as  the  burd    sud  aw  honest  fwok  be — 
Girt  men  hae  their  troubles,  as  offen  as  we  ! 
Our  weyves  an  our  dowters,   we  wish  to  leeve 

weel  ; 
They  tnit,  darn,  an  kurn,  or  they  turn  rock  an 

reel  : 

Our  sons  niver  grummel  to  toil  by  our  seyde — 
May  happiness  aye  the  industrious  beteyde  ; 


Our  youngest  lad,  Dick,  I  yence  tuik  to  the  town, 
He  keek'd  at  shop-windows,  an  sauntert  aw  roun, 
"  Aa,  Fadder,"  says  he,  "  sec  a  bussle  an  noise 
May  flay  sair  eneugh,  aw  us  peer  country  bwoys  !" 
But  seebem  year  aul,  yet  he  daily  wad  work  ; 
He'll  sing  owre  to  schuil,  or  he'll  run  to  the  kurk  ; 
He  lissens  the  parson,  an  brings  heame  the  text, 
I  han  him  the  beyble,  but  Dick's  niver  vext. 

In  storms,  the  peer  beggars  creep  up  to  the  fire, 
To  help  sec  as  thur  sud  be  ilk  yen's  desire  ; 
They'll  smuik  a  bit  peype,  an  compleen  ov  hard 

teymes, 

Or  tell  teales  of  deevils  that  glory  in  creymes  ; 
Expwos'd  till  aw  weathers,   they  wheyles  laugh 

an  jwoke, 

Breed,  tateys,  or  wot-meal,  we  put  in  the  pwoke  ; 
Tho'  some  are  impostors,  an  daily  to  bleame, 
Frae  princes  to  starvelins,  we  oft  fin  the  seame. 


Our    'squire    wid     his    thousans,     keeps    jauntin 

about, 
What,  he'd  give  aw  his  gear,  to  get  shot  o'  the 

gout — 

Nowther  heart-ache  nor  gout,  e'er  wi'  rakin  hed  I, 
For  labour  brings  that  aw  his  gowd  cannot  buy  ! 
Then,  he'll  say  to  me,  "  Jacep,  thou  whissels  an 

sings, 
Believe  me,  you've  ten  teymes  mair  plishure  nor 

kings  ; 

I  mean  honest  simplicity,  freedom,  an  health  ; 
Far  dearer  to  man,  than  the  trappings  o'  wealth  !  " 


30  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Can  owt  be  mair  sweet,  than  leyke  larks  in  a 
mworn, 

To  rise  wi'  the  sunsheyne,  an  luik  at  the  cworn  ? 

Tho'  in  winter,  it's  true,  dull  an  larig  er  the  neets, 

Yet  thro'  leyfe,  fwok  mun  aye  tek  the  bitters  wi' 
sweets. 

When  God  grants  us  plenty,  an  hous'd  are  the 
crops, 

How  we  feast  on  cruds,  collops,  an  guid  butter- 
sops — 

Let  yer  feyne  fwok  in  town  brag  o'  denties  whee 
will, 

Content  an  the  country  fer  mey  money  still  ! 


They  may  bwoast  o'   their  gardens  as  much  as 

they  leyke, 
Don't  flow'rs  bloom  as  fair  under  onie   thworn 

deyke  ? 

The  deil  a  guid  beyte  they  wad  e'er  git,  I  trowe, 
Wer't  nit  fer  the  peer  man  that  follows  the  plough, 
If  we  nobbet  get  plenty,  to  pay  the  laird's  rent, 
An  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  ! 


LUIVE  DISAPPOINTED.*' 
TUNE—"  Ettrick   Banks."' 

The  muin  shone  breet,  at  nine  last  neet, 

When  Jemmy  Sharp  com  owre  the  muir 
Weel,  weel  I  kent  mey  lover's  fit, 

An  soft  he  tapp'd  the  entry  duir  : 
Mey  fadder  started  in  the  nuik, 

"  Rin,  Jenny  !  see  whee's  that,"  he  said, 
I  whisper t,  "  Jemmy,  come  to-mworn  !  " 

An  then  a  bit  wheyte  lee*  suin  meade. 

*  a  feigned  excuse. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  31 

I  went  to  bed,  but  cuddent  sleep, 

This  luive  sae  breks  a  body's  rest  ; 
The  mwornin  dawnt,  then  up  I  gat, 

An  seeght  an  aye  luikt  towrt  the  west  ; 
But  when  far  off  I  seed  the  wood, 

Whoar  he  unlockt  his  heart  to  me, 
I  thowt  ov  monie  a  happy  hour, 

An  then  a  tear  gusht  frae  my  ee. 

To-neet  mey  fadder's  far  frae  heame, 

An  wunnet  come  this  three  hours  yet  ; 
But— O,  it  pours  !  an  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,  mey  varra  leyfe  ov  leyfe, 

1's  fain  to  meet,  but  laith  to  part  ! 

His  new  girt  cwot  he  meet  fling  on, 

An  mount  the  meer,  and  to  me  reyde  ; 
Wer  I  a  lad,  an  luiv'd  a  lass, 

For  hur  I'd  weade  thro'  Eden  weyde. 
Hut,  shaf  !  It's  owre  !  here  fadder  comes — 

I  hear  him  coughin  in  the  faul — 
Oh  ! — Cud  I  throw  this  luive  aseyde  ; 

It  meks  but  slaves  o'  young  an  aul  ! 


AUL  MARGET. 
TUNE — "  Lewie  Gordon." 

Aul  Marget  in  the  faul  still  sits, 

An  spins,  an  sings,  an  smuiks  by  fits, 

An  weeps  ;  now  lang  she's  lost  her  wits — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 

Yence  Marget  was  as  sweet  a  lass 
As  e'er  in  summer  trod  the  grass  ; 
But  fearfu  changes  come  to  pass — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 


32  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Whene'er  she  gaz'd  at  beggars  peer, 
She  gev  them  brass,  or  duds  to  weer  ; 
Now,  she  can  nobbet  give  a  tear, — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 

At  jwokin,  she  cud  please  fwok  aw, 
But  ne'er  yence  meade  a  frien  turn  foe  ; 
What  pity  joy  e'er  leads  to  woe — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 


Aye  at  the  murry-neet,  or  fair, 

Her  beauty  meade  the  young  men  stare  ; 

Now  wrinkelt  is  that  feace  wi'  care — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl 


Yence  Marget  she  hed  dowters  twee, 
An  bonnier  lasses  cuddent  be  ; 
Now  nowther  kith  nor  kin  hes  she — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 


The  eldest  wid  a  sowdger  gay, 

Ran  frev  her  heame,  ae  luckless  day  ; 

An  e'en  lies  buried  far  away — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 


The  youngest  she  did  nowt  but  wheyne, 
An  for  the  lads  wad  fret  an  peyne, 
Till  hurried  off  by  a  decleyne — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 


Aul  Andrew  toil'd  owre  hard  for  breed  ; 
The  neet  they  fan  him  caul  an  deed, 
Nae  wonder  that  turn'd  Marget's  heed — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl 


Peer  Marget  !  oft  I  pity  thee, 
Bow'd  down  by  yage  an  poverty  ; 
A  better  warl  suin  may  thou  see — 

O,  this  weary,  weary  warl  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  33 

FIRST  LOVE. 
TUNE — "  Cold  and  raw." 

It's  just  three  weeks  sin'  Carel  Fair, 

This  sixteent  day  o'  September  ; 
Theer  the  furst  lofe  ov  a  sweetheart  I  gat 

Sae,  that  day  I'll  ever  remember. 
But  luive  meks  yen  stupid,  aye  sin-seyne 

I's  thinkin  an  thinkin  o'  Wully  ; 
I  dung  owre  the  tnop,  an  scawdert  my  fit, 

An  cut  aw  mey  thoum  wi'  the  gully. 


O,  how  he  danct,  an  smeylt,  an  talkt  ! 

For  mey  life  I  cannot  forget  him  ; 
He  wad  hev  a  kiss — I  gev  him  a  slap — 

Now,  if  he  wer  here  I  wad  let  him  : 
Said  he,  "  Mally  Maudlin,  my  heart  is  theyne  !  " 

An  he  brong  sec  a  seegh,  I  believed  him  : 
Thowt  I,  Wully  Win trep,  thoo's  welcome  to  mey ne, 

But  my  heed  I  hung  down,  to  deceive  him. 


Twee  yards  o'  reed  ribbon,  to  weer  for  his  seake, 

Forbye  ledder  mittens,  he  bowt  me  ; 
But  when  we  wer  thinkin  o'  nowt  but  luive, 

Mey  titty,  deil  bin  !  com  an  sowt  me  : 
Deuce  tek  sec  weyld  clashes  !  off  she  ran  heame, 

An  e'en  telt  my  tarn'd  aul  mudder  ; 
Ther's  sec  a  te-dui  !  but  let  them  fratch  on — 

Miss  him  ? — I'd  ne'er  git  sec  anudder  ! 


Neist  Sunday,  God  wullin  !  we  promised  to  meet  ; 

I'll  hev  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  seem  lang,  an  langer  the  neets, 

An — Waes  me  !  this  is  but  Monday  ! 
I  seegh  an  I  think,  an  I  say  to  mysel, 

O,  that  to-mworn  wer  but  Sunday  ! 


34  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

LEYLE  STEEBEM. 

TUNE — "  Hallow  Fair." 

Leyle  Steebem  was  bworn  at  Kurkbanton  ; 

Just  five  feet  three  inches  was  he  ; 
But  at  plewin,  or  mowin,  or  shearin, 

His  match  you  but  seldom  cud  see  ; 
Then  at  dancin,  O  he  was  a  capper  ! 

He'd  shuffle  an  lowp  till  he  swet  ; 
An  fer  singin,  he  ne'er  hed  a  marrow — 

I  just  think  I  hear  his  voice  yet. 

An  then,  wid  a  sleate  an  a  pencil, 

He  capp'd  aw  the  far-larnt  young  lairds  ; 
An  playt  on  twee  jew-trumps  togedder, 

An  aye  com  off  winner  at  cairds  : 
At  huntin  the  brock,  or  the  otter, 

At  trackin  a  foumert  or  hare, 
At  pittin  a  cock  or  at  shootin, 

Nae  chap  cud  wi'  Steebem  compare. 

An  then  he  wad  feght  leyke  a  fury  ; 

An  count  fast  as  hops  aw  the  stars  ; 
An  read  aw  the  news  i'  the  paper  ; 

An  talk  about  weddins  an  wars  ; 
An  then  he  wad  drink  leyke  a  Briton  ; 

An  give  the  last  penny  he  had, 
An  aw  the  neyce  lasses  about  him, 

For  Steebem  wer  runnin  queyte  mad. 

Our  Jenny  she  writ  him  a  letter, 

An  monie  neyce  luive  things  she  said  ; 

But  fadder  he  just  gat  a  gliff  on't, 
An  faix  a  rare  durdem  he  meade  ; 

Then  Debby,  that  leeves  at  Drumleenin, 
She  wad  hev  him  aw  till  hersel, 
Ae  neet  when  he  stule  owre  to  see  her, 
Wi'  sugger  she  sweetent  his  keale. 

Then  Judy,  she  darnt  aw  his  stockins, 

An  Sally,  she  meade  him  a  sark, 
An  Lizzy,  the  laird's  younger  dowter, 

Kens  weel  whea  she  met  efter  dark  ; 
Aunt  Ann,  o'  the  wrang  seyde  o'  fifty, 

E'en  thowt  him  the  flow'r  o'  the  flock — 
Aa  !  to  count  yen  by  yen  aw  his  sweethearts, 

Wad  tek  a  full  hour  by  the  clock. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  35 

O  but  I  was  vext  to  hear  tell  on't  ! 

When  Nichol  the  teydins  he  browt, 
That  Steebem  was  geane  for  a  sowdger — 

Our  Jenny  she  gowl'd,  ay,  leyke  owt  ! 
Sin  that,  we've  nea  spworts  efter  supper, 

We  nowther  get  sang  or  a  crack  ; 
Our  lasses  sit  beytin  their  fingers, 

Aw  wishin  fer  Steebem  seafe  back. 

Our  Jenny  sits  spinnin,  an  wheynin, 

"  O,  Steebem  !  dear  Steebem  !  "  she'll  cry, 
"  Wer  meyne  hawf  the  Ian  in  the  parish, 

How  happy  'twad  meake'thee  an  I  !  " 
— Let's  drink  to  our  sowdgers,  an  sailors  ; 

Their  duty  wi'  preyde,  may  they  de  ! 
Wer  aw  but  as  bold  as  leyle  Steebem, 

Mair  teghtin  we  niver  need  see  ! 


THE  BASHFU  WOOER. 
TUNE — "  Dainty  Davie." 

Whene'er  ye  come  to  woo  me,  Tom, 
Dunnet  at  the  window  tap, 
Or  cough,  or  hem,  or  gie  a  clap, 
To  let  mey  fadder  hear,  min  ; 
He's  aul  and  feal'd,  an  wants  his  sleep, 
Sae,  softly  by  the  hallan  creep  ; 
Ye  needn't  watch,  an  glowre,  an  peep — 
I'll  meet  ye,  niver  fear,  min  : 
If  a  lassie  ye  wad  win, 

Be  chearfu  iver,  bashfu  niver — 
Ilka  Jock  may  get  a  Jen, 
If  he  hes  sense  to  try,  min 

Whene'er  we  at  the  market  meet, 
Dunnet  luik  like  yen  hawf  daft, 
Nor  talk  about  the  caul,  or  heat, 
As  ye  wer  weather-wise,  min  ; 
Hod  up  yer  heed,  an  bauldly  speak. 
An  keep  the  blushes  frae  yer  cheek, 
For,  him  whea  hes  his  teale  to  seek, 
We  lasses  aw  despise,  min  ! 

If  a  lassie,  &c. 


36  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

I  met  ye  leately,  aw  yer  leane, 

Ye  seemt  leyke  yen  stown  frae  the  deed, 
Yer  teeth  e'en  chattert  in  yer  heed, 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  luive,  min  ; 
I  spak,  ye  luikt  anudder  way, 
Then  trimmelt  as  ye'd  got  a  flay, 
An  owre  yer  shoulder,  cried  "  Guid  day," 
Nor  yence  to  win  me  struive,  min  ! 

If  a  lassie,  &c. 

Mey  aunty  left  me  fourscwore  pun, 
But  deil  a  yen  ov  aw  the  men, 
Till  then  wad  bare-legg'd  Elsy  ken, 

Or  care  a  strae  for  me,  min  ; 
Now,  tiggin  at  me,  suin  an  leate, 
They're  cleekin  at  the  yallow  bait  ; 
Yet,  meynd  me,  Tom,  I  needn't  wait, 

When  I  hae  choice  o'  three,  min  ! 

If  a  lassie,  &c. 

Theer  leeves  a  lad  owre  yonder  muir, 
He  hes  nea  faut  but  yan — hes  puir, 
Whene'er  we  meet,  wi'  kisses  sweet, 
He's  leyke  to  be  mey  deeth,  min  ; 
An  theer's  a  lad  ahint  yon  trees, 
Wad  weade  for  me  abuin  the  tnees  ; 
Now,  tell  yer  meynd  ;    or  if  ye  please, 

Fareweel,  wheyle  we  draw  breath,  min  ! 
If  a  lassie,  &c. 


THE  AUNTY. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

We've  roughness  amang  hands,  we've  kye  i'  the 

byre, 

Come  leeve  wid  us,  lassie  !  It's  aw  I  desire  ; 
I'll  lig  in  the  loft,  an  gie  mey  bed  to  thee, 
Nor  sal  owt  else  be  wantin  that  guidness  can  de, 
Sin  the  last  o'  thy  kin,  thy  peer  aunty  we've  lost, 
Thou  freets  aw  the  day,   an  e'en  luiks  leyke  a 

ghost. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  37 

I  meynd  when  she  sat  in  the  nuik  at  her  wheel, 
How  she'd  tweyne  the  slow  threed,  an  aye  counsel 

us  weel, 
Then   oft   whisper   me,    thou   wad   meake   a   top 

weyf e  ; 

An  pray  God  to  see  thee  weel  sattl'd  fer  leyfe  ; 
Then  what  brave  funny  teales  she  aye  telt  the  neet 

thro', 
An  wad  bliss  the  peer  fwok  if   the  stormy   wind 

blew. 


That  teyme  when  we  sauntert  owre  leate  at  the 

town, 
'Twas  the  day,  I  weel  meynd,  when  thoo  gat  thy 

chinse  gown, 

The  watters  wer  up,  an  pick  dark  grew  the  neet, 
An  she   lissen'd    an    cried,    an    thowt    aw  wasn't 

reet  ; 

But,  aa  !  when  you  met,  sec  a  luik  she  did  give  ! — 
I  can  ne'er  yence  forgit  her  as  lang  as  I  leeve. 


Weep  nit  fer  thy  Aunty,  tho'  now  she  ligs  low  ; 

A  woman  mair  worthy,  nae  mortal  e'er  saw  ; 

She   was  leyk'd    by  aw  roun,   but  wad  nae  yen 

begueyle  ; 

Mey  muddcr  oft  says,  she  met  Deeth  wid  a  smeyle 
It's    painfu   when    guid   fwok  frae    kindred    are 

tworn, 
But  when  our  turn  comes,  to  the  yearth  we'll  be 

bworn  ! 


Keep  up  thy  heart,   lassie  !  what,   we've  a  guid 

farm  , 

Let's  try  to  leeve  happy,  but  ne'er  to  dui  harm — 
Mey    decent    aul     mudder — Aa  !  mess    she'll  be 

fain, 
An  drop  tears  ov  joy,  when  I've  meade  thee  my 

ain  : 
Thou's  the  last  o'   the  flock,   an  a  better  ne'er 

leev'd— 
What  a  pity  guid  lasses  should  e'er  be  deceived* 


38  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

How  I  leyke  thee,  dear  Mary  !  thou's  oft  hard  me 

tell  ; 
What,  I  leyke  thee  far  better  than  I  leyke  mey- 

sel  ; 
An  when  sorrow  forseakes  thee,  to  kurk  we'll  e'en 

gang, 
But  thoo  rnnnnet  sit  peynin  thy  leane,  aw   day 

lang  ; 

Come  owre  the  geate,  lassie,  mey  titty  sal  he 
A  companion  to  hur  that's  still  dearest  to  me  ! 


THE  VISIT. 

TUNE — "  The  Sutor's  Dowter.' 


I  went  to  see  young  Susy — 

Bonny,  teydey,  blithe  was  she  • 
I  smeylin  kist  her  churry  lips, 

An  mark'd  the  magic  ov  her  e'e 
That  in  my  fancy  rais'd  desire 
But  purer  passion  never  burn'd 

In  onie  lover's  bwosom  ; 
An  aye  may  sorrow  wet  his  cheek, 

Who'd  crush  sae  rare  a  blossom 


An  now,  the  rwosy  lassie, 

The  death  she  laid,  the  teable  spread 
Wi  monie  a  dainty  quickly  ; 

An  monie  a  welcome  thing  she  said  : 
But  nit  sae  sweet  the  honey-cwom, 
As  Susy's  temptin  churry  lips 

That  fir'd  at  once  my  bwosom — 
O,  may  nae  rude  destroyer  dare 

To  crop  sae  fair  a  blossom  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  39 


An  now,  to  greet  the  stranger, 

The  wearied  aul  Iwok  daunder'd  heame, 
An  village  news  recounted  ; 

The  guide  man  bade  his  sonsy  deame 

Trim  up  the  fire,  an  mek  the  tea  : 
The  gurdle-keakes  as  Susy  turn'd, 

I  mark'd  her  heavin  bwosom  ; 
An  pleasure  beam'd  in  ilka  feace 

To  see  sae  sweet  a  blossom  ! 


An  now,  in  com  the  neybors  ; 

Roun  went  the  glass,  an  cheerfu  sang 
I  screw'd  my  flute  to  please  them  ; 

The  merry  dance  they  keept  up  lang, 
For  music  aul  an  young  can  cheer  ; 
In  leetsome  reel  nin  cud  compare 

Wi'  hur  that  fir'd  my  bwosom  ; 
An  ne'er  may  Care  oppress  the  fair, 

Who  pruives  a  virtuous  blossom  ! 


An  now,  to  please  the  aul  fwok, 

I  play'd  the  tunes  ov  former  days, 
Till  neet  hed  drawn  her  curtain 

Some  five  hours  ;  proud  I  heard  the  praise 

Ov  Susy,  smeylin,  wi'  consent 
To  set  me  out  a  meyle  o'  geate — 

I  press'd  her  to  my  bwosom, 
An  partin,  kiss'd,  an  pray'd  kind  Heav'n 

To  bless  the  beauteous  blossom  ! 


40  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

CROGLIN  WATTY. 

TUNE — "  The  Lads  o1  Dunse" 

If  you  ax  whoar  I  come  frae,  I'll  say  the  Fell  Seyde, 
Whoar  fadder  an  mudder,  an  honest  fwok  beyde  ; 
An  my  sweetheart,  O  bliss  her  !  she  thovvt  nin 

leyke  me. 
For  when  we  shuik  hans,  the  tears  gush'd  frev 

her  e'e  : 

Says  I,  "  I  mun  e'en  git  a  spot  if  I  can  ; 
But  whatever  beteyde    me,    I'll    think    o'    thee, 

Nan  !  " 

Nan  was  a  parfit  beauty,  wi'  twee  cheeks  leyke 
oodlin  blossoms  ;  the  varra  sect  on  her  meade  mey 
mouth  aw  water.  "  Fares- te-weel,  Watty  !  "  says 
she  ;  "thoo's  a  wag  amang  t'lasses,  an  I'll  see  thee 
nea  mair  !  " — "  Nay,  divent  gowl,  Nan  !  "  says  I, 

"  For  mappen,  er  lang,  I's  be  maister  meysel  ;  " 
Sae,  we  buss'd,  an  I  tuik  a  last  luik  at  the  Fell. 


On  I  whussel'd,  an  wonder'd  ;    my  bundle  I  flang 
Owre   my  shou'der,    when   Cwoley   he   efter   me 

sprang 

An  howl'd,  silly  fellow  !  an  fawn'd  at  mey  fit, 
As  if  to  say — "  Watty  !  we  munnet  part  yet  !  " 
Suin  at  Carel  I  stuid  wid  a  strae  i'  my  mouth. 
An  they  tuik  me,  nae  doubt,  for  a  promisin  youth. 

Aa  !  the  weyves  com  roun  me  in  clusters. 
"  What  weage  dus  te  ax,  canny  lad  ?  "  says  yen. 
"  Wey,  three  pun  an  a  croun  ;  an  wunnet  beate 
a  hair  o'  my  beard."  "  Wrhat  can  te  dui,  smart 
chap  ?  "  says  anudder. — "  Dui  !  wey,  I  can  dui 
owt,  plew,  sow,  mow,  shear,  thresh,  deyke,  milk, 
kurn,  muck  a  byre,  sing  a  song,  mend  car-gear, 
dance  a  whornpeype,  nick  a  naig's  tail,  hunt  a 
brock,  or  feght  iver  a  yen  o'  mey  weight  in  aw 
Croglin  parish  !  "  A  stowterin  hussy  wid  a  stick 
an'  clwoak, 

Aul  Madgery  Jackson,  suin  cawt  me  her  man  ; 
But  that  day,  I  may  say't,  aw  mey  sorrows  began. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  41 

Furst    Cwoley,    peer   fellow  !  they   hang't   i'    the 

street, 
An  skinn'd,  God  forgie  them  !  for  shoon  to  their 

feet  ! 

I  cry'd,  an  they  ca\vt  me  peer  hawf-wittet  clown, 
An  oft  banter'd,  an  follow'd  me  aw  up  an  down  : 
Neest  my  deame  she  just  starv'd  me, — she  niver 

leev'd  weel, — 
Then  her  hard  words  an    luiks  wad  hae  freetent 

the  deil  : 


She  hed  a  lang  beard,  fer  awt  warl  leyke  a  billy- 
goat  ;  wid  a  kill-dried  frosty  feace,  an  hair  just 
leyke  stibble  on  t'neb  en.  Aa  !  what  the  smaw- 
est  leg  o'  mutton  in  aw  Carel  market  sarrat  the 
cat,  me,  an  hur  for  a  heale  week.  The  bairns 
meade  sad  gem  on  us,  an  thundert  at  the  rapper 
as  if  to  waken  a  corp  ;  when  I  oppent  the  duir, 
they  threw  stour  i'  my  een,  an  cawt  me  "  Daft 
Watty  !  " 

Sae  I  packt  up  my  duds  when  my  quarter  was 

out, 
An  wi'  weage  i'  my  pocket  keept  sauntrin  about. 


Suin  mey  reet  han  breek  pocket  was  picktin  a 

fray, 
An   wi'   fifteen  wheyte  shillin'    they  slipt   clean 

away, 

Forbye  twee  lang  letters  frae  mudder  an  Nan. 
Whoar  they  sed  Carel  lasses  wad  Watty  trepan 
What,  'twad  tek  a  lang  day  just  to  tell  things  I 

saw, 
How  I  sceap'd  frae  the  gallows,  the  sowdgers  an 

aw. 

Aa  !  ther  wer  some  o'  thur  fworgery  chaps 
bade  me  just  seyne  my  neame.  "  Nay,  nay  !  " 
says  I,  "What,  ye've  gitten  a  wrang  pig  by  t'"lug, 
fer  I  cannit  wreyte  !  "  Then  a  fellow  just  leyke  a 
poudert  lobster,  aw  leac'd  an  feddert  owre,  ax't 
me,  "  Watty,  lad,  wull  te  list  ?  thoo's  owther  be 
meade  a  general  or  a  gommrel  !  "  "  weya,  nay  " 


42  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

I  says,  "  I  wunnet,  that's  plain.  I's  content  wid 
a  cwot  o'  mudder's  a  wnspinnin,  an  heed  nowt 
about  fuils  an  feynery  !  " 

Now  wi'  twee  groats  an  tuppence,  I'll  e'en  toddle 

heame. 
But   ne'er   be   a   sowdger   wheyle    Watty's    mey 

neame. 


How  my  mudder  '11  gowl,  an  my  fadder  '11  stare, 
When  I  tell  them  peer  Cwoley  they'll  niver  see 

mair , 
Then  they'll  bring  me  a  stuil  ; — As  fer  Nan,  she'll 

be  fain, 
When  I  kiss  her  (God  bliss  her)  !  agean  an  agean. 

Then  the  barn,  an  the  byre,  an  the  aul  hollow  tree. 
Will  just  seem  leyke  cronies  yen's  fidgin  to  see. 

The  sheep,  kye,  an  meer,  nin  o'  them  '11  ken 
Watty's  voice  now  !  The  peet  stack  we  us'd  to 
laike  roun,  ay,  neet  efter  neet,  '11  be  brunt  er 
this  !  As  fer  Nan,  what  she'll  owther  be  weddet 
or  broken-heartet  ;  but  sud  fadder,  mudder  an 
aw  be  weel  at  Croglin,  we'll  hev  toilen,  talkin, 
feastin,  fiddlin,  dancin,  drinkin,  singin,  smuikin, 
laikin  an  laughin,  wuns  !  ay,  till  aw's  blue  about 
us  : 

Then   amang   aw   our   neybors   sec   wonders    I'll 

tell, 
But  niver  mair  leave  my  aul  friens,  or  the  Fell. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  43 

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  they've  e'en  pickt  him  up, 

And  sent  him  far,  far  frae  me  : 
To  Carel  he  set  off  wi'  wheat  ; 

Them  ill-cwoated  fellows 
Suin  weyl'd  him  in  an  meade  him  drunk  ! 

— He'd  better  geane  to  th'  gallows. 

The  varra  sect  ov  his  cockade 

Just  set  us  aw  a  cryin  ; 
For  me,  I  fairly  fentet  tweyce — 

Thoo  may  think  that  was  tryin  ! 
Mey  fadder  wad  hae  paid  the  smart, 

An  shewt  a  nwote,  an  guinea, 
But,  lack-a-day  !  he'd  kiss't  the  buik, 

Aa  !  that  '11  e'en  kill  Jenny. 

When  Nichol  tells  about  the  wars, 

It's  war  nor  deeth  to  hear  him  ; 
I  oft  steal  out  to  heyde  mey  tears, 

An  cannot,  cannot  bear  him  ; 
For  aye  he  jeybes,  an  cracks  his  jwokes, 

An  bids  me  nit  forseake  him  ; 
A  briggadeer,  or  grandydeer, 

He  savs  they're  sure  to  meake  him. 

If  owre  the  stibble  fiels  I  gang, 

I  think  I  see  him  ploughin  ; 
An  ev'ry  bit  ov  breed  1  eat, 

It  seems  o'  Jemmy's  sowin  : 
He  led  the  varra  cwoals  we  burn, 

An  when  the  fire  I's  leetin, 
To  think  the  peets  wer  in  his  hans, 

Aye  sets  my  heart  a  beatin  ! 

Twee  neames  he  cut  upo  the  rail, 
Yen's  meyne,  an  his  the  tudder  ; 

Twee  fwok  mair  keynd  nor  him  an  me 
Ne'er  luikt  on  yen  anudder  : 


44  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

This  neyce  stampt  gown,  he  brong  frae  town, 
This  breest-pin  tui,  he  gae  me  ; 

On  Sundays  aye  I  kiss't  an  wear't — 
Nae  king  sud  coax  it  frae  me  ! 


I  went  to  Carel,  tweyce,  ay,  threyce. 

In  whopes  to  git  a  letter  ; 
I  axt  an  axt,  but  aw  in  vain  ; 

He's  met  wi'  some  lass  better  : 
The  fortune-teller  caw'd  last  week, 

She  sed  we'd  ne'er  hear  frev  him, 
My  fadder  seegh't,  my  mudder  gowl'd — 

I  ne'er  dar  whop  to  hev  him. 


What  can  T  de  ?  I  nowt  can  de. 

But  whinge  an  think  about  him  ! 
For  three  lang  years  he  follow'd  me, 

Now  I  mun  leeve  widout  him  ! 
Brek,  heart,  at  yence  ;  an  then  it's  owre — 

Leyfe's  nowt  widout  yen's  dearie  ! 
I'll  suin  lig  in  my  caul,  caul  greave — 

O  lass  !  ov  leyfe  I's  weary  ! 


CORP'REL  GOWDY'S  LETTER. 

(Answer  to  Jenny's  Complaint). 
Same  Tune. 

O,  lass  thou'll  be  queyte  fain  to  see 

This  Letter  frev  thy  Jemmy  ; 
I  meynd  reet  weel  when  we  shuik  hans, 

The  partin  kiss  thou  gae  me  : 
A  grandydeer  I  lang  hev  been, 

An  now  I's  CORP'REL  GOWDY  ; 
But  keale  an  poddish  weel  I  leyke. 

An  wheyles  git  swops  o'  crowdy. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  45 


A  sowdger's  wark's  just  neest  to  nowt, 

If  weel  he  tnows  his  duty  ! 
An  our  reed  cwoats,  as  monie  pruive, 

Oft  win  beath  wealth  an  beauty  ; 
What  I've  hed  sweethearts  monie  a  yen, 

Rich,  weel-donnt,  young,  an  cliver  ; 
But  here's  a  heart  can  ne'er  be  bowt, 

It's  theyne  !  sae  keep't  for  iver  ! 

O,  lass,  in  foreign  lans  I've  fowt, 

By  Frenchmen  wheyles  surroundit  ; 
Then  monie  a  brave  chap  tummelt  down, 

For  me,  I  ne'er  gat  woundit  : 
At  mountains  oft  I've  seegh't  an  gaz't, 

An  fancied  I  seed  Skiddaw  ; 
An  ne'er  forget  when  furst  we  met — 

Thoo  kens  'twas  in  your  meedow. 

When  on  the  march  frae  town  to  town, 

I've  seen  neyce  lasses  shearin  ; 
I've  thowt  o'  thee,  an  dropt  a  tear, 

Wheyle  comrades  oft  wer  sweerin. 
Wi'  preyde,  I  weer  thy  neyce  reed  hair, 

Upon  mey  breest  it's  twistit  ; 
On  duty,  in  weyld  winter  neets, 

A  thousan  teymes  I've  kisst  it  ! 


A  sowdger  wheyles  picks  up  a  Men  ; 

I've  yen,  our  Captain  Trueman  ; 
Aa,  lass  !  he's  free,  an  keynd  to  me — 

What,  he  was  yence  a  plewman  ! 
A  Miss  he  keeps,  an  tudder  neet 

He  whispert  me  to  teake  her  ; 
T  neam'd  thee  tull  him,  "  Sur,"  says  I, 

"  I  niver  will  forseake  her  ! 


To  fadder,  meynd  remember  me, 

An  say,  I'll  ne'er  forget  him  ; 
Tell  Nichol  some  few  ins  an  outs — 

To  read  this,  dunnet  let'him  ! 
Guid  news  !  For  Carel  we're  to  march, 

An  tek  the  rwoard  neest  Monday  ; 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  market  day, 

An  mek  thee  meyne  on  Sunday  ! 


46  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Pwoscvip. 

Wuns  !  I's  Lance  Sargin  meade  to  day, 

Reet  fain  thou'll  be  to  hear  on't — 
Our  Captain's  Miss  hes  run  away 

Wid  some  rif-raf,  we're  seer  on't — 
Let  t' Freest  to  thee  a  leycence  grant, 

If  nae  chap  else  hes  won". thee, 
Frae  Carel  in  a  shay  we'll  reyde, 

God's  blissin  aye  leet  on  thee  ! 


MATTHEW  MACREE. 
TUNE — "  The  wee  pickle  tow." 

Sin    I    furst    workt    a  sampleth    at    Biddy    For- 

sythe's, 

I  ne'er  seed  the  marrow  ov  Matthew  Macree  ; 
For    down    his      braid    back  hing  his    lang  yallow 

locks, 

And  he  hes  sec  a  kest  wid  his  bonny  grey  e'e 
Then  he  meks  us  aw  laugh,  on  the     stuil  when  he 

stans, 

An  acts  leyke  the  players  an  gangs  wid  his  hans, 
An  talks  sec  hard  words  as  nit  yen  understans — 
O,  what  a  top  scholar  is  Matthew  Macree  ! 


His    neame    fuils    disleyke,    but    to    me   it   souns 

sweet  ; 

Frev  Irelan  his  fadder  sail'd  owre  the  saut  sea, 
He  was  nobbet  a  weaver,  but  meade  up  ov  fun, 
An  wi'   Martin's    neyce    dowter   to   Gratena    ran 

he  : 
Mey   sweetheart    an   me    wer   beath    bworn   in    ae 

year  ; 
An  at  aw  maks  o'    spworts    sec   a  pair    ye'll    nit 

see  : 

He  wad  e'en  starve  his  sel,  just  to  sarra  the  peer — 
O,  was  ev'ry  chap  but  leyke  Matthew  Macree  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  47 

Twas  nobbet  last  Easter  his  cock  wan  the  main,* 

I  stuid  in  the  ring  ay  rejoicin  to  see  ; 
The  bairns  they  aw  shoutet,  the  lasses  wer  fain, 

An  lads  on  their  shouders  bwore  Matthew  Macree  : 
Then  at  lowpin  he'll  gang  a  full  yard  owre  them  aw, 
An  at  russlin,  whilk  o'  them  dar  try  him  a  faw  ? 

Then  whea  is't  that  aye  carries  off  the  fitbaw  ? 
Wey,  the  King  ov  aw  Cumberlan,  Matthew  Macree. 

That  teyme  when  he  fit  full   twee  hours  at  the  fair. 
An  lang  Jemmy  Smith  gat  a  famish  black  e'e  ; 

Peer  Jemmy  I  yence  thowt  wad  niver  paw  mair, 
An  I  was  reet  sworry  fer  Matthew  Macree  : 

Then  he  wad  shek  the  bull-ring,t  an  brag  the  heale 
town, 

An  to  feght,  run,  or  russle,  he  pat  down  a  crown  ; 

Saint  Gworge,   the  girt  champion,   of  fame  an  re 
nown, 
Was  nobbet  a  waffler  to  Matthew  Macree. 

On     Sundays     in     bonny     wheyte  weascoat  when 
drest, 

He  sings  i'  the  kurk  ;   what  a  topper  is  he  ! 
I  hear  his  strang  voice  far  abuin  aw  the  rest, 

My  heart  still  beats  teyme  to  Matthew  Macree. 
Then  his   feyne  eight-page  ditties,   an   garlans  sae 

sweet, 

They  mek  us  aw  merry  the  lang  winter  neet, 
But  when  he's  nit  amang  us  we  niver  seem  reet, 

Sae  fond  are  the  lasses  ov  Matthew  Macree. 

Mey  fadder  he  left  me  a  house  011  the  hill, 
An  I'll  get  a  bit  Ian  sud  my  aunty  dee, 

Then   I'll   wed   canny   Matthew   wheniver   he   will, 
For  gear  is  but  trash  widout  Matthew  Macree  : 

*  A  cock  main  was  a  pitched  battle  in  cock  fighting— in  which 
a  number  of  cocks,  often  64— were  paired  off  in  single  combats  and 
"  fought  it  out  "  until  there  was  only  one  left  surviving,  which  was 
said  to  have  "won  the  main."  Any  one  who  wishes  to  know  the 
"  in  and  outs  "  of  cock  fighting  will  find  the  matter  fully  discussed 
in  a  learned  and  exhaustive  paper  on  the  subject  by  the  late 
worshipful  Chancellor  Ferguson  in  Transactions  of  Cumberland 
and  Westmorland  Antiquarian  Society,  vol  IX.,  page  366,  382. 

t  "  To  shake  the  bull-ring  "  was,  some  threescore  years  ago,  to 
challenge  the  village  or  town  or  fair  stead  to  produce  a  champion 
to  fight  the  "  Shakker."  Similar  to  an  Irishman  dragging  his  coat 
tail  through  the  mire  for  another  to  tread  on. 


48  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

We'll  try  to  shew  girt  fwok  content  in  a  cot, 
An  when  in  our  last  heame  together  we've  got, 
May  our  bairns  an  ther  neybors  oft  point  to  the  spot 
Where  lig  honest  Matthew  an  Jenny  Macree. 


CALEP  CROSBY. 

TUNE — "  Auld  Rob  Mam's." 

O,  Weyfe  !  I  wad  fain  see  our  Sukey  dui  reet. 
But  she's  out  wi'  the  fellows,  ay  neet  efter  neet  ; 
Them  that's  fasht  wi'  nae  bairns  iver  happy  mun 

be— 
We've    but    yen,    an  she's  mistress  o'  beath  thee 

an  me. 

I  can't  for  the  leyfe  o'  me  git  her  to  wurk, 

Nor    a    feyne     day     or     Sunday  e'er  gang  to  the 

kurk, 

Nor  frae  week  en  to  week  en  ae  chapter  to  read, 
What,  the  Beyble  ligs  stoury  abuin  the  dure  heed. 

She    yence    wad    hae   crammelt   an  writ    her  awn 

neame, 

An  Sunday  an  warday  was  teydey  at  heame  ; 
Now  to  see  her  whol'd  stockins,  her  brat  an  her 

gown — 
She's  a  shem  an  a  *byzen  to  aw  the  heale  town  1 

O  wad  she  be  gueyded,  an  stick  till  her  wheel, 
Ther's  nin  kens  how  fain  we  wad  see  her  dui  weel  ; 
For  she's  thy  varra  picture,  an  aw  that  we  have — 
Her  neet-warks  '11  bring  our  grey  hairs  to  the  greave  ! 

'Twas  nobbet  last  week  in  weyld  passion  I  gat, 
An  gev  her  a  trouncin,  but  sair  I've  rue't  that  : 
Then  I  bade  her  e'en  pack  up  her  duds  an  we'd 

part, — 
To  streyke  mey  awn  lassie  just  brak  my  aul  heart  ! 

*  Byzen  or  Bizen  (Icel  bigsn  a  wonder  and  A.S.  bisen  an 
example).  This  word,  which  in  the  dialect  means  a  warning  or 
example,  always  goes  with  "  Shem." 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  49 


Theer's  that  ill  Calep  Crosby,  he's  niver  away, 
He's  gleymin  an  watchin  her  beath  neet  an  day  ; 
Sud  he  come  i'  mey  clutches,  a  ken-guid  he's  get — 
Tho'  I's  aul,  leame  an  feeble,  I'll  maister  him  yet. 

That  hav'rels  sud  lasses  begueyle  widout  fear, 
Sec  thowts  daily  bring  frae  yen's  e'e  monie  a  tear 
Base  Caleps  that  aye  thowtless  creatures  betray, 
Our  king  sud  transpwort  them  to  Botany  Bay  ! 

I'll  reyde  to  the  sea-pwort  the  press-gang  to  seek  ; 
O,    wan    they    but    drag    him  to  sea  this  seame 

week  ! 

To  kurk  let  him  teake  her,  if  luivers  they  be, 
Yet  I'd  rather  her  han  to  some  beggar  she'd  gie  I 


FECKLESS    WULLY. 
TUNE — "  Crowdy." 

Wee  Wully  \vuns  on  yonder  brow, 

An  Wully  he  hes  dowters  twee  ; 
But  nowt  cud  feckless  Wully  dui, 

To  get  them  sweethearts  weel  to  see. 

For  Meg  She  luik'd  beath  reet  an  left, 
Her  een  they  bwor'd  a  body  thro'  ; . 

An  Jen  was  deef,  an  dum,  an  daft, 
An  deil  a  yen  com  theer  to  woo. 

The  neybors  winkt,  the  neybors  jeer'd, 
The  neybors  flyr'd  at  them  wi'  scworn, 

\n  monie  a  wicked  trick  they  play'd 
Peer  Meg  an  Jen,  beath  neet  an  mworn. 

As  Wully  went  ae  day  to  wark, 

He  kickt  a  summet  wid  his  shoe  ; 
An  Wully  glowr'd,  an  Wully  gurn'd, 

"  Gueyde  us  "  !  quo  he,  "  What  hae  we  no\v  ? 

An  Wully  cunn'd  owre  six  scwore  pun, 

An  back  he  ran  wi'  nimmel  heel  ; 
An  aye  he  owre  his  shoulder  gleymt, 

An  thowt  he'd  dealins  wi'  the  deil. 


50  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

An  Wully's  bowt  a  reet  snug  house, 
An  Wully's  bowt  a  bit  ov  Ian  ; 

An  Meg  and  Jen  are  trig  an  crouse, 
Sin'  he  the  yallow  pwokie  fan 

Nae  mair  the  neybors  wink  an  jeer, 
But  aw  shek  nans  wi'  them,  I  trow  ; 

An  ilk  yen  talks  ov  William's  gear, 
For  Wully's  chang'd  to  William  now. 

An  some  come  east,  an  some  come  west, 
An  some  come  monie  a  meyle  to  woo 

An  Meg  luiks  streyte,  an  Jen  hes  sense, 
An  we  aw  see  what  gear  can  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  leyke, 

It's  money  meks  the  meer  to  gang. 


THE  BLECKELL  MURRY-NEET. 
To  a  popular  Tune. 

Aa,    lad  !    sec   a   Murry-neet   we've    hed   at    Blec 
kell, 

The  soun  o'  the  fiddle  yet  rings  i'  mey  ear  ; 
Aw  reet  dipt  an  heel'd  were  the  lads  an  the  lasses, 

An  monie  a  cliver  lish  huzzy  was  theer  : 
The  bettermer  swort  sat  snug  in  the  parlour, 

I'    th'    pantry    the    sweethearters    cutter'd    sae 

soft  ; 
The  dancers  they  kickt  up  a  stour  i'  the  kitchen  ; 

At  lanter  the  caird-lakers  sat  i'  the  loft. 

The  dogger  o'  Dawston's  a  famish  top  hero, 
He  bangs  aw  the  player  fwok  twenty  to  yen  ; 

He  stampt  wid  his  fit,  an  he  shoutet  an  roystert, 
Till  the  sweet  it  ran  off  at  his  varra  chin  en  ; 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  51 


He  held  up  ae  ban  leyke  the  spout  of  a  teapot 

An  danc'd    "  cross  the  buckle  "   an   "  ledder  te 

spatch  "* 
When  they  cried   "  Bonny  Bell  "  he  lap  up  to  the 

ceilin, 
An  aye  snapt  his  thoums  fer  a  bit  ov  a  fratch. 


The  Hivverby  lads  at  fair  drinkin  are  seypers  ; 

At  cockin  the  Dawstoners  niver  were  bet  ; 
The    Buckabank    chaps     are     reet    famish    sweet- 
hearters, 

Their  kisses  just  sound  leyke  the  sneck  ov  a  yeat  ; 
The  lasses  ov  Bleckell  are  sae  monie  angels  ; 

The  Cummerdale  beauties  aye  glory  in  fun  ; 
God    help    the    peer    fellow  that  gleymes  at  them 
dancin, 

He'll  slink  away  heartless  as  suir  as  a  gun  ! 

The  'bacco  was  strang  an  the  yell  it  was  lythey, 

An  monie  a  yen  bottomt  a  whart  leyke  a  kurn  ; 
Daft    Fred     i'    the    nuik,    leyke    a    hawf-rwoasted 

deevil, 
Telt    sly   smutty   stworie,     an    meade    them    aw 

gurn  ; 
Then    yen    sang    "  Tom    Linton "   anudder"  Dick 

Watters  " 

The  aul  farmers  bragg'd  o'  their  fillies  an  fwoais, 
Wi'  jeybin  an  jwokin,  an  hotchin,  an  laughin, 
Till  some  thowt  it  teyme  to  set  off  to  the  cwoals. 

But  hod  !  I  forgat — when  the  clock  strack  eleebem, 
The    dubbler    was    brong    in     wi     wheyte  breed 

an  brown  ; 

The  gully  was  sharp,  the  girt  cheese  was  a  topper, 

An  lumps  big  as  lapsteans  the  lads  gobbl'd  down  : 

Ay   the   douse   dapper   lanleady    cried     "  Eat    and 

welcome, 
I'    God's    neame    step    forret  ;       nay  dunnet  be 

bleate  !  " 
Our  guts  aw   weel   pang'd    we  buckt   up  fer  Blin 

Jenny, 
An  neest  pay'd  the  shot  on  a  girt  pewter  plate. 

*  "Ledder- te-spatch" — "leather    dispatch,"    is    a    shuffling 
dance,  which  wears  away  or  "  dispatches  "  leather. 


52  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Now  full  to  the  thropple    wi'  heed  warks  an  heart 
aches 

Some  crap  to  the  clock-kease  instead  o'  the  duir  ; 
Then  sleepin  an  snworin  tuik  pleace  o'  their  rwoarin  ; 

An  teane  abuin  tudder  e'en  laid  on  the  fluir. 
The  last  o'  December,  lang  may  we  remember, 

At  five  o'  the  mworn,  eighteen  hundred  an  twee  : 
Here's   health   an    success    to    the    brave  Jwohnny 
Dawston.* 

An  monie  sec  meetings  may  we  leeve  to  see. 


THE  DELIGHTS    OF    LOVE. 
TUNE — "  Guid  nicht  an  joy  be  wi'  ye  a'." 

The  summer  sun  was  out  o'  sect 

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  departin  day, 

An  caw'd  his  partner  to  his  nest, 
When  I  up  Eden  tuik  my  way, 

An  met  young  Mary  I  luive  best. 

I  gaz'd  upon  her  matchless  feace, 

That  fairer  than  the  lily  seem'd  ; 
1  mark'd  the  magic  ov  her  e'e, 

That  wi'  love's  powerfu  leetnin  beam'd  ; 
I  saw  her  cheek  ov  breetest  red, 

That  blushin  telt  a  lover's  pain, 
An  seiz'd  a  kiss — if  'twas  a  creyme. 

Ye  Gods  !  may  I  oft  sin  ageane  ! 

Fast  flew  the  hours  :  now  ruse  the  miiin 

An  telt  us  it  was  teyme  to  part  ; 
I  saw  her  to  her  mudder's  duir, 

She  whisper'd  low,  "  Thou's  stown  my  heart  I 

*  At  Blackwell,  near  Carlisle,  on  March  3rd,  1844,  Mrs.  Nancy 
Dawson  died.  She  was  the  widow  of  the  brave  Jwohnny  Dawson 
above  mentioned.  She  was  the  landlady  of  the  village  inn  for 
nearly  sixty  years,  and  was  much  respected.— G.C 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  53 

I  thro'  the  lettice  stule  a  glance, 

An  heard  her  angry  mudcler  cheyde  : 
Then  thowt  ov  aw  the  parent's  cares, 
As  frae  the  cottage  heame  I  hied. 


I've  teasted  pleasures  dearly  bowt  ; 

An  read  mankeynd  in  monie  a  page  : 
But  woman,  woman  sweetens  leyfe, 

Frae  giddy  youth  to  feeble  yage  ! 
Ye  warldlings,  court  coy  Fortune's  smeyle  ; 

Ye  rakes,  in  quest  ov  pleasure  rove  : 
Ye  drunkards,  drown  each  sense  wi'  weyne  ; 

Be  meyne  the  dear  deleytes  ol  love  ! 


RUTH. 

TUNE — "  The  auld  guidman." 

The  crackets  wer  chirpin  on  the  harth  ; 

Our  weyfe  reel'd  gairn  an  sat  i'  the  nuik  ; 
Queyte  weary,  I  smuikt  mey  cutty  black  peype 

Leyle  Dick,  by  fire-leet,  ply'd  his  buik  ; 
The  youngermer  bairns,  at  heeds  an  cross, 

Sat  laikin  merrily,  in  a  row  ; 
The  win  clasht  tui  the  entry  duir  ; 

An  down  the  chimley  fell  the  snovr. 


"  Oh  !  "  says  our  weyfe,  then  heav'd'a  seegh, 

"  Guidman,  we  sud  reet  thenkfu  be  ! 
How  monie  a  scwore  this  angry  neet, 

Wad  leyke  to  sit  wi'  thee  an  me  ; 
Sae  wad  our  dowter  Ruth,  I  trowe. 

Peer  luckless  lass  ! — She  deed  may  lie  ! 
For  her,  nae  day  gangs  owre  my  heed, 

But  painfu  tears  gush  frae  mey  eye  ! 


54  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  She  aye  was  honest,  an  weel  to  see — 
I  say't,  she  hed  nae  faut  but  yen  ; 

She  off  wid  a  taistrel  sowdger  lad, 

An  ne'er  yence  sent  the  screybe  6v  a  pen  : 

0  man  !  we  sud  forgit  an  forgive  ! 

The  burds,  beasts,  for  their  awn  '11  feel  ; 
Wer  meyne  aw  t'warl,  ay,  ten  teymes  mair, 
I'd  gie't  to  see  her  alive  an  weel. 

"  Whea  kens,  peer  thing  !  what  she's  endur'd, 
Sin  she  thy  keyndness  durst  not  claim  ? 

Thoo  turnt  her  out — it  griev'd  me  sair, 

What,  aw  our  neybors  cried  out  sheame  !  " 

Here  stopt  our  weyfe  an  shuik  her  heed, 
Wheyle  tears  ran  tricklin  doun  her  cheek  ; 

1  fan  the  truth  ov  what  she  sed, 

But  deil  a  word  cud  owther  speak. 

Just  then  the  latch  was  lifted  up, 

"  Aa  !  that's  a  boggle  !  "  rwoart  out  leyle  Ann 
In  bunc'd  our  Ruth,  fell  at  mey  feet, 
Cried.  "  O  forgie  me  ! — here's  mey  guidman  !  " 
Our  dame  she  shriekt.  an  dropp'd  her  wark  ; 

I  bliss'd  the  pair — aw  sat  queyte  fain — 

We  talkt  the  stormy  neet  away, 

Now,  God  b€  prais'd,  we've  met  ageane  ! 


THE  PECK  O'  PUNCH. 
TUNE — "  O'er  Bogie." 

'Twas  Rob  an  Jock,  an  Hal  an  Jack, 

An  Tom  an  Ned  forby, 
Wid  Archy  drank  a  Peck  ov  Punch, 

Ae  neet  when  they  wer  dry  ; 
They  talkt,  an  jwok'd,  an  laught,  an  smuikt, 

An  sang  wi'  heartfelt  glee, 
"  To-neet  we're  yen,  to  morrow  geane, 

Seyne  let  us  merry  be  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  55 

Saint  Mary's  clock  bumm't  eight  ;  the  hour 

When  each  popp'd  in  his  heed  ; 
But  ere  they  ruse,  they'd  fairly  drank 

The  sheame  feace'd  muin  to  bed  ; 

They  talkt,  an  jwok't,  &c. 

To  monie  a  guid  an  weel-shept  lass, 

The  fairest  i'  the  town, 
An  monie  a  manly  wordy  frien, 

The  noggin  glass  went  roun  ; 

They  talkt,  an  jwok't,  &c. 

A  neybor's  fauts  they  ne'er  turn'd  owre, 

Nor  yence  conceal'd  ther  awn, 
Hed  Care  keek'd  in,  wi'  wae-worn  feace, 

He'd  frae  the  duir  been  thrown  ! 

They  talkt,  an  jwok't,  &c. 

Our  statesmen  great  that  sink  the  state, 

An  fish  for  wealth,  nit  fame  ; 
They  neam'd  wi'  truth,  an  luiks  o'  scorn, 

An  thowt  them  Englan's  sheame. 

They  talkt,  an  jwok't,  &c. 

The  daily  toil — the  hunter's  spoil — 

The  faithless  foreign  pow'rs, 
The  Consul's  fate,  his  owregrown  state, 

By  turns,  begueylt  the  hours  ; 

They  talkt,  an  jwok't,  &c. 

Let  others  cringe,  an  vainly  praise, 

A  purse-proud  sumph  to  please, 
Fate  grant  to  me  long  liberty, 

To  mix  with  men  leyke  these  ; 
We'll  talk  an  jwoke,  an  laugh  an  smuik, 

An  sing  wi'  heartfelt  glee, 
"  To-neet  we're  yen,  to-morrow  geane, 

Then  let  us  merry  be  !  " 


56  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

THE  THUIRSBY  WITCH. 

TUNE — "  John  Anderson  my  Jo." 

We've  Harraby,  we've  Tarraby,* 

An  Wigganby  beseyde  ; 
We've  Outerby,  an  Souterby,* 

An  "  bys  "  beath  far  an  vveyde  ; 
Ov  strappin,  sonsy,  rwosy  queens, 

They  aw  can  brag  a  few  ; 
But  Thuirsby  fer  a  bonny  lass, 

Can  cap  them  aw,  I  trow, 

Her  mudder  sells  a  swop  o'  drink, 

It  is  beath  stout  an  brown  ; 
An  Etty  is  the  hinny-fowt 

Ov  aw  the  country  roun  ; 
Frae  east  an  west,  beath  rich  an  peer, 

A-horse,  a-fit,  caw  in  ; 
For  whea  can  pass  sae  rare  a  lass, 

He's  owther  daft  or  blin. 

Her  een  er  leyke  twee  Cursmess  slees, 

But  tweyce  as  breet,  an  clear  ; 
The  rwose  cud  niver  match  her  cheek, 

That  yet  grew  on  a  breer  ; 
At  toun,  kurk,  market,  dance,  or  fair. 

She  nicks  their  hearts  aw  stoun, 
An  conquers  mair  nor  Bonnyprat, 

Whene'er  she  peeps  arouri. 

Oft  graith'd  in  aw  their  kurk-gaun  gear, 

Leyke  nwoble  1  words  at  court, 
Our  lads  slink  in  an  gaze  an  grin, 

Nor  heed  their  Sunday  spwort  ; 
If  stranger  leets,  her  een  he  meets, 

An  fins — he  can't  tell  how — 
To  touch  the  glass  her  ban  hes  touch'd, 

Just  sets  him  in  a  lowe. 

Yence  Thuirsby  lads  wer — whea  but  we 

An  cud  hae  bang't  the  lave  ; 
But  now  they  hing  their  lugs,  an  luik, 

Leyke  fwok  stown  frae  the  greave  ; 

*  Names  of  Cumberland  Villages. 

*  "  By "  is  very  common  in  some  parts  of  Cumberland  and 
denotes  a  settlement  or  dwelling.    1 1  is  Scandinavian  and  wherever 
the  Scandinavian  tribes  wentand  settled,  the  name  "by  "  or  "  bo  " 
went  with  them,     1 1  is  very  generally  found  in  the  place  names  of 
Norway.    Thuirsby  is  perhaps  the  most  expressive   name  found 
in  this  list  as  signifying  •' Thor's  dwelling,"  and  the  remains  of  a 
Temple  dedicated  as  supposed   to  Thor  are  said  to  have  been 
found  there. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  57 

An  what  they  ail,  in  heed  or  heart, 

Nae  potticary  tnows — 
The  leytle  glancin  Thuirsby  Witch, 

Is  just  the  varra  cause. 

Ov  Black-eyed  Susan — Mary  Scott — 

The  Lass  o'  Peatie's  Mill, 
Ov  Barb'ry  Allan, — Sally  Gray — 

The  Lass  o'  Richmond-hill, 
Ov  Nancy  Dawson — Molly  Mog, 

Tho'  monie  sing  wi'  glee, 
The  Thuirsby  beauty,  out  an  out, 

Just  bangs  them  aw  to  see. 


THE  VILLAGE  GANG. 

TUNE — "Jenny  dang  the  weaver." 

Theer's  sec  a  gang  in  our  town, 

The  deevil  cannot  wrang  them, 
An  cud  yen  get  them  put  i'  print, 

Aw  Englan  waddent  bang  them  ; 
Our  dogs  they  beyte  aw  decent  fwok. 

Our  varra  naigs  they  kick  them, 
An  if  they  nobbet  ax  their  way, 

Our  lads  set  on  an  lick  them. 

Furst,  wi'  Dick  Wiggem  we'll  begin, 

The  teyney,  greasy,  wobster  ; 
He's  got  a  gob  frae  lug  to  lug, 

An  neb  leyke  onie  lobster  ; 
Dick  Weyfe  they  say  was  Branton  brea, 

Her  mudder  was  a  howdey, 
An  when  puir  Dick's  thrang  on  the  luim, 

She's  off  to  Jwohnny  Gowdey. 

But  as  fer  Jwohnny,  silly  man  ! 

He  threeps  about  the  nation, 
An  talks  ov  stocks,  an  Charley  Fox, 

An  meakes  a  blusteration  ; 
He  reads  the  paper  yence  a  week, 

The  aul  fwok  geape  an  wonder — 
Wer  Jwohnny  king,  we'd  aw  be  rich, 

An  France  mud  e'en  tnock  under. 


58  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Lang  Peel  the  laird's  a  dispert  chap  ; 

His  weyfe's  a  famous  fratcher, 
She  brays  the  lasses,  starves  the  lans — 

Nae  bandy  Ian  can  match  her  ; 
We  aw  ken  now  they  gat  their  gear, 

But  that's  a  fearfu  stwory, 
An  sud  he  hing  on  Carel  Sans 

Nit  yen  wad  e'er  be  s worry. 

Beane-brekker  Jwohn,  we  weel  may  neame 

He's  tir'd  o'  wark,  confound  him  ! 
By  manglin  lims,  an  streenin  joints, 

He's  meade  aw  cripples  roun  him  : 
Mair  hurt  he's  duin  nor  onie  yen 

That  iver  sceap'd  a  helter  ; 
When  sec  like  guffs  leame  decent  fwok 

It's  teyme  some  laws  sud  alter. 

The  schuilmaister's  a  cunjurer, 

For  when  our  lads  are  drinkin, 
Aw  maks  o'  tricks  he'll  dui  wi'  cairds, 

An  tell  fwok  what  they're  thinkin  ; 
He'll  glowre  at  maps,  an  spell  hard  words, 

For  hours  an  hours  togedder, 
An  i'  the  muin  he  kens  what's  duin — 

Ay,  he  can  coin  the  wedder. 

Then  theer's  the  blacksmith  wi'  ae  e'e, 

An  his  hawf-wittet  mudder, 
'Twad  mek  a  deed  man  laugh,  to  see 

Them  gleyme  at  yen  anudder  ; 
A  three-quart  piggen  fou  o'  keale, 

He'll  sup,  the  greedy  sinner, 
Then  eat  a  cow't-lword,  leyke  his  heed 

Ay,  onie  day  at  dinner. 

Jack  Mar,  the  hurplin  peyper's  son, 

Can  bang  them  aw  at  leein  ; 
He'll  brek  a  lock  or  steal  a  cock, 

Wi'  onie  yen  in  bein  : 
He  eats  guid  meat,  an  drinks  strang  drink, 

An  gangs  weel  grath'd  on  Sunday, 
An  weel  he  may — a  bonny  fray 

Com  out  last  Whussen-Monday.* 

*  Whit-Monday. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Our  boutcher  guid  fat  mutton  sells  ; 

Some  say  he  niver  buys  nin  ; 
Our  lanlword  vittrel-whiskey  meakes, 

They're  hilthiest  fwok  that  tries  nin 
Nat  Ne'er-de-weel,  an  ill  gien  Tom, 

Cock-feghtin's  aw  their  study  ; 
Black  Barney  feghts  week  efter  week, 

Ay  happiest,  when  queyte  bloody. 


The  doctor  he's  a  parfet  pleague, 

An  hawf  the  parish  puzzens  ; 
The  lawyer  sets  fwok  by  the  lugs, 

An  cheats  them  neest.  by  duzzens  : 
The  parson  sweers  a  bonny  stick, 

Amang  our  sackless  asses  ; 
The  'Squire's  ruin'd  scwores  an  scwores 

Ov  canny  country  lasses. 


Theer's  twenty  mair,  coarse  as  neck-beef. 

If  yen  hed  teyme  to  neame  them  ; 
Left  handed  Sim,  slape-finger'd  Sam, 

Nae  law  cud  iver  teame  them  ; 
An  blue-nebb'd  Wat,  an  ewe-chin'd  Dick, 

Weel  wordy  o'  the  gallows — 
Oh  !  happy  is  the  country  seyde 

That's  free  frae  sec  leyke  fellows  ! 


DICKY    GLENDININ. 

TUNE — "  As  Patie  cam  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  pou'd  off  his  muckle  top  cwoat, 
An  drew  in  a  stuil  by  the  hallan, 

Then  fworc'd  me  to  sit  on  his  tnee, 
An  suin  a  sad  teale  began  tellin. 


60  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  O,  Jenny  !  O  Jenny  !  "  says  he, 
"  My  leykin  for  thee  I  can't  smudder  ; 

It  meade  me  as  seeck  as  a  peet, 
To  think  thoo'd  teane  up  wid  anudder  : 

What  !  theer's  been  a  bonny  te-dui 
About  a  lang  hulk  ov  a  miller  ! 

He's  weyde-gobb'd,  an  ill-natur'd,  tui, 
But  ae  word  says  aw — he  hes  siller  ! 

"  The  lasses  ay  flyre  an  mek  gam, 
An  ax  me  what's  got  Jenny  Foster  ? 

The  lads,  when  we  meet  i'  the  Iwones, 
Cry  out,  "  Sairy  Dick  !  what,  thoo's  lost  her  ! 

Ill  Rowley,  the  miller,  last  neet, 
I  met,  as  we  com  in  frae  shearin — 

Hed  the  sickle  but  been  our  lang  gun, 
I'd  shot  him  !  ay,  dead  as  a  herrin  ! 


"  Aa  !  hes  thoo  forgotten  the  teyme, 
Thoo  sed  thoo  leyk'd  me  best  ov  onie  ? 

An  hes  thoo  forgotten  the  teyme, 
Thoo  sed  luive  was  better  nor  money  ? 

An  has  thoo  forgotten  the  teyme, 
I  markt  our  twee  neames  on  a  shillin  ? 

Thoo  promis'd  to  weer't  neest  thy  heart, 
An  then — to  wed  me  thoo  was  willin. 


"  The  furst  teyme  you're  cried  i'  the  kurk, 
I'll  step  my  ways  up/an  forbid  it  ; 

When  caul  i'  mey  coffin,  they'll  say, 
'Twas  e'en  Jenny  Foster  that  did  it  ! 

My  ghost,  the  lang  neet,  aw  in  wheyte, 
Will  shek  thee,  an  gar  thee  aw^  shiver — 

The  tears  how  they  hop  owre  mey  cheeks, 
To  think,  I  sud  Iwose  thee  for  iver  !  " 


"  O,  Dicky  !  O,  Dicky  !  "  say?  I, 
'  I  nowther  heed  house,  Ian,  or  siller  ! 

Thoo's  twenty  teymes  dearer  to  me, 
Than  onie  lang  hulk  ov  a  miller  !  " 

A  match  we  struck  up  in  a  crack, 
An  Dicky's  bowt  sticks,  an  guid  beddin — 

Mey  fadder  an  mudder  are  fain, 
Then,  ay  for  a  guid  merry  weddin  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  61 

THE  INVASION. 
TUNE — "  Jack  o'  Latten." 

How  fens  te,  Dick  ? — Ther's  fearfu  news — 

Udsbreed  !  the  French  er  comin  !. 
There's  nowt  aioun  us,  but  parades, 

An  sec  a  drum-drum  drummin  ! 
The  volunteers,  leyke  warriors  neam'd, 

Are  aw  just  mad  to  meet  them  ; 
An  Englan  suin  may  hing  her  heed, 

If  Britons  cannot  beat  them. 

We've  here  the  Rangers  donn'd  in  green, 

Commanded  by  BRAVE  HOWARD  ; 
Ov  aw  his  nowble  kindred,  iieane 

Was  e'er  yet  thowt  a  coward  ! 
They'll  pop  the  Frenchmen  off,  leyke  steyfe, 

When  e'er  they  meet,  I'll  bail  them  ; 
Wi'  men  leyke  HOWARD  at  their  heed, 

True  courage  cannot  fail  them. 

The  French  er  turn'd  a  wicked  reace 

If  aw  be  true  fwok  tell  us, 
For  whoar  they've  been  men  curse  the  day, 

They  e'er  beheld  sec  fellows  ; 
They  plant  the  tree — MOCK  LIBERTY, 

An  hirelins  dance  around  it  ; 
But  millions  wet  it  wi'  their  tears, 

An  bid  the  deil  confound  it. 

Our  parson  says,  we  bang  them  still, 

An  may  sec  still  be  duin,  min, 
For  he  desarves  a  coward's  deeth, 

That  frae  them  e'er  wad  run,  min  : 
What  feckless  courts,  an  worn-out  states, 

They've  conquer'd  just  by  kneav'ry  ; 
Then  may  each  volunteer  still  pruive, 

That  Britons  ken  nae  slav'ry  ! 

I've  sed  an  thowt,  sin  I  kent  owt, 

Content's  the  greatest  blessin  ! 
An  he  who  seizes  mey  bit  Ian 

Desarves  a  rough  soun  drissin — 
Aul  Englan,  tho'  we  count  thy  fauts 

Forever  we'll  defend  thee  ! 
To  foreign  tyrants  sud  we  bow, 

They'd  mar  but  niver  mend  thee  ! 


6a  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

GRIZZY. 

TUNE — "  The  aul  guidman." 

The  witch  weyfe  begg'd  in  our  backseyde, 

But  crap  away  unsarrad  i'  th'  pet  ; 
Our  Etty  then  kurn'd  at  e'er  she  kurn'd, 

But  butter,  the  deuce  a  beyte  cud  get. 
The  pez-stack  fell,  an  fadder  was  crusht  ; 

My  mudder  cowp't  owre,  an  leam'd  hersel  ; 
Neest,  war  an  war,  what  dud  we  see, 

Wey,  Jenny'  pet-lam  drown'd  i'  the  well. 

Aul  Grizzy  the  witch,  as  some  fwok  say, 
Meks  paddock -rud  ointment,  for  sair  een  ; 

An  cures  the  tuith-wark  wid  a  charm 
Of  hard  words,  ay  i'  the  Beyble  seen  : 

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, 
An  if  she  grummel,  they're  sure  o'  twee. 

I  yence  sweethearted  Madge  o'  th'  Mill. 

An  nin  sae  thick  as  she  an  I  ; 
Aul  Whang  he  promis'd  us  tweescore  pun, 

A  weel-theek'd  house,  a  bit  ov  a  stye  ; 
Ae  neet  we  met,  at  our  croft  heed, 

Whoar  Grizzy  was  daund'rin  aw  her  leane. 
But  scearce  a  week  ov  days  wer  owre 

Till  Madge  to  kurk  Wull  Weir  hed  taen. 

When  deef  Dick  Maudlin  lost  his  weyfe, 

An  sed,  'twas  weel  it  was  nae  war  ; 
When  Jerry'  black  filly  pick't  the  fwoal, 

When  hawf-blin  Calep  fell  owre  the  scar  ; 
When  Mantin  Marget  brunt  her  rock  ; 

When  smuggler  Mat  was  lost  i'  the  snaw  ; 
When  Wheezlin  Wully  was  set  i'  th'  stocks  ; 

Aul  Grizzy  ay  gat  the  weyte  ov  aw. 

Her  feace  is  leyke  the  stump  ov  a  yek, 

She  stoops,  an  stowters,  sheks,  an  walks  ; 
Bleer-e'ed,  an  tuithless,  wid  a  beard  ; 

She  coughs,  an  greanes,  an  mumps,  an  talks  , 
She  leeves  in  a  shill-house,  burns  whins  an  sticks 

An  theer  hes  dealins  wi'  the  deil — 
O  wer  she  suin  but  cowpt  into  the  greave, 

For  whoar  she  leeves  few  can  dui  weel  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  63 

GWORDIE  GILL. 
TUNE — "  Andrew  wi'  his  cutty  gun." 

Ov  aw  the  lads  I  see  or  ken, 

Theer's  yen  I  leyke  abuin  the  rest  : 
He's  neycer  in  his  war-day  claes, 

Than  others  donn'd  in  aw  their  best. 
A  body's  heart's  a  body's  awn, 

An  they  may  gie't  to  whea  they  will  ; 
Hed  I  got  ten,  whoar  I  hae  neane, 

I'd  gie  them  aw  to  Gwordie  Gill  ! 

Whea  was't  that  brak  our  lanlword's  garth. 

For  me,  when  young  we  went  to  schuil  ? 
Whea  was't  durst  venture  mid-thie  deep, 

To  bring  mey  clog  out  o'  the  puil  ? 
An  when  frae  horseback  I  was  flung, 

An  lang,  an  lang  I  laid  queyte  ill, 
Whea  was't  gowlt  owre  me  day  an  neet, 

An  wisht  me  weel — 'Twas  Gwordie  Gill* 

Oft  mountet  on  his  lang-tail'd  naig, 

Wi'  feyne  new  buits  up  till  his  tnee, 
The  laird's  daft  son  leets  i'  the  faul, 

An  keaves  as  he  wad  wurry  me  ; 
Tho'  fadder,  mudder,  uncle,  aunt, 

To  wed  this  maz'lin,  teaze  me  still, 
I  hear  them  tell  of  aw  his  gear, 

But  oft  steal  out  to  Gwordie  Gill. 


The  strae-hat  meaker  i'  the  town, 

She  sens  him  letters  monie  a  yen  ; 
Sec  brek-jaw  words,  an  bits  o'  rheymes — 

She  mun  hae  preyde,  but  sense  hes  neane 
Her  letters,  Gworge  reads  wid  a  laugh, 

An  shews  them  me,  an  rives  them  still — 
Hed  she  nine  teymes  her  weyte  o'  gowd, 

It  cuddent  aw  buy  Gwordie  Gill.g 


Frae  Carel,  cousin  Fanny  com, 

An  brong  her  whey-feac'd  lover  down, 

Wid  sark-neck  stuck  abuin  his  lugs, 
A  puir  clipt-dinment  frae  the  town  : 


64  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

He  minct,  an  talkt,  an  skipt,  an  walkt, 
But  tir'd  wheyle  gangin  up  the  hill, 

An  luikt  just  pale  as  onie  corp, 
Compar'd  wi'  rwosy  Gwordie  Gill. 

Mey  Gworge's  whussle  weel  I  ken, 

Lang  ere  we  meet,  the  darkest  neet, 
An  when  he  lilts,  an  sings  Skewball* 

Nae  playhouse  music's  hawf  sae  sweet, 
Owre  earth  ilk  las  ;'s  heart's  her  awn, 

An  she  mav  gie't  to  whea  she  will  ; 
Lang-seyne  I'd  yen,  now  I  hae  neane, 

'Twas  gien  wi'  joy  to  Gwordie  Gill. 


A  WEYFE  PER  WULLY  MILLER. 

TUNE — "  Maggy  Lauder." 

Hout  !  Wully,  lad  !  cock  up  thy  heed, 

Nor  fash  thysel  about  her  ; 
Nowt  comes  o'  nowt,  sae  tek  nae  thowt — 

Thoo's  better  far  widout  her. 
Peer  man  !  her  fadder  weel  we  ken, 

He's  but  an  ass-buird  meaker  ; 
But  she's  town  bred — O,  silly  gowk  ! 

Thoo'd  gi'e  thy  teeth  to  teake  her. 

I'll  tell  thee  ae  thing,  that's  nit  twee, 

I  hed  it  frev  our  cousin  ; 
She  walks  the  streets,  neet  efter  neet, 

Wid  weyld  chaps,  monie  a  dozen  : 
Street-walkers,  Wully,  mun  be  bad, 

They  monie  kill,  when  courtet — 
Afwore  I'd  link  wid  sec  as  hur, 

I'd  raider  be  transpwortet  ! 

I've  seen  thee  flyre  an  jwoke  leyke'mad, 

At  monie  country  fellows  ; 
But,  now  thou  seeghs,  an  luiks  leyke  deeth, 

Or  yen  gaun  to  the  gallows — 
Thoo's  sous'd  owre  heed  an  earn  in  luive — 

Aa  !  nobbet  luik  at  Cwoley  ! 
He  wags  his  tail,  as  if  to  say, 

"  Wey,  what's  the  matter,  Wully  ?  " 

*  To  sing  Skewbnl]  is  to  sing  without  regular  time  or  time.— 

Dr.  Prevost. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  65 


Ther's  lads  but  few  in  our  lang  town, 

An  lasses,  wanters,  plenty  ; 
An  he  that  fain  wad  teake  a  weyfe 

May  weale  yen  out  ov  twenty  : 
Theer's  Tamer  Toppin, — Aggy  Sharp — 

An  Clogger  Wilkin'  Tibby — 
An  Greacy  Gurvin, — Matty  Meer, — 

An — thingumbob's  lal  Debby  : 


Leyle  Peggy  sings,  an  fwok  she'll  please  ; 

An  Lanty  Langkeake'  dowter, 
A  whom  peype  dances  in  her  clogs — 

How  fain  the  squire  wad  bowt  her  ! 
Ther's  rwosy  Rachel,  parson  says, 

'Twas  mek  him  fain  to  catch  her  ; 
An  Dinah  gives  ten  pun  a  year 

To  peer  fwok — few  can  match  her  ! 


Then  theer's  Wull  Guffy's  dowter  Nan 

At  thee  ay  keeks  an  glances — 
What,  thou's  the  apple  o'  their  een 

At  cairdin  neets,  an  dances  ; 
Mey  titty,  tui,ae  neeght,  asleep, 

Cried,  "  Canny  Wully  Miller  !  " 
I  pou'd  her  hair,  she  blush't  rwose  reed, 

Sae,  gang  thy  ways  in,  till  her. 


Tell  mudder  aw  the  news  tou  kens  : 

To  f adder  talk  o'  the  weather  ; 
Then  lilt  them  up  a  sang,  or  twee, 

To  please  tern  aw  thegether  ; 
She'll  set  the'  out,  then  speak  thy  meynd- 

She'll  suit  thee  till  a  shevin  ; 
But  town -bred  husseys,  fwok  leyke  we 

Sud  niver  think  worth  hevvin. 


66  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

THE  TWEE  AULD  MEN. 
TUNE — "  To  an  old  Irish  Air." 

MATTHEW. 

"  What  Gabrel  !  come  swat  thy  ways  down  on  the 

sattle 

It's  lang  sin'  we  join'd  in  a  crack  ; 
Thy  gran'son  I  sent  owre  the  geate  for  some  bacco  ; 

The  varment  '11  niver  come  back. 
Nay,  keep  on  thy  hat — I  hate  aw  preyde  ov  man 
ners. 

What  news  about  your  en'  o'  th'  town  ? 
They  say  the  king's  badly — thur  teymes  gang  but 

The  warl  just  seems  turn'd  up  seyde  down  ; 
Aa,  what  alterations,  an  out-o'  th'-way  fashions, 
Sin  leyle  todlen  bodies  wer  we  !  " 

GABREL. 

"  O,  Matthew  !  they've  cutten  the  yeks,  yews,  an 

eshes, 

That  grew  owre  anent  the  kurk  waw  ! 
How  oft  dud  we  laik  just  like  weyld  things  amang 

them, 

But  suin  we  leyke  them  mun  lig  low  ! 
The  schuil-house  is  fawn,  whoar  we  beath  larn'd 

our  letters — 

For  thee,  tou  cud  figure  an  wreyte  ; 
I  meynd  what  a  monstrous  hard  task  an  a  flog- 

gin 

Tou  gat,  when  tou  fught  wi'  "  Tom  Wheyte," 
Whoarever  yen  ranges,  the  chops  an  the  changes 
Oft  meks  a  tear  gush  frae  the  e'e  !  " 

MATTHEW. 

"  Then,  Gabey,  tou  meynd^  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  peet  1 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  67 

What  anl  Robby  Donaldson's  got  a  lang  letter, 

An  some  say  it  tells  ov  a  peace  ; 
Nay    that  '11    nit    happen    i'    thy    teyme    or    rney 

teyme 

Widout  we  cann  get  a  new  lease 
Nere  Nan  !  bring  some  yell  in   gud   drinkin's  nae 

faib'n — 
Let's  moisten  our  clav  or  we  dee  !  " 


"  Aa    Matt  !  what    they    buriet    aul    Glaister    last 

Monday — 

Peer  Jwosep  1  we  went  to  ae  schuol — 
He  married  deef  Marget  the  Gemelsby  beauty, 

A  silly  proud  cat-wittet  fuil  ! 
Ae  son  pruiv'd  a  taistrel  an  brak  up  at  Lunnon 

What  Jwosep  he  gat  aw  to  pay  ; 
The  tudder  they  say  turn'd  out  nit   queyte  owre 

honest 

Sae  gat  off  to  Botany  Bay — 
O    man  !     this    frost    pinches     an    kills    fwok    by 

inches 
It's  e'en  meade  a  cripple  o'  me  !  " 


MATTHEW. 


"  Aa  Gabey  !  it's  now  lang  sin   tou   marriet  Ann 

Lawson — 

Tou  meynds  when  we  off  leyke  the  win 
Frae    kurk    to    the   yell-house    what    T    was    weel 

mountet 

An  left  tern  aw  twee  mile  behin  ! 
Young  Gabrel  thy  son  then  my  deame  an  I  stuid 

for 

A  brave  murry  cursnin  we  hed  ; 
We  kent  nowt  ov  tea  or  sec  puzzen  i'  thar  days 
But  drank  tweyce-brew'd  yell  till  hawf  mad  : 
There  was  Kitt  an  Ned   Neilson  an  Wat  an  Dan 

Wilson 
They've  aw  geane  an  left  thee  an  me  !  " 


68  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


GABREL. 

"  Ther's    ae   thing   gud   Matthew   I've   lang   thowt 
ov  axin, 

An  that  tou  mun  grant,  if  tou  an  : 
When  I's  stiff  an  cauld,  see  me  decently  coffin'd, 

An  laid  down  clwose  to  mey  weyfe  Ann. 
My  peer  gran'son  Jwosep,  is  hilthy  an  grows  up 

Oh  ;  luik  tull  him,  when  I's  low  laid  ! 
Meynd  he  gangs  to  the  kurk,  an  sticks  weel  to  his 

larnin, 

Then  git  him  an  easy  bit  trade  ; 
Thy  neybors  '11  bliss  the',  it  wunnet  distress  the', 

An  still  may  he  thenk  thee  an  me  !  " 


MATTHEW. 

Keep  up  thy  heart,  Gabey  :  nae  gud  come  grievin  ; 

Ay  laugh  at  the  warl,  if  tou'd  thrive  ; 
I've  buriet  three  weyves,  an  mun  suin  hev  anud- 
der, 

I's  queyte  young  an  rash — eighty-five  ; 
Then  sec  a  hard  drinker,  a  w  ussier,  a  feghter, 

A  cocker,  I've  been  i'  mey  teyme  ; 
An  as  fer  a  darrak,  in  barn,  muir  or  meedow, 

Nin  matcht  me,  when  just  i'  my  preyme  ! 
I  ne'er  thowt  ov  wheynin  or  gowlin  or  pey,  nin — 

We're  wise  when  we  chearfu'  can  be. 


GABREL. 

"  Nay,    but    neybor    Matthew,    when    ninety    lang 

winters 

Hae  bent  yen,  an  poudert  the  powe  ; 
We  greane  i'   the  nuik,  wi'  few  friens  or  acquain 
tance, 

An  just  fin — we  cannot  tell  how  : 
For  me,  I's  sair  fash'd  wi'  the  cough  an  the  gravel, 

Nit  ae  single  tuith  i'  mey  heed  ! 
Then  sin  my  guid  son  they  tuik  off  fer  a  sowdger, 

I've  wisht  I  war  nobbet  weel  dead  ! 
The  house   unc.le   gae   me,    the  squire's   e'en   ta'en 

frae  me — 
Ther's  nowt  but  the  warkhouse  fer  me  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  69 


MATTHEW. 

'  Mey   fadder,    God  rust   him  !  wi'    toilin  an   sea- 

vin. 

Screapt  up  aw  the  gear  he  cud  git  ; 
I've  been  a  sad  deevil,  an  spent  gowd  i'  gowpens, 

Thenk  God  !  I've  a  hantel  left  yet  : 
Come  shek  hans,   peer  Gabey  !  tous  hev  a  Men's 

keyndness. 

My  purse,  an  my  pantry  still  share  ; 
We'll  talk  ov  aul  times,  an  eat,  drink,  an  be  merry  : 

Thy  gran'son  sail  git  what  we  spare  : 
Here  leeght  thy  peype,   Gabey  !  tou's  welcome  as 

may  be — 
They's  ne'er  mek  a  beggar  o'  thee  !  " 


UNCLE  WULLY. 
TUNE — "  Wocfd  an  married  an  a'." 

It's  a  comical  warl  this  we  leeve  in. 

Says  Calep,  an  Calep  says  reet  ; 
For  Matty,  that's  got  aw  the  money, 

Hes  e'en  geane  an  weddet  deyl'd  Peet, 
He's  nobbet  a  hedder-feac'd  mazlin 

An  disn't  ken  whusky  frae  yell  ; — 
For  hur,  weel  brong  up  an  a  scholar 

She's  just  meade  a  fuil  ov  hersel  ! 

Deil  bin  her  ! — she'd  leyle  to  de 
To  tek  sec  a  hawflin  as  he 
That  nowther  kens  A  B  or  C — 
Aa  !  what,  sec  a  pair  can  ne'er  'gree  1 

He  ne'er  hes  a  teale  widout  laitin, 

An  hardley  can  grease  his  awn  clogs  ; 
He  wed  onie  decent  man's  dowter  ? 

He's  fitter  to  lig  amang  hogs  ! 
At  the  clock,  for  an  hour  he'll  keep  gleymin, 

But  de'il  e'er  the  teyme  he  can  tell  ; 
An  mey  niece,  for  that  ae  word,  husban, 

Hes  e'en  geane  an  ruin'd  hersel. 

De'il  bin,  &c. 


70  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Her  fadder,  God  keep  him  !  mey  billy, 

Ay  thowt  her  the  flow'r  o'  them  aw  ; 
An  sed  on  his  deeth-bed,  "  O,  Wully  ! 

Luik  tull  her,  man  when  I  lig  low  !  " 
I  meade  her  beath  reader  an  wreyter 

Nin  bang't  her,  the  maister  can  tell  ; 
But,  speyte  o'  beath  larnin  an  manners, 

She's  e'en  meade  a  guff  ov  hersel. 

De'il  bin,  &c. 

When  lasses  get  past  aw  adveysin, 

Our's  then  turns  a  piteous  kease  ; 
A  gown  or  a  shift  yen  may  shep  them, 

But  aw  cannot  gi'e  them  God's  greace  : 
For  me,  I'll  e'en  deeght  meye  hans  on  her, 

An  this  aw  our  neybors  I'll  tell  ; 
She's  meade  a.  bad  bed,  let  her  lig  on't, 
An  think  how  she's  ruirt'd  hersel. 
De'il  bin  her  !  she's  leyle  te  de 
To  tek  sec  a  hawflin  as  he, 
That  nowther  kens  A,  B,  or  C — 
Aa  !  what,  sec  a  pair  ne'er  can  'gree  ! 


GUID  STRANG  YELL. 
TUNE — "  Farewell  to  Bantf." 

Our  Ellik  leykes  fat  bacon  weel  ; 

And  havver-bannock  pleases  Dick  ; 
A  cowt-lword  meks  leyle  Wully  fain, 

But  cabblish  aye  turns  Philip  seeck 
Our  deame's  fer  gurdle-keakes,  an  tea 

An  Betty's  aw  fer  thick  pez-keale, 
Let  ilk  yen  fancy  what  they  wull, 

Still  mey  deleyte  is  gud  strang  yell  ! 

I  ne'er  hed  muckle  ne'er  kent  want, 
Ne'er  wrangt  a  neybor,  frien,  or  kin 

Mey  deame  an  bairns,  'buin  aw  I  prize- 
Ther's  music  i'  their  varra  din  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  71 


I  labor  suin,  I  labor  leate, 

An  cheerfu  eat  my  holesome  meale  ; 
My  weage  can  feed  an  clead  us  aw, 

An  whelyes  affwords  me  gud  strang  yell. 

Drinkin-meks  a  coward  bold — 
Drinkin  changes  neet  to  day — 
Drinkin  turns  the  aul  to  young — 

Drinkin  drives  dull  care  away  ! 
Wheyle  some  deleyte  in  punch  or  weyne. 

An  wicked  teales  oft  leyke  te  tell  : 
I  leyke  a  smuik,  a  harmless  jwoke, 

An  hilth  impruive,  wi'  gud  strang  yell. 

What's  aw  the  warl,  widout  content  ? 

Wi'  that  an  hilth,  man  can't  be  peer  ; 
We  suin  slip  off  frae  friens  an  foes, 

Then  whee  but  fuils  wad  feght  for  gear  : 
'Bout  kings  an  consuls  gowks  may  fratch  ; 

For  me,  I  scworn  to  vex  mysel  ; 
But  laughs  at  courts,  an  owre-grown  kneaves, 

When  I've  a  hush  o'  gud  strang  yell. 


BRUFF  REACES.* 
TUNE — "  The  Priest  an  his  buits." 

O,    Wully  !  hed   tou   nobbet   been   at   Bniff   Rea- 

ces  ! 

It  seem'd,  lad,  as  if  aw  the  weyde  warl  wer  met, 
Some  went  to  be  seen,  others  off  for  divarsion, 

An  monie  went  theer  a  lock  money  to  bet  ; 
The  Cup  was  aw  siller,  an  letter'd  reet  neycely, 
A  feyne  naig  they'd  put  on't,  forby  my  Lword's 

neame  ; 
It  hods  nar  a  quart — Aa  !  wh.\t,  monie  drank  out 

on't, 

An   oppen'd    their   gills    till    they   cuddent   creep 
heame. 

*  These  races  took  place  on  the  3rd  of  May,  1804  at  Burgh  a 
village  5  miles  from  Carlisle.  The  Prize,  given  by  the  Earl  of 
Lonsdale,  when  he  attained  to  the  Earldom,  was  a  Silver  Cup  value 
£50.  These  races  were  again  held  40  years  afterwards,  in  1845. 
A  Cup  of  Silver  was  again  given.  The  event  was  celebrated  in  a 
dialect  Song  by  Rigson. — Editor. 


72  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Ther    was,     "  How    fens    te,    Tommy  ?  " — "  Wey, 

Jwosey  !  I's  gaily," 
"  What,    is    there    owt    unket    i'    your    country 

seyde  ?  " 
41  Here,     lanlword     a     noggin  !  " — "  Whea     reydes 

the  Collector  ?  " 
"  What   Meason'    aul   meer   can   bang   aw   far   an 

weyde  !  " 
Ther   was   snaps,    yell,    nuts,    gingerbreed,    shwort- 

keakes,  an  brandy, 
An    tents   full   ov   ham,    beef,    an   nowble    veal- 

pye  ; 
An    Greenup,    wi' — "    a   reet  an  true  list  ov  the 

horses, 
The  neames  o'  the  awners,  an  reyders,  forby." 


What,   monie  fwok   tell  us,   the  dissnins  wer  skif- 

tet, 

The  neet  afwore  startin —  that  cuddent  be  fair  ! 
Queyte  flayt  ov  a  naig  bein  laught   at   by   thou- 


Nae  guid  sec  gawvison  iver  sud  share  ! 
Then  others  say,  cheatry  niver  comes  speatry  ; 

I  wish  it  wer  true,  but  owre  monie  think  wrang 
Girt  L words  o'   the  nation  cheat  aw  maks  about 
tern — 

Ne'er  ak  ! — I  mun  stick  to  mey  bit  ov  a  sang. 


Ere  they  saddl'd,   the  gamlers  peep'd  sair  at  the 

horses  ; 

Sec  scrudgin  !  the  fwok  wer  just  ready  to  brust, 
Wi'   swearin,   an  bettin,    they   meade  a  sad  hay- 
bay 
"  I'll  lig  six   to   four  !  " — "  Done  !  come,    down 

wi'  the  dust  !  " 
"'  What  think  ye  ov  Lawson  ?  " — "  The  fiel  fer  a 

guinea  !  " 

"  I'll  mention  the  winner  !    dar  onie  yen  lay  !  " 
Jwohn    Blaylik's    reed    hankitcher    wav'd    at    the 

dissnins  ; 
At  startin,  he  cried,  "  Yen,  twee,  three,  put  away  !  ' 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  73 

They   went    off,    leyke   leetnin — the    aul    meer's    a 

topper — 
She   flew   leyke   an   arrow,    an   shew'd    tem   her 

tail  ; 
They  hugg'd,   whup't,    an  spurr'd,   but   cud   niver 

"yence  touch  her — 

The  winners  they  rear'd  an  Iwosers  turnt  pale  ; 
Peer   Lawson   gat   dissen'd,    an   sae   sud    the    tud- 

ders  ! 

Furst  heat  was  a  chease,  an  the  neist  a  tek  in  ; 
Then  some  drank  their  winnins,  but — woefu  disas 
ter  ; 
It  rain'd,  an  the  lasses  gat  wet  to  the  skin. 


Leyke  pez  in  a  pot,  neist  at  Sansfiel  they  capert — 

The  lads  did  the  lasses  sae  kittle  an  hug  ; 
Young  Crosset,  i'  fettle,  had  got  bran  new  pumps 

on, 

An  brong  fisher  Jemmy  a  clink  o'  the  lug  : 
The  lasses  they  beldert  out,  "  Man  thysel,  Jemmy  " 
His  cronies   they  poud   off  his   cwot,   weascwot, 

an  sark  ; 

They  fit,  lugg'd,  an  lurried,  aw  owre  bluid  an  bat 
ter — 

The  lanlword   com  in,  an  cried,  "  Shem  o'  sec 
wark  !  " 


Ther     wer     smugglers,     excisemen,     horse-cowpers 

an  parsons, 

Sat  higglety-pigglety, — aw  far'd  aleyke  ; 
Then     mowdy-warp*    Jacky — Aa,     man !     it     was 

funny ! — 
He  meade   tem  aw  laugh,   when  he  stuck  in  a 

creyke. 

Ther  was  lasses  frae  Wigton,  an  Worton,  an  Ban- 
ton — 
Some   o'    them   gat   sweethearts,    wheyle   others 

gat  neane  ; 

An  bairns  yet  unbworn  '11  oft  hear  o'  Bruff  Reace  s, 
For  ne'er  mun  we  see  sec  a  meetin  ageane  ! 


*  The  title  of  a  Mole  catcher. 


74  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

BIDDY. 

TUNE — "  Since  love  is  the  plan.1" 

'Twos  frost  an  thro'  leet,  wid  a  greymin  ov  snaw, 
When  I  went  to  see  Biddy,  the  flow'r  o'  them  aw  ; 
To  meet  was  agreed  to,  at  Seyrnie'  deyke  nuik, 
Whoar  I  suntert  wi'  monie  a  seegh  an  lang  luik, 
But  pou'd  up  my  spirits,  an  off  till  her  heame  ; 
If  fwok  ay  mean  reet,  they  need  niver  think 
sheame. 


I    peep'd    thro'    the    window,    to   see   what    was 

duin  ; 

Her  fadder  sat  whusslin,  an  greasin  his  shoon  ; 
Her  mudder  sat  darnin,  an  smuikin  the  wheyle  ; 
An  Biddy  sat  spinnin,  the  neet  to  begueyle  ; 
Her  threed  it  ay  brak,  she  seem'd  sad  as  cud 

be, 
A  stranger  sat  nar  her,  I  vext  was  to  see  ! 


I  shekt  leyke  an  esh-leaf,  nae  wonder,  for  fear  ; 
When  luive  meks  yen  jilous,  it's  then  hard  to 

bear  ; 
He  shew'd  his  bit  watch   to   the  aul  fwok,   wi 

preyde, 

But  Biddy  ne'er  yence  flang  her  breet  e'e  aseyde  ; 
He  tuik  out  his  feyfe,  an  he  play'd  a  leyle  tuin, 
But  Biddy  ne'er  yence  gev  a  smeyle,  when  he'd 

duin. 


He  struive  for  a  kiss,  then  she  ruse  in  a  crack, 
An  frownin,  she  left  him,  but  niver  yence  spak 
An  suin  i'  the  faul,  wi'  girt  plishure  we  met — 

0,  that  happy  ebemin  we  ne'er  can  forget  ! 

1,  kiss'd  her,  an  bless'd  her,  at  partin,  she  sed, 

"  O,    God    bless    the'    Jwohnny  !  nae    udder    I'll 
wed." 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  75 

DINAH  DUFTON. 

TUNE — "  Fys  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae." 

Peer  Dinah  Duf ton's  e'en  wi'  bairn  ! 

Ilk  neybor  at  the  thowt  seems  hurt, 
A  better,  bonnier,  blither  lass, 

Nay  niver  yet  fell  in  the  durt  : 
Aul  Tim  her  ladder  struck  her  out, 

At  mid-neet,  when  down  com  the  snow 
She  owre  the  geate — what  cud  she  de  ? 

An  sobb'd  an  gowl'd,  an  telt  us  aw. 

Mey  fadder  shuik  his  head,  an  seegh'd, 

But  spak,  an  actet  leyke  a  man  ; 
"  Gud  lass  !  "  says  he,  "  tou  sannet  want, 

Sae  keep  thy  heart  up,  if  tou  can  ; 
I've  lads  an  lasses  o'  mey  awn, 

An  nin  can  tell  what  they  may  de— 
To  turn  thee  out  ! — sweet  luckless  girl  ! 

Thy  fadder  e'en  mun  hardened  be!  " 

God  niver  meade  a  heartier  lass, 

Blithe  she  wad  sing  for  iver  mair  ; 
Yet,  when  peer  fwok  wer  in  distress, 

To  hear  on't — O,  it  hurt  her  sair  ! 
This  luive,  some  say,  heydes  monie  fauts — 

This  war]  dear  Dinah,  leyle  she  tnew, 
Hed  she  but  lissent  mey  adveyce, 

Thro'  leyfe  sh'd  hed  nae  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, 

An  keept  a  leyle  bit  dancin  schuil  : 
A  fortune-teller  suin  he  breyb'd, 

To  say  the  match  was  meade  abuin  ; 
But  when  he'd  brong'  his  ens  about, 

He  laught,  an  frown' d,  an  left  her  suin. 

Now  Dinah's  apron  grows  queyte  shwort  ; 

Peer  outcast,  dull,  to  luive  a  slave  ! 
Aw  day  she  whinges  in  our  loft, 

Ay  wishin  she  wer  in  her  greave  : 
111  mangrel  Wull,  the  tuil,  ne'er  cawt — 

Mey  fadder  got  him  thrown  i'  th'  jail — 
Wheae'er  to  ruin  leads  a  lass, 

Deil  tek  the  chap  that  'twad  him  bail  ! 


76  CUMBERLAND   BALLADS. 

NED  CARNAUGHAN. 
TUNE—"  The  Miller  of  the  Dec." 

Mey  mudder  was  teakin  her  nuin's  list, 

Mey  fadder  was  out  at  the  hay  ; 
When  Ned  Carnaughan  com  bouncin  in, 

An  luik'd  as  he'd  gotten  a  flay  : 
"  O,  Sib  !  "  says  he,  "  I's  duin  wid  thee  ; 

Aye  !  what,  tou  blushes  an  stares  ! 
I  seed  the'  last  neet  wi'  bow-hought  Peat, 

But — Deil  tek  them  that  cares  !  " 

I  laught  at  Ned — "  Peer  fuil  !  "  says  I, 

"  What's  aw  this  fuss  about  ? 
Jwohn  Peat's  a  guid,  wise,  cheerfu  lad — 

For  thee,  thou's  a  parfit  lout  ! 
But  whea  wer  liggin  in  Barney's  croft, 

An  laikin  leyke  twea  hares  ? 
An  whea  kiss'd  Suke,  frae  lug  to  lug  ? 

Nay — Deil  tek  them  that  cares  !  " 
Says  Ned,  says  he,  "  The  thimmel  gi'  me, 

I  brong  the'  frae  Branton  Fair  ; 
An  gi'  back  the  broach  ;  an  true-love-tnot  ; 

An  lock  o'  mey  awn  black  hair  ! 
An  pay  me  the  tuppens  I  wan  frae  thee, 

Ae  neet,  at  "  Pops  and  Pairs  " 
Then  e'en  teake  on  wi'  whea  thou  leykes, 

For — Deil  tek  them  that  cares  !  " 

The  broach,  an  thimmel,  I  flang  at  his  feace, 

The  true-love  tnot  i'  the  fire  ; 
Say  I,  "  Thou's  nobbet  a  hawflin  bworn — 

Fash  me  nae  mair,  I  desire  ! 
Here,  teake  thy  tuppens,  a  reape  to  buy, 

But  gie  thysel  nae  mair  airs  ; 
Just  hing  as  hee  as  Gilderoy,* 

An — Deil  tek  them  that  cares  !" 

Then  Ned  he  trimmelt,  an  seeght,  an  gowlt — 

I  fan  mysel  aw  wheyte  queer  : 
"  O,  Sibby  !  "  says  he,   "mey  fauts  forgie  ! 

I'll  wrang  the'  nae  mair,  I  swear  !  " 
He  kiss'd  an  coddelt,  an  meade  me  smeyle — 

We  meet  at  markets  an  fairs, 
His  breyde  I'll  be — sud  we  neer  agree, 

Wey — Deil  tek  them  that  cares  !  " 

*  Gilderoy— a  famous  robber,  said  to  have  robbed  Cardinal 
Richelieu.  There  was  a  Scotch  robber  of  the  same  name  in  the 
reign  of  Queen  Mary.  Both  were  noted  for  their  handsome 
persons,  and  both  were  hanged.— Editor. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  77 

THE  COCKER  O'   CODBECK. 
TUNE — "  Patrick's  day  t'  th'  morning." 

Ther  was  ill  meanin  Jemmy,  the  Cocker  o'  Codbeck, 
He   follow'd    blin    Leethet    lass,    years    twee   or 

three  ; 

She  laid  in,  hed  twins,  an  was  sum  broken-hearted, 
For  wretch-leyke,  he  left  her  ;   an  neist  off  went 

he, 
To  Hesket ;    for  money,  a  weyld  yen  he  weddet — 

Suin  peer  Greacy  Leethet  was  laid  in  the  greave  : 
The  last    words    she    spak    wer,    "O    God,    forgie 

Jemmy ! 
I  may  rue  the  day,  when  he  stule  mey  heart  frae 

me  ! 

Now  I's  gaun  to  leave  ye,  mey  innocents  seave  !" 
Wi'  tears,  she  then  kiss'd  them  ; 
An  neybors  aw  bliss' d  them — 
What  pity,  sweet  lasses  sud  suffer. 


I    ne'er    can    forgit,    when    the    corp    cross'd     the 

lonnin, 

Amang  aul  an  young,  ther  was  scairce  a  dry  e'e  ; 
Aw  whop'd   she  was  happy  ;    but,  peer  man  !   her 

fadder, 

The  coffin  when  cover'd,  aw  thowt  he  wad  dee  ! 
He    cried,    "  I've    nae    comfort    sin   I've  lost   dear 

Greacy  1 

O,  that  down  aseyde  her  mey  heed  I  could  lay  !  " 
For    Jemmy,    de'il    bin  !     he    kens   nowt   but   girt 

crosses, 
He's  shunn'd  by   the    lads,    an    ay  hiss'd    by   the 

lasses — 

What  Greacy's  ghost  haunts  him,  by  neet  an  by 
day ; 

Nae  neybor  gans  near  him, 
The  bairns  they  aw  fear  him  ; 
An  may  aw  sec  fellows  still  suffer  ! 


When  liggin  in  jail  he  was  hated  by  aw  maks, 
An  nin  iver  yence  cawt  the  hav'rel  to  see, 

He   was   scworned   by   Tom   Lin  ton   an   felons   aw 

roun  him, 
Nor  e'er  need  he  whop  agean  happy  to  be  ! 


7 8  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

The  twins  in  the  peer-house  are  healthy  an  bonny  ; 
They  meynd  aw  av  Greacy,  when  on  them  they 

gaze — 
The  Cocker's  peer  weyfe  nowther  health  shares,  nor 

money  ; 

She  nowther  gets  sarrad  nor  pitied  by  onie, 
Queyte  sworry  she  tuik  sec  a  fellow,  she  says — 
Adveyce  tek,  guid  lasses  ! 

An  hate  aw  sec  classes 
That  try  to  mek  decent  fwok  suffer  ! 


CANNY    AUL    CUMMERLAN.* 
TUNE — "  The  Humours  of  Glen." 

'Twas  ae  neet  last  week,    wid  our  wark  efter  sup 
per, 

We  went  owre  the  geate,  cousin  Isbel  to  see  ; 
Ther  was  Sibby  frae  Curthet,  an  lal  Betty  Byers, 

Deef    Debby,    Greace    Gill,    Bella    Bunton,     an 

me  ; 
We'd  scearce  begun  spinnin  when  Sib  began  singin 

A  sang  brong  frae  Carel,  by  their  sarvent  man  ; 
'Twas  aw  about  Cummerlan  fwok  an  feyne  pleaces, 

An,  if  I  can  think  on't,  ye's  hear  hoo  it  ran. 


Yer  buik-larn'd    wise    gentry,     that's    seen    monie 

a  county, 
May  wreyte,   preach,   palaver,   an   brag  as   they 

will, 
O'   mountains,   lakes,  vales,  rocks,  woods,  watters, 

rich  meedows, 
But  canny  aul  Cummerlan  caps  them  aw  still ! 

*  There  is  probably  no  Ballad  in  the  whole  of  this  collection 
that  is  more  varied  in  the  different  editions  than  this.  The 
order  of  the  Stanzas  is  varied,  the  words,  though  synonymous  in 
meaning  are  very  varied,  and  in  most  editions  Stanzas  5  and  7  are 
not  found.— Editor. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  79 

We've  nae  sheynin  palaces  thro'  this  weyde  coonty, 
Nor  lofty  gran  towers  to  catch  the  weake  eye  ; 

But  monie  aul  cassles  whoar  fught  our  brave  fad- 

ders, 
When  Cummerlan  cud  onie  Coonty  defy. 


Furst  GRAYSTOCK  we'll  nwotish,  the  seat  o'  greet 
Norfolk, 

A  neame   true  to  Freemen  an  Englishmen  dear ! 
Ye  Cummerlan  fwok,  may  yer  sons  an  yer  gran'sons 

Sec  rare  honest  statesmen  for  iver  revere  ! 
Corruption's  a  sink   that  may  puzzen   the   country 

An  lead  aw  to  slav'ry,  to  one  its  queyte  plain  ; 
But  he   that  hes  courage   to  stem   the  black   tor 
rent, 

True  Britons  sud  pray  for  agean  an  agean. 


We've  CORBY  for  rocks,   cells,   wood,   watters  de- 
ley  tefu, 

That  Eden  a  Paradeyse  loudly  proclaims  , 
O  that  aw  greet  pleaces  hed  ay  sec  guid  awners, 
Then    monie    despis'd    mud    be    prood    o'    their 

neames  ! 
We've  NETHERBY  tui,  the  gran  preyde  o'  the  bworder, 

An  haws  out  o'  number,  hills,  valleys,  amang  : 
We've  rivers  mair  rapid  than  Tay,  Tweed  or  Yar 
row, 

An    sweet    woodbeyne    bowers,    each    wordy    a 
sang  ! 


Gelt,  Leyne,  let  us  neame,  whoar  deame  Nature's 

seen  smeylin, 
An   hills,   rocks,    dales,    streams,    are   beheld   wi' 

surprise — 
Whate'er  man  may  suffer  variety's  charmin' 

An  nature's  gran  scenery  let  nae  yen  despise  ! 
The  weyldness  ov  Winter  to  aw  may  pruive  pleasin  ; 
In  Spring,  the  burds  welcome  wi'  monie  a  sweet 

tuin  ; 

An  when  onie  gaze  on  smaw  primrwose  or  daisy, 
The  luik  leads   the  meynd   to  the   Greet   Pow'r 
abuin. 


8o  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Whee   that  hes  climb'd  Skiddaw,   can  neame  sec 

a  prospec, 

Whoar  fells  rise  owre  fells,  an  in  majesty  vie  ? 
Whee  that  hes  seen  Keswick,  can  count  hawf  it's 

beauties, 
May  e'en  count  wid  ease,  hawf  the  stars  o'  the 

sky  ; 
We've   Ulleswater,   Bassenthwet,  Wastwatter,   Der- 

went, 

That  yearly  some  thoosans  aye  travel  to  view  ; 
The  langer  they  gaze,  still  the  mair  they  may  won 
der, 
An  wonderin,  foriver  may  fin  summet  new. 

We  sing  ov  aul  Cumbria,  let's  brag  ov  her  farmers, 
Mair    praise-wordy    beins'    ne'er    trod    owre    the 

lea  ! 

They  toil  thro'   aw  seasons,  yet  suffer  greet  hard 
ships, 
For   rents   just   leyke   taxes,    are   noo   far   owre 

hee  : 
Let's   bwoast   o'    their   weyves,    clean,    industrious 

an  cheerfu, 

Their  bairns  iver  rearin  in  decency's  ways  ; 
O   ne'er  may   their   hands   be   conceal'd   frae   peer 

beggars, 
For  guidness  is  iver  desarvin  man's  praise  ! 

We  help  yen  anudder,  we  welcome  the  stranger, 

Oorselsi  an  oor  country  we'll  iver  defend  ; 
We  pay  debts,  tithes,  taxes,  wheniver  we're  yable, 

An  pray,  leyke   true  Britons   that   wars   hed  an 

end, 
Than  Cumerlan  lads,  and  ye  lish  rwosy  lasses, 

Though  some  caw  ye  clownish,  ye  need'nt  think 

shem, 
Be  merry  and  wise  ;   enjoy  innocent  pleasures, 

An  still  seek  for  peace  and  contentment  at  yem  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  81 

JEFF  AND  JOB. 
TUNE  — "  Fye,  gae  rub  her  owre  wi'  strae." 

JEFF. 

"  Come  Job,  let's  talk  ov  weel-kent-pleaces, 

When  young  tearin  chaps  wer  we  : 
Noo  nin  er  nar  us,  but  fremm'd  feaces — 

Few  to  seyde  wi'  thee  an  me  ! 
Years  ar  by-geane  twee  an  twonty, 

Sin  I  kent  thy  curly  powe — 
Aye  the  furst  at  wark  an  spwortin, 

Wer  Jeff  Heyn,  an  Jwosep  Howe  !  " 

JOB. 

"  Ay,  Jeff  !  we've  lang  kent  yen  anudder — 

Monie  a  teyme  when  chaps  wer  croose, 
An  meade  a  brulliment  an  bodder, 

Jeff  an  Job  hae  clear t  the  hoose  ; 
Nin  leyke  thee  cud  fling  the  geavelick  ! 

Nin  leyke  me  laikt  at  fit-baw  ; 
Thoo  was  wi'  pennystens  a  darter, 

T  at  trippet  bangt  tern  aw. 

JEFF. 

"  At  dancin  Job,  I've  kickt  the  ceilin, 

An  at  lowpin  aw  cud  bang  ; 
At  russlin  thoo  ne'er  hed  a  marrow, 

Aa  !  leyke  bairns,  the  chaps  thoo  flang, 
I  wan't  fut-reace,  tweyce  at  Carel  ; 

Thoo  wan  saddles  at  King-muir  ; 
But  the  best  was,  when  we'd  money 

Ne'er  unsarrad  went  the  puir  !  " 

JOB. 

"  Then  Jeff,  I  meynd  at  your  kurn-supper 

When  I  furst  seed  Elsy  Greame, 
I  cuddent  eat,  mey  heart  it  fluttert — 

Lang  Tom  Ley  tie  watch' d  us  heame, 
We  wer  young  an  beath  in  fettle, 

He  wad  feght,  we  e'en  set  tui  ; 
In  the  clarty  seugh  I  sent  him — 

Elsy  skurl'd — what  cud  she  dui  :  " 


82  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


JEFF. 

"  An  Job,  when  met  at  Cursmess  cairdins, 

Few  durst  laik  wi'  thee  an  me  ; 
When  we'd  hackt  the  lads  aw  roun  us, 

Off  to  th'  lasses'  lot  went  we  ; 
The  ass-buird  sarrad  for  a  teable, 

Legs  anondert  claes  wer  laid  ; 
Forby  weyld  laughin,  kissin,  jwokin, 

Monie  a  harmless  prank  we  play'd." 


"  Now  Jeff,  we  pay  fer  youthfu'  follies — 

Aw  our  happy  days  ar  geane  ; 
Too's  turnt  grousome,  bare  an  dozent — 

I's  just  worn  to  skin  an  beane  ! 
What,  maister's  comin  in  a  flurry — 

Sarvents  aye  sud  meyn  their  wark  ; 
I  mun  off  to  deeting  havver — 

Fares-te-weel,  'till  efter  dark  !  " 


TIB  AND  HER  MAISTER. 

To  an  old  Scotch  Tune. 

MAISTER. 

"  I's  tir'd  wi'  liggin  aw  mey  leane  ; 

This  day  seems  fair  an  clear  ; 
Seek  t'  aul  grey  yad,  clap  on  the  pad, 

She's  duin  nae  wark  te  year  : 
Furst  Tib,  git  me  mey  best  lin  sark, 
Mey  wig,  an  new-greas'd  shoon  ; 
Mey  three-nuikt  hat  an  mittens  wheyte  ; 
I'll  hev  a  young  weyfe  suin  ! 
A  young  weyfe  fer  me,  Tib  ! 

A  young  weyfe  fer  me  ! 
She'll  scart  mey  back  whene'er  it  yacks, 
Sae,  marriet  I  mun  be  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  83 


"  Wey,  maister  !  ye' re  hawf  blin  an  deef — 

The  rain  comes  pourin  doon  : — 
Yer  best  lin  sark  wants  beath  the  laps, 

Yer  three-nuikt  hat  the  croon  ; 
The  rattens  eat  yer  clouted  shoon  ; 

The  yad's  unshod  an  leame  ; 
Ye're  bent  wi'  yage  leyke  onie  bow, 
Sae  sit  content  at  heame  ! 
A  young  weyfe  fer  ye,  man  ? 

A  young  weyfe  fer  ye  ? 
They'll  rank  ye  wi'  the  whorned  nowt 
Until  the  day  ye  dee." 


"  O  Tib  !  thou  aye  talks  leyke  a  fuil  ! 

I's  feal'd,  but  nit  sae  aul  ; 
A  young  weyfe  keeps  yen  warm  i'  bed, 

When  neets  er  lang,'  an  caul  : 
I've  brass  far  mair  nor  I  can  coont, 

An  naigs,  an  sheep  an  kye — 
A  house  luiks  howe  widoot  a  weyfe — 
Mey  luck  I'll  e'en  gae  try  ! 
A  young  weyfe  fer  me,  Tib  ! 

A  young  weyfe  fer  me  ! 
I  yet  can  lift  twee  pecks  o'  wots, 
Tho  turn'd  ov  eighty- three  !  " 


"  Wey  maister,  ye  mun  ha'e  yer  way. 

An  sin  it  sae  mun  be, 
I's  lish  an  young,  an  stout  an  strang — 

Now  what  think  ye  ov  me  ? 
I'll  keep  ye  teydey,  warm  an  clean, 

To  wrang  ye  I  wad  scworn." 


Tib  !  gi'es  thy  han  !  a  bargin  be't- 
We'll  off  to  kurk  to-mworn  ! 
A  young  weyfe  fer  me,  Tib  ! 

Thoo  was  meade  fer  me  !  < 
We'll  kiss  an  coddle  aw  the  neet- 

Aw  day  we'll  happy  be  (j 


84  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

JWOHNNY  AND  MARY. 

TUNE — "  Come  under  my  plaidie." 

Young  Mary  was   bonny  an  cheerfu  as   onie  lass, 

Young  Jwohnny  was  lusty,  an  weel  to  be  seen  ; 

Young  Mary  was  aye  the  best  dancer  at  murry- 

neets, 
Young  Jwohnny  had  won  monie  a  belt  on  the 

green  : 
Some    years    they    wer   sweethearts,    an  nwotish'd 

by  neybors  ; 
Th'  aul  fwok  wad  bwoast  o'  the  pair  wi'  greet 

glee, 
Still  Jwohnny  thowt  nin  o'   the  warl  leyke  young 

Mary, 
An  Mary  thowt  Jwohnny  aw  she  wish'd  to  see. 


A  swop  of  guid  yell  pruives  a  peer  body's  com 

fort, 

But  woe  be  to  him,  that  drinks  till  blin  fou  ; 
Young  Jwohnny  ae  day  off  wi'  bigg  to  the  market, 
An  drank  wid  some  strangers,  but  leytle  dreemt 

how, 
His  aul  f adder  watch' d  till  the  black  hour  o'  mid- 

neet, 
Widowt    his    dear    Jwohnny    the    naig    gallop' d 

heame, 
They  sought    an'   they  fan  him  that     mwornin  i' 

Eden, 
Amang  the  green  busses  that  nod  owre  the  stream. 


Oh  !  sad  was  the  fadder,  relations  an  Mary, 

The  cwose-house  was  crowdet  by  beath  aul  an 

young  ; 

Nowt  pass'd  at  the  burryin  but  sorrow  an  weepin, 
The  greave-digger  seeght  when  the  yerth  doon 

he  flung, 
The  parson  luikt  dull  when  he  read  owre  the  sar- 

vice, 

Fwok  aw  say  he  niver  was  seen  sae  afwore, 
An  ippitaph  noo  our  larn'd  schuil-maister's  written, 
Yen  better  nae  heed-stean  in  Englan  e'er  wore  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  85 

Aul  Gibby  he  gowls,  an  aye  talks  ov  lost  Jwohnny, 

An  sits  on  his  greave  an  oft  meks  a  sad  meane  ; 

Young  Mary,  the  flow'r  ov  aw  flow'rs  i'  the  parish, 

Ne'er    hods    up    her    head  sin    dear  Jwohnny  is 

geane. 

The     dangerous     yell-house    kills  monie     guid  fel 
lows, 
Owre    oft    lur'd    by    gamlin,  or    weyld    wicked 

sang — 
At     fair    or    at     market,     young  lads  when  theer 

seated, 

Remember    peer    Jwohnny,    whee  that    day  did 
wrang. 


THE  CLAY  DAUBIN.* 
TUNE — "  Andrew  Carr." 

We  went  owre  to  Deavie's  Clay  Daubin, 

An  faith  a  rare  caper  we  had 
Wi'd  eatin,  an  drinkin,  an  dancin, 

An  rwoarin,  an  singin,  leyke  mad  ; 
Wi'd  laughin,  an  jwokin,  an  braggin, 

An  fratchin,  an  feghtin,  an  aw  ; 
Sec  glorious  fun  an  divarsion 
Was  ne'er  seen  in  castle  or  haw. 
Siug  hey  fer  a  snug  clay-biggin, 

An  lasses  that  leyke  a  bit  spwort  ! 
Wi'  guid  lads  an  plenty  to  gi'  them, 

We'll  laugh  at  King  Gworge  an  his  court. 

The  waws  wer  aw  finisht  er  darknin, 

Now,  greypes,  shouls,  an  barrows,  flung  by, 
Aul  Deavie  rwoart  oot  wid  a  hursle, 

"  Od-rabbit-it  !  lads,  ye'll  be  dry — 
See  deame,  if  we've  got  a  swop  whuskey, 

I's  sworry  the  rum  bottle's  duin  ! 
We'll  starken  oor  keytes,  I'll  upod  us — 

Come  Adams,  rasp  up  a  lal  tune  !  " 

Sing  hey,  &c. 

*  In  the  North  and  East  of  Cumberland  the  Cottages  were 
usually  built  of  clay,  interspersed  with  layers  of  straw.  It  was 
necessary  for  the  proper  consolidation  of  the  fabric  that  the 
whole  of  it  should  be  built  in  one  day.  Hence  there  was  a  very 
general  gathering  of  the  neighbours  to  assist  in  such  erection,  and 
after  the  edifice  was  completed  the  day  was  concluded  with  fes 
tivities  including  music  and  dancing. — Editor. 


86  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


When  Bill  kittelt  up  "  CHIPS  AN  SHEVINS," 

Aul  Philip  pou'd  oot  Matty  Meer, 
Then  nattelt  his  heels  like  a  youngen, 

An  capert  about  the  clay-fleer  ; 
He  deeted  his  gob  an  he  busst  her, 

As  lish  as  a  lad  ov  sixteen  ; 
Cries  Wull,  "  Od-dy  !  f adder's  in  fettle  ! 

His  marrow  '11  niver  be  seen  !  " 

Sing  hey,  &c. 


Reet  sair  dud  we  miss  Jemmy  Cowplan, 

Bad  crops,  silly  man,  meade  him  feale  ! 
Last  Sunday  fworenuin  efter  sarvice, 

I'  th'  kurk-garth  the  dark  caw't  his  scale. 
Peer  Jemmy  !  ov  aw  his  bit  oddments 

A  shettle  the  bealies  hae  taen, 
An  now  he's  reet  fain  ov  a  darrak, 

Fer  pan,  dish,  or  spuin  he  hes  neane. 

Sing  hey,  &c. 


Wi'  scons,  LEDDER-HUNGRY,  an  whuskey, 

Aul  Aggy  cried,  "  Meake  way  fer  me  ! 
Ye  men  fwok  eat,  drink,  an  be  murry, 

Wheyle  we  i'  the  bower  git  tea  !  " 
The  whillymer  eat  teugh  an  teasty, 

Aw  ramm'd  fou  o'  grey  pez  an  seeds  ; 
They  row'd  it  up  teane  agean  tudder — 

Nee  denties  the  hungry  man  needs  ! 

Sing  hey,  &c. 


Noo  in  com  the  women  fwok  buncin — 

Widoot  them,  theer's  niver  nae  fun  ; 
Wi'  whusky  aw  weeted  their  wizzens, 

But  suin  a  sad  hay-bay  begun  ; 
For  Jock  the  young  laird,  was  new-weddet  ; 

His  aul  sweetheart  Jenny,  luikt  wae  ; 
Wheyle  some  wer  aw  titt'rin  an  flyrin, 

The  lads  rubb'd  her  doon  wi'  pez-strae. 

Sing  hey,  &c. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  87 


Rob  Lowson  tuik  part  wi'  peer  Jenny, 
An  brong  snift'rin  Gwordie  a  cluff  : 
I'  th'  scuffle1  they  learnt  Lowson's  mudder, 
An  fain  they'd  ha'e  stripp'd  into  buff  : 
Neest  Peter  caw'd  Gibby  a  rebel, 

An  aw  rwoart  at  that  was  queyte  wrang  ! 
Cried  Deavie,  "  Sheake  hans,  an  nee  mair  on't — 
I's  lilt  ye  a  bit  ov  a  sang." 

Sing  hey,  &c. 


He  lilted  "  The  King  an  the  Tinker," 

An  Wully  strack  up  "  Robin  Hood  "  , 
Dick  Mingins  sang  "  Hooly  an  Fairly," 

An  Martha  "  The  Babs  o'  the  Wood  "  ; 
They  push't  roun  a  glass  leyke  a  noggin, 

An  boddomt  the  grey-beard  complete  ; 
Then  crack'd  till  the  niuin  glowr't  amang  them, 
An  wish'd  yen  anudder  guid-neeght. 
Sing  hey  fer  a  snug  clay-biggin, 

An  lasses  that  leyke  a  bit  spwort  ! 
Wi'  guid  lads  an  plenty  to  gi'  them, 

We'll  laugh  at  King  Gworge  an  hi?  court. 


THE  FELLOWS  ROUN  TORKIN.* 
TUNE — "  Drops  of  Brandy." 

"  We're  aw  feyne  fellows  roon  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  guid  fellows  weel  met  ; 
We're  aw  wet  fellows  roun  Torkin, 

Sae,  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  lasses  aboot  us, 

Till  day's  braid  glare  bids  us  start  , 
We'll  sup  till  the  sailer  be  empty — 

Come,  Dicky  lad,  boddom  th?  whart  !  " 

*  A  wood  covered  hill,  near  Crofton  Hall,  in  Cumberland. 


88  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  I'll  gie  ye  "  says  Dick,  "  Durty  Dinah, 

That's  ay  big  wi  bairn,  fwok  suppwose  ; 
She  thursts  out  her  h'p  leyke  a  pentes, 

To  kep  what  may  drop  frev  her  nwose  : 
Leyke  a  hay-stack  she  hoists  up  ae  shouder 

An  scarts,  fer  she's  nit  varra  soun  : 
Wi  legs  thick  as  mill-pwosts,  an  greasy — 

The  deevil  cud  uit  ding  her  doon  !      ' 

"  We're  aw  odd  fellows  roun  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  larn'd  fellows  weel  met  ; 
We're  aw  rich  fellows  roon  Torkin, 

Sae  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  lasses  aboot  us, 

Till  day's  braid  glare  bids  us  part  : 
We'll  sup"  till  the  sailer  be  empty — 

Come,  Matthew  lad,  boddom  the  whart  ! 


"  I'll  gi'e  ye."  says  Mat,  "  Midden  Marget, 

That  squints  wi'  the  left-handet  e'e 
When  at  other  fellows  she's  gleymin, 

I's  freetent  she's  luikin  at  me.  : 
She  smells  far  stranger  nor  canion, 

Her  cheeks  er  as  dark  as  hung-beef, 
Her  breast  is  as  flat  as  a  back-buird — 

'Mang  sluts  she's  aye  countet  the  chiet  \ 


"  We're  aw  wise  fellows  roon  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  neyce  fellows  weel  met  ; 
We're  aw  sad  fellows  roon  Torkin, 

Sae.  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  lasses  aboot  us, 

Till  day's  braid  glare  bids  us  start  ; 
We'll  sup  till  the  sailer  be  empty — 

Come,  Gabrel  lad,  boddom  the  whart  !  " 


"  I'll  gi'e  ye,"  says  Gabe.  "  Gcapin  Grizzy 

\Vi"  girt  feet,  an  marrowlrss  legs  ; 
Her  reed  neb  wad  set  fire  to  brunston  ; 

Her  een  er  as  big  as  duck  eggs, 
She's  shept  leyk  a  sweyne  i'  the  middle, 

Her  skin's  freckl'd  aw  leyke  a  gleid  ; 
Her  mooth's  weyde  as  onie  toon  yubbem — 

We're  aw  flay'd  she'll  swally  her  heed  1  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  89 


"  We're  aw  strang  fellows  roon  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  lish  fellows  weel  met  ; 
We're  aw  top  fellows  roun  Torkin, 

Sae  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  lasses  aboot  us, 

Till  dav's  braid  glare  bids  us  part  ; 
We'll  sup  till  the  sailer  be  empty — 

Come,  Wully  lad,  boddom  the  whart  ! 


"  I'll  gi'e  ye,"  says  Wull,  "  Winkin  Winny, 

That  measures  exact  three  feet  eight  ; 
Wi'  roun-shouder  Ruth  an  Tall  Tibby, 

She'll  scart,  an  she'll  gurn  an  she'll  feght  : 
She's  cruikt  as  an  S,  wid  ae  hip  oot, 

Her  feet  flat,  an  braid  as  big  fluiks  ; 
Her  feace  lang  as  onie  bass  fiddle 

An  aw  splattert  owre  wi'  red  pluiks  !  " 

41  We're  aw  young  fellows  roun  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  teeght  fellows  weel  met  : 
We're  aw  brave  fellows  roon  Torkin, 

Sae  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  lasses  aboot  us 

Till  day's  braid  glare  bids  us  start  ; 
We'll  sup  till  the  seller  be  empty — 

Come,  Mwosey  lad,  boddom  the  whart  !  " 

41  I'll  gi'e  ye,"  says  Mwose,  "  Mantin  Matty, 

That  lisps  thro  her  black  rotten  teeth  ; 
You  can't  catch  five  words  in  ten  minutes  : 

If  gowlin,  she'd  flay  yen  to  deeth  : 
Her  feace  leyke  aul  Nick's  nutmeg-grater, 

Her  yallow  neck  bitten  wi'  fleas  ; 
She's  troubl'd  wi'  win  ay  at  meale-teymes, 

An  belshes  to  give  hersel  ease  !  " 

41  We're  aw  cute  fellows  roon  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  sharp  fellows  weel  met  ; 
We're  aw  rare  fellows,  roon  Torkin, 

Sae,  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  : 
Let's  drink  to  the  lasses  ahoot  us, 

Till  day's  braid  glare  bids  us  part  ; 
\V  e'll  sup  till  the  sallei  be  empty — 

Come,  Nathan  lad,  boddom  the  whart  !  " 


90  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  I'll  gi'e  ye,"  says  Nat,  "  Noisy  Nanny, 

Shag-bacco  she  chews  monie  a  pun  ; 
She  cocks  her  belly  when  vralkin, 

An  ay  luiks  doon  to  the  grun  ; 
She  tawks  beath  sleepin  an  wakin, 

An  crowks  leyke  a  teade,  when  she  speaks  ; 
On  her  nwose-en  the  hair  grows  leyke  stibble. 

An  gravey  drops  run  owre  her  cheeks  !  " 


"  We're  aw  tengh  fellows  roon  Torkin  ; 

We're  aw  rash  fellows  weel  me  I  ; 
We're  aw  queer  fellows  roun  Torkin, 

Sap  faikins,  we  mun  hev  a  swet  ! 
Let's  drink  to  the  lang,  leame  an  lazy, 

Deef,  dum,  black,  brown,  bleer-e'ed  an  blin, 
May  they  suin  be  weel  weddet  an  beddet, 

If  lads  thev  can  onie  wbeer  fin  I  " 


THE  DAWSTON  PLAYER-FWOK. 
TUNE — "  Derry  Down." 

Come,  stur  the  fire  Shadric  !  an  lissen  to  me  ; 
I  went  owre  to  Dawston  their  Play-fwok  to  see, 
I  paid  mey  cruikt  tizzy  an  gat  a  front  seat  ; 
Leyke  three  in  a  bed,   they  wer  just   wedg'd  that 
neet. 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


Furst,   the   ban   on   their  hoyboys   an   peypes,   did 

sae  cruin, 
Tho'  they  blew  sair  an  oft,  it  aye  seem't  the  seame 

tuin  : 

Aw  was  famish  confusion  ! — but  when  they  began, 
Lack-a-day  !  the  Fair  Penitent  pruiv'd  but  a  man  ! 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  91 

When  they  chinkt  a  lal  bell  ther  was  yen  summet 

spak, 
But  he  hung  doon  his  noddle,  an  held  up  his 

back  ; 
Then  a  picture  caw'd  Garrick,  abuin  the  stage 

stuid, 
I  thowt  it  yence  laught  ;  an,  mey  faith,  weel  it 

mud  ! 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


Like    a    hawf-wheyte-wesht    sweep,    yen    ORASHI* 

bunc'd  in, 
An  he   tweyn'd  leyke  an   edder,    an  cockt  up  his 

chin  ; 
In   his   yallow   plush   breeks   an   lang   black   rusty 

sword, 
"Wid  his  square  gob  weyde  oppem — thowt  I,  what 

a  Lword  ! 

Derry  Down,   &c. 


He  was  drucken,   that's  sarten  !    he    cudden't   git 

on  ! 
"  Loavins  !  "   "  cried  an  aul  woman  !  "  Wey,  that's 

Rutson'  Jwohn  ! 

Mess,  but  he's  a  darter  !  "     "a    topper  !  "    says    I, 
"  Was   he   doon  in   a  meedow    he'd    flay   aw    the 

kye  !  " 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


In  bonny  flow'r'd  weascwot  an  full-bottomt  wig, 
Aul    Siholto    he    squeek'd    leyke    a    stuck    guinea 

pig  I 
Then    his    dowter    he    fratch'd,    an  her  sweetheart 

forby — 
Aa,    man  !      it    was    movin,    an  meade  the  bairns 

cry. 

Derry  Down,  &c. 

*  The  manner  in  which  they  pronounced  the  different 


92  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Yen  whispert   me  softly,    "  That's  Clogger   Jwohn 
Bell  !  " 

Says   I,    "  Leyke  eneugh  !  of  that  chap  I've  hard 
tell  !  " 

Noo  a  tweesome  tawk'd  lood,   but  nit   varra  dis 
creet, 

For   they  promts'    twee   whoors   afwore   nuin    they 
wad  meet. 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


Frae  tae  fit  to  tudder,  LOTHARI  neest  hopp'd 

Leyke   clock-wark  ;      his   words   tui,    how   neycely 

he  chopp'd — 

Peer  body  !  He  waddent  lig  whiet  when  deed, 
Sae  they  e'en  luggt  him  out  by  the  heels  an  the 

heed. 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


Ther  was  yen  wid  a  weast  thick  as  onie  barl-kurn, 

He  pou'd  up  his  pettikits,  gev  a  weyld  gurn, 

An    luikt,    as    to   say,    "  Weya,  what  think  ye  ov 

me  ?  " 

A  lass  spak  the  truth,   "It  was  shockin  to  see." 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


Neest   a   cliver  lish   chap   wid   his   feyne   reed-leed 

cheeks, 
Blew    his    nwose    wid    his    fingers,    an    hotch'd  up 

his  breeks  ; 
Then  he  tuik  a  fresh  chewe  an  the  aul  yen  flang 

oot, 
An  then  rwoar'd  "  Dui  be  whiet  !     what's  aw  this 

aboot  ?  " 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


The  schuilmaister,  gager,  an  twee  or  three  mair 
Hed  seen  Mister  Punch  play  his  pranks  at  a  fair  ; 
Efter  fratchin,  an  threepin,  at  last,  at  the  Bell 
'Twas     agreed;     nit     e'en     PUNCH  cud  thur  heroes 
excel  ! 

Derrv  Down,  &c 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  93 


Sec     struttin     an     wheynin     may  please  dwoatin 

fuils, 

Or  rough-heeded  fellows  just  driv'n  off  to  schuils  ; 
But  if  e'er  thoo  hed  dreamt  o'   sec  actin,   greet 

ROWK  ; 
Thoo'd  ne'er  thowt  worth  wheyle  to  hae  written 

at  aw. 

Derry  Down,  &c. 

Stop — Doon  i'  the  parlour  when  actin  was  duin, 
I  sang  "  Bleckell  Murry  Neet  "  nobbet  a  cruin  ; 
Sae  pleas' d  was  the  dogger,  he  shuik  hans  wi' 

me, 
Clapt  mey  shoulder  an  cawt  in  crown-bools,  twee 

or  three, 

Derry  Down,  &c. 

Ye    wise    men    o'    Dawston,    stick    clwose  till  yer 

wark  ; 
Sit  at  heame  wi'  yer  weyves  an  yer  bairns  efter 

dark  ; 

To  be  caw'd  kings  an  heroes  is  pleasin,  indeed  ; 
But    afwore    ye    turn    Player-lwok,    furst    larn  to 

read  ! 

Derry  Down,  &c. 


OUR  JWOHNNY. 
TUNE — "  Littibulero." 

Oor  Jwohnny's  just  chang'd  tull  a  parfit  atomy, 
Nowther    works,     eats,    drinks,  or    sleeps  as  he 

sud  ; 

He  seeghs  in  a  nuik,  an  fins  faut  wid  bis  poddish, 
An    luiks    leyke    a    deyl'd    body    spoil' d    fer  aw 

guid  : 
He   reaves   in   his   sleep,    an   reads   buiks  o'  luive 

letters, 

Ae  turn  efter  dark,  nay,  he'll  nit  dui  at  aw  ! 
But  nobbet  last  neet  I  detarmin'd  to  watch  him, 
An    suin    wid    his    sweetheart,  oor  Jwohnny  I 
saw. 


94  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

I   cow'r'd   mey  ways   doon,   just   ahint   oor   young 

eshes, 
An    by    com    the    tweesome — he    seem'd  nit  the 

seame  ; 
They   laught,    kisst   an   cuttert,    nowt   bad   pass'd 

atween  them  ; 

I  seed  what  I  wantet  an  sae  crap  off  heame  ; 
Oor  lanlword'  lass,  Letty,  his  heart  hes  in  keepin, 
To  be  seer  she's  a  sarvent,  but  weel  to  be  seen  ; 
She's  lish,  young  an  bonny  ;    an  honest  as  onie — 
In    hard    workin    poverty,     ther's    nowt    that's 
mean  ! 


The  fadder  o   Jwohnny  was  mey  iellow-sarvent  ; 

God  rest  him  !  his  marrow  I'se  neer  to  see  mair  1 
Aul  Matthew  hed  gear  an  he  follow'd  me  daily, 

An  cut  me  a  lock  ov  his  grey  grizzl'd  hair. 
Hed  T  wedded  Matthew,  I'd  noo  been  a  leady. 

But  fourscwore,  an  twenty,  can  seldom  agree — 
Dor  Jwohnny  may  e'en  try  his  luck  an  git  wed- 
det, 

Stock,   crop,   aw   I's   worth,    they   sal   then  hae 
frae  me  ! 


KING  ROGER. 

TUNE — "Hallow  Fair." 

"  'Twas  but  tudder  neet,  efter  darknin, 

We  sat  owre  a  bleezing  turf  fire  ; 
Oor  deame  she  was  sturrin  a  cow-drink, 

Oor  Betty  milk'd  kye  in  the  byre  : 
"  Aa,  fadder  !  "  cried  out  oor  leyle  Roger, 

I  wish  T  wer  nobbet  a  king  !  " 
**  Wey,  what  wad  te  dui  says  I,  Roger  ? 

Suppwose  thoo  cud  tek  thy  full  swing  ? 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  95 


"  Furst,  you  sud  be  Iword  judge,  an  bishop — 

Mey  mudder  sud  hev  a  gold  crutch — 
I'd  build  fer  the  peer  fwok  feyne  houses, 

An  gie  them — ay,  iver  sae  much  ! 
Oor  Betty  sud  wed  Charley  Miggins, 

An  weer  her  stampt  gown  iv'ry  day  ; 
Sec  dancin  we'd  hev  i'  the  cock-loft* — 

Bill  Adams  the  fiddler  sud  play," 

"  A  posset  I'd  teake  to  mey  breakfast, 

An  sup  wid  a  bonny  whom  spuin  ; 
For  dinner,  I'd  hev  a  fat  crowdy  ; 

An  strang  tea,  at  mid  efternuin  : 
I'd  weer  neyce  wheyte  cottinet  stockins  ; 

An  new  gambaleery  cJean  sfioes, 
Wi'  jimp  lively- black  f  us  tin  breeches — 

Ay  !  iv'ry  feyne  thing  I  cud  choose. 

"  I'd  build  monie  thoosans  o'  shippin, 

To  sail  aw  the  weyde  warl  aboot  ; 
I'd  say  to  mey  sowdgers,    "  Gang  owre  seas  I 

An  kill  the  French  dogs,  oot  an  oot  !  " 
On  oor  lang-tail'd  naig,  I'd  keep  reydin, 

Mey  footmen  in  silver  an  green  ; 
An  when  I'd  seen  aw  foreign  countries, 

I'd  mek  Aggy  Glaister  mey  queen. 

"  Oor  meedow  sud  be  a  feyne  worchet, 

An  grow  nowt  but  churries  an  plums — 
A  schuil-house  I'd  build — As  fer  maister, 

We'd  oft  hing  him  up  by  the  thums  ! 
Joss  Feddon  sud  be  mey  heed  huntsman  ; 

We'd  keep  tharty  couple  ov  dogs, 
An  kills  aw  the  hares  i'  the  kingdom — 

Mey  mudder  sud  weer  siller  clogs  ! 

"  Then  Cursmas  sud  last — ay,  for  iver  ! 

An  Sundays  we'd  hev  tweyce  a  week  ; 
The  muin  sud  gie  leet  aw  the  winter  ; 

Oor  cat  and  oor  cwoley  sud  speak  ; 
Peer  fwok  sud  aw  leeve  widoot  workin, 

An  feed  on  pyes,  puddin  an  beef  ; 
Then  aw  wad  be  happy  fer  sarten — 

Ther  nowther  cud  be  rwogue  or  thief  ! ," 

*Cock  loft.  The  attics  in  Cumberland  Farm  Houses  were 
formerly  so  called  as  being  out  of  the  way  places  in  which  Cocks 
were  trained  for  battle.— Editor. 


96  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Noo,  thus  ran  on  leytel  King  Roger, 

But  suin  aw  his  happiness  fled  ; 
A  spark  trae  the  fire  brunt  his  tnockle, 

An  off  he  crap  whingin  to  bed' 
Thus  fares  it  wi'  beath  young  an  aul  fwok, 

Frae  kings  to  the  beggars,  we  see  ; 
Just  cross  us  when  in  fancied  greetness, 

An  peer  wretched  creeters  are  we  I 


KITT  CRAFFET. 

TUNE — "  Come  under  my  plaidie." 

Isaac   Crosset   ov    Shawk,    a   feyne   heed-stan   hes 

cutten, 

An  just  setten't  up  owre  anent  the  kurk  en  ; 
A    chubby-feac'd  angel    o'    top    on't  they've    put- 
ten, 

An  varses  as  gud  as  e'er  com  frev  a  pen  : 
It's  fer  aul  Kitt  Crafiet,  our  wordy  wise  neybor  ; 

God  rest  him  !  a  better  man  ne'er  wore  a  heed  ! 
He's  nit  left  his   marrow  thro'  aw  the  heale  coon- 

ty. 

An  monie  peer  fwok  are  in  want  noo  he's  deed  ! 


I  meynd  when  at  schuil,  a  top  scholar  was  he  ; 

Ov  lakin  or  rampin  nae  nwotion  hed  he  ; 
But    nar     the    aul     thworn  he  wad  sit  an  keep 
mwosin, 

An  caw'd  it  a  sin  just  to  kill  a  peer  flee  : 
A  penny  he  ne'er  let  rest  lang  in  his  pocket, 

But  gev't  to  the  furst  beggar  body  he  met  ; 
Then  at  kurk  he  cud  follow  the  priest   thro'    the 
sarvice  ; 

An  as  fer  a  tribble  he  niver  was  bet  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  97 


Tho'    he    wan    seebem    belts    lang    afwore    he  was 

twenty, 

An  i'  Scaleby  meedow  tuk  off  the  fit  baw  ; 
Yet  he  kent  aw  the  Beyble,  Algebra,  Josephus  : 

An  cap't  the  priest,  maister,  exciseman  an  aw  : 
He  cud  talk  aboot  battles,  balloons,  burning-moun 
tains, 
An  wars,   till  beath  young  an  aul   trimmelt   fer 

fear, 
Then  he'd  tell  hoo  they  us'd  the  puir  West  Indy 

neegers, 
An  stamp  wid  his  fit,  ay,  an  cause  monie  a  tear. 


Oor  schuilfellow,  Downey,  that  ne'er  felt  for  onie, 

Sail'd    owre    seas    to    Guinea  an  dealt    in    puir 

slaves  ; 

Owre  rich  he   com  heame,    caw'd    on    Kit,    gat  a 
lecture — 

"  I  wish  aw  leyke  thee  wer  flung  into  the  waves  ! 
I  deal  in  naigs,  kye,  fer  the  guid  ov  my  coontry  ; 

An  welcome  ilk  mortal  that  freedom  hods  dear  ! 
I  cud  thropple  aw  monsters  that  sell  fellow -creeters  ! 

An  suiner  the  deevil  this  day  hed    caw'd  here  !  " 


When  he  read  aboot  parliments,  pleaces,   an  pen 
sions, 

He  flang  by  the  paper,  an  cried,  "  Silly  stuff  ! 
The  Ooxs  wad  be  IN,  and  the  INS  rob  their  coon- 
try. 

They're  nit  aw  togidder  worth  ae  pinch  o'  snuff  !  " 
His     creed     was,     be    statesmen  but  just,  Britons 

loyal, 

As  lang  as  our  sailors  reyde  maisters  at  sea, 
We'll    laugh    at    the    threetnins    ov    vain    Bonny- 
party 
An  suin  may  he  conquer  the  deevil  as  we". 


Then  when  onie  neybor  was  fash'd  by  base  tur- 
nevs, 

It  mcade  him  aye  happy,  if  he  cud  be  bail  ! 
Twee  thurds  ov  his  income  he  gev  away  yearly, 

An  actually  tuik  peer  Tom  Linton  frae  jail. 


98  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

He  was  yence  cross'd  in  luive  by  a  guid-fer-nowt 

hussy, 

But  if  onie  lass  by  her  sweetheart  was  wrang'd, 
He  wad  gie  her  guid  coonsel,  an  lecture  the  fellow, 
An  oft  did  he  wish  aw  sec  skeybels  wer  hang'd. 


He  cud  mek  pills  an  plaisters  as  wecl  as  oor  doctor. 

An  cure  cholic,  aga,  an  jaunice  forby  ; 
As    fer    greece,    or    the    glanders,  reed-watter,  or 

fellen, 

Nin  o'  them  wa<*  leyke  him  amang  naigs  or  kye  : 
What,  he  talk'd  to  oor  Bishop  aboot  agriculture  ; 
An    yence   went    to    Plymouth    to   see    the    gran 

fleet  ; 
As   fer  sailors,    he   sed,    when   dragg'd   off   by   the 

priss-gang, 
"  Sec  deeds  pruive  a  curse,  an  can  niver  be  reet  !  " 


He'd  lost  aw  his  kinsfowk,  exceptin  three  coosins  ; 
Noo    ilk   yen   sits   doon    worth    twee    hundert   a 

year — 
He    built   a    new    schuil-house,    ay,    just    leyke  a 

chapel. 

An  larnin  noo  costs  nit  ae  plack  to  oor  puir  : 
His  tuithless  aul  sarvent,  what  he  left  her  plenty, 
An    whopt    some     guid     fellow  wad  yet  change 

her  neame, 
Frae    mwornin    to    neet    he    sarved    puir    helpless 

bodies — 
O,  that  ivry  rich  man  wad  aye  dui  the  seame  ! 


He  ne'er  was  a  drinker,  a  sweerer,  a  lear, 

A  cocker,  a  gamier,  a  fop  or  a  fuil  ; 
He    left    this    sad   warl   just    at   three    scwore    an 

seebem, 
I'    the  clay  house  his   granfadder   built   wi'    the 

schuil. 

Oh  !  monie    a    sad    tear    wull    be  shed  ivry    Sun 
day 
When    readin    the    varses    they've    cut    on  his 

steane  ! 
'Till  watters  run  up-bank  an  trees  aw  grow  doon- 

bank, 
We  niver  can  luik  on  his  marrow  ageane  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  99 

ELIZABETH'S  BURTH-DAY. 

TUNE — "  Lillibulero." 

JENNY. 

"  Aa,  Wulliam  !   neest  Monday's  Elizabeth's  burth- 

day  ! 

She  is  a  neyce  lass  e'en  hed  she  nit  been  meyne  ! 
We   mun   ax   the   Miss   Dowsons,    an   aul   Brodie's 

dowters — 

I  wish  I'd  but  seav'd  a  swop  geuseberry  weyne. 
She'll    be    sebemteen — what    she's    got    thro'    her 

larnin  ; 

She  dances  as  I  dud  when  furst  T  kent  thee — 
As    fer    Tom    her    cruik't    billy,    he    stumps  leyke 

a  cwoach-horse — 
We'll  ne'er  mek  a  man  on  him  aw  we  can  dee." 

WULLIAM. 

"  Hut,    Jen  !  hod   the   tongue  o'    thee  !  praise  nae 

sec  varmen  ! 
She  won't  men'   a  sark  but  reads  novels,  proud 

brat  ! 
She  dance  !  what,  she  turns  in   her  taes,  leyke   her 

mudder — 
Caw    her    Bet,    'twas    the    neame   her  aul  gran- 

mudder  gat. 
Young  Tommy  fer  mey  money,  he  reads  his  beyble, 

An  hes  sec  a  lovinly  squint  wid  his  een  ; 
He  sheps  as  leyke  me,  as  ae  bean's  leyke  anudder  ; 
She  snurls  up  her  neb,  just  a  shem  to  be  seen  !  " 

JENNY. 

"  Shaf  !  Wull,     min,     that's     fashion  ;  thoo     kens 

nowt  aboot  it  ; 

She's  streyt  as  a  resh,  an  as  reed  as  a  rwose, 
She's  sharp  as  a  needle,  an  smart  as  a  leady — 

Thoo    talk",    min  !  a   lass    cannot    mek  her  awn 

nwpse  ! 

She's  dilicate  meade,  fit  fer  town  or  the  coontry  ; 
For  Tom,  he's  tnock-tnee'd,  wi'  twee     girt  ass- 

buird  feet  ; 
God  help  them  he  sheps  leyke  !  they've  leytle  to 

brag  on  ; 
Tho'  oors,  I've  oft  thowt  he  was  nit  varra  reet." 


ioo  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


WULLIAM. 

"  O,   Jen  !  thoo's  run  mad  wi'  preyde,  gossips  an 

trump'ry  : — 

Oor  cattle,  house,  Ian  we  mun  sel,  I  declare  ; 
Thoo    yence    seemt    an    angel — thoo's    now    turnt 

a  deevil, 

Keeps  teasin  me  daily,  an  causes  much  care  ; 
This  fashion  an  feastin  brings  monie  to  ruin, 

A    room    o'    mey    hoose    they    sail  niver  come 

in  ; 

As  fer  Bet,  if  she  dunnet  just  leeve  leyke  a  sar- 
vent, 
I'll  alter  mey  will  an  nit  leave  her  a  pin  ;  " 


JENNY. 

"  Stop,   Wull  !  whee  was't  brong   thee   a   fortune, 

puir  gomas  ' 

Just  thurteen  gnid  yacres  as  lig  to  the  sun  ; 
When    I    tuik    on    wi'    thee,  I'd  lost  rich  Gwordy 

Glossop — 
I've    rued    sin     the    hoor  to  the  kurk  when  we 

run  : 

Wer  thoo  cauld  an  coffin'd,  I'd  suin'git  a  better  ; 
Sae  creep  up  to  bed,  nit  ae  word  let  us  hear  ! 
They's    come,    if    God    spare    us,    far    mair    ner    I 

nwotish'd — 
Elizabeth's  burth-day  but  comes  yence  a-year  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  101 

BORROWDALE  JWOHNNY. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

I's   Borrowdale   Jwohnny,   just   cumt   up   to   Lun- 

non — 

Nay,  girn  nit  at  me,  fer  fear  I  laugh  at  you  ; 
I've  seen   kneaves   donn'd  in   silks,    an   guid   men 

gang  in  tatters — 
Tbe   truth  we    sud   tell,   an   gie    aul     Nick    his 

due. 
Nan    Watt    pnriv'd    wi'    bairn,    what  !  they    cawt 

me  the  fadder  ; 

Thinks  T,  shekkum  filthy  !  be  off  in  a  treyce  ! 
Nine  Carel  bank  nwotes  mudder  slipt  i'  mey  poc 
ket, 
An  fadder  neest  gae  me  reet  halesome  adveyce. 


Says  he,  "  Keep  frae  t'  lasses,  an  ne'er  luik  ahint 

thee  I  " 

"  We're  deep  as  the  best  o'  them,  fadder,"  says  I  ; 
They   packt   up   ae  sark,    Sunday   weascwot,   twee 

neckleths, 
Wot    bannick,    caud    dumplin    an    top    stannin 

pie  : 

I  mountet  black  filly,  bade  God  bliss  the  aul  fwok, 
Says    fadder,    '•  Thoo's    larn'd,    Jwohn,    an    hes 

nowt  to  fear  ; 

Caw  an  see  coosin  Jacep,  he's  got  aw  the  money  ; 
He'll   git   thee  some   guvverment   pleace,    to   be 
seer  ! 


I  stopp'd  on  a  fell,  tuik  a  lang  luik  at  Skiddaw, 

An    neest    at    the    schuil-houie    amang    the    esh 

trees  ; 
Last  thing  saw  the  smuik  risin  up  frae  oor  chim- 

ley, 

An  fan  aw  wheyte  queer,  wid  a  heart  ill  at  ease  : 
But  summet  widin  me  cried,  "  Pou  up  thy  spirits  ! 

Ther's  luck,  says  aul  Lizzy,  in  feacing  the  sun  ; 
Thoo's   young,   lish,    an   cliver,    may   wed   a  feyne 

An  come  heame  a  Nabob,  ay  sure  as  a  gun  !  " 


102  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Tnowin    manners,    what,    I    doff't    my   hat    to    aw 

strangers, 

Wid  a  spur  on  ae  heel,  an  yek  siplin  in  han  ; 
It  tuik  me  nine  days  an  six  hours  comin  up-bank, 
At  the  Whorns  —  ay,  'twas   Highget,  a  chap  bade 

me  stan  : 
Says  he,   "  How's  all  friends  in  the  North,  honest 

Jwohnny  ?  " 
"  Odswunters  !  "  I  says,  "  what,  ye  divvent  ken 

me  !  " 

I  paid  twee  wheyte  shillin',  an  fain  was  to  see  him, 
Nit  thinkin  on  t'rwoad  onie  'quaintance  to  see. 

Neest    thing,    what    big    kurks,    gilded    cwoaches, 

hee  houses, 

An  fwok  runnin  thro'  other,  leyke  Carel  Fair  ; 
I  axt  a  smart  chap,  whoar  to  fin  coosin  Jacep 

Says  he  !  "  Clown,  go  look  '  '    "  Frien,"  says  I, 

"  tell  me  whoar  ?  " 
Fadder's  letter  to  Jacep  hed  got  nae  subscription, 

Sae,  when  1  was  glowrin  an  siz'lin  aboot, 
A  wheyte-feac'd   young  lass,   aw  dess'd   out   leyke 

a  leatly, 

Cried,    "  Pray,    Sir,    step   in  !  "    but    I    wish  I'd 
keept   oot. 


She  pou'd  at  a  bell,  leyke   oor    kurk-boll    it  soon- 

det, 
In    comt    sarvent    lass,    an   she    wordert     some 

weyne  ; 

Says  I,   "  1's  mt  dry  ;    sae,   pray,   Madam,   excuse 
me  !  " 

Nay  what  she  insisted  I  sud  stop  an  deyne< 
She  meade  varra  free,  'twas  a  shem  an  a  byzen  ! 
I  thowt  her  in  luive  wi'  my  parson,  for  sure  ! 
An  promis'd  to  caw  agean  :  —  as  fer  black  filly, 

Wad    onie    believ't  ?  —  She    was    stown    irae    the 
duir  ! 

Od  dang't  !  war  ner  that,  when  I  greapt  my  breek 

pocket, 
I    fan     fadder's    watch    an    the    nwotes    wer    aw 

geane. 

'Twas  neet,  an  I  lnikt  lang  an  sair  fer  kent  feaces, 
[f  But  Borrowdale  fwok  I  cud  niver  see  neanc  :      , 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  103 

I  slcept  on  the  flags  just  ahint  a  kurk  corner. 

A  chap  wid  a  piit  stick  an  lantern  com  by, 
He  cawt  me  peace -brekker,  say?  I,  "  Thoo's  a  lear  " 

In  a  pleace  leyke  a  sailer,  he  fworc'd  me  to  lie. 


Nae  caff  bed  er  blankets  fer  silly  pilgarlic — 

Deil  a  wink  cud  I  sleep,  nay  ner  yet  see  a  steyme  ; 
Neest  day  T  was  taen  to  the  Narrashen  Offish, 

When  a  man  in  a  wig  sed  I'd  duin  a  sad  creyme  ! 
Then  yen  axt  my  neame,  an  he  pat  on  his  speck 

ets, 
Says   1,  "  Jwohnny   Cruikdeyke — I's   Borrowdale 

bworn  !  " 
Whee    think    ye   it   pruiv'd,    but    raey   awn    coosin 

Jacep — 

He    seav'd    me    frae    t' gallows,    ay,    that    varra 
mwoin  ! 


He  spak  to  my  Lword,  some  hard   words  queyte 
ootlandish, 

Then    cawt    fer   his    cwoach,    an    away   we   ruid 

heame  ; 
He  axt  varra  keynd  efter  f adder  an  mudder, 

I  sed  they  were  bravely,  an  neest  saw  his  deame  : 
She's  aw  puff  an  pouder'l  as  fer  coosin  Jacep, 

He's  got  owre  much  gear  to  teake  nwotisho'  me. 
Noo  if  onie  amang  ye  sud  want  a  lish  sarvent, 

Just  bid  me  a  weage — I'll  uphod  ye,  we's  agree ! 


104  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

LANG  SEYNE. 

TUNE — "  Johnny's  grey  breeks." 

The  last  new  shoon  oor  Betty  gat 

They  pincht  her  feet,  but  deil  may  care  ! 
What,  she  mun  hao  them  leady-leyke 

Tho'  she  hes  cworns  fer  ivennair  : 
Nae  black  gairn  stockins  wull  she  wear, 

They  mun  be  wheyte,  an  cotton  feyne  ; 
This  meakes  me  think  ov  udder  teymes, 

The  happy  days  ov  aul  lang-seyne  ! 

Oor  dowter,  Jen,  a  palles*  bowt, 

A  guid  reed  clwoak  she  wunnet  wear  ; 

An  stavs,  she  says,  spoils  leadies'  sheps 

O,  it  wad  mek  a  parson  sweer  ; 

Nit  ae  ban's  turn  ov  wark  she'll  dui, 

Nay  nowther  milk,  nor  sarra  t'sweyne — 

Oor  coontry's  puzzen'd  roond  wi'  preyde, 
For  lasses  workt  reet  hard  lang-seyne  ! 

We've  three  guid  rooms  in  oor  clay-hoose, 

Just  big  enough  fer  sec  as  we  ; 
They'd  hev  a  parlour  built  ov  bricks — 

I  mud  submit — what  cud  I  dee  ? 
The  sattle  neest  was  thrown  aseyde  ; 

It  meeght  hae  sarrad  me  an  meyne  ! 
Mey  mudder  thowt  it  mens'd  a  house — 

But.  we  think  shem  ov  aul  lang  seyne  ! 

We  us'd  to  gang  to  bed  at  dark, 

An  ruse  ageane  at  fower  er  five  ; 
The  mworu's  the  only  teyme  fer  wark 

If  fwok  er  hilthy  an  wad  thrive  : 
Noo  up  we  rise, — nay.  God  kens  when  ! 

An  nuin's  owre  suin  fer  us  to  deyne  ; 
I's  hungry  or  the  pot's  hawf-boil'd, 

An  wish  fer  teymes  ieyke  aul  lang  seyne. 

Mev  deanv*  hea  bowt  a  green  <-ilk  veil  ; 

When  wi'  the  dowters,  seyde  bv  seyde 
To  kunc  they  strut,  it  meks  yen  laugh — 

Owre  monie  gang  thro'  nowt  but  preyde  ! 
Oor  beyble  noo  is  seldom  seen 

In  onie  hans  except  in  meyne  : 
Thar  bits  ov  novels  prood  they  read, 

That  mock  the  days  of  aul  iang-seyne  ! 

*  Palles  or  palace— pelisse— a  furred  robe. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  105 

We  us'cl  to  reyde  in  oor  blue  car, 

Then  monie  a  happy  day  hed  I  ; 
But  fashion  flings  aseyde  content — 

A  gig  mey  deame  wants  me  to  buy  : 
If  e'er  a  gig*  oor  meer  sal  draw, 

Smaw  beer  mun  suin  gie  way  to  weyne  ; 
I's  tir'd  ov  aw  thar  usejess  ways, 

An  wish  I'd  nobbet  leev'd  lang-seyne  ; 

I  meynd  when  peer  fwok  far'd  reet  weel, 

An  scearce  a  beggar  onie  saw, 
Noo,  thousans  wander  oot  o*  wark — 

What,  leyfe  oft  pruives  a  scene  ov  woe  : 
The  tradesmen  brek.  day  efter  day, 

Are  flung  in  jail  to  starve  an  peyne, 
This  preyde  brings  monie  to  decay — 

What  happier  days  aw  kent  lang-seyne  ! 

Deuce  tek  the  fuil-in vented  tea  ! 

For  tweyce  a-day  we  that  mun  hev. 
Then  taxes  run  sae"  monstrous  hee, 

The  deil  a  plack  yen  noo  can  seave  ! 
Ther's  been  nae  luck  throughoot  the  Ian, 

Sin  fwok  wad  leyke  their  betters  sheyne  : 
French  fashions  mek  us  parfet  fuils — 

We're  caff  an  san  to  aul  lang-seyne  : 


THE  AUL  BEGGAR. 

TUNE— By  the  Author. 

I  met  the  aul  man  wid  his  starv'd  grey  cur  nar 

him, 
The   blast  owre   the  mountain   blew  caul  i'    the 

vale  ; 
Nae  heame  to  receive  him,  nae  kent   fwok  to  hear 

him, 

An  thin  wer  his  patch'd  duds — he  mickle  did  ail  : 
A  tear  dimm'd  his  e'e,  his    feace   furrow'd   by  sor 
row, 
Seein'd  to  say,  he  frae  whope  nit  ae  comfort  cud 

borrow, 
An  sad  was  the  beggarman's  teale. 

*  In  one  of  his  essays  Carlyle  makes  "  gig  "-"gentility,"  and 
speaks  of  humanity  and  gigmanity. — Editor. 


106  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  Behold,"  he  cried,  seeghin,   "  the  spwort  o'  false 

Fortune  ! 

The  puir  wretched  ootcast,  the  beggar  you  see, 
Yence  boasted   o'   wealth,   but   the   warl  is   unsar- 

ten, 
An   friens   o'   my   youth  smeyle    nae    langer    on 

me  ; 
I's  the  last  o'  the  flock;  my  weyfe  Ann  fer  Heav'n 

left  me  ; 

Ov  mey  only  lad  Tim  a  curs'd  war  neest  bereft  me  ; 
My  yeage's  suppwort  lang  was  he  !   ' 


•'  Yence  in  the  prood  city  T  smeyl'd   aa.ang  plenty 
Frae  easl  an  jrae  west  monie  a  vessel  then  bwore 
To  me  the  rich  cargo—  to  me  the  fevne  dentey  ; 

An  puir  hungry  bodies  still  shar'd  o'  my  store  : 
A   storm   sunk   my   shippin,    by   fause    friens   sur- 

roonded, 
The  laugh  o'    the  girt   fwok  suin   meade   me  con- 

foonded, 
Ilk  prospec  ov  plishure  is  o'er  ! 


"  I  creep  on  the  moontains,  but  maist  in  the  val 
leys, 

An  wi'  my  fond  dog  share  a  crust  at  the  duir  ; 
I  shun  the  girt  fwok  an  ilk  house  leyke  a  palace, 

Far  sweeter  to  me  is  the  meyte  frae  the  puir  ! 
At  neet,  when  on  strae,  wi'  my  faithfu  cur  lyin, 
I  thenk  Him  who  meade  me,  fer  what  I's  enjoyin  ; 

His  promise,  I  whope  to  secure  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  107 

THE    BUCK    O'    KINGWATTER* 
TUNE — "  The  breckans  o'  Branton." 

When  I  was  single,  I  rid  a  feyne  naig 

An  was  cawt  the  Buck  o'  Kingwatter  ; 
Noo  the  cwoat  on  my  back  hes  got  but  ae  sleeve, 
An  my  breeks  er  aw  worn  till  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  an  wanton. 

I  courtet  a  lass  an  angel  I  thowt — 

She's  noo  turn'd  a  picture  ov  evil  ; 
She  geapes,  yen  may  coont  ivry  tuith  in  her  heed, 

An  bawls  fit  to  freeten  the  deevil. 

Sing, — Oh  !  the  lasses,  &c. 

To-day  she  slipt  oot,  some  'bacco  to  buy, 
An  bade  me  meynd  rock  the  cradle  ; 

I  cowpt  owre  asleep,  but  suin  she  com  in, 
An  then  brak  mey  heed  wi'  the  ladle. 

Sing, — Oh  !  the  lasses,  &c. 

I  ne'er  hed  a  heart  to  hannel  a  gun, 

Or  I'd  run  away  an  leave  her, 
She  pretens  to  win  purns.f  but  that's  aw  fun. 

They  say  she's  owre  keynd  wi'  the  weaver. 

Sing, — Oh  !  the  lasses,  &c. 

I  dinnerless  gang  ae  hawf  o'  the  week  ; 

If  we  get  a.  bit  collop  on  Sunday, 
She  cuts  me  nee  mair  ner  wad  physic  a  sneype  ; 

Then    we've  tateys  an  point,  on  Monday. 

Sing, — Oh  !  the  lasses,  &c. 

Tho'  weary  o'  leyfe,  wid'  a  guid-fer-nowt  weyfe, 

I  wish  I  cud  git  sec  anudder, 
An  then  I  cud  give  the  deevil  the  teane, 
For  teakin  away  the  tudder  ! 

Sing, — Oh  !  the  lasses,  the  lazy  lasses  ! 

Keep  frae  the  lasses  o'  Branton  ! 
I  ne'er  wad  hae  married,  the  day  I  married, 
But  I  was  young,  feulish,  an  wanton. 

*  The  river  King  near  Gilsland. 

t  Purn— (i)  a  Quil  or  Reed. 

(2)  the  yarn  wound  on  a  Reed. 


io8  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

MARGET  O'  THE  MILL. 

TUNE — "  Tom  Starboard." 

Her  fadder's  whope,  her  mudder's  preyde, 

Was  blue-ey'd  Marget  o'  the  Mill  ; 
An  summer  day,  an  winter  neet, 

Was  happy,  cheerfu,  busy  still  : 
Aul  Raff,  he:  fadder,  eft  declar'd, 

His  darlin  forty  punds  sud  hev. 
The  dav  a  partner  tuik  her  han, 

An  mair  if  lang  he  sceap'd  the  greave. 


The  lily  an  the  deyke-rwose,  beath 

Wer  mixt  in  Market's  bonny  feace  ; 
Her  form  wud  win  the  cauldest  heart, 

An  her's  was  Nature's  simple  greace 
Her  luik  drew  monie  a  neighb'rin  laird 

Her  een  luive's  piercin  arrows  fir'd  ; 
But  nae  vain  man  cud  gain  the  han 

O'  this  fair  flow'r,  by  aw  admir'd. 


Oh  !  luckness  hoor  !  at  town  ae  day, 

A  youth  in  sowdger's  driss,  she  saw 
He  stule  her  heart  an  frae  that  hoor, 

Peer  Marget  shar'd  a  leyfe  ov  woe  ! 
Alas  !  she  shuns  aw  roon  the  mill, 

Nae  langer  to  her  bwosom  dear  ; 
An  faded  is  her  grief-worn  feace, 

An  sunk  her  e'e  wi'  monie  a  tear. 


Puir  Marget  !  yence  a  parent's  preyde, 

Is  noo  widoot  a  parent  left  ; 
Desarted  aw  day  lang  she  roams. 

Luive's  victim,  ov  aw  whopes  bereft  ! 
Ye  lasses,  aw  seducers  shun, 

An  think  ov  Marget  o'  the  Mill  ; 
She  crazy,  wanders  wid  her  bairn, 

A  prey  to  luive  an  sorrow  still. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  109 

MADAM  JANE. 
TUNE — "  Buy  bruim  besoms." 

Money  meks  yen  merry  ; 

Money  meks  yen  glad  ; 
Br!  she  aul  or  ugly, 

Money  brings  a  lad  ! 


When  I'd  ne'er  a  penny, 

Deil  a  lad  hed  I  ; 
Pointin  aye  at  Jenny, 

Laughin  they  flew  by. 
Money  causes  fiatt'ry  ; 

Money  meks  us  vain  ; 
Money  changes  aw  things — 

Noo  I'm  Madam  Jane  \ 


Sin'  aul  Robin  left  me 

Hooses,  fields,  nit  few, 
Lads  thrang  roon  i'  clusters — 

I'm  a  beauty  noo  ! 
Money  meks  yen  handsome, 

Money  meks  yen  bra'  ; 
Money  gits  us  sweethearts, 

That's  the  best  of  aw ! 

I  hev  fat  an  slender  ; 

I  hev  shwort  an  tall ; 
I  hev  rakes  an  misers  ; 

I  despise  them  all ! 
Money  they're  aw  seekin  ; 

Money  they'll  git  neane  ; 
Money  sens  them  sneakin 

Efter  Madam  Jane ! 

Ther's  ane  puir  an  bashf u 

I  keep  i'  mey  e'e  ; 
He's  git  han  an  siller, 

Gin  he  fancies  me  ! 
Money  meks  yen  merry  ; 

Money  meks  yen  glad  ; 
Be  she  leame  an  crazy, 

Money  brings  a  lad  ! 


no  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

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,  man  ! 
A  clean-heel'd  lass,  a  wt  el-spok  lass, 
A  buik-larn'd  lass,  a  kurk-gaun  lass, 
T  watna  hoo  it  com  to  pass, 

She's  meade  a  fuil  o'  me,  man. 

I's  tir*d  o'  workin,  plewin,  sowin, 

Deetin,  deykin,  threshin,  mowin  ; 

Seeghin,  greanin,  niver  tnowin 
What  I's  gaun  to  de,  man  ! 

I  met  her — ay,  'twas  this  day  week  ; 
Od  die !  thowt  I,  I'll  try  to  speak  ! 
But  tried  in  vain  the  teale  to  seek — 

Oh,  sec  a  lass  is  she,  man ! 
Her  jet-black  hair  hawf-heydes  her  broo. 
Her  een  j  ust  thurl*  yen  thro'  an  thro'  ! 
But,  O  !  her  cheeks  an  churry  mou 

Are  far  owre  sweet  to  see,  man  ! 
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,  man  ! 
But  I  can  nowther  rheyme  ner  reave, 
Luive  meks  yen  sec  a  coward  sleave  ; 
I'd  better  far  sleep  in  the  greave, 

But  yet,  that  munnet  be,  man  ! 

I's  tired  o'  workin,  &c. 

To  Carel  market  I  gang  doon, 
An  hunt  fer  Susy,  roon  an  roon  ; 
Then  see  the  beauties  ov  the  toon, 

But  nin  sae  fair  as  she,  man  ! 
They're  stiff  as  buckrem,  Susy  says, 
Thur  female  dandies  widoot  stays  ; 
Toon- fwok  leyke  oor  fwok,  hae  their  ways 

An  sae  it  aye  mun  be,  man  ! 

I's  tired  o'  workin,  &c. 
•  Thurl  or  thirl=pierce. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  in 


That  flay-crow,  Robby  o'  the  Faul, 
Deef,  tuithless,  knaggy,  leame,  an  aul — 
Whene'er  we  meet  he'll  glowr  an  scaul — 

His  breyde  he  says,  she's  be,  man ! 
He'll  shck  his  stick,  or  cleek  a  stowre, 
An'  fain  he'd  try  to  knock  me  owre  ; 
I'll  feght  wi'  nin  that's  fifty  fower, 

What'er  may  happen  me,  man ! 

I's  lir'd  o'  workin,  &c. 

Tn  summer  when  fwok  work  at  hay, 
I  towrts  their  meedows  steal  away, 
An  thro'  the  deyke  gaze  hawf  the  day, 

Her  witchin  feace  to  see,  man  ! 
Tho'  Susy  be  a  sarvent  puir, 
An  I's  worth  thretscwore  pun  a  year  : 
She's  niver  want  thro'  leyfe,  I  sweer, 

If  she'll  to  kurk  wi'  me,  man  ! 
I's  tir'd  o'  workin,  plewin,  sowin, 
Deetin,  deykin,  threshin,  mowin, 
Seeghin,  greanin,  niver  tnowin 

What  I's  gaun  to  de,  man  ! 


REED    ROBIN. 

TUNE— To  an  Old  Irish  Air. 

Come  into  mey  cabin,  Reed  Robin ! 

Threyce  welcome  blithe  warbler,  to  me  ! 
Noo  Skiddaw  hes  thrown  a  wheyte  cap  on, 

Agean  I'll  gie  shelter  to  thee  : 
Come,  freely  hop  into  mey  pan  trey  ; 

Partake  o'  mey  puir  holesome  fare  ; 
Tho'  seldom  I  bwoast  ov  a  denty, 

Yet  meyne,  man  or  burd  sal  aye  share  ! 

Noo  five  years  are  by-geane,  Reed  Robin  ! 

Sin'  furst  tho  ;  com  tremlin  to  me  ; 
Alas!  hoo  I'm  changed,  'eytle  Robin, 

Sin'  furst  I  bade  welcome  to  thee  ; 
I  then  bed  a  bonny  young  lassie  ; 

Away  wi'  anudder  she's  geane  ; 
Then  friens  daily  caw'd  on  me,  smeylin, 

Noo  dowie,  I  seegh  aw  my  leane  ! 


112  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Wi'  plishure  I  view  thee,  Reed  Robin, 

Yet  gaze  oft  wi'  pity  on  thee  ; 
Thy  luik  seems  to  say  like  owre  monie, 

Ov  hunger  puir  Robin  mun  dee  ! 
To  think  o'  thy  fate,  hooseless  neamesake, 

Just  brings  to  meynd  what  I  mun  bear  ; 
I  meet  wi'  fause  friens  in  ilk  corner, 

An  bow  to  the  warl  in  despair ! 

Tho'  sweet  are  thy  weyld  nwotes,  Reed  Robin, 

They  draw  monie  a  tear  frae  my  ee  ; 
They  caw  to  mey  meynd  youthfu  plishures, 

When  Mary  sang  sweetly  to  me  : 
But  plishure  "aft  gies  way  to  sorrow, 

An  plishuie  leads  millions  to  pain  ; 
Frae  hope  nae  delights  can  I  borrow, 

Leyfe  s  comforts  I  wish  for  in  vain ! 

0  where  is  thy  sweetheart,  Reed  Robin  ? 
Gae  bring  her  frae  hoose-top,  or  tree  ; 

I'll  bid  her  be  true  to  sweet  Robin, 

For  fause  was  a  fav'rite  to  me  ! 
You'll  share  ev'ry  crum  i'  mey  cabin — 

We'll  sing  the  weyld  winter  away — 

1  winna  deceive  ye  puir  burdies  ! 
Let  mortals  use  me  as  they  may. 


REED  ROBIN'S  ANSWER. 

O  thanks  for  thy  keyndness,  frien  Robin  ; 

True  frienship  yen  seldom  can  see, 
Noo  Winter  owre  moontains  is  frownin, 

Leyke  monie  hawf  starv'd  I  mun  be  ! 
Hoo  pleas'd  I'll  hop  into  thy  pantry  : 

Hoo  prood  thy  broon  crums  I  will  share 
Nae  glutton — I'll  covet  nae  denty — 

But  sing  away  sorrow  an  care  ! 

I've  lost  monie  partners,  frien  Robin  ! 

Sin  hunger  furst  brong  me  to  thee  ; 
In  men,  beasts  an  burds,  we  fin  tyrants, 

That  torture  weak  warblers  leyke  me  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  113 


Hoo  oft  on  the  skirts  ov  the  meedow, 

I've  leev'd  wi'  a  sweetheart,  queyte  blest  ; 

We've  welcom'd  the  mworn,  but  or  evenin 
Wer  rob'd  ov  our  burds,  an  the  nest  ! 

If  sweet  are  my  weyld-notes,  frien  Robin  ! 

Ne'er  let  them  a  tear  draw  frae  thee  ; 
May  mortals  share  health  an  true  plishure, 

Who  wish  man,  beast,  burd  may  leeve  free  ! 
To  some  leyfe's  a  lang  scene  ov  sorrow 

Unshelter'd  frae  caul  win  or  rain  ; 
I  daily  hear  beggars  queyte  helpless, 

Of  rich  folk  ax  pity  in  vain  ! 

Wheyle  plenty  I'm  pickin,  frien  Robin  ! 

Thy  pen  at  the  paper  I  see, 
To  paint  the  true  Cummerlan  manners, 

An  aye  affword  innocent  glee  ; 
We  burds  chaunt  to  please  yen  anudder, 

An  mortals  sud  aye  dui  the  seame  ; 
Gie  praise  to  ilk  weel-meanin  brother, 

An  try  to  mek  monie  think  sheame  ; 

O  choose  a  guid  partner,  frien  Robin  ! 

True  luive  a  sweet  comfort  mun  be  ; 
An  lang  may  ye  smeyle  on  ilk  udder, 

Till  Deeth  frae  aw  care  sets  ye  free  I 
I'll  sing  thee  thy  keyndness,  dear  neamesake  ! 

Till  Spring  wi'  green  leaves  decks  the  spray  t 
An  pray  for  thee  aw  the  blithe  Summer, 

Let  Hawks  freeten  me  as  they  may  ! 


THREESCWORE  AND  NINETEEN. 

TUNE — By  the  A  uthor. 

Ay,  ay  ! — I's  feeble  grown 

An  feckless — weel  I  may  ! 
I's  threescwore  an  nineteen 

Ay  just  this  varra  day  ! 
I  hae  nae  teeth  mey  meat  to  chowe, 

But  leyle  on't  sarras  me  ! 
The  best  thing  I  e'er  eat  or  drink 

Is — wheyles  a  cup  o'  tea  ! 


114  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Ay  ay  ! — The  bairns  mek  gam, 

An  pleague  me  suin  an  leate  ; 
Men-fwok  I  leyke  i'  mey  heart, 

But  bairns  an  lasses  hate  ! 
This  gown  o'  meyne's  lang  in  the  weast 

Aul-fashion'd  i'  the  sleeve  ; 
It  meakes  me  luik  leyke  fourscwore 

I  varrily  believe  ! 

Ay  ay  !—  What  I's  deef, 

Mey  hearin's  queyte  geane  ; 
I's  fasht  wi'  that  sad  cough  aw  neet, 

An  sleep  I  oft  git  neane  : 
I  smuik  a  bit,  an  cough  a  bit  ; 

An  then  I  try  to  spin  ; 
An  then  I  daddle  to  the  duir. 

An  then — I  daddle  in  ! 


Ay  ay  ! — I  wonder  much 

How  women  can  git  men  ! 
I've  tried  for  threescwore  years  an  mair, 

But  never  cud  git  yen — 
Deil  tek  the  cat  !— What  is  she  at  ? 

Lie  whiet  on  the  fluir  ; 
I  thowt  it  e'en  was  Daniel  Strang 

Tnock-tnockin  at  the  duir  ! 

Ay  ay  ! — I've  bed,  an  box, 

An  kist,  an  clock,  an  wheel, 
An  tub,  an  rock,  an  stuil,  an  pan, 

An  chair,  an  dish,  an  reel  ; 
An  luikin-glass,  an  coffee-pot, 

An  bottles  fer  smaw  beer  ; 
A  morse-trap,  sawt-box,  kettle,  an — 

That's  Danny  sure,  I  hear  ! 

Ay  ay  ! — He's  young  enough, 

But, —  O,  a  neyce  tall  man  ! 
An  I  wad  ne'er  be  cauld  in  bed, 

Cud  I  but  marry  Dan  ! 
Deuce  tek  that  cough  !  that  weary  cough  ! 

It  never  lets  me  be  ! 
I's  kilt  wi'  that  an  gravel  beath — 

Oh  ! — Daniel,  come  to  me  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  115 

SILLY  ANDREW. 

*> 

TUNE—"  Wandering  Willy." 

O,  hoo  can  I  git  a  bit  weyfe  ?  "  says  lang  Andrew, 
"  Shaclry,  come  tell  me  lad,  what  I  mun  de  ; 

Thoo  kens  I's  just  twenty, 

Hae  hooses,  lans,  plenty, 

A  partner  I  want,  ay, 
But  nin  '11  hae  me  ! 


Twas    furst    blue-eyed    Betty    that    meade    my. 

mooth  watter, 

She  darnt  mey  aul  stockins,  my  crivet  an  aw  ; 
Last  harvest  when  shearin, 
Wid  jeybin  an  jeerin, 
She  fworc't  me  to  swearin — 
Bett,  nae  mair  I  saw  ! 


"  Neest    reed-heeded    Hannah    to    me    seem'd    an 

angel, 

An  com  to  our  hoose,  monie  a  neet  wid  her  wark  : 
I  yence  axt  to  set  her  ; 
She  sed,  she  kent  better  ! 
Whae  thinks-te  can  git  her  ? 
Wey,  daft  Seymie  Clark  ! 

«'  Then  smaw-weastet  Winny  meade  goons  fer  our 

Jenny  ; 

"  Andrew,  min  !  stick  tull  her  !  "  mudder  oft  sed  ; 
"  She  hes  feyne  sense,  an  money, 
Young,  lish,  blithe,  an  bonny, 
Is  a  match, — ay  fer  onie  !  " 
But  she's  fer  Black  Ned  ! 


"  Then  hoo  can  I  git  a  bit  weyfe  ? — Tell  me,      Shad- 

ry  ! 

Thoo   mun   be   reet   happy,    they're   aw   fond   o' 
thee  ! 

Ive  follow'd  Nan,  Tibby, 
Sail,  Mall,  Fan,  an  Sibby, 
Ett,  Lett,  Doll,  an  Debby  ; 
But  nin  "11  hae  me  ! 


n6  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

AUL  ROBBY  MILLER. 

TUNE — "  Gin  I  had  a  wee  house." 

Oh  !  cud  I  but  see  the  blithe  days  I  hae  seen, 
When  I  was  a  lish  laughin  lass  ov  sixteen  ! 
Then  lads  lap  aroon  an  sed,  nin  was  leyke  me  ; 
Noo  they're  aw  flown  away,   fer  I's  turnt   thurty 

three. 

A  single  leyfe's  a  comfortless  leyfe, 
It  souns  unco  sweet  to  be  caw'd  a  weyfe  ; 
To  catch  a  bit  partner  I've  tried  aw  I  can — 
O  pity,  some  lasses  can  ne'er  git  a  man  ! 


When  day-leet's  aw  geane,  an  I  sit  doon  to  spin, 
I  wish  some  young  fellow  wad  only  step  in  ; 
At  the  market  I  saunter  an  dress  at  the  fair, 
But  nin  at  peer  Keatey  a  luik'll  e'er  spare. 
A  single  leyfe's  but  a  weary  dull  leyfe, 
It  souns  unco  sweet  to  be  caw'd  a  weyfe  ; 
In  vain  a  puir  lass  may  try  ivry  odd  plan — 
Caw  her  rich,  an  I'll  venture  she'll  suin  git  a  man  ! 


Theer's  aul  Robby  Miller,  wi'  his  siller  hair, 
Bent  double,  an  sauntrin  about,  to  kill  care  ; 
Tho'  steane-deef,  an  tuithless,  an  bleer-e'ed 

an  aw, 

He  hes  gear,  an  I's  thinkin  to  gie  him  a  caw  ! 
A  single  leyfe's  a  heart-brekkin  leyfe, 
It  souns  unco  sweet  to  be  caw'd  a  weyfe  ; 
I'll  cwom  his  thin  locks,  an  aye  dui  what  I  can — 
Ther's  monie  young  lasses  wad  tek  an  aul  man  ! 


He  leeves  aw  his  leane,  but  he's  seerly  to  bleame, 
When   a   wanter   leyke   me,    may   be   hed   sae   nar 

heame  : 

Wer  we  weddet  to-morrow  he'd  nit  be  lang  here, 
Then  I'd  buy  me  a  youngen  in  less  nor  a  year  ; 

A  single  leyfe's  but  a  sorrowfu  leyfe  ; 

It  souns  unco  sweet  to  be  caw'd  a  weyfe  ; 
I'll    away    to    aul    Robby  ! — Ay,    that's    the    best 

plan, 
Kiss,  coax  him,  an  wed  him,  the  canny  aul  man. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  117 

NANNY    PEAL. 
TUNE— By  the  Author. 

Eyes  there  are  that  niver  weep  : 

Hearts  there  are  that  cannot  feel  ; 
God  keep  them  that  can  dui  baith  ; 

An  sec  was  yence  sweet  Nanny  Peel. 
Tom  Feddon  was  a  sailor  lad, 

Yen  better  niver  crost  the  sea  ; 
The  dang'rous  rocks  an  sans  he  kent — • 

The  captain's  fav'rite  aye  was  he. 


When  oot,  an  cronies  drank  er  sang, 

Er  danc'd  the  whornpeype,  jig,  er  reel, 
Puir  Tom  wad  sit  him  on  the  yard, 

An  fondly  think  o'  Nanny  Peal. 
For,  Oh,  she  was  a  hartsome  lass, 

A  sweeter  feace  man  ne'er  cud  see  ; 
An  luive  lurk'd  in  her  twee  breet  een, 

An  innocence  itsel  was  she  ! 


Oft  in  the  kurk,  the  neighb'rin  lads, 

At  her  a  bashfu  luik  wad  steal  ; 
Oft  at  the  market  stare,  an  point, 

An  whisper — "  See  !  that's  Nanny  Peal  ! 
But  Tom  was  aw  her  heart's  deleyte, 

An  efter  voy'ges  twee  or  three, 
In  which  he  wad  feyne  prisents  bring, 

Beath  fondly  whop'd  they'd  married  be. 

An  noo  this  teyde  they  quit  the  pwort  ; 

Tom  wid  a  kiss  his  faith  did  seal  ; 
They  wept  an  seegh'd,  whop'd  suin  to  meet- 

'Twas  hard  to  part  wid  Nanny  Peal  ! 
The  sea  was  cawm,  the  sky  was  clear, 

The  ship  she  watch'd  wheyle  eve  cud  see  ; 
"  The  voy'ge  is  shwort  !  "  she  tremlin  sed, 

"  God  sen  him  seafe  an  suin  to  me  !  " 


Afwore  her  puir  aul  mudder's  duir, 

She  sang  an  thowt,  an  turnt  her  wheel  ; 

But  when  that  neet  the  storm  com  on, 
Chang'd  was  the  heart  ov  Nanny  Peal  ! 


ii8  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


An  sad  was  she,  the  next  lang  day  ; 

The  thurd  day,  still,  still  warse  grew  she 
Alas  !  the  fowerth  day  brong  the  news. 
That  ship  an  crew  wer  lost  at  sea  ! 

She  heard,  she  fentet  on  the  fluir  ; 

Much  did  her  puir  aul  mudder  feel  ; 
The  neybors  roon  beath  aul  an  young, 

Dropt  monie  a  tear  fer  Nanny  Peal. 
Sin  that,  she  wanders  aw  day  lang, 

An  gazes  weyldly  on  the  sea  ; 
Fled  is  her  rwosy  bluim  of  hilth, 

An  ragged,  wretched,  noo  is  she. 

In  fancy,  on  the  wheyte-top  waves 

She  sees  puir  Tom  oft  towrts  her  steal  ; 

An  then  she  laughs  an  caws  aloud, 
"  O  come,  O  come,  to  Nanny  Peal  !  " 

God  keep  the  helpless,  luckless  lass  ! 
On  earth  she  ne'er  may  happy  be  ; 

Her  leyfe  seems  weerin  to  a  clwose — 

She  suin  in  Heaven  her  Tom  may  see 


ANDREW'S  YOUNGEST  DOWTER. 
TUNE— By  the  Author. 

Wheer  Irthing  mourns*  to  Eden's  streams, 

Thro'  meedows  sweetly  stealin, 
Owre-hung  by  rocks,  hawf-hid  by  trees, 

Is  seen  a  lonely  dwellin. 
An  theer's  a  lass  wi'  peerless  feace, 

Her  luik  to  aw  gies  plishure, 
A  rwose  bud  hid  frae  pryin  een, 

The  lads'  deleyte  an  treasure  ; 
When  furst  I  saw  her  aw  her  leane, 

I  mair  than  mortal  thowt  her, 
An  stuid  amaz'd,  an  silent  gaz'd 

On  Andrew's  youngest  dowter. 

*  "Mourns"  in  some  other  editions  is  "rows."     I  have  the 
original  MSS.  of  this  song,  and  there  it  is  "  mourns."— T.E. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  119 


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, 

An  pray'd  quick  her  returnin  ; 
And  trac'd  her  foot-marks  through  the  wood, 

Mey  raptur'd  bwosom  burnin  : 
Luive  led  me  on  ;  but  when  at  last 

In  fancy,  meyne  I  thowt  her, 
I  saw  her  lover,  happy  youth  ! 

Meet  Andrew's  youngest  dowter. 


Sing  sweet  ye  weyld  burds  i'  the  glens. 

Where'er  young  Lizzy  wanders  ; 
Ye  streams  ov  Irthin  please  her  meynd, 

Ilk  day  wi'  weyld  meanders  ; 
An  thoo,  the  dearest  to  her  heart, 

Caress  this  luively  blossom — 
O,  niver  may  the  thworn  o'  care 

Gie  pain  to  sec  a  bwosom  ! 
Hed  I  been  king  o'  this  weyde  warl, 

An  kingdoms  cud  hae  bowt  her, 
I'd  freely  gien  them  aw  wi  preyde, 

For  Andrew's  youngest  dowter  ; 


SOLDIER  YEDDY. 

TUNE — "  The  widow  can  bake." 

Puir  Yeddy  was  brong  up  a  tadderless  bairn, 

His  jacket  blue  duffle,  his  stockins  coarse  gairn  ; 

His    mudder,    sad    greaceless  !  leev'd    nar    Talkin 

Tairn, 

But  scearce  did  a  turn  fer  her  Yeddy. 


Weel-shept  an  fair  feac'd,  wid  a  bonny  blue  e'e. 
Honest  hearted,  aye  merry,  an  modest,  was  he  ; 
But  nae  larnin  hed  gotten,  nor  kent  A  B  C — 
Ther's  owre  monie  leyke  silly  Yeddy. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Suin  tir'd  o'  the  cwoal-pit,  an  drivin  the  car  ; 
Won  by  fedders,  cockades,  an  the  fuil'ries  o'  War, 
He'd  see  aw  feyne  fwok  an  gran  toons  far  an  nar. 
This  weyd  warl  was  aw  new  to  leyle  Yeddy. 


Hoo   temp  tin   the  lekker,   an  bonny  bank  nwote  ! 
Hoo  temptin  the  pouder,  sash,  gun,  an  reed  cwoat  ! 
The  Frenchmen,  od-die  them  !     I'll  kill  the  heale 

twote  !  " 
These,  these  wer  his  thowts,  honest  Yeddy. 


A  wheyle  mid   his  cronies   he'll  smuik,   laugh,   an 

sing, 

Tell  ov  wonders,  an  brag  ov  his  country  an  king, 
An  swagger,  an  larn  ov  new  woaths  a  sad  string, 
These  leytle  avail  simple  Yeddy  ! 


For  suin  may  he  sing  till  anudder-guess  tuin, 
His  billet  a  bad  yen,  his  kelter  aw  duin  ; 
An  faint  at  his  pwost  by  the  pale  wmtermuin — 
Few  comforts  await  luckless  Yeddy. 


When  Teyme  steals  his  colour,  an  turns  his  powe 

grey, 
May   he    tell    merry   stwories,    nor    yence    rue    the 

day 
When   he   wandert,   puir  lad  !   frae   the   fell-seyde 

away  ; 
This,  this  is  mey  wish  fer  young  Yeddy. 


Of  lads  sec  as  him,  may  we  ne'er  be  in  want  ; 

An  the  brave  sowdger's  pocket  of  brass  ne'er  be 

scant, 
Nae   brags   o'   prood   Frenchmen   aul'    Englan  sud 

daunt, 
When  we've  plenty  leyke  guid  sowdger  Yeddy  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  i 

THE  DAWTIE. 
TUNE — "  I'm  owre  young  to  marry  yet." 

JENNY. 

"  Tho'  weel  I  leyke  ye,  Jwohnny  lad, 

I  cannot,  munnet  marry  yet  ! 
Mey  puir  aul  mudder's  unco  bad, 

Sae  we  a  wheyle  mun  tarry  yet  ; 
For  ease  or  comfort  she  hes  neane — 
Leyfe's  just  a  lang,  dull  day  ov  pain  ; 
I  munnet  leave  her  aw  her  leane, 

An  wunnet,  wunnet  marry  yet  !  " 

JWOHHNY. 

"  O  Jenny  !  dunnet  brek  this  hearf . 
Or  say,  we  munnet  marry  yet  ; 
Thoo  cannot  act  a  jillet's  part — 

Why  sud  we  tarry,  tarry  yet  ? 
Think,  lass,  ov  aw  the  pangs  I  feel  ; 
I've  lui'd  thee  lang,  nin  kens  hoc  weel  ! 
For  thee,  I'd  feight  the  varra  deil — 

O  say  not,  we  mun  tarry  yet  !  " 

JENNY. 

"  A  weddet  leyfe's  oft  dearly  bowt— 
I  cannot,  munnet  marry  yet  ! 
Ye  hae  but  leyle  an  I  hae  nowt, 

Sae,  we  a  wheyle  mun  tarry  yet  ! 
My  heart's  yer  awn  ye  needent  fear 
But  let  us  wait  anudder  year, 
An  luive,  an  toil,  an  gedder  gear — 

We're'owre  young  to  marry  yet  ! 

Was  but  last  neet,  mey  mudder  sed, 

O,  Dawtie  !  dunnet  marry  yet  ! 
I'll  suin  lig  in  mey  last  caul  bed — 

Thoo's  aw  mey  comfort  !   tarry  yet  !  " 
Whene'er  I  steal  oot  ov  her  sect, 
She  seeghs,  an  sobs,  an  nowt  gans  reet — 
Hark  ! — that's  her  feeble  voice — guid  neet  ! 
We  munnet,  munnet  marry  yet  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

THE  CODBECK  WEDDIN. 

TUNE — "  Andrew  Carr." 


True  is  the  song,  tho'  lowly  seems  the  strain  I " 


They  sing  of  a  Weddin  at  Worton, 

Whoar  aw  was  feght,  fratchin  an  fun  ; 
Feegh  !  sec  a  yen  we've  hed  at  Codbeck 

As  niver  was  under  the  sun  ; 
The  breydegruim  was  weaver  Joe  Bewley, 

He  com  frev  aboot  Lowthet  Green  ; 
The  breyde  Jwohnny  Dalton's  lish  dowter, 

An  Betty  was  weel  to  be  seen' 


Sec  weshin,  an  bleachin,  an  starchin, 

An  patchin  an  darnin  aul  duds  ; 
Some  lasses  thowt  lang  to  the  weddin  ; 

Unax'd,  udders  sat  i'  the  suds, 
Ther  wer  tweescwore  an  seebem  inveytet, 

God  speed  them  !   'geane  Cursenmas  day  ; 
"  Dobson'  lads,  tui,  what  they  mun  come  bidder, 

— I  think  they  wer  better  away. 


Furst  thing,  Oggle  Willy,  the  fiddler 

Cawt  in,  wid  aul  Jonathan  Strang  ; 
Neest  stiff  an  stout,  shwort,  lang,  leame,  lazy, 

Frev  aw  parts  com  in  wid  a  bang  ; 
Frae  Brocklebank,  Fuilduir's,  an  Newlans, 

Frae  Hesket,  Burkheeds,  an  the  Heet, 
Frae  Warnell,  Starnmire,  Nether  Welton, 

Ay,  aw  t'way  frev  Eytonfield  Street. 


Furst  aul  Jwohnny  Dawton  we'll  nwotish. 

An  Mary,  his  canny  douse  deame  ; 
Son  Wully,  an  Mally  his  sister  ; 

Goffet'  weyfe,  muckle  Nanny  by  neame  ; 
Wully  Sinclair,  Smith  Leytle,  Jwohn  Atchin, 

Tom  Ridley,  Joe  Sim,  Peter  Weir, 
Gworge  Goffet,  Jwohn  Bell,  Miller  Dyer, 

Joe  Heed  an  Ned  Bulman  wer  theen 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  123 

We'd  hay-cruiks,  an  hen-tails,  an  hanniels, 

An  nat  tiers  that  fuddle  fer  nowt  ; 
We'd  sceape-greaces,  skeybells,  an  sruffins, 

An  maffs  better  fed  far  nor  towt  ; 
We'd  lads  that  wad  eat  fer  a  weager, 

Er  feeght,  ay,  'till  bluid  to  the  tnees  ; 
Fell-seyders  an  Sowerby  riff-raffs, 

That  deil  a  bum-bealie  dar  seize  ! 

The  breyde  hung  her  heed  an  luikt  sheepish, 

The  breydegruim  as  wheyte  as  a  clout  ;  ' 
The  bairns  aw  glowr't  thro'  the  kurk  windows  ; 

The  parson  was  varra  devout  ! 
The  ring  was  lost  out  ov  her  pocket, 

The  breyde  made  a  bonny  te-de  ; 
Cries  Goffet'  weyfe  "  Meyne's  rneade  o'  pinch  beck 

An— la  ye  !— It  fits  till  a  tee  !  " 

Noo  buckelt,  wi'  fiddlers  afwore  them, 

They  gev  Michael  Crosby  a  caw  ; 
Up  spak  canny  Bewley  the  breydegruim, 

"  Git  slockent,  lads  !  fadder  pays  aw  !  " 
We  drank  till  aw  seem'd  blue  aboot  us. 

We're  aye  murry  deevils,  tho'  puir  ; 
Michael'  weyfe  says,  "  Widoot  onie  leein, 

A  duck  mud  hae  swam  on  the  fluir." 


Noo  aw  'bacco'd  owre,  an  hawf-drucken, 

The  men-fwok  wad  needs  kiss  the  breyde  ; 
Joe  Heed,  that's  aye  reckont  best  spoksman, 

Whop'd  "  guid  wad  the  couple  beteyde." 
Says  Michael,  "  I's  reet  glad  to  see  ye, 

Suppwosin  I  git  ne'er  a  plack  !  " 
Cries  t'  weyfe,  "  That'll  nowther  pay't  brewei 

Ner  git  bits  ov  sarks  to  yen's  back  !  " 


The  breyde  wad  dance  "  Coddle  me,  Cuddy," 

A  threesome  neest  capert  Scotch  reels  ; 
Peter  Weir  cleek't  up  aul  Mary  Dalton, 

Leyke  a  cock  roun  a  hen  neest  he  steals  ; 
Jwohn  Bell  yelpt  out  "  Sowerby  Lasses  ;  " 

Young  Jwosep,  "  a  lang  country  dance," 
He'd  got  bran  new  pumps,  Smithson  meade  him, 

An  fain  wad  shew  hoo  he  cud  prance. 


124  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

To  march  roun  the  town  and  keep  swober, 

The  women-fwok  thowt  wad  be  reet  ; 
"  Be  wise  !  dui,  for  yence,"  says  Jwohn  Dyer  ; 

The  breydegruim  mud  reyde  shoulder-heet  ; 
The  youngermak  lurriet  ahint  them, 

'Till  efter  them  Bell  meade  a  brek  ; 
Tom  Ridley  was  aw  baizt  wi'  drinkin, 

An  cowpt  off  the  steps  i'  the  beck. 

To  Hudless's  neest  off  they  sizell'd, 

An  theer  gat  far  mair  nor  eneugh  ; 
Miller  Hodgson  suin  brunt  the  punch  ladle, 

An  full'd  ivry  glass  wid  his  leuf  ; 
He  thowt  he  was  teakin  his  mouter, 

An  deil  a  bit  conscience  hes  he  ; 
They  preymt  him  wi'  stiff  punch  an  jollep, 

Till  Sally  Scott  thowt  he  wad  dee. 

Joe  Sim  rwoart  oot,  "  Bin,    we've   duin   wonders  ! 

Oor  Mally's  turn'd  howe  i'  the  weame  !  " 
Wi'  three  strings  atween  them,  the  fiddlers 

S  track  up,  an  they  reel'd  tower ts  heame  • 
Meyner  Leytle  wad  noo  hoist  a  standard, 

Puir  man  !  he  cud  nit  daddle  far, 
But  stuck  in  a  pant  'buin  the  middle, 

An  yen  tuik  him  heame  in  a  car. 

Fer  dinner  we'd  stewt-geuse  an  haggish, 

Cow't-leady,  an  het  bacon  pie, 
Boil'd  fluiks,  tatey-hash,  beastin-puddin, 

Saut  salmon,  an  cabbish,  forbye  ; 
Pork,  pancakes,  black-puddins,  sheep-trotters, 

An  custert,  an  mustert,  an  veal  ; 
Grey-pez-keale,  an  lang  apple-dumplins, — 

I  wish  ivry  yen  far'd  as  weel.J  | 

The  breyde  geavin  aw  roon  aboot  her. 

Cried,  "  Wuns  !  we  forgat  butter  sops  !  " 
The  breydegruim  fan  nea  teyme  fer  tawkin, 

But  wi'  standin-pie  greas'd  his  chops  ; 
We'd  loppert-milk,  skimm'd  milk,  an  kurn-milk, 

Well-watter,  smaw-beer,  aw  at  yence  ; 
"  Shaff  ;  bring  yell  i'  piggens,"  rwoars  Dalton, 

"  Deil  bin  them  e'er  cares  fer  expense  !  " 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  125 

Noo  aw  cut  an  cleek'd  frae  their  neybors, 

'Twos  even  doon  thump,  pull  an  haul  ; 
Joe  Heed  gat  a  geuse  aw  tegidder, 

An  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, 

An  eat  nar  the  weyte  ov  his  sel  ! 

A  hillibuloo  was  noo  started, 

Twas,  "  Rannigal  !  whee  cares  for  tee  ?  " 
Stop,  Tommy — whee's  weyfe  was  i'  th'  carras  ? 

Thoo'd  ne'er  been  a  man,  but  fer  me  !  " 
Od  dang  the'  !  to  jail  I  cud  send  the'  !  " 

"  Puir  scraffles  !  thy  Ian  grows  nae  gurse  !  " 
Ne'er  ak  !  it's  mey  awn,  an  it's  paid  fer  ! 

But  whee  was't  stuil  aul  Tim  Jwohn's  purse  ?" 


Ned  Bulman  wad  feight  wi'  Gworge  Goffet  ; 

Puir  Gwordy  !  he  nobbut  stript  thin, 
An  luikt  leyke  a  cock  oot  ov  fedder, 

But  suin  gat  a  weel-bleakent  skin  ! 
Neest,  Sanderson  fratcht  wid  a  hay-stack, 

An  Deavison  fught  wi'  the  whins  ; 
Smith  Leytle  fell  out  wi'  the  cobbles, 

An  peel'd  aw  the  bark  off  his  shins. 

The  hay-bay  was  noo  somewhat  seydet, 

An  young  fwok  the  music-men  misst, 
They'd  drucken  leyke  fiddlers  in  common, 

An  fawn  owre  ayont  an  aul  kist  ; 
Some  mair  fwok  that  neet  wer  a-missin, 

Than  Willy,  and  Jonathan  Strang — 
But  decency  whispers/"  Nae  matter  ! 

Thoo  munnet  put  them  i'  thy  sang." 

The  fiddlers  gat  leyle  fer  hard  labour — 

Yen  Peg  pumpt  her  ship  i'  the  fire — 
A  tweesome  poud  caps  frae  ilk  udder — 

Neest  mworn  we  fan  Bett  i'  the  byre  ; 
At  Michael's  she  flang  twee  an  tuppens, 

An  bade  us  nit  nwotish  her  neame — 
What  aw  maks  tek  breybes  in  aw  coontries 

To  lig  in  a  byre  is  nae  shem  ! 


126  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Aul  Dalton  thowt  he  was  at  Carel, 

Says  he,  "  Jacep  !  see  what's  to  pay  ! 
Come,  wosler  !  heaste,  git  oot  the  horses  ! 

We'll  e'en  tek  the  rwoad,  an  away  !  " 
He  cowpt  off  his  stuil  leyke  a  san-bag, 

Tom  Ridley  beel'd  oot,  "  Deil  may  care  !  " 
For  a  whart  o'  het  yel  an  a  stick  in't, 

Dick  Simson  '11  tell  ye  far  mair. 


What  !  breyde  forgat  flingin  the  stockin, 

An  swory  she  fan  the  neest  day  ; 
Let's  whop  she'll  hev  twee  twins  i'  nae  teyme, 

An  cursnins,  widoot  onie  fray  ! 
Sec  heed-warks,  an  heart-aches,  an  greypins, 

Leam'd  hips,  an  clease  cover'd  wi'  glwore, 
Bluidy-nebs,  bleakent-een,  brokken-feaces, 

Nin  iver  hard  tell  on  afwore  ! 


Let's  bumper  the  Cummerlan  lasses, 

Their  marrows  can  seldom  be  seen  ; 
An  he  that  won't  feght  to  defend  them, 

I  wish  he  may  ne'er  want  black  een  ! 
May  oor  murry-neets,  clay-daubins,  reaces, 

An  weddins,  aye,  finish  wi'  glee  ; 
An  when  owt's  amang  us  worth  nwotish, 

May  I  wheyles  be  prizent  to  see. 

While  this  edition  was  passing  through  the  Press  I  have  been 
favoured  with  the  following  interesting  note  from  Mr.  R.  Greenup. 
Beckstones  Farm,  Caldbeck. 

The  Codbeck  Wedding. — Joseph  and  Betty  Bewley,  maiden 
name  Dalton  (she  signs  Betty)  were  married  after  Banns  in 
Caldbeck  Church,  December  25th,  1804,  by  Rev.  Joseph 
Rogerson,  Curate  for  Brown  Grisedale,  D.D.,  Rector  from  1789 
to  1814. 

The  Burials  are  recorded  in  the  same  Register  as  having  taken 
place,  Betty,  Feby.  I4th,  1865,  age  81— and  Joe,  July  i8th,  1869 
age  89.  "  and  so,"  adds  my  informant,  "they  both  sleep  within 
the  shadow  of  our  old  grey  ivy  mantled  church,  within  which  their 
nuptials  were  celebrated."— T.E. 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  127 

THE  PEET-CADGER. 
TUNE — "  Hey  tutty  tatty." 

Mey  bonny  black  meer's  deed  ! 
The  thowt's  e'en  leyke  to  turn  my  heed  ; 
She  led  the  peets,  an  gat  me  breed  ; 
But  what  wull  I  dui  noo  ? 

She  was  bworn  when  Jwohn  was  bworn — 
Just  nineteen  years  last  Thuirsday  inworn— 
Puir  beast  !  hed  she  got  locks  o'  cworn," 
She'd  been  alive,  I  trowe  ! 

Ov  Eclipse,  I've  hard  monie  tell  ; 
Aboot  Skewball  chaps  leyke  to  yell  ; 
I  seed  Dubskelper,  yence  my-sell, 
When  oor  gowd  cup  he  wan. 

Naigs  er  leyke  men-fwok  hee  an  low  ; 
They  mun  submit,  when  Deeth  sal  caw  ; 
But  what  er  reacers  ? — Nowt  at  aw, 
Compar'd  wi'  mey  Black  Nan  ! 

When  young,  just  leyke  the  deil  she  ran  ; 
The  car-gear  at  Durdar  she  wan  ; 
That  day  seed  me  a  happy  man, 
Noo  tears  gush  frae  my  een. 

For  she's  geane  ! — Mey  weyfe's  geane, 
Jwohn's  a  sowdger — I  hae  neane  ! 
Brokken  !— deylt  ! — left  my  leane, 
Theer's  nin  to  comfort  me  ! 

When  wheyles  I  moonted  on  my  yad, 
I  niver  reade  leyke  yen  stark  mad  ; 
We  toddelt  on,  an  beath  wer  glad 
To  see  oor  sonsie  deame  ! 

The  weyfe,  the  neebors  weel  she  tnew, 
An  aw  the  deyke  backs  whoar  gurse  grew  ; 
Then,  when  she'd  pang'd  her  belly  fou, 
How  tow'rtly  she  com  heame  ! 

Nae  pampert  beasts  e'er  heeded  we, 
Nae  win  or  weet  e'er  dreeded  we  ; 
I  niver  cried  woah,  hop,  or  jee, 
She  kent,  ay,  iv'ry  turn  ! 


128  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

An  wheyles  I  gat  her  teats  ov  hay, 
An  gev  her  watter  tweyce  a  day, 
She's  deed  ! — she's  deed  !   I's  wae  to  say 
O,  hoo  can  I  but  mourn  ? 

Frae  Tindal-fell  twelve  pecks  she'd  bring- 
She  was  a  yaud  fit  for  a  king  ! 
I  niver  strack  her,  silly  thing  ! 
'Twas  hard  we  twae  sud  part  ! 

I's  aul,  an  feal'd  an  ragg'd,  an  puir, 
An  canna  raise  anudder  meer  ; 
But  canna  leeve  anudder  year  ! 
The  loss  wull  brek  my  heart  ! 


THE  ILL-GIEN  WEYFE. 

AN  OWRE    TRUE  PICTURE  O*  MONIE. 

TUNE — "  My  wife  has  taen  the  gee." 

A  toilsome  leyf e  for  tharty  year, 

I  patiently  hev  spent, 
As  onie  yen  ov  onie  rank, 

I'  this  weyde  warl  e'er  kent  ; 
For  when  at  heame,  or  when  away, 

Nae  peace  ther  is  for  me  ; 
I's  pestert  wid  an  Ill-Gien  Weyfe, 

That  niver  lets  me  be  ; 
Ay  teazin, — ne'er  ceasin 

Leyke  an  angry  sea — 
Nae  kurk-bell  e'er  bed  sec  a  tongue, 

An  oft  it  deefens  me  ! 

When  furst  I  saw  her  mealy  feace, 

'Twas  pented  up  sae  fine, 
I  thowt  her  e'en  fit  for  a  queen — 

She  wan  this  heart  o'  meyne  ; 
But  sin'  that  hoor,  that  sworry  hoor, 

We  ne'er  cud  yence  agree, 
An  oft  I  curse  the  luckless  day 

I  pawn'd  my  liberty  ; 
Care  an  sorrow,  then  tomorrow 

Ay  the  seame  mun  be  ; 
Oh  !  hed  I  coffin'd  been,  that  day 

I  lost  my  liberty  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  129 

When  young,  I  wish'd  fer  weyfe  an  bairns, 

But  noo  the  thowt  I  scworn  ; 
Thank  Heav'n,  a  bairn  ov  owther  sex 

To  me  she  ne'er  hes  bworn  ! 
Leyke  fuils  we  wish  our  youth  away, 

When  happy  we  mud  be — 
Aw  ye  that's  pleagued  wi'  scauldin  weyves 

I  wish  ye  suin  set  free  ! 
Grin,  grinnin  ! — din,  dinnin  ! 

Toil  an  misery  ! 
Better  feed  the  kurk-yard  wurms, 

Than  leeve  sec  slaves  as  we  ! 


I's  past  aw  wark,  it's  hard  to  want, 

An  aul  an  peer  am  I  ; 
But  happiness  i'  this  weyde  warl, 

Nae  gear  cud  iver  buy  ; 
O  wer  I  on  some  owre-sea  Ian, 
Nae  woman  nar  to  see, 
At  preyde  an  grandeur  I  wad  smeyle, 
An  thenks  to  Heav'n  wad  gie  : 
O,  woman  ! — foe  to  man  ! 

A  blessin  thoo  sud  be  ; 
But  wae  to  him  that  wears  thy  chain, 

Peer  wretch  unble&t  leyke  me  ! 


When  wintery  blasts  blaw  lood  an  keen, 

I's  fain  to  slink  frae  heame  ! 
An  raider  feace  the  angry  storm, 

Than  her  I  hate  to  neame  : 
Wheyle  she  wi'  sland'rous  cronies  met, 

Sits  hatchin  monie  a  lee  ; 
The  sect  wad  flay  aul    Nick  away, 

Or  vex  a  saint  to  see. 
Puff,  puffin  ! — snuff,  snuffin  ; 

Ne'er  frae  mischief  free  ; 
How  waik  is  Iworldly  boastin  man 

On  sec  to  kest  an  ee  ! 

If  to  a  neebor's  hoose  I  steal, 

To  crack  a  wheyle  at  neet, 
She  hurries  to  me  leyke  the  deil 

An  flays  the  fwok  to  see't  ; 
Whate'er  I  dui,  whate'er  I  say, 

Wi'  her  a  faut  mun  be  ; 


1 3o  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

I  freet  an  freet  beath  neet  an  day, 

But  seldom  clwose  an  e'e  : 
Wake,  wakin  ! — shake,  shakin  ! 

Then  she  teks  the  gee  ; 
He's  happy  that  lives  aw  his  leane, 

Compar'd  wi'  chaps  leyke  me. 

To  stop  the  never-ceasin  storm, 

I  brong  her  cousin  here  ; 
She  aw  but  brak  the  wee  thing's  heart, 

An  cost  her  monie  a  tear — 
If  chance  a  frien  pops  in  his  heed, 

Off  to  the  duir  she'll  flee 
An  snarls  leyke  onie  angry  cat, 

Oh  !  sair  it  vexes  me  ! 
Noo  fratchin  !  neest  scratchin  ! 

Oft  wi'  bleaken'd  e'e, 
I  pray  aul  Nick  hed  sec  a  deame, 

I  trow  he  vex'd  wad  be  ! 

Hoo  blithe  man  meets  the  keenest  ills, 

In  this  shwort  voy'ge  o'  leyfe, 
An  thinks  nae  palace  leyke  his  heame, 

Blest  wi'  a  keyndly  weyfe  : 
But  sure  the  greatest  curse  hard  fate 

To  onie  man  can  gie, 
Is  sec  a  filthy  slut  as  meyne 

That  ne'er  yence  comforts  me  ! 
Lads  jeerin  !— lasses  sneerin  ! 

Cuckel,  some  caw  me  ; 
I  scart  an  aul  grey  achin  pow, 

But  dar  not  say  they  lee. 

They're  happy  that  hae  teydey  weyves. 

To  keep  peer  bodies  clean  ; 
But  meyne' s  a  freetfu  lump  ov  filth, 

Her  marra  ne'er  was  seen  : 
Ilk  dud  she  wears  upon  her  back 

Is  puzzen  to  the  e'e  ; 
Her  shift's  leyke  aul  Nick's  nuttin  bag — 

The  deil  a  wurd  I  lee  ! 
Dour  an'  durty  ! — house  aw  clarty  ! — 

See  her  set  at  tea. 
Her  feace  defies  beath  seape  an  san 

To  mek't  just  fit  to  see  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  131 

Ae  beyte  ov  meat  I  munnet  eat, 

Seave  what  I  cuik  mysel  ; 
Ae  patch  or  clout  she'll  nit  stick  on, 

Sae  heame's  just  leyke  a  hell  ! 
By  day  an  neet,  if  oot  o'  seet. 

Seafe  frae  this  canker'd  she, 
I  pray,  an  pray,  wid  aw  my  heart, 

Deeth  suin  tek  her,  or  me  ! 
Fleyte,  fleytin  ! — feght,  feghtin  ! 

Hoo  her  luik  I  dree  ! 
Come,  tyrant,  rid  me  o'  this  curse, 

Deeth,  tek  her  !  I'll  thenk  thee  ! 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  KEATE. 
TUNE — ' '  O'er  the  muir  amang  the  heather. 


"  Whee's  rap  rappin  at  the  duir, 
Noo,  when  oor  aul  fwok  are  sleepin  ? 

Thoo'll  git  nowt  here  if  thoo's  puir — 
Owre  the  hills  thoo'd  best  be  creepin  ! 

When  sec  flaysome  fuils  we  see, 
Decent  fwok  may  start,  an  shudder, 

I'll  nit  move  the  duir  to  thee — 
Vagrant-leyke,  thoo'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  aye  dreedin. 

Let  me  lig  in  barn  or  byre  ; 
Ae  broon  crust  '11  pruive  a  dentey  ; — 

Dui,  sweet  lass  !  what  I  desire, 
If  thoo  whop'st  for  peace  an  plenty  !  " 


1 32  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

KEATIE. 

"  Beggars  yen  may  weel  despise — 
To  the  sweyne-hull  hie,  an  swat  the'  ; 

Rap  nae  mair  if  thoo  be  wise — 
Here's  a  dog  wad  fain  be  at  the'  : 

Sec  leyke  hawf-wits,  far  an  weyde, 
Beggin  breed,  an  meal  an  money, 

Some  may  help,  to  shew  their  preyd* 
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,  thoo  peer  may  be  ; 
Pity  beggars,  when  desarvin  ! 

Nobbet  lissen  to  the  storm  ; 
Think  hoo  monie  noo  mun  suffer  ; 

Let  me  in,  thur  lims  to  warm, 
An  wi'  preyde,  due  thenks  I'll  offer  !  " 


KEATIE, 

"  I've  a  sweetheart,  sud  he  caw, 
Monstrous  vex'd  I'd  be  to  see  him  ; 

He  helps  beggars  yen  an  aw, 
Leyke  a  full  ;     nae  guid  'twill  de  him  ! 

He  hes  gear  ;  I'll  ne'er  be  peer — 
Say  nowt  mair,  or  Snap  sal  beyte  the'  ; 

Noisy  sumph  !  what,  oor  fwok  hear 
Thy  crazy  voice — Be  off  !  Od-wheyte-the' 


BEGGAR. 

"  Keate,  it's  teyme  to  change  my  voice — 
Heartless  wretch — they  weel  may  caw  the  ' ; 

Fain  I  meade  the'  aye  mey  choice, 
Sin  that  hoor  when  furst  I  saw  the'  ; 

Lang  thy  sweetheart  I  hae  been  ; 
Thowt  thee  guid,  an  lish  an  cliver — 

Ne'er  will  I  wi'  thee  be  seen, 
Come  what  will  ! — Fareweel  for  iver  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  133 

THE  HAPPY  COUPLE. 
TUNE — "  EUrick  Banks." 

Come,  Mary,  let's  up  Eden  seyde, 

An  chat  the  ebenin  hours  away  ; 
Tho'  hard  we  toil  leyke  millions  mair, 

Industrious  fwok  sud  aw  be  gay  ! 
Far  frae  the  sland'rous  noisy  toon, 

It's  sweet  the  murm'rin  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, 

Noo  neet  draws  on,  frae  heame  she'll  steal  ; 
The  weyld  burds  sing,  in  deyke  or  wood, 

Noo  bid  the  sinkin  sun  far'weel  ; 
They  joyfu  sing  the  sang  o'  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  waik  warbler  to  destroy  , 
True  emblem  o'  the  tyrant  man, 

To  crush  the  peer  oft  gies  him  joy  : 
The  burds  rejoice  an  hae  their  toil, 

Unshelter'd  blithe  the  blasts  they  beyde 
Wheyte  oft,  wi'  plenty  man  compleens, 

Snug,  seated  by  his  aw.'i  fire-seyd.?. 


Oor  sons  come  runnin,  Dick  an  Ned, 

Twee  better  niver  went  to  schuil  ; 
I'd  suiner  see  them  comn'd  low 

Than  owther  turn  a  fop  er  full  ; 
The  maister  says  Dick's  fit  fer  kurk 

An  Ned  in  law  may  monie  seave  : 
What,  judge  an  bishop,  they  mav  sit, 

When  tee  an  me  lig  i'  the  greave. 


Whene'er  I  thro'  the  kurk  yard  gang, 
Still,  Mary,  it  affects  mey  meynd, 

Wi'  seeghs  oor  aul  fwok  aye  I  see 

In  fancy  ;  nin  e'er  leev'd  mair  keynd  ; 


134  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

A  rwosy  orphan  thoo  was  left, 

An  fadder,  mudder,  scearce  e'er  saw  ; 

Beath  lost  at  sea  ! — Nay,  dunnet  gowl  ! 
A  better  warl  let's  whop  they  tnaw  ! 

Sweet  bloom'd  aw  roon,  that  summer  mworn, 

I  carv'd  oor  neames,  noo  pfeas'd  we  see  ; 
Leyke  us  the  tree  was  in  its  preyme, 

But  noo  it  withers,  sae  dui  we  ! 
Sworn  foes  to  streyfe,  the  joys  ov  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'«r  repeyne  ! 


CAREL  FAIR. 

TUNE — "  Woo'd  and  married  and  a'  " 

Mey  neame's  Jurry  Jurden  frae  Threlket  ; 

Just  swat  doon  an  lissen  my  sang  ; 
I'll  mappen  affword  some  divarsion, 

An  tell  ye  hoo  monie  things  gang. 

Crop's  ov  aw  maks  er  guid  ;  tateys  lang  as 
lapstens,  an  dry  as  meal.  Teymes  er  nobbet 
sae-sae  now-a-days  ;  fer  the  thin-chopp'd,  hawf- 
neak'd  trimlin  beggars  aye  flock  to  oor  hoose 
leyke  bees  to  t'  hive  ;  an  oor  Cwoley  bit  sae 
monie,  I  just  tuck'd  him  up  i'  th'  worchet.  Mud 
der  boils  them  a  tnop  ov  Lunnen  Duns  iv'ry 
day;  an  fadder  gies  them  t'  barn  to  lig  in.  If 
onie  be  yabel  to  work,  wey  he  pays  them  reet 
weel.  Fwok  sud  aw  dui  as  they'd  be  duin  tui  ; 
an  it's  naturable  to  beg  raider  nor  starve  or 
steal  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 

Some  threep  et  the  teymes  '11  git  better  ; 

.An  laugh  to  see  onie  repeyne  : 
I's  nae  pollytishin,  that's  sarten, 

But  Englan  seems  in  a  decleyne  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  135 

I  roose  afwore  three  tudder  mwornin, 

An  went  owre  to  see  Car  el  Fair  ; 
I'd  hard  monie  teales  o'  thur  dandies — 

Odswinge  !  hoo  they  mek  the  fwok  stare  ! 

Thar  flay-craws  weer  lasses'  stays  ;  an  buy  my 
Lword  Wellinten's  buits  ;  cokert  but  nit  snoot- 
bandet.*  Mey  sartey  !  sec  a  laugh  I  gat,  to  see  a 
bit  ov  a  tarrier  meakin  watter  on  yen  o'  their  legs  ! 
They're  seerly  mangrels,  hawf-monkey  breed  ; 
shept  for  aw  t'  warl  leyke  wasps,  smaw  i'  t'  middle. 
To  see  them  paut-pautin  aboot  puts  me  t'  meynd 
ov  oor  aul  gander  ;  an  if  they  meet  a  canny  lass, 
they  darnt  turn  aboot  to  luik  at  her  !  Theer's  varra 
bonny  seynes  in  aw  nuiks  o'  Carel ;  but  a  Dandy 
wad  be  far  mair  comical  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 

Hut  !  shaff  o'  sec  odd  trinkun-trankums  ! 

Thur  hawf-witted  varmen  bang  aw  ; 
They'd  freeten  aul  Nick,  sud  they  meet  him — 

A  dandy's  just  fit  fer  a  show  ! 

Aa  !    Shows,  they'd  aw  maks    nar    the  Court 
Hoose, 

Far  mair  ner  a  body  can  neame  ; 
Whorns,  hoy-boys,  barl-worgens  an  trumpets, 

Sawt-boxes  an  thivels — O,  sheame  ! 

They'd  heaps  ov  monstrous  bonny  pictures  ! 
What,  theer  was  a  giant  lang  as  an  esh-tree  ;  an 
twee  dwarfs  et  cuddent  reach  his  breek  tnee  !  Then 
thar  Boxers  frae  Lunnon, .  sad  chaps  !  feghtin  wi' 
girt  gluives  on  ;  the  sect  o'  them  meade  me  aw 
trimmel  ;  I  tuik  a  keek  at  a  wheyte  blakky-muir  ; 
loavins  !  thinks  I  to  meysel,  the  chap's  nobbet 
pentet.  Then  I  seed  Punch  an  Toby  singiii 
"  Twang-a-rang  !  twang-a-rang  !  "  an  "  Teydey- 
thedy,  big-bow  wow  !  "  "  Valk  in  !  ladies  and 
shentlemens  !  "  says  yen,  "  Dere  you'll  see  all  de 
venders  of  de  vorld  !  Vild  beastesses  from  all  de 
quarters  !  de  laughin  lion  !  de  actin  elephant  ! 
de  kangarew  dat  tells  all  purty  girls  der  fortunes  ; 

*  Snout-ban  otherwise  neb-plate.  The  iron  plate  of  the  toe 
of  a  clog. — Page  144 — "  Cumcatch  kickt  roun  in  his  snout-ban 
clogs." 


I36  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

an  de  nameless  animal  widoot  eider  body,  head, 
neck,  legs,  or  tail  !  "  Odsbobs  !  thinks  I  to 
meysel,  what  the  deuce,  this  weyld  warid's  nobbet 
a  show  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 

What,  jugglers  er  noo  aw  queyte  common, 
Yen  hears  o'  them  day  efter  day  : 

We've  show-fwok  in  iv'ry  bit  Village — 
Ay  !  laugh  at  them,  faith  weel  we  may  ! 

I  neest  tuik  a  glowr'  'mang  the  boutchers, 
An  gleymt  at  their  lumps  o'  fat  meat  ; 

They've  aw  maks  the  gully  can  dive  at — 
It  meks  peer  fwok  hungry  to  see't. 

"  What  d'ye  buy  ?  what  d'ye  buy  ?  " — "  Weya, 
boucher,  wult  'ta  be  oot  at  oor  en  o'  t'  coontry, 
suin  ?  we've  a  famish  fat  bull,  nobbet  eleebem 
year  aul ;  twee  braid-backt  tips,  an  a  bonny  sew  !  " 
— "  Hut  min  !  nea  bulls,  tips  er  sweyne  fer  me, 
fuil  i  " — «  Hes  te  gotten  onie  cawves  heeds  to  sell, 
boutcher,"  says  anudder  ! — "  Wa,  nay,  nay,  Tom 
my  !  but  thoo  hes  yen  atop  o'  thy  awn  shooders^ ! 
Come,  what  d'ye  buy  ?  what  d'ye  buy  ?  here's 
pork  fer  a  prince  !  mutton  fer  a  markiss  ;  veal  fer  a 
vycoont  !  lam  fer  a  Iword  !  an  beef  fer  a  barnet  ! 
Let  tyrants  tek  treype  ;  here's  fat  an  lean,  fit 
fer  a  queen  !  aw  sworts  fer  aw  maks  ;  hee  an  low 
nowt  et  aw  :  it's  nobbet  seebempence-hawpenny 
a  pun  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  !  " 

Wheyle  peer  fwok  wer  starin  aboot  them, 
Up  hobbles  an  aul  chap,  an  begs — 

O  wad  oor  girt  heeds  o'  the  nation, 
Just  set  the  peer  fwok  on  their  legs  ! 

An  odd  seet  I  saw,  'twas  naig-market, 

Whoar  aw  wer  as  busy  as  bees  ; 
Sec  lurryan,  an  trottin,  an  scamprin — 

Lord  help  them  ;  they're  meade  up  o'  lees  ! 

"  Try  a  canter,  Deavie." — "  Whoar  gat  te  t' 
powny,  Tim  ?  " — "  Wey  at  Stegshe."-  •"  That's  a 
bluid  meer,"  says  aul  Breakshe,  "  She  was  git- 
ten  by  Shrimp,  an  oot  of  Madam  Wagtail  ;  what, 
she  wan  t'  King's  plate  at  Dongkister,  tudder 
year." — "  Wan  the  deevil  !  "  says  yen  tul  him 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  137 

"  thoo  means  t'  breydle  at  Kingmuir,  min  !  "- 
"  Here's  a  naig  sur  !  nobbet  just  nwotish  his  een  ! 
What  he  can  see  thro'  a  nine  inch  waw  !  Fuils 
tell  o'  fortifications  ;  what  he  hes  a  breest  leyke 
a  fiftification  !  Dud  ye  iver  see  yen  cock  sec  a 
tail  widoot  a  peppercworn  ?  " — "  What  dus  te  ax 
for  him,  canny  man  ?  " — "  Wey  he's  weel  worth 
twonty  pun  ;  but  I'll  teake  ae  hawf." — "  Twoiity 
deevils  !  I'll  gie  the'  twonty  shillin,  min  ;  efter 
aw  the  rattle  !  " 

What,  aw  trades  er  bad  as  horse-cowpers  ; 

They  mek  the  best  bargain  they  can  ; 
Fwok  say  it's  the  seame  in  aw  countries — 

Man  leykes  to  draw  kelter  frae  man  ! 


Neest  daunderin  doon  to  the  Coo  Fair, 

A  famish  rough  rumpess  I  saw  ; 
For  Rickergeate  Iwoses  her  charter, 
Sud  theer  be  nae  feghtin  at  aw. 

Aa  !  what  a  hay-bay  !  it  'twas  just  leyke  the 
battle  ov  Watterlew.  Men  an  women,  young 
an  aul,  ran  frev  aw  quarters.  Theer  was  sec 
shootin,  thrustin,  pushin,  an  squeezin  ;  they 
tnockt  down  staws  ;  an  brak  shop  windows 
aw  to  flinders  !  Thur  leed-heedet  whups  dui 
oft  muckle  mischief,  tui  !  a  peer  sairy  beggar 
gat  a  bluidy  nwose  an  broken  teeth,  i'  the  fray  ! 
Hill-top  Tom,  an  Low-gill  Dick,  the  twee  feght 
in  rapscallions,  wer  lug't  off  to  my  Iword  May 
or's  offish  by  twea  bealies,  an  thrussen  into  the 
black  whol.  I  whop  they'll  lig  theer,  for  it's 
weel  nea  leyves  wer  lost  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 


Shem  o'  them  !  thur  peer  country  hanniels 
That  slink  into  Carel  to  feght  ; 

Deil  bin  them  !  when  free  frae  hard  labour, 
True  plishure  sud  be  their  deleyte. 


Theer  was  geapin  an  starin,  'mang  aw  maks — 
"  Aa  !  gies  the'  fist,  Ellik  ! — hoo's  thoo  !  " 

Wey,  nobbet  greypt,  tharsty  an  queerish  ; 
"  We'll  tek  a  sup  gud  mountain  dew." 


138  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  Ay,  ay,  Ellik  !  that's  a  famish  fleem  cutter  ! 
Sees  te,  theer's  t'  puir-luikin  chap  et  meks  aw  t' 
bits  o'  Cumme'land  Ballets  ! — "  The  deevil  it  is  ! 
Fie,  Jobby  !  lets  ofl,  fer  fear  he  scribbles  aboot 
us  !  " — "  Here's  yer  whillymer  cheese  ;  lank  an 
lean,  but  cheep  an  clean  !  "  says  yen.  "  Buy  a 
pair  o'  elegant  shun,  yoong  gentleman  !  "  cries  a 
dandy  snob.  "  they  wer  meade  fer  Justice  Grunt  ; 
weages  er  hee,  an  tedder's  dear  ;  but  they're  nob- 
bet  twelve  shillin."  Then  a  fat  chap  stuid  up  wid 
his  hammer  an  selt  beds,  clocks,  kits,  drores, 
cubberts,  teables,  chairs,  stuils,  pots  an  pans 
fer  nowt  at  aw  !  What,  I  seed  mey  f adder  talkin 
to  t'  lawyer,  an  I  gowl'd  till  my  een  wer  sair  ;  but 
nae  mischief  was  duin  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 


Then  peer  bits  o'  hawf  brokken  farmers 

In  leggins  keept  struttin  aboot  ; 
Wer  teymes  gud  they'd  aw  become  dandies — 

We'll  ne'er  leeve  to  see  that,  I  doobt  ! 


Sec  screapin,  an  squeekin  'mang  t'  fiddlers  ; 

1  crap  up  the  stairs,  to  be  seer  ; 
But  suin  trottet  doon  by  the  waiter  ; 

For  de'il  a  bit  cap'rin  was  theer  ! 


Nea,  nea  !  Lads  and  lasses  er  far  owre  prood 
to  dance  noo-a-days  !  I  stowtert  ahint  yen 
des^'d  oot  just  leyke  a  gingerbreed  queen,  an 
when  I  gat  a  gliff  at  her,  whee  sud  it  be  but 
Jenny  Murthet,  mey  cann>  bonny  sweetheart  ! 
I  tried  to  give  her  a  buss,  but  cuddent  touch  her 
muzzle,  fer  she  wore  yen  o'  thar  meal-scowp 
bonnets  ;  furst  worn  by  women  to  heyde  their 
flaysome  feaces  !  Jenny  was  a  manty-mekker, 
but  hoo  some  rise  i'  the  warl  !  she's  noo  a  driss- 
meaker  ;  an  ax'd  me  to  buy  her  a  parry-swol  ; 
sae  we  off  till  a  dandy-shop  an  I  gat  her  yen. 
for  by  a  ridiculous  ;  an  a  lamberella  fer  mysel. 
She'll  hev  a  moontain  o'  money  ;  an  mey  stars, 
she's  a  wallopei  !  just  leyke  a  hoose  en  !  As  fer 
me,  Shaff  !  I's  nobbet  a  peer  lillyprushen  ;  but 
she'll  be  meyne  ;  efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  139 


We  linkt,  an  we  laught,  an  we  chattert  ; 

Few  lasses  leyke  Jenny,  ye'll  see  ; 
O  bed  we  but  geane  off  to  Gratena, 

Nin  wad  been  mair  happy  than  we  ! 


We  went  thro'  the  big  kurk*  an  cassel  ; 

An  neest  tuik  a  rammel  thro'  t'  streets  : 
What  Carel's  the  pleace  fer  feyne  hooses, 

But  monie  a  peer  body  yen  meets  ! 


Ay  !  yen  in  tatters,  wi'  ae  e'e,  bawlt  oot  : 
•'  Here's  the  last  speech,  confession,  an  deein 
words  ov  Martha  Mumps  ;  she  was  hangt  fer 
committin  a  reape  on — "  Hut  shaff  !  I  forgit  his 
neame  !  Anudder  tatterdemallion  says,  "  Come 
buy  a  full  chinse  Indy  muslin  ;  nobbet  sixpence 
hawpenny  a  yerd  !  "  I  gat  yen  fer  Jenny  ;  but 
mey  stars,  it  was  rotten  as  muck  ! — Then  ther 
was  daft  bits  o'  cheats,  wi'  powneys  an  cuddies, 
rwoarin  up  the  lanes,  "  Bleng-ki-ship  cwoals  ! 
Tawkin-fell  cwoals  !  "  others  bawlin,  "  Peats  ! 
Peats  !  black  an  lang,  guid  an  strang  !  cheap  as 
enny,  tharty  fer  a  penny  !  "  an  aul  chaps  cawin 
"  Wat-ter  !  wat-ter  !  "  ay,  ay  !  it  mun  be  that 
ineks  t'  yell  sae  smaw  !  They  sel  puzzen  fer 
whusky  noo  ;  what,  it  hes  sec  a  grip  o'  the  gob, 
it's  leyke  to  set  fire  to  the  thrwoat,  .an  varra 
nar  meks  fwok  shek  their  heeds  off  !  They  han- 
nel  brass  an  silver,  but  yen  sees  leyle  gowd  i' 
Carel. — Sec  cheatin,  stealin,  leein,  wheedlin, 
struttin,  squeezin,  starin,  vexin,  rwoarin,  sweer- 
in,  drinkin  an  feghtin,  meks  Fairs  nowt-et-dowe  ; 
efter  aw  the  rattle  ! 


Thro'  leyfe  we  hev  aw  maks  amang  us  ; 

Sad  changes  ilk  body  mun  share  : 
To-day  we're  just  puzzen'd  wi'  plishure  ; 

To-morrow  bent  double  wi'  care  ! 


*  Big  Kurk— Carlisle  Cathedral. 


I4o  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

THE  STRANGER. 
TUNE — "  Johnny' s  Grey  Breeks." 

The  wintry  win  blew  lood  an  caul, 

Neet  owre  the  earth  her  curtain  threw  ; 
'Twas  then  a  stranger  cross'd  the  muir, 

And  tow'rts  a  clay  built  cottage  drew  : 
He  saw  a  helpless  worn-oot  pair, 

The  blazin  fire  sit  bendin  nar  ; 
He  thro'  the  brokken  window  star'd, 

And  hard  what  gev  his  meynd  a  scar. 

"  O,  deame  !  I'll  ne'er  forgit  the  day, 

When  furst  thoo  wore  that  neyce  stampt  goon 
Now  twenty  years  hae  flown  away, 

An  sworry  changes  Time  brings  roon  ! 
We  then  cud  bwoast  a  weel  stock'd  farm, 

An  neebors  then  fan  prood  to  caw  ; 
Now  leyke  owre  monie,  aul  an  puir, 

We're  thrown  aseyde  by  yen  an  aw  ! 

"  Thro'  summer,  winter,  hard  we  toil'd, 

Nor  struive  a  neebor  e'er  to  wrang  ; 
An  when  puir  beggars  cross'd  the  faul, 

Unsarrad,  Jwohn  ne'er  let  them  gang  ; 
That  lad  we  reart  as  aw  fwok  sud, 

We  gev  him  larnin,  cled  him  weel  ; 
But  noo  he  wanders — God  kens  whoar  ! 

Lets  whop,  leyke  us,  he  ne'er  may  feel  ! 

"  When  won  by  sowdgers  i'  the  toon, 

'Twas  war  than  deeth  to  thee  an  me  ; 
Wheyle  tears  bespak  his  meynd  oppress'd, 

He  flang  his  boonty  on  thy  tnee  ; 
They  shipt  him  owre  to  Indy  suin — 

O,  cud  we  hear  ov  Jwohnny's  neame  ! 
For  thee  thoo's  cheerfu,  God  be  prais'd, 

In  whops  he'll  come  a  nabob  heame. 

"  His  sweetheart  caws  day  efter  day  ; 

A  better  lass,  he  ne'er  seed  yen  ; 
She  talks  aboot  him,  then  she  freets, 

Alas  !  she's  worn  to  skin  an  beane  ! 
Oor  squire  wi'  aw  his  wealth  an  preyde 

The  luive  o'  Jenny  ne'er  can  buy  ; 
O,  wer  she  nobbet  Jwohnny's  breyde 

Hoo  happy  'twad  meake  thee  an  I  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  141 


'  'We've  hed  fower  bairns  an  hurried  three, 

The  fowerth  may  noo  rest  in  his  greave — 
Let's  freet  nae  mair — God's  will  be  duin  ! 

Nowt  frae  grim  Deeth  mankeynd  can  seave  ! 
Like  thee  wert  t'lasses  :  Jwohnny  seem'd 

His  ladder's  picture,  neebors  sed  ; 
That  picture  we  may  leeve  to  see — 

Dear  weyfe  !  mair  tears  let  nowther  shed  ! 


'  'Just  nwotish  Spot,  his  fav'rite  dog, 
He  wags  his  tail,  as  if  to  say, 

Tho'  we're  aw  puir,  mey  maister's  near  ; 
Let's  aw  be  merry  !  "veel  we  may  !  " 

"Yes!  merry  be  "!  the  stranger  cried, 

The  duir  flew  open,  in  he  ran  ; 

He  seizt  his  mudder,  weept  for  joy, 
His  f adder,  tremlin,  catch'd  his  han. 


"  O,  parents  !  change  from  woe  to  joy  ! 

Tho'  forc'd  in  foreign  climes  to  roam, 
I've  serv'd  my  coontry  oft  with  sighs, 

But  health  and  wealth  have  noo  brought  home. 
The  farm  you  held  shall  suin  be  yours  ; 

And  Jane  my  partner  suin  shall  be  ; 
We'll  serve  the  poor,  who  call  each  'oor — 

Deeth  shall  but  part  her,  you.,  and  me  !  " 


PEGGY  PEN. 

TUNE — "  Miss  Forbes'  Farewell." 

The  muin  shone  breet  the  tudder  neet  ; 

The  kye  were  milkt,  aw  wark  was  duin  ; 
I  shav'd  mysel,  an  cwomt  my  hair, 

Threw  off  my  clogs,  pat  on  greas'd  shoon 
The  clock  strack  eight  as  oot  I  stule  ; 

The  rwoad  I  tuik  reet  wecl  I  ken  ; 
I  crosst  the  watter,  clam  the  hill 

In  whops  to  meet  wi'  Peggy  Pen. 


142  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


When  i'  the  wood  I  hard  some  talk  ; 

They  cutter'd  on,  but  varra  low  ; 
I  hid  mysel  ahint  the  yek. 

An  Peggy  wid  a  chap  suin  saw  : 
He  smackt  her  lips,  she  cried,  "  Give  owre  ! 

We  lasses  aw  er  pleagued  wi'  men  !  " 
I  tremlin  stuid  but  dursent  speak, 

Tho'  dearly  I  luiv'd  Peggy  Pen  ! 


He  cawt  her  Marget,  someteymes  Miss  ; 

He  spak  queyte  feyne,  an  kisst  her  han  ; 
He  bragt  ov  aw  his  f adder  hed — 

I  seeght  :  for  we've  nae  hoose  or  Ian  : 
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,  an  turn'd  her  roon, 

"  Let's  hae  nae  mair  sec  talk,"  says  she  ; 
"  Tho'  Gwordie  Muifcbe  nobbet  puir, 

He's  dearer  nor  a  prince  to  me  ! 
Mey  fadder  scauls,  mworn,  nuin,  an  neet  ; 

Mey  mudder  fratches  sair — what  then  ? 
Aw  this  warl's  gear  cud  niver  buy 

Frae  Gworge  the  luive  o'  Peggy  Pen  !  " 

"  O,  Miss  !  "  says  he,     "  Forget  such  fools  ; 

Nor  heed  the  awkward  stupid  clown  ; 
If  such  a  creatcher  spoke  to  me, 

I'd  quickly  knock  the  booby  down  !  " 
"  Come  on  !  "  says  I.  "  thy  strength  e'en  try 

Ay  heed  owre  heels  sec  chaps  I'd  sen  ; 
Lug  off  thy  cwoat  I'll  feght  aw  neet, 

Wi'  three,  leyke  thee,  fer  Peggy  Pen  !  " 

Away  he  flew  ;  mey  airms  I  threw 

About  her  weast,  an  heame  we  went  ; 
I  axt  her  if  she  durst  be  meyne  ; 

She  squeez'd  my  han  an  gev  consent  : 
We  talkt  an  jwokt,  as  lovers  sud  ; 

We  parted  at  their  awn  barn  en  ; 
An  ere  anudder  month  be  owre 

She'll  change  to  Muir,  frae  Peggy  Pen  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  143 

CURSMESS  EVE. 
TUNE — "  The  young  May  Moon." 

"  What,  Jwosep  !    hoo  go  ?  " — "  Wey,   bluitert,  an 

baizt, 

We've  hed  a  meast  tarrible  rig,  ye  tnow  ; 
I's  thin  as  a  lat,  greypt,  tharsty,  an  seeck, 
Per  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  we're  in,  ye  tnow  ; 
For  nine  out  o'  ten,  beath  women  an  men, 
Er  peer  silly  taistrels,  we  fin,  ye  tnow  ! 


"  Last      neet      efter      dark'nin,      'twas      Cursmess 

Eve, 

I  walkt  up  towert  Naig's  Heed,  ye  tnow  ; 
Theer  whee  sud   I  see,   buj  Sweyne  Sam  an  Ruff 

Rob, 
Treype   Tom,    Smiddy    Dick,    an   Deef   Reid,    ye 

tnow  : 
Ther  was  Limpin  Lanty,  an  Bottlenwos't  Jack, 

Mug  Matthew,  an  Kursty  Cumcatch,  ye  tnow  ; 
Aul  Wry-gobb'd  Squire,  an  Turn-cwoat  Jemmy — 
Thowt  I,  we  mun  suin  hev  a  fratch,  ye  tnow. 


"  What,    they'd    laik    at     lanter  :  the    cairds   wer 

brong   in  ; 
They    grew    up,    drank,    crackt,    an    jwok't,    ye 

tnow  ; 
It's  best  to  sit  whiet,  thinks  I  to  meysel, 

Sae    I    crap    nar    the    chimley,    an    smuikt,    ye 

tnow." 
"  Come  !  down  wi'    yer  lanters  !  Ruff   Robin   wan 

last  " — 
"  Whee    deals  ?  " — "  Prod,    shuffle    an    cut,    ye 

tnow  " — 
"  Tnock    roon,    I've   nowt  " — "  Here's    a  deuce  an 

twee  trays  !  "  — 
"  Wey,  that's  nobbut  a  han  fer  putt,  ye  tnow  !  " 


144  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  Mug  Matthew  just  yen  an  three-hopence  lost, 

For  Turn-cwoat  was  aye  a  big  cheat,  ye  tnow  ; 
What,  he  hid  king  an  queen  anonder  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  !  " 
They  seed  him  lug  out  the  king  an  the  queen — 

Mug  Matthew  suin  bleakent  his  e'e,  ye  tnow. 


"  Sec   cleekin    at   brass  !— What,    the    teable    they 
splat,— 

An  kickt  up  a  row  in  a  crack,  ye  tnow  ; 
Sweyne  Sam  tnockt  oot  puir  Treype  Tom's  teeth, 

Ruff  Rob  felt  Bottlenwos't  Jack,  ye  tnow  ; 
Deef  Reid  an  Lanty,  leyke  twea  bull  dogs, 

They  splattert  aboot  here  an  theer,  ye  tnow  ; 
Cumcatch  kickt  roon  in  his  snoot  ban  clogs,* 

'Till  Smiddy  laid  him  on  the  fluir,  ye  tnow  ! 


"  Noo  weyves  an  dowters  com  bouncin  in  ; 

Bet  Bottlenwose  brong  in  a  crutch,  ye  tnow  ; 
She  aimt  at  Ruff  Rob,  but  the  lanleady  hat — 

Puir  Meable  was  learnt  varra  much,  ye  tnow  ; 
The  lanlword  saw't,  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    neest    meade    a    lang 

speech, 
Bade  them  drop  aw  their  fratchin  an  speyte,  ye 

tnow  ; 
"  What,    neebors  !  "    says    he,     "  ye'd    far    better 

'gree, 

Nor  fer  lawyers  an  doctors  thus  feght,  ye  tnow  ! 
It's  bast  to  sit  whiet,  an  laugh  at  ilk  riot  : 

Let's  whop  better  teymes  '11  suin  come,  ye  tnow  I  " 
The   hay-bay   noo    ceast,    what,    he   spak   leyke   a 

priest, 
An  cawt  fer  a  bottle  ov  rum.  ye  tnow. 

*  Snoot  ban,  see  page  135. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  145 


"  They  swattet   them  doon,   tuik't  weyves  on   the 
tnee — 

Treype  Tom  gev  a  Cummerlan  sang,  ye  tnow  ; 
They  crackt  an  jwokt  they  chowt  an  smuikt, 

An    some    thowt    'twas    teyme    fer    to    gang,    ye 

tnow  : 
The  clock  strack  yen  or  ae  hawf  wer  geane, 

What,  udders  the  hoose  waddent  leave  ye  tnow  : 
They  drank,  they  rwoart,  they  sleept,  they  snwoart — 

Sae  muckle  fer  Cursmess  Eve,  ye  tnow  !  " 


JACK  SPANG. 

TUNE — "  Fie,  let  us  a'  to  the  Bridal." 

Stop.  Etty  ! — Thoo's  nit  gan  nae  farder 

Till  we've  a  bit  crack  fer  a  weyle  ; 
It's  owre  suin  i'  t'  mwornin  fer  milkin, 

Sae  swat  the'  ways  doon  on  the  steyle  : 
The  summer-flooers  bonny  er  bloomin  ; 

The  burds  sing  a  cheerfu'  sweet  sang  ; 
An  I  cud  sing  yen,  tui,  foriver, 

Aboot  whee  ? — Wey  canny  Jack  Spang  ! 


His  teeth  er  as  weyte  as  peerl  buttons  ; 

Nae  rwose  wid  his  cheek  can  compare  ; 
His  een  er  as  black  as  a  reaven — 

Nae  wonder  the  lasses  aw  stare  ; 
At  plewin,  at  mowin,  at  shearin, 

He  caps  aw  ;  he's  lusty  an  strang  ; 
At  runnin,  at  russlin,  at  lowpin, 

They're  nobbut  leyke  bairns  to  Jack  Spang  ! 


At  readin,  at  wreytin,  at  coontin, 
He's  just  fit  to  oppem  a  schuil  ; 

Aa,  lass  !  I  ne'er  answer  his  letters 
For  fear  he  sud  think  me  a  fuil  : 


I46  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


His  fadder  bed  yence  heaps  ov  money, 
But  bon'ship  throws  monie  fwok  wrang 

Ne'er  ak  !  mey  aul  fadder  hes  plenty, 
An  hawf  on't  he'll  gie  to  Jack  Spang. 


When  duin  wid  his  darrik  in  winter, 

He  weades  thro'  the  snaw  owre  the  muir  ; 
I  aye  ken  his  fit  an  his  whussle, 

Lang,  lang  or  he  gits  to  oor  duir  : 
He  jwokes,  an  oor  aul  fwok  er  merry  ; 

He  lilts  monie  a  Cummerlan  sang  ; 
In  clogs  he  can  dance  leyke  a  maister, 

A  whornpeype  we've  hed  frae  Jack  Spang. 


Theer's  Luke  the  lang  laird  o'  Drumleenin, 

Aye  brags  ov  his  sel  an  his  gear  ! 
But  ne'er  sal  he  caw  me  his  Nanny, 

Nay,  nit  fer  five  hundert  a  year  ! 
Wi'  yen  widoot  twee  groats  an  tuppens, 

To  kurk  I  this  mwornin  wad  gang  ; 
What,  money  to  mis'ry  leads  monie  ; 

Mey  fav'rite  thoo  kens  is  Jack  Spang. 


Oor  Ellik  caws  Jack  a  rapscallion, 

We  meynd  they'd  a  bit  ov  a  feght  ; 
But  fadder  an  mudder  scaul  Ellik, 

An  bid  him  drop  aw  sec  puir  speyte  ; 
Come  owre  an  teake  tea  agean  Sunday, 

Neest  mworn  to  the  fair  we'll  aw  gang  ; 
Thoo's  seer  ov  a  treat  frev  oor  Ellik, 

As  I's  ov  a  kiss  frae  Jack  Spang. 

Thur  luivers  owre  oft  pruive  pretenders, 

An  that  decent  lasses  aye  feynd  ; 
In  Ellik  thoo's  got  a  true  sweetheart, 

An  tudder's  the  lad  to  mey  meynd. 
O,  wer  we  but  weddet !  if  beggars, 

I'd  daut  on  him  aw  the  day  lang — 
Odsbreed,  lass !  be  off  to  thy  milkin  ! 

Just  luik— whee  conies  laughin  ? — Jack  Spang! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  147 

CALEP    AN    WATTY. 

TUNE — "  Aul  lang  seyne." 
CALEP. 

"  What,  Watty  ?  It's  lang  sin  we  met  ; 

Come  swat  doon  i'  the  nuik  ; 
An  gies  thy  cracks  aboot  this  warl — 

Furst  fou  that  peype  an  smuik. 
When  thee  an  me  were  bwoys  at  schuil, 

E'en  winter  days  seemt  lang  ; 
An  scwores  o'  teymes  I  gat  the  taws  ; 

For  thee,  thoo  ne'er  did  wrang  !  " 

WATTY. 

"  When  thy  weyfe  Debby  furst  we  saw, 

The  storm  in  meade  us  steal  ; 
She  smeylt  an  spun,  but  when  thoo  spak, 

She  scearce  cud  turn  the  wheel  : 
Thoo  mov'd  thy  hat  an  smackt  her  lips — 

Aa  !  fain  was  I  to  see't, 
An  monie  a  glass  an  jwoke  we  bed, 

Afwore  we  bade  guid-neet." 


"  O,  Watty  !  when  she  left  this  warl, 

It  cost  me  monie  a  tear  ; 
What,  she  wad  sarra  neebors  roon, 

An  aye  to  aw  was  dear  ! 
I  see  her  greave  day  efter  day, 

An  turn  me  roon  an  cry  ; 
An  whop  in  Heebem  suin  we'll  meet, 

For  aul  thoo  kens  am  I." 


"  What  Calep  !  thoo  sud  reyde  to  Shawk, 

An  Isaac  Crosset  see  ; 
A  heed-stean  git  fer  yen  sae  guid, 

A  lesson  it  may  be  : 
A  churreb  hev,  wi'  weyde-spread  wings 

Just  pleac'd  o'  top  o'  t'  steane, 
A  bonnier  lass,  a  better  weyfe 

The  sun  ne'er  sheyn'd  on  neane  !  " 


148  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


CALEP. 

"  Ay,  Watty  !  I'll  t'  rwoan  filly  moont, 

An  off  to  Shawk  to-mworn  ; 
I'll  pay  him  weel— A  steane  thoo's  git 

For  hur  that  pruiv'd  thy  scworn — 
Here,  teakc  a  glass  ov  stiff  strang  punch, 

Wi'  me  be  merry  still  ; 
Caw  when  thoo  may,  day  ef ter  day, 

To  sarra  thee's  mev  will  !  " 


WATTY. 

"  O,  Calep  !  luive  an  gear  thoo  won, 

Wi'  mey  weyfe  neane  I  gat, 
But  tuik  a  brumsten  gien  to  drink, 

An  offen  I've  rued  that  ; 
When  young,  when  aul,  we  plishure  seek, 

An  whop  fer  joys  thro'  leyfe  ; 
But  efter  aw,  man's  greatest  curse, 

Is  aye  an  ill-gien  weyfe  !  " 


CALEP. 

"  Aul  cronie  !  I  hev  monie  farms, 

An  yen  thoo's  welcome  tui  ; 
Theer's  fifty  yacre  o'  guid  Ian, 

An  mair  ner  that  I'll  dui  ; 
I'll  hire  the'  sarvents,  naigs  I'll  buy, 

An  coos,  an  sheep,  an  sweyne  ; 
For  ne'er  till  deeth  can  I  forgit 

The  days  ov  aul  lang-seyne  !  " 


WATTY. 

'  Nay,  Calep  !  keyndness  gangs  owre  far, 

But  here's  mey  han  to  thee  ! 
I  canna  manish  farms  or  owt — 

I's  mair  ner  eighty  twee  ! 
I  hear  the  Beyble  read  queyte  fain, 

But  niver  see  the  muin  ; 
I's  tuithless,  puir,  hawf-blin  an  leame  ; 

Ne'er  ak  !  God's  will  be  duin  !  " 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  149 


"  Here,  Watty  !  teake  a  purse  queyte  fou 

Thy  leyfe  it  lang  may  seave  ; 
Thoo  ne'er  sal  want,  sud  I  nit  leeve 

To  see  thee  in  the  greave  ! 
Thoo's  aul,  hawf-blin,  an  double  bent, 

Be  wise  an  dunnet  freet  ; 
Let's  whop  that  in  a  better  warl, 

Sec  twee  aul  freens  may  meet  !  " 


"  Thenks,  Calep  ! — Sec  a  hivvy  purse  ! 

What  I  mun  hobble  heame  ; 
For  thee  I'll  pray  beath  neet  an  day, 

Ner  e'er  forgit  thy  neame  ! 
God  bliss  aw  fwok,  be  thee  they  will, 

Sae  fain  to  help  the  puir  ! 
Leyfe's  comforts  aw  mey  they  enjoy 

'Til  Deeth  taps  at  the  duir  !  " 


THE  FLOW'R  O'  THE  VILLAGE. 

TUNE — "  Hallow  Fair." 

The  Flow'r  o'  the  Village  is  Mary  ; 

A  rwose-bud  surroonded  by  thworns  ; 

She  nowther  kens  preyde  or  ambition  ; 

Aw  gaudy  donnt  creatures  she  scworns 
She's  sweet  as  the  breeze  o'  the  mwornin, 

An  blithe  as  the  lam  on  the  lea  ; 
She  causes  nae  care  but  gies  plishure — 

A  better  nae  mortal  can  see. 

The  miser  may  worship  his  money, 

An  swap  his  contentment  for  wealth  ; 
Be  poverty  welcom'd  for  iver, 

If  blest  but  wi'  Mary  an  health  ! 
Tho'  puir  is  my  heart's  dearest  treasure, 

Her  form  hovers  roon  me  aw  day  ; 
An  lang  is  the  neet,  for  nae  slumbers 

Can  chase  the  sweet  flow'ret  away  1 


150  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

On  Pett'ril's  green  banks  oft  we  wander, 

Whoar  nature  blooms  sweetly  to  view  ; 
A  neebor  we  ne'er  wish  to  slander, 

Aye  prood  to  gie  aw  fwok  their  due  : 
Let  aul  an  young  wish  fer  true  plishure, 

But  mortals  ne'er  try  to  deceive  ; 
Whea  seeks  to  betray  man  or  woman, 

Mun  sorrow  endure  ere  life's  eve  ! 

When  wintry  wins  howl  owre  the  valleys, 

We  meet,  the  dull  hours  to  begueyle  ; 
I  sing  a  luive  sang  to  my  dearie, 

An  Mary  thanks  me  with  a  smeyle  ; 
But  ere  the  weyld  winter's  returnin, 

A  ring  on  her  finger  sal  be  ; 
Leyfe  free  frae  veyce,  discord,  or  sorrow, 

A  summer  sal  pruive  to  the  twee  ! 


KIT  CAPSTICK. 
TUNE — "Jack  o1  Latten." 

Aa,  Greace  !  I's  s worry  thy  leame  leg 

Keept  thee  frae  last  neet's  party  ; 
Just  seebem  cawt  on  me,  wi'  wark, 

Weel  donn'd,  young,  neyce,  an  hearty  ; 
Kit  Capstick  suin  com  bouncin  in — 

What,  thoo'd  hev  Sam  aseyde  the'  ; 
Tek  mey  adveyce,  wed  in  a  treyce, 

Then  guid  luck  will  beteyde  the'  ; 

Noo  heaps  o'  treagle  chaps  brong  in,* 

An  taffey  suin  they  meade  us  ; 
Wi'  speyce  an  juice  'twas  mixt  reet  weel, 

An  ilk  yen's  share  they  laid  us  ; 
Kit  Capstick  carv't  a  famish  feace, 

Nin  e'er  seed  ow't  sae  cliver  ; 
He  stule  a  kiss,  then  gev't  to  me — 

Aa,  lass  !  I'll  keep't  fer  iver  ! 

*  The  description  is  of  what  in  the  last  century  used  to  be 
called  in  Cumberland  "  a  taffy  join." 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  151 


We'd  sangs  an  guesses  monie  a  yen, 

What,  nin  can  e'er  forget  them  ; 
The  kiss  o'  luive  they  wad  gie  roon, 

Nowt  cud  we  dui  but  let  them  ; 
Kit  mockt  the  sweyne,  an  cats,  an  dogs, 

Till  Cwoley  ran  to  beyte  him  ; 
He  cleek'd  the  thyvel,  strack  owre  hard 

An  leam'd  him  sair — Od-weyte  him  ; 


Kit  telt  oor  fortunes,  neest,  wi'  cairds, 

Nae  chap  was  e'er  seen  leyke  him  ; 
He  sed  bad  luck  wad  mek  him  meyne, 

The  lasses  bade  me  streyke  him  ; 
He  meade  some  laugh,  some  heyde  the  feace, 

An  monie  fain  to  hear  on't  ; 
He  luikt  queyte  serous  ;  aw  we  hard 

Will  suir  be  true,  nae  fear  on't  ! 

At  blin-man's  buff  aw  scamper'd  roon, 

Tom's  feace  wi'  bluid  gat  pentet  ; 
Puir  Mally  fell  an  crush'd  hersel, 

Then  in  Dick's  airms  she  fentet  : 
I  catcht  Kit  Capstick  roon  the  weast, 

An  set  them  aw  a  flyrin  : 
Jack  twore  his  sweetheart  Dolly's  goon, 

He'd  been  sae  oft  admirin. 


Kit  Capstick  noo  his  feyfe  lugg'd  oot 

Aw  Englan  cannot  match  him  ! 
He  play'd  an  dance' t  a  jig  wi'  me — 

I'd  gie  the  warl  to  catch  him  ! 
Ben  caper'd  neest  in  stockin  feet, 

An  Jenny's  bonnet  pat  on  ; 
But  Kit  suin  meade  aw  fit  to  brust, 

Mey  pattens  when  he  gat  on. 


I  brong  a  bowster  in  at  last, 

An  monie  laugh'd  an  cheated  , 
The  drop  went  roon  ;  on  sweethearts'  tnees. 

The  lasses  snug  wer  seated. 
The  cock  suin  craw't  ;  away  they  flew, 

Aw  linkt  wid  yen  anudder  ; 
Fuils  brag  o'  murry-neets — s*c  stuff  ! 

They're  nowt  but  preyde  an  bodder  ! 


152  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

OUR  LANLWORD  AN  LANLEADY. 
TUNE — "  The  Campbells  are  coining." 

Our    Lanlword    worth    thoosans,    hes    lower'd    ilk 

rent  ; 

God  bless  aw  that  try  to  meake  others  content  ! 
In  vain  farmers  toil,  noo  the  grain  gits  sae  low — 
War  teymes  honest  farmers  or  lab'rers  ne'er  saw  ! 
What,  monie  yence  happy  are  whopeless  an  puir, 
Widoot  owther  furniture,  stock,  crop,  or  gear  ; 
Wheyle  deames  an  the  bairns  the  sad  changes 

bewail, 
The  weal-meanin  plewman's  oft  flung  into  jail. 


Oor  lanlword's  a  pattern  queyte  free  frev  aw  preyde, 

He'll  crack  wid  his  tenants  an  walk  seyde  by  seyde  ; 

He  sits  in  oor  kitchens — still  merry  is  he  ; 

An  dantels  the  bairns  monie  an  'oor  on  his  tnee  ; 

Then  yen  reads  a  lesson  to  others  at  wurk  ; 

He'll  ax  what  the  priest  sed  last  Sunday  at  kurk  : 

Widoot  liv'ry  sarvents,  aroon  aw  he'll  gang, 

But  sair  it  aye  grieves  him  if  tenants  dui  wrang. 


Oor  lanlword  oft  joins  in  a  plain  humble  meal, 
An  wheyles,  efter  preezin,  he'll  teaste  a  swop  yell, 
The  paper  he  reads,  an  oft  seeghs  when  he  says, 
His  mem'ry  but  meynds  him  ov  far  better  days  ! 
If  a  weddin   teks  pleace,  nar  the  breyde  he'll  aye 

sit, 
An  leykes  fwok   when    merry,    but    hates    wicked 

wit ; 

Then  if  onie  lad  a  young  lass  sud  deceive, 
He  lectures  him  freely  an  oft  meks  him  grieve ! 


Oor  lanlword  aw  day  ne'er  yence  clwoses  his  duir, 
But  if  they  be  honest  he  helps  weel  the  puir  ; 
To  ax  efter  seeek  fwok  he  reydes  roon  an  roon, 
An  sens  fer  the  docter  awt  way  frae  the  toon  ; 
His  leady  fins  cleedin,  buiks,  physic,  forby 
She  teakes  to  the  labourin  puir  that  are  nigh  ; 
Then  bids  them  be  merry,  an  keep  the  hoose  clean — 
Thro'    aw    the    heale    coonty    her    marra's    scearce 
seen  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  153 

Oor  lanleady  gev  puir  aul  Isbel  a  coo, 

An  gurse,  hay  in  plenty  she  gits  the  year  thro' 

en   Laic 

nwote, 

Hoo  monie  far  richer,  wad  nit  give  a  grwoat  ! 
Then  Primmers  an  Spellin-buiks,  day  efter  day, 
She  gies  to  lal  scholars  that  trowin  ne'er  play  ; 
If  onie  amang  them  e'er  feght,  sweer,  or  lee, 
Sec  varraen  in  that  schuil  nae  langer  mun  be. 


At  Cursmess,   they  beath  aw  their  tenant  inveyte 
To  spen  the  neet  wi'  them,  an  share  ilk  deleyte  ; 
The  parson,  his  weyfe,  an  twee  dowters  attend, 
They're  guid  an  hev  pruiv'd  monie  a  puir  body's 

friend  ; 

We  eat  an  we  drink,  till  the  clock  it  streykes  fower, 
An  that's  seerly  teyme  fer  aw  spwort  to  give  owre  ; 
We've  sweetheartin,  dancin,  an  singin,  leyke  owt  ; 
Sec  famish  divarsion  can  seldom  be  bowt  ! 


Ye  Iwords,  knights,  an  squires,   that  can  leeve  at 

yer  ease  ; 

Remember  yer  duty,  guid  tenants  to  please  ; 
To  comfort  the  puir  an  the  worthy  to  seave, 
Will  mek  men  wi'  happiness  bow  to  the  greave, 
To  copy  oor  lanlword,  an  lanleady,  tui, 
May  gain  ye  true  plishure  that  preyde  canna  dui  ! 
He's  wisest  that  gives  what  he  aye  can  affword — 
To  give  to  the  puir,  is  to  len  to  the  Iword  ! 


154  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

JWHONNY  AN  JENNY. 
TUNE — "  Hand  awa'  frae  me,  Donald." 

JWHONNY. 

"  What  !  Nichol  says,  Dick  Mosscrop  noo, 

Can  lead  the'  whoar  he  will,  Jenny, 
Ye  women  fwok  er  leyke  the  win, 

Aye  changin,  changin  still,  Jenny  ! 
Whate'er  Nick  says  we  mun  believe, 

He  ne'er  yence  tells  a  lee,  Jenny  ; 
Sin  me  thy  sweetheart,  thoo'll  deceive, 

Nae  mair  I'll  follow  thee,  Jenny  !  " 

JENNY. 

"  Thoo's  young  an  hilthy,  fit  fer  wark, 

An  nowt  thro'  leyfe  need  fear,  Jwohnny 
I  wish  thou  suin  may  teake  a  weyfe, 

That  iver  will  be  dear,  Jwohnny  ! 
If  yen  I  luive,  nae  harm  I  dui  ; 

That  yen  I's  fain  to  see,  Jwohnny  : 
I'll  think  o'  teymes  we  twee  hae  spent. 

An  daily  pray  fer  thee,  Jwhonny  !  " 

JWHONNY. 

"  Last  week  a  paintet  valenteyne, 

For  thee  in  town  I  bowt,  Jenny  ; 
But,  when  I  hard  I'd  lost  thy  luive 

I  seeght  an  sobb't,  leyke  owt,  Jenny  ! 
The  win  an  weet,  the  snaw  an  sleet, 

Cud  niver  yence  stop  me,  Jenny 
Thro'  mud  an  mire,  owre  bog  an  brier. 

I've  flown  at  neets  to  thee,  Jenny  !  " 

JENNY. 

"  The  last  teyme  I  awl  Nichol  met, 

He  stonisht  me,  nae  fear,  Jwhonny  : 

Sed  wood-leggt  Debby  was  thy  choice, 
Cause  she  hes  heaps  o'  gear,  Jwhonny  : 
He  seel  thoo  met  her  in  the  faul, 
An  gev  her  kisses  three,  Jwhonny  ; 

To  kiss  an  crack  wi'  young  or  aul, 

If  guid  nae  harm  can  de,  Jwhonny  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  155 


JWHONNY. 

"  The  last  teyme  Nichol  swol'd  mey  shoon  ; 

He  telt  what  caus'd  surprise,  Jenny  ; 
Dick  Mosscrop  at  the  Fair,  for  thee, 

By  feghtin  gat  black  eyes,  Jenny  ; 
I  ne'er  hard  wood-leggt  Debby's  voice  ; 

Her  gear  cud  nit  win  me,  Jenny  ; 
If  black-ee'd  Dick  mun  pruive  thy  choice, 

Mey  greave  suin  may  thoo  see,  Jenny  !  ' 

JENNY. 

"  What  we  hev  hard,  wer  telt  as  jwokes  ; 

Why  sud  we  meynd  aul  Nick,  Jwhonny, 
The  rwose  hes  left  thy  cheek  queyte  pale— 

I  ne'er  yence  spak  to  Dick,  Jwhonny  ! 
Sud  women  dui  what  guid  they  can, 

Thur  wicked  tuils  '11  lee,  Jwhonny, 
Tho'  monie  a  man  wad  tek  this  han, 

I'll  gie't  to  nin  but  thee,  Jwohnny  !  " 

JWHONNY. 

'  O  try  dear  lass  !  this  feyne  gowd  ring, 

I  browt  for  thee  frae  toon,  Jenny  ; 
Tho'  furst  he  axt  a  guinea  preyce, 

I  gat  it  fer  a  crown,  Jenny. 
Thoo  sees  the  kurk  on  yonder  hill, 

Theer  weddet  suin  we'll  be,  Jenny  ! 
Ther's  Nichols  in  aw  pleaces  still — 

I'll  luive  the'  till  I  dee,  Jenny  !  " 


THE  SAILOR. 
TUNE — "  Miss  Forbes'  farewell  to  Banf." 

Oh  !  Betty  ! — Hoo  thoo's  chang'd  of  leate, 

Reet  blithe  thoc  luik'd  the  tudder  day  ; 
But  noo,  thoo  seeghs  an  hings  thy  heed, 

An  aw  the  colour's  flown  away  ; 
Mey  only  bairn,  keep  up  thy  heart  ! 

That  varra  luik  gies  pain  to  me  ; 
Thoo's  ristless  grown  beath  day  an  neet, 

An  aw  fer  Jemmy,  far  at  sea. 


156  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Last  week,  queyte  murry  leyke  a  lark, 

Thoo  sang  ;  the  weather  then  was  clear  ; 
Noo  when  the  angry  win  blaws  lood. 

Ae  single  word  I  seldom  hear  ;    ' 
Think,  think  fer  storms  as  well  as  cawms, 

Aw  guid  fwok  sud  reet  thenkfu  be  : 
The  howl  in  wins  nae  sailors  flay, 

When  on  the  deep  far,  far  at  sea. 

Thy  puir  aul  fadder,  forty  years 

Crosst  monie  a  rollin  moontain  wave, 
Aye  leetsome  ;   weel  thoo  meynds  the  teyme, 

A  fever  tuik  him  to  the  grea ve  ; 
At  partin  ne'er  shed  he  a  tear, 

But  bade  us  ever  cheerfu  be — 
I'd  worn  this  day  anudder  luik, 
If  he'd  been  leevin  far  at  sea  ! 


Thy  Jemmy's  guid  an  murry  still  ; 

His  mudder  fifty  years  I've  tnown, 
She's  rich  an  hes  nae  mair  nor  him, 

An  leykes  thee  as  thoo'  been  her  awn  ; 
The  win  hes  fawn  !  just  mark  the  sun, 

Hoo  sweet  he  sheynes  on  hill  an  tree — 
O  change  that  luik  !  an  whop  guid  news 

We'll  hear  ov  Jemmy,  far  at  sea  ! 


The  ship  that  nar  oor  ceilin  hings, 

Thy  een  er  fixt  on  day  an  neet  ; 
'Twas  meade  by  Jemmy  when  at  schuil, 

An  for  his  seake  I's  fain  to  see't. 
Thur  bonny  pictures  roun  our  room 

He  drew  when  young,  an  aw  fer  thee — 
I  seed  him  i'  mey  dream  last  neet, 

An  heard  him  sing  fareweel  to  sea  ! 

He  pleac'd  a  rwose-bud  i1  thy  breest  ; 

Just  luik  hoo  sweet  it  bluims  an  grows  ! 
He  kiss'd  thee  threyce  ;    shuik  hans  wi'  me  ! 

An  thus  he  spack  wi'  manly  vows  ; 
"  Oor  voy'ge  is  shwort,  nae  mair  I'll  try, 

But  monie  a  present  brings  to  thee  ; 
God  bliss  thee,  Bess  !  thoo'll  suin  be  meyne 

I'll  view  thee  still  when  far  at  sea  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  157 

Just  thro'  the  window  teake  a  keek  ; 

Yen  daily  sees  the  shippin  sail — 
Aa,  lass  !  I's  fain  to  see  thee  smeyle  ; 

What,  Jemmy's  comin,  I'll  be  bail  ; 
You  lasses  ne'er  sud  weep  or  wheyne, 

But  whop  an  pray,  an  murry  be — 
The  Pow'r  that  claims  oor  thenks  on  Ian, 

Can  seave  yer  sweethearts,  far  at  sea  ! 


JEAN. 
TUNE — "  Gin  a  body  meet  a  body." 

Ye  wardly  bodies,  screape  up  wealth 

An  aye  gean  peer  fwok  rail  ; 
Leyke  them.yer  bloomin  rwose  o'  health 

Suin  turns  a  lily  pale  ; 
Can  riches  gie  content  to  ye  ? 

O,  that's  owre  seldom  seen  ! 
Tho'  my  lot's  humble  poverty, 

I'm  aye  content  wi'  Jean  ! 


Ye  that  on  frienship  oft  depend, 

Nor  dream  o'  man's  base  art  ; 
Know,  int'rest  meks  pretended  friend 

Oft  play  deceiver's  part  : 
If  Fortune's  shy,  they'll  frae  ye  fly 

As  keynd  ye  ne'er  hed  been  : 
False  friens  an  fortune  I  defy — 

Leyfe's  comfort's  aye  my  Jean  ! 


Ye,  that  in  flowin  bowls  deleyte, 

An  swober  chaps  aye  scworn  ; 
Know  he  that  drinks  till  fou  at  neet, 

Mun  sorrow  sup  neest  mworn  ; 
Tek  ye  yer  glass,  gie  me  mey  lass 

To  crack  an  'oor  at  e'en  ; 
For  sweet  an  fleet  the  minutes  pass 

When  teyme's  begueyl'd  by  Jean  ! 


158  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

I've  lang  toil'd  hard  to  gedder  gear, 

That  oft  disturb'd  my  meynd  ; 
I've  thowt  him  wheyles  a  frien  sincere, 

That  oft  hes  pruiv'd  unkeynd  ; 
I've  drank  till  fou,  owre  oft  I  trowe, 

An  blush  it  sae  hes  been  ; 
For  happiness  I  only  knew, 

When  teyme  was  spent  wi'  Jean  ! 


AW  THE  WARL'S  A  STAGE. 

TUNE — "  Lang-seyne." 

Hoo  fen  ye  aw  ? — Nay,  what  ye  stare  ! 

Let's  whop  I've  nit  duin  wrang  ; 
Leyke  monie  mair  just  fling  by  care, 

An  hear  a  leyle  bit  sang  ! 

I's  nee  singer  ;  nobbet  yen  o'  th'  player-fwok  ; 
yer  feyne  silk-donn'd  leadies  an  puir  bits  o1 
lasses  wi'  worn-out  duds,  er  just  the  seame. 
What  !  oor  girt  parliment  men  owre  offen  pruive 
thersels  impudent  actors  ;  sae  are  lawyers  in 
goons  an  poodert  wigs  ;  then  some  parsons 
weer  lang  feaces,  an  prey  leyke  wolves  in  sheep's 
cleeden — Ay,  ay  !  in  aw  coontries  ! — Just  so  ! 

A  sang  can  vex,  a  sang  can  charm  ; 

Wheyle  hard,  nit  understuid, 
Sangs  just  leyke  plays,  owre  oft  dui  harm — 

What  pity  owther  sud  ! 

Dukes,  beggars,  tradesmen,  gypsies,  Iwords, 

Ay  aw  maks  fwok  e'er  saw, 
We  act,  wi'  dress,  wi'  deeds,  an  words, 

In  scenes  of  fun  an  woe  ! 

Wey,  leyfe's  nobbet  a  play,  ye  ken  !  Leyke  us 
far  owre  monie,  aul  an  young,  er  fworc't  at  aw 
teymes  to  act  fer  brass  ;  but  wheyles  they  git 
nhi  !  What  yen  cannot  treed  the  streets  ov  onie 
toon  or  village,  widoot  seein  wad- be  heroes, 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  159 


gentry,  madmen,  cloons  an  slaves  ;  in  trage 
dies,  comedies,  farces  an  pantemeynes.  Hut, 
shaft  !  I's  warn  ye,  it's  just  the  seame  in  avr 
coontries  !  Just  so  ! 

We  censure  veyce,  we  virtue  praise, 

An  lash  the  sons  ov  preyde — 
Guid  lessons  fwok  may  larn  frae  plays. 

Yet  fuils  the  best  dereyde. 

Aul  fwok  an  young,  the  rich  an  puir, 

Ilk  mortal  plays  a  part  ; 
Some  act,  to  screape  up  heaps  o'  gear, 

An  some  to  win  a  heart  : 

Aa  !  kings  an  cobblers,  fops  aii  fuils,  er  famish 
actors  in  luive  scenes  ;  then  theer's  duchesses, 
dulcineys,  douce  deames  an  deylt  donnets  ;  the 
girt  swort  er  monstrous  cliver  at  masqueradins. 
an  caper  away  at  ball  room  waltzes — the  lower 
mak  gi'  whornpeyps,  jigs,  an  reels  at  murry- 
neets.  Sec  leyfe  oft  sarras  to  steal  hearts  fra  yen 
anudder — Ay  !  in  aw  coontries  ! — Just  so  ! 

Some,  decent  parts  can  play  wi'  ease, 

Wheyle  monie  niver  can  ; 
It's  best' to  act  thro'  leyfe  to  please — 

That  aye  sal  be  mey  plan  ! 

Some  fain  wad  act  the  wedding  day, 

An  honey-muin,  nae  doot  ; 
Aw  in  the  wrang,  but  thoosans  play, 

An  Much-a-dui  'boot  nowt  ; 

What  iv'ry  yen  hes  his  faut  !  ye've  aw  seen  Hee 
leyfe  below  stairs — The  warl  in  a  village — The  agree 
able  surprise — The  schuil  fer  scandal — an  The 
rwoad  to  ruin  ?  As  fer  Peer  Gentlemen — Peer 
sowdgers — Mock  doctors — Murry  mourners — Busy 
bodies — Desarters — Leears — Rivals — an  Romps — 
thur  are  queyte  common  as  durt,  I's  warn  ye  ! — 
Ay  !  in  aw  countries  ! — Just  so  ! 

Nae  matter,  Aw  the  warld's  a  stage, 
Ther's  strowlers  in  ilk  toon — 


Hooe'er  thro'  leyfe  I  may  engage 
Your  keyndness  let  me  own  ! 


1 60  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

SARVENT    NED. 
TUNE — "  Hallow  Fair." 

The  lassie  wi'  plenty  ov  siller 

May  aye  git  a  man,  we  aw  see  ; 
East,  west,  north  an  sooth  '11  run  till  her, 

Tho'  leame.  cross  an  ugly  she  be  ; 
They'll  bliss  her,  caress  her  and  priss  her, 

An  sweer  her  the  bonniest  she  ; 
But  yence  fairly  buckelt,  he's  wearied — 

Deil  keep  sec  pretenders  frae  me  ! 


Lang  Hannah  hed  yence  heaps  ov  money, 

Noo  into  the  puir-hoose,  she's  geane  ; 
Tho'  nowther  weel-shept,  wise  or  bonny, 

Yet  sweethearts  she  gat  monie  a  yen  : 
Dick  tuik  her,  oft  struck  her,  forsuik  her  ; 

Away  wi'  her  money  ran  he — 
Oh  !  hed  he  been  taen  to  the  gallows  ! 

— Sec  rif-rafs  sal  niver  catch  me  ! 


I  meynd  weel  oor  awn  sarvent,  Jenny, 

When  I  was  a  leyle  todlin  bairn  ; 
A  better  lass,  few  hev  seen  enny, 

An  guidness  she  aye  sowt  to  larn  ; 
Rich  Burthet  ;  Laird  Murthet,  of  Curthet, 

They  fit  for  her — shemf  u  to  see  ! 
She  tuik  a  puir  lad  ;  they  leeve  happy, 

An  guid  adveyce  daily  gie  me. 


Tho'  I's  nit  a  puir  coontry  lassie, 

I  keep  a  puir  lad  i'  mey  e'e  ; 
Tho'  decency  suddent  be  saucy, 

To  the  Bishop  a  weyfe  I'd  nit  be  ! 
Base  wooers — pursuers — undoers, 

Frae  sec  I's  resolv'd  to  keep  free  ; 
Wer  ilk  hair  o'  mey  heed  a  gowd  guinea, 

Oor  puir  sarvent  Ned  sud  hae  me  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  161 

JURRY'S    CURSNIN. 
TUNE — "  Up  an  war  them  a'." 

"  Luik  Dinah,  if  the  keake's  eneuf, 

They'll  suin  come  back  frae  kurk, 
Deil  bin  the'  !  turn't,  girt  lazy  guff  ! 

Thoo's  far  owre  prood  to  work  ! 
Mek  heaste,  set  cups  an  saucers  oot  ; 

I's  sworry  we've  got  nae  trays  ; 
Gar  kettles  beath  boil,  an  wesh  thysel, 

But  furst  come  leace  mey  stays." 

"  It's    just  six  month,  a}  this  varra  day, 

Sin  I  was  brong  to  bed  ; 
Lai  Jurry  mun  hae  the  cow-pox  suin — 

Thenk  God,  he's  varra  weel  cled  ! 
What  they're  aw  comin  !  aa,  doon  the  broo  ! 

Wi'  t'  ill-gien  priest  a-heed  ; 
A  neycer  party  i'  the  aul  kurk, 

I's  seer  he  niver  yence  seed  ! 

"  What  Mistress  Creake  hes  on  silk  goon, 

But  nae  sec  cleedin  hev  I  ; 
An  Martha  Miredrum's  leady  leyke — 

Oor  Squire  them  claes  mud  buy  ; 
The  ear-rings,  palles,  umbrell,  fwok  say 

He  bowt,  an  bade  her  to  weer  ; 
Ther's  bairns  in  Lunnon,  nit  married  bred, 

Som  o'  them  er  hurs  I'd  sweer  ! 

"  Come  parson,  teake  the  airmin-chair  " — 

"  Here,  give  thy  Jurry  a  souk  " — 
"  Guidman,  han  ev'ry  yen  a  glass — 

What  meks  mey  darlin  puke  ?  " 
"  Here's  health  to  all  ;  " — "  Thenks  thenks, 
guid  sur  !  " 

"  Hoo's  your  neyce  sonsy  deame  ?  " 
"  She's  purty  well  !  " — "  Pow'r  oot  the  tea  ; 

Meynd  fwok,  yer  aw  at  heame  !  " 

"  Reet  weel  carvt,  them  neyce  siller  spuins  " — 
"  Slap-bason  han  owre  this  way  " — 

"  The  lasses  gat  kisses  ahint  kurk  duir  " — 
"  Ther's  nee  harm  i'  that,  fwok  say  ;  " 


162  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  Dick,  git  thy  clogs  an  sarra  the  pigs  ; 

Frien  Gworge,  ye  eat  nowt  et  dowe  ! 
"  Frank  Wood  gat  weddet  last  week  at  Bruff  " 

"  Wey,  Frank's  but  gitten  a  frowe  !  " 
"  Paul  Burthem  they've  laid  up  i'  the  jail  " — 

«  Ay  ! — he'll  be  hangt,  I's  warn  !  " 
"  Aa  Meggy  !  mess,  thoos  grown  monstrous  fat" 

"  To  carry  twee  twins  she  mun  larn  " — 
"  Tell  Tim  his  fortune  in  his  cup  " — 

"  I  wull,  but  lees  I  scworn  ; 
Tim's  efter  Elsy,  but  nobbet  aw  luik, 

She'll  git  a  far  better  to-mworn  !  " 
"  I  teake  nee  cream  " — "  Hoo  Jurry  he  gowlt 

When  parson  but  wet  his  feace  ; 
Peer  bairn  it  laughs  !  " — "  Cap's  far  owre  big  "— 

"  That's  famish  bonny  neyce  leace  !  " 
"  O,  Mistress  Creake  !  some  trouble  teake  ; 

Han  roon  the  twoast  an  cheese  ! 
Put  in  mair  tea  ! — fer  guidness  de  ! 

Leace't  roon  wi'  rum,  if  ye  please  !  " 

"  When  Ephrem,  I  christened,  three  years  old, 

Queyte  vex'd  he  struck  me,  the  priest  ; 
Turn'd  roond  to  fadder,  "  aa  deddy  !  "  says  he, 

"  I  ken  it's  thy  awn  turn  neest  !  " 
"  Mess,  Parson,  that's  a  reet  guid  jwoke  ; 

It's  meade  them  aw  laugh  roon  ; 
A  better  man  ne'er  in  pulpot  stuid  ; 

Nay,  dunnet  turn  tea-cup  doon  !  " 

"  No  more,  no  more  !  I've  drank  twee  cups  " — 

"  That's  nowt,  what  I've  tean  fower  !  " 
"  Just  luik,  hoo  Jurry  his  boilies  sups  ; 

At  goddy  he  leykes  to  glowre  !  " 
"  Nay,  parson,  sit  !  fie,  Dinah,  heaste  ; 

The  bowl  an  glasses  bring  in  ; 
Theer's  what  fwok  caw  West-indy  rum, 

An  guid  strang  Irish  gin  !  " 

"  Leyle  Anthony  hed  a  feght  last  neet, 

He  whackt  lang  Roger  Bell  ; 
He  hed  a  steane  in  ilka  neef  ; 

Oor  Parson's  mebby  hard  tell  " — 
"  Yes,  fools  will  fight  :  it's  their  delight  !  " 

"  Han  parson  owre  a  snuff  " — 
"  What,  trade's  queyte  brisk  i'  Carel  grown  " — 

"  Hut,  shaff  !  that's  aw  silly  stuff  !  " 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  163 

"  Come  here's  good  health,  long  life  to  the  king  !" 

"  Aa  parson  !  that's  just  queyte  reet  :  " 
"  I  wish  you  peace,  and  all  good-night  !  " 

"  Guid  neet  !  " — "  Guid  sur,  guid-night  !  " 
"  He's  off !  " — "  Humph  !  prood  hard-hearted  fuil, 

He  nowther  can  preach  nur  pray  ! 
Whene'er  the  beggars  gang  nar  his  duir. 

He'll  scaul,  an  push  them  away  !  " 

"  Let's  drink  lal  Jurry,  lang  mey  he  thrive, 

When  we're  cowpt  into  t'  greave  ; 
Whee  kens  but  he  Iword-bishop  may  be, 

An  peer  fwok  try  to  seave  " — 
"  What's  cumt  o'  Nichol  ?  " — "  He's  better  away, 

At  leein  he  caps  the  warl  !  " 
"  Aa,    Archy  !  Suke  an    thee    seem    keynd   ' — 

"  Nay  !  she'll  dui  nowt  but  narl  !  " 

"  What's  got  Bill  Adams,  that  hawf-blin  guff  ?  " 

"  O  hed  we  the  Car  el  ban  ! 
A  shillin  a-piece  I's  suir,  they'd  git 

An  punch,  wheyle  onie  cud  stan  !  " 
"  Theer's  Peter  Proudfit  plays  the  feyfe  " — 

"  Wey,  nay  !  I  play  nin  noo  ; 
Mey  weyfe  last  week  brak't  owre  mey  heed 

Cause  I'd  gitten  far  owre  fou." 

"  We'll  hev  a  bit  sang  " — "  Thoo  sant  git  a  kiss! 

Od  wheyte  te  !  I'll  box  thy  lug  !  " 
"  Aboot  wid  a  smack  leyke  a  waggoner's  crack, 

Young  chaps  the  lasses  may  hug  "- 
"  Fou  Mistress  Tnowles  a  clean  wheyte  peype, 

Ay.  pig- tail  bacco  smuiks  best  ; 
Han  owre  the  barra-cwot  for  mey  bairn  " — 

"  Aye  we  mun  aw  heame  an  to  rest." 

"  Nay !  nee  mair  punch !  what  I's  blin  drunk  !  " 

"  Spring  up  an  Til  whussle  a  jig  " — 
"Weel  duin !     noo  buss  her;     furst  weype   thy 
gob"- 

"  Aul  Abrem  hes  lost  his  wig  !  " 
"  The  clock  stans  still " — "  It's  far  owre  leate  !  " 

"  The  Muin's  just  risen,  1  see  !  " 
They  kisst  an  coddelt,  pat  on  their  clwoaks  ; 

A  coontry  cursnin  fer  me ! 


1 64  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

TO    JWOHNNY. 

TUNE — "  Hey  howe" 

"  Hey  howe  ! — Jwohnny  lad, 

Ye're  nU  sart-  keynd' .  ye  sud  hae  been  ! 
Oft  did  ye  praise  mey  sense  an  worth, 

An  caw  me  fit  to  be  a  queen  ; 
But  noo  ye' ve  stown  this  gueyless  heart , 

An  monie  a  tear  faws  frae  mey  e'e. 
The  ling'rin  day  I  peyne  an  think, 

Ye're  nit  what  ilka  yen  sud  be  ! 


You  coort  Daft  Nan  ov  Howket  Hill, 

But  ne'er  a  thowt  o'  me  ye  ware  ; 
She's  ill-gien,  petted,  fou  ov  preyde — 

Ye  thowt  me  leately  guid  an  fair, 
But  she  hes  gear  an  I  hae  ncane  ; 

E'en  fuils  may  ken  what  gear  can  de 
Think*  glowrin  on  her  f reetfu'  feace, 

Ye're  nit  what  ilka  yen  sud  be  ! 


Hoo  monie  a  teyme  by  Cauda  seyde. 

Queyte  pleased  ye  sang  aboot  mey  neame 
An  monie  a  letter  oft  I've  read 

Ye  sent  wi'  praise  when  far  frae  heame  ; 
An  here's  the  diamont  ring  ye  brong, 

An  swore  a  breyde  'twad  suin  mek  me  ; 
I'll  weer't  when  coffin  t — Think  !  O,  think 

Ye're  nit  what  ilka  yen  sud  be  1 


Mey  f  adder  cries,  "  Keep  up  thy  heart  !  " 

Mey  mudder  wonders  what  I  ail  ; 
When  robb'd  o'  that  we  lang  hae  priz'd 

The  rwosy  cheek  may  weel  grow  pale  , 
Pause  luive  hes  meade  me  tir'd  o  leyre. 

The  greave's  a  wish-d-for  heame  to  me — 
O,  think  if  e'er  to  kurk  you  gang, 

Ye're  nit  what  ilka  yen  sud  be  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  165 

LEYLE      DEAVIE. 
TUNE — "  Loch  Erroch  seyde  " 

O,  inudder  hear  a  leyle  bit  sang, 
Frae  yen  ye're  sworry  e'er  dis  wrang  ; 
But  oft  yer  airms  aboot'him  flang, 
Aye  wishin  weel  for  Deavie  ! 

Leyke  larks  I  rise,  an  welcome  day, 
An  in  the  garden  work  or  play  ; 
An  sing  aw  treyflin  cares  away — 
Ther's  few  sae  blithe  as  Deavie  ! 

Hoo  monie  seem  on  mischief  bent, 
An  catch  at  aw,  widoot  content  ; 
But  when  owre  leate  they  may  repent, 
An  wish  they'd  duin  leyke  Deavie  ! 

I  seldom  frae  oor  cottage  Stray, 
But  feast  an  plenty,  neet  an  day  ; 
An  oft  T  hear  oor  neebors  say, 

"  My  blissin  on  thee,  Deavie  !  " 

When  breakfast's  owre  I  trot  to  schuil. 
An  ply  the  beyble  on  mey  stuil  ; 
Let's  whop  I  ne'er  may  play  the  fuil, 
Whate'er  may  happen,  Deavie  ! 

The  trowin  some  oft  leyke  to  play, 
An  then  git  floggt  wi'  tasks  to  say  ; 
Oor  maister  froons  on  some  a\\  day. 
But  aye  he's  fond  o'  Deavie  I 

Then  when  let  lowse,  reet  weel  I  tnow 
Their  luive  fer  gamlin,  sec  an  low  ; 
Cairds,  pitch  an  toss,  aw  leyke  to  shew, 
Exceptin  your  leyle  Deavie  ! 

Oft  at  fit-baw  they  weyldly  play, 

At  russlin  some  git  learn' d  they  say — 

I'd  raider  ply  mey  buik  aw  day, 

'Twill  dui  mair  guid  fer  Deavie  ! 


166  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

O,  mudder  !  just  ae  wish  I  hev  ; 
When  you  are  tott'rin  t  o  the  greave, 
Then  may  the  thowts  o'  what  you  gev. 
Aye  warm  the  heart  o'  Deavie  ! 

But  far,  far  distant  be  that  day  ! 
Lang  may  ve  leeve,  in  health  an  gay  ! 
But  sud  misfortune  cross  yer  way, 
Ne'er  may  ye  blush  fer  Deavie  ! 


ADVEYCE  TO  NANNY. 
TUNE — "  Crowdy." 

Hut,  Nanny  !  scworn  this  selfish  warl, 

For  praise  aw  maks  er  laith  to  gie  ; 
They  mun  be  e'en  a  wicked  reace, 

That  e'er  cud  censure  yen  leyke  thee  ! 
For  thoo  art  cheerfu',  guid  an  fair, 

Industrious  as  the  hinny  bee  ; 
O  Nanny  !  scworn  this  selfish  warl, 

True  praise  aw  maks  er  laith  to  gie  ! 

Few  joys  the  wale  o'  peer  fwok  ken, 

Efter  they  quit  the  mudder's  tnee  ; 
We've  gleams  o'  comfort  noo  an  then, 

But  want  meks  monie  a  wat'ry  e'e  ; 
Noo  fortune  smeyles,  we've  fawning  friens 

She  froons,  they  tire,  away  they  flee  ; 
Sae  Nanny  scworn  this  selfish  warl, 

True  praise  aw  maks  er  laith  to  gie  ! 

Hed  we  been  bworn  in  lux'ry's  lap 

Mankeynd  hed  boo'd  to  thee  an  me — 
Whee  dar  caw  poverty  a  creyme  ? 

Let's  aye  dui  reet  an  merry  be  ; 
An  seek  content  in  leyfe's  low  glen, 

Sin  wealth  an  puirtith  ne'er  agree  ; 
Then  Nanny,  scworn  this  selfish  warl, 

True  praise  aw  maks  er  laith  to  gie  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  167 


I've  hard  thee  read  the  best  p'  bulks, 

That  monie  ne'er  yence  wish'd  to  see 
I've  seen  thee  sarra  aul  an  young — 

Wae  to  them  aw  that  slander  thee  ! 
Keep  up  thy  heart,  it  adds  to  hilth  ; 

It's  wise  to  leeve  in  peace  an  glee — 
O  Nanny  !  scorn  this  selfish  warl, 

True  praise  aw  maks  er  laith  to  gie  ! 


GILSDEN  SPAW. 

TUNE — "  /  am  a  Young  Fellow" 

Fuils  brag  o'  their  nonsense,  an  bits  o'  weyld  wrey- 

tins  ; 
Whativer    may    happem,    I'll    ne'er    bwoast    o' 

meyne  ; 
I  wheyles  try  a  ballad  to  cheer  fwok  aroon  me, 

But  ne'er  yence  will  whop  amang  Poets  to  sheyne  : 
In  toon,  or  in  coontry,  wid  aw  maks  aboot  us, 
I'll  aye  wish  frae  Nature  a  picture  to  draw  ; 
Fairs,     Clay-daubins,     Murry-neets,     Weddins     an 

Reaces. 
I've  gien  to  the  warl  ;    noo  I'll  try  Gilsden  Spaw. 

Thur   rocks,    woods,    walks,    wutters,    hills,    valleys 

er  bonny  ; 
They    here    draw    some    thoosans,    what    pleace 

can  dui  mair  ? 
Lang,    lang    may    the    Spring    pruive    a    blissin    to 

monie, 
For     Health     and     Contentment     aye     welcome 

them  here  : 

Lwords,     squires,     doctors,     priests,     lawyers,     far 
mers  an  beggars, 
Aul,    young,    cloons,    fuils,    beauties,    ay   dandies 

an  aw  ; 
Pale,    heart-brokken,    peer-things    that    caw    forth 

yen's  pity, 
Are  daily  seen  stowterin  doon  to  the  spaw. 


168  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


We've  here  fortune-hunters,  aye  glowrin  at  leadies  ; 
Wae    wait    on    sec    hypocreytes,    be    whee    they 

may  ! 
Guid     lasses  !      be     cowshious     an    shun    aw    sec 

creeters  ; 
They    lead    but    to    sorrow,    till    leyfe's    clowsin 

day  ! 
Ay   study    man's    meynd,    yer   reet    ban    ne'er    gi' 

tremlin, 

Ner  heed  his  palaver,  luik,  cleedin,  or  shew; 
Sec  fellows  just  bring  varteous  lasses  to  ruin — 
O  pity  !  what  pity,  they're  seen  at  a  Spaw  ! 


Ov  aw  I've  experienc'd  nowt  yields   me  sec  plis- 

hure 
As  lasses  to  praise  when  they're  what  they  sud 

be  ; 
To  wed   yen   o'    thur   aye   pruives  lej'fe's   dearest 

treasure, 

An  better  nor  English  nae  mortal  can  see  ! 
Yet   weyldness  in   woman   drives   peace   an   whops 

frae  man, 

A  glance  hes  owre  offen  led  thoosans  to  woe  ; 
They  shworten  his  days  an  grim  deeth  caws,  queyte 

welcome — 

Thenk   God,   sec    as    thur    I  ne'er   seed   at   the 
Spaw  ! 


A  famish  feyne  Librey  is  here  ever  oppem, 

Wi'   warks   o'    thur   wreyters   aw   gud   fwok   ad 
mire  ; 
Religion,  Wars,  Hist'ry,  Plays,  Inceclopeedy, 

Pomes,    Sarmens,    Romantics  ;      whee   mair   can 

desire  ? 
O    wer't    ilk    yen's    study    to    read    when    they're 

yaebel, 
An  choose  the  good  subjects  that  aw  fwok  sud 

tnow  ; 

O  wert  ilk  yen's  study  that  spens  teyme  at  Gils- 
den, 

To   read   but    the   buiks    that    er   kept    nar    the 
Spaw  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  169 

The   Billear-room's   oppem,    fer   strangers   frev   aw 

spots, 
Nee  gamlin  teks  pleace  ;     it's  amusement,  nowt 

mair  ; 
May  rich,    peer,    aul,    young,    honest,    happy,    an 

hilthy, 

Sec  pleasin  divarsions  thro'  leyfe  ever  share  ! 
The  Spaws  afford  plenty  ov  ev'ry  rich  denty, 
A  hoose  neycely  fittet  for  hee  an  for  low, 
Sec  sarvents   as  mud  be,   whoar  decent  fwok  sud 

be— 
Think,  think  o'  the  plishure  enjoy'd  at  the  Spaw  ! 


Here's  music  for  ever — Aa,  loavins  !  they're  cliver  I 

On  t'  worgan,  peanny,  musicianers  play  ; 
Walses,  Minnywhits,   Reels,   Jigs,  Cotillons,  Whad- 

reels, 

Sweet   music   drives   aw  care   an  sorrow   away  : 
A  Currier  frae  Lunnon.  a  Patrit  frae  Carel, 

Aye   tell  o'  peace,   plenty,  Iwords,   commons   aa 

aw  ; 

Now  ye  that  hae  gear,  if  ye're  nobbet  peer  miserts, 
Just   think   what   ye'll   hear,    see   an   git   at   the 
Spaw  ! 


Here's   dancin,    mang   t'    quality  ;      wuns   but   it's 

wondrous  ! 

I  step  up  an  gleyme  at  them  neet  efter  neet  ; 
They   pass   yen   anudder   leyke   bees   in   het   sum 
mer, 

To  see  fwok  sae  hearty,  affwords  yen  a  treat  : 
Then  sarvents,  queyte  merry,  lish,  cliver  an  bonny, 
Will   wheyles   teake   a   caper,    an  please   yen   aa 

aw  ; 

Whoare'er  I  mun  wander,  still,  still  wull  I  ponder, 
An  think,  wi'  deleyte,  on  the  joys  o'  the  Spaw. 


Here  wretched  git  plenty,  er  tret  as  they  sud  be  ; 

Wi'    tears   the   gud   fwok   they   er   oft   heard   to 

bliss  ; 
They'll  aye  be  regarded  an  weel  be  rewarded, 

That  fin  daily  plishure  in  soothin  distress  ! 


i/o  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

What  pity  sae  monie  sud  ne'er  nwotish  onie, 

But    strut    thro'    the    warl,    preyde    an    folly    to 

shew  ! 
Let  hawf-wits  cariss  them  and  bad  yens  aye  bliss 

them, 
Sec  unfeelin  brutes  sud  be  driv'n  frae  ilk  Spaw  ! 


Here's    lasses    frae    Cumbria,    Durham,    Northum- 

bria, 

On  neycer  nae  chap  iver  yet  kest  an  e'e  ; 
Here's   lads    hilthy,    cheerfu',    ov   nowt    iver    fear- 

fu', 

An  blithe  as  the  larks  in  a  mworn  owre  the  lea  ; 
Ye  strangers  to  Robin  that   sneer  at  his  rheymin, 

Ne'er,  ne'er  will  ye  fin  him  to  mortal  a  foe  ; 
Lang,  lang  may  the  fwok  that  aye  sarra  ilk  udder, 
Health,   peace,   an  contentment   ay  meet  at   the 
Spaw  ! 


ON  PARTING. 
TUNE — "  Joy  be  wi'  you  a." 

O  thoo  art  bonny,  guid  an  young, 

An  aw  are  pleas'd  whae  gaze  on  thee  ; 
Sweet  as  a  buddin  rwose  in  June, 

Industrious  as  the  toilin  bee  : 
But  dreams  nit,  mid'  youth's  flatterin  joys, 

Ov  wardly  ills  sae  monie  pruive — 
Niver  yence  may  cares  disturb  thy  mind. 

Save  the  soft  cares  that  spring  frae  luive  ! 

Furst  Envy,  wid  a  ranc'rous  sting, 

Will  puzzen  monie  a  heart-felt  joy  ; 
An  Scandal,  Virtue's  jaundic'd  foe, 

The  foul  fause  teale  will  oft  employ  ; 
Sweet  lass  !  just  what  thy  sex  sud  be, 

When  Teyme  thy  beauty  sal  remove, 
Then  may  reflection  yield  new  joys, 

An  leyfe  be  spent  in  peace  an  luive  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  17 1 


Methinks  I  see  thee  bworne  afar, 

Frae  luive  an  friendship,  fond  an  true  ; 

But  when  frae  Cumbria's  dearest  scenes, 
The  tears  will  oft  thy  een  bedew  : 

Where'er  thro'  leyfe  tho'  fworc'd  to  stray, 

The  warlds  true  keyndness  may  thoo  pruive  ; 

When  fades  that  rwose,  an  locks  grow  grey, 
Be  theyne  the  joys  ov  peace  an  luive. 


THE  RWOSE  IN  JUNE. 

TUNE — "  Roy's  Wife." 

I  luive  a  lass  I  maunna  neame, 
Nae  mortal   e'er  admir'd  yen  sweeter  ; 
Her  shep,  her  guidness,  winnin  luik, 
Meakes  me  for  ever  pray  to  meet  her. 

Tho'  bonny  is  the  rwose  in  June, 
An   fair  in   May   the   hawthorn   blossom  ; 
Yet    neane   can   e'er   a   flower   compare 
Wi'  her  that's  dearest  to  mey  bwosem. 

For  her,  I'd  toil  the  langest  day, 
Nor  e'er  compleen  tho'  faint  an  weary, 

Happy  aye  when  neet  steals  on, 
Widin  mey  airms  to  press  my  dearie  ! 

Tho'  bonny  is  the  rwose,   &c. 

Thro'  stibble  fields  the  spwortsman  roves, 
Rejoic'd,  his  harmless  prey  pursuin  ; 

The  lass  I  luive  but  munnet  chase, 
Suin,  suin,  alas  !  may  pruive  mey  ruin  ! 
Tho'  bonny  is  the  rwose,  &c. 

Blaw  lood  thoo  angry  winter  blast, 
An  wear  thy  gloomy  luik,  December  ; 

I  seeghin  wish  for  spring's  return, 
An  leyfe's  luive-scenes  mun  aye  remember, 
Tho'  bonny  is  the  rwose,  &c. 


172  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Tis  hard  to  leeve  a  slave  to  luive, 
When  wealth,  a  younthfu  pair  can  sunder — 

Heav'n  grant  me  her  I  darna  neame, 
Or  let  me  rest  the  green  turf  under  ! 

Tho'  bonny  is  the  rwose  in  June, 
An  fair  in  May  the  hawthorn  blossom, 
Yet  neane  can  e'er  a  flower  compare 
W;'  her  that's  dearest  to  mey  bwosom. 


BE   MERRY  TO-DAY. 
To  an  old  and  nameless  Tune. 

Hey  for  merriment,  sang,  jwoke,  an  jollity  ! 
Sorrow  dis  nae  yen  gud — Why  sal  we  peyne  ? 
Aul    Care's    a   deceiver, 
Meks  leyfe  but  a  fever — 

We've    bumper'd    thy    rwosey    lass  ;  I'll  twoas.t 
meyne. 

Luive,  true  luive,  is  leyfes  dearest  blessin  ; 

Its  sweets  let's  pruive,  nor  think  them  distressin  ; 

Sin'  Teyme  steals  away, 
An   health   we    enjoy,    what    owre    monie    destroy 

Let's  be  merry  to  day  ! 


Here's    to    mey    Mary,    wi'    dimpl'd   chin,    churry 

cheeks, 

Magic  e'en,  iv'ry  teeth,  lips  ov  dew  ; 
Her  luik  is  deleytin — 
Her  voice  is  inveytin — 
Nae  mortal  I  envy  when  she's  in  view. 

Luive,  true  luive,   &c. 


Needy  lank  misers  may  worship  a  money-bag  ; 
Statesmen  may  hunt  fer  the  shadow  caw'd  fame, 
Be  gudness  our  riches, 
The  heart  it  betwiches — 

Whate'er  pruives  our  study,  the  warl  will  blame. 
Luive,    true   luive,    &c. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  173 

We'll  bottom  a  glass  to  the  true  friends  ov  liberty 
Freedom's  a  blessin  ilk  mortal  sud  prize  ; 
By  wealth,  preyde,  an  kneav'ry, 
Baith  sexes  to  slavry 

Are  boo'd  doon — Oppressors  let  aw  despise. 
Luive,  true  luive,  &c, 

Let's    pray    fer    the    virtuous,   an    help    the    puir 

beggar-fowk, 

Nor  heed  the  crazy-grown  cuifs  we  oft  see  ; 
Ay   scworn  melancholy, 
Nor  e'er  stoop  to  folly ; 

Then  ne'er  can  grim  Deeth  freeten  thee  or  me. 
Luive,  true  luive,  &c. 


YOUTH. 

TUNE — "  The  humours  o'Glen." 

Shut  up  leyke  a  pris'ner,   pain'd,  \vaak,  seeck   an 

crippelt, 
Noo  teymes  mek  peer  bodies   hawf  hungert  an 

bare  ; 

On  youth  I  reflect,  aw  its  sports,  joys  an  troubles 
Thro*  leyfe,  young  an  aul  fwok  mun  aw  boo  to 

care ; 
E'en  then  we  luik  forret,  but  Whop  oft  deceives 

us  ; 
We    dream    o'    the    plishures    that    ne'er    yence 

appear ; 

We're  led  by  weyld  Folly  to  pale  Melancholy — 
In    aw    scenes    o'    leyfe    we    buy   plishure   owre 
dear. 

O,   whoar  are  mey  cronies  I  fond  was  to  spwort 
wid, 

Or  creep  off   to  schuil  wi  the  buik  an  the  pen? 
I  yet  mark  their  frolics  ;    I  yet  ken  their  feaces 

An  think  o'  them  daily,  but  seldom  see  yen. 


174  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

On  Eden's  green  banks  as  in  summer  I  wan 
der, 

A  tear  will  oft  faw,  at  the  thowts  o'  the  past — 
Leyke   monie  peer  comrades   I  siun   may  lig 

comn'd ; 

This  hour  o'  reflection  may  e'en  priuve  mey 
last! 

In  spring  we'd  seek  nests,  oft  the  peer  burds 

pursuin' 

I  ne'er  seed  yen  harryt,  but  sair  it  vext  me  ; 
In  summer,   noo   doukin ;    noo  catchin  Tom- 
Beagles*— 
O,  sheame,  that  young  creeters  thus  cruel  sud 

be! 
In  harvest  we'd  brummel-keytes,  when  it  grew 

frosty 
Crabs,  choups,  haws,  nuts,  bleaberries,  sleeas 

forby  ; 
In  winter  the  spwort  daily  wish'd  for,  was  sley- 

din, 
Tho',  shiv'rin'  we  oft  gat  a  sad  penny -pie. 

Neest,  caught  by  a  blossom,  luive  oft  fires  the 

bwosom, 
An  seeghs,   dreams    an   ^lenteynes  rest   oft 

destroys  ; 
"What,  she's  got  a  none-such  !  an  he's  tean  an 

angel ! " 
"  Aye  !  luive's  the  foundation  o'  leyfe's  purest 

joys!" 
Tho'  plishure  noo  greets  them,  yet  luive  offen 

cheats  them 

An  leads  some  to  mis'ry,  ambition,  an  preyde  ; 
Mey  dear  !  an,  mey  darlin  !  oft  changes  to  snar- 

lin — 
Queyte  happy  if  Deeth  wad  the  couple  diveyde. 

Oh  !  lasses,  be  merry  ! — But  iver  be  wary  ! 

Think  weel  ere  ye  venture  to  haud  oot  a  han  ! 
Oh  !   lads,  aye  be  chcerfu'  !   but  noo  and  then 

fearfu', 

For  reed  cheeks  an  feyn'ry  a  heart  can  tra- 
pan  ! 

*  Tom-Beagle=The  Cockchafer. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  175 

By  gudness  or  beauty,  if  won  dui  yer  duty ; 

Aye  seek  to  gain  mortals  by  feelin  an  truth, 
If  wealthy  an  healthy  ;    bent  duble  by  truble, 

We  aw  mun  reflect  on  the  sweet  days  o'  youth ! 


THE    NONE-SUCH. 
TUNE — "  The  colliers  bonny  dowter." 

Ther  com  a  Lass  to  oor  toon, 

Yung,  cheerfu,  1  sh  an  bonny  ; 
The  lads  they  aw  thrang  roun'  her-  - 

She  hes  her  choice  ov  onie : 
Whea  knows  her  mun  adore  her, 

This  maisterpiece  o'  nature ; 
Wi'  sec  a  feace  an  sec  a  greace, 

She  seems  nae  mortal  creatuie. 

Her  lips  aye  cry,  "Come,  kiss  me  !' 

Her  cheeks  ne'er  hed  marrows  ; 
Her  dimpl'd  chin  a  saint  meeght  win, 

Her  een  are  Cupid's  arrows  : 
Hand  up  a  rush-leeght  to  the  sun  ; 

Sae  seems  our  greatest  beauty, 
Compar'd  wi'  her  that  meks  us  aw 

Forgetfu  ov  oor  duty. 

Her  voice  is  harmony  complete : 

Her  sangs  aye  nail  the  senses  ; 
The  envy  ov  aw  lasses  roun, 

She  pruives  whene'er  she  dances  ; 
To  sing  the  praise  o'  yen  unmatch'd, 

Is  spwortin  wi'  Jove's  thunder, 
For  Nature  swore  at  Kitty's  birth 

She'd  shew  the  warld  a  wonder. 

Ye  lasses  feyne  thro'  Cumbria, 

Gae  heyde  yer  common  feaces  ! 
It's  oft  your  art  that  wins  a  heart, 

Wi'  monie  wanton  greaces. 
Ye  merry  chaps  thro'  Cumbria, 

If  here  ye  come  be  wary, 
A  single  luik  will  thirl  ye  thro  ; 

A  single  word  ensnare  ye ! 


i/6  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

THE    CRAM;    OR,    NICHOL    AN    CUDDY. 
TUNE — "  The  night  before  Larry  was  stretch'd." 

"  Come,  Cuddy  !  swat  doon,  teake  a  whiff  ; 
I  seed  thee  creep  up  the  geate,  hobblin  ; 

Thoo's  rich  tho'  bent  double  wi'  yage  ; 
I's  peer,  day  an  neet  mini  sit  cobblin  ; 

Ye  aul  fwok  ay  leyke  to  hear  news — 
They've  hed  a  gran  Ball,  fer  peer  bodies  ; 

'Twas  held  at  Lword  Bultrout's  new  Lodge, 
Ther  was  Blues,  Yellows,  wise-men  an  noddies. 


"  Aa  Cuddy !  It  beggars  aw  description  !  The 
barn  (I  mean  the  spacious  salloon)  was  worne- 
mented  leyke  a  palace ;  hung  roun  wi'  picters 
ov  dandies,  feghtin,  russlin,  lowpin,  an  this 
that  an  tudder ;  wi'  she-dandies,  leyke  a  string 
ov  pokers  weerin  ass-buird  bonnets  an  heaps  o' 
flow'rs,  sec  as  niver  grew  on  the  weyde  lap  ov 
aul  nature.  Pentet  by  heelanmen,  Welshmen,  an 
manksmen ;  oor  far-fam'd,  silly-brated  daubers 
o"  the  canvass.  Fer  fear  feyne  nebs  sud  be 
suffycated  wi't  smell  o'  vulgar  tallow,  the  shan- 
delerios  wer  stuck  wid  the  scented  luminaries  ; 
forby  festoons  o'  blue,  purple,  and  yellow  lamps, 
big  as  fuz-baws.  The  silk  an  velvet  carpet  was 
duin  by  an  engenivus  chap,  efter  studdyin  fower- 
teen  years  at  Bot'ny  Bay.  Teables,  chairs  an  furms 
wer  aw  meade  ov  pattent-kest-metal-mahogany : 
as  fer  fenders,  tengs  an  pors,  they  wer  aw  gran  gowd 
an  siller,  brong  frae — Naebody  kens  whoar  !  " — 

"Aye,  aye,  Nick!  Monstrous  gran  wark !  It 
wad  be  a  famish  doui ! — Gang  on !  trot  on ! 
gallop  on  !  " 

"  Hut,  Cuddy  !  this  warl's  but  a  show 
Whoar  hawf-wits  er  wheedelt  by  kneav'ry — 

What's  grandeur  an  preyde  ?— Nowt  at  aw  I 
Just  meent  to  fling  fuils  into  slavery  !  " 

Peer  bodies  hev  offen  queer  neames  ; 
Kings,  yeris,  bishops,  nit  mickle  better  ; 

Nee  wonder  they  change  them  sae  oft. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  177 


An  noo  an  then    leek  in  a  letter  ! 

We're  cawt  efter  men,  beasts  and  burds, 
Fish,  insecs,  toons,  streets,  woods  an  watters, 

Rocks,  mountains,  hills,  meedows  an  glens, 
Barns,  byres — Fwok  may  laugh  at  sec  matters  ! 

"  Aa,  Cuddy !  Beseydes  aw  maks  ov  nowbles, 
theer  was  reet  an  left  honorables.  Nobbet  lissen. 
Judge  Sumph  and  the  twee  Miss  Judges  ;  Guverner 
Gobblemuck  an  Leady  Killgrief  ;  General  Gossip 
an  Madam  Brekshins  ;  Cornel  Wagstaff  an  Mistress 
Maypowl ;  Major  Meyte  an  Miss  Shrimp  ;  Captain 
Flaycrow  an  Miss  Wasp ;  Comodore  Collop  an 
Miss  Jollop ;  Alderman  Turtle  an  Miss  Pancake  ; 
then  theer  was  Lawyer  Botherum,  Doctor  Duinee- 
gud.  Parson  Tytheaw  ;  Justice  Muckworm,  Squire 
Brainless,  Obadiah  Breadebrim,  the  whaker  ;  Ben- 
jymin  Backsleyder  the  methody,  Mistress  Hogsflesh, 
the  mountain  o'  fat  ;  Widow  Thunderbum,  the 
she-giant  ;  Miss  Nettle  wid  her  gimlick  e'e  ; 
Miss  Dockin,  nobbet  fourscwore  an  seebem  ;  Mister 
Walloper  an  Miss  Hedgehog ;  Maister  Bucktuith 
an  Teadeater ;  Miss  Cowscairn,  Miss  Miredrum, 
Miss  Durtygutter  and  Miss  Catoninetails  : — hoo 
monie  mair — Nay  what — neabody  kens ! ' ' 

"  Aye,  aye,  Nick  !  Monstrous  girt  fwok,  an 
bonny  sweet  neames  ! — Gang  on  !  trot  on  !  gal 
lop  on  ! " 

"Shaff,  Cuddy  !  this  warl's  but  a  show  !  &c." 

Aye  music  this  weyde  warl  can  please  ; 
Leyke  talkin  foriver  it  varies  ; 

Scotch  Bullocks,  weyld  beasts  it  can  charm, 
Peer  hawf-wits  an  larn'd  negmagaries  : 

It  meakes  monie  laugh,  others  cry  ; 
It  's  music  some  say,  when  yen's  gowling  ; 

Queyte  sweet  to  hear  fellows'  sharp  saws  ; 
Deleytefu  to  lissen  storms  howlin  ! 


"  Aa,  Cuddy!  what  they'd  nae  scartin  ont' 
Scotch  fiddle  :  nea,  nea  !  it's  owre  common,  weel 
thoo  kens.  Theer  was  cow-whorns  an  jew- trumps, 


178  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


narrow-beanes  an  cleavers  ;  keale  pots  an  la 
dles  ;  saut-boxes  an  thivels  ;  pewder-plates  an 
trenchers ;  burd-cage  an  fork  ;  tengs  an  sailer- 
key  ;  forby  barrel  an  mellet.— They  played, 
Frev  a  craddle  tull  a  craddle  ;  Priscilla  wid  her 
speckets  on  ;  Cuckol,  come  oot  o'  the  amrie  ;  Archy 
let  the  lasses  aleane  ;  Whor  mun  oor  gudman  lie  ; 
Shins  aboot  the  fire-seyde  ;  Cleanin  oot  the  back- 
seyde  ;  Be  whiet  else  I'll  bray  thee;  Judy  git  thee 
beard  shav'd  ;  Absalem  hingin  by  his  hair ;  The 
left-handet  sleater ;  The  priest '  an  his  buits ; 
The  wheyte  blackmuir  ;  Salmon  an  dumplin ; 
Pow'rs  o'  buttermilk  ;  Lumps  o'  puddin ;  Bran 
dy  poddish ;  Teane  abuin  tudder  ;  Heytey  tey- 
tey  ;  Wallop  away  ;  Habbermenab  ;  Durty  gully  ; 
an — Nay  what — neabody  kens  !  " 

"Aye,  aye,  Nick!  monstrous  neyce  music! 
Car  el  Ban  niver  cud  play  sec !  Gang  on  !  trot 
on  !  gallop  on  !  " 

Wey,  Cuddy ;  this  warl's  but  a  show,  &c. 

Now  dancin's  the  hick-shew  ov  preyde 
That  havrels  are  iver  pursuin  ; 

'Twer  wise  just  to  set  it  aseyde 
It's  brong  monie  thoosans  to  ruin  ; 

The  warl's  but  a  weyl  country  dance, 
Whoar  aw  caper  teane  ageane  tudder — 

Girt  Newton  an  chaps  gud  as  him, 
Nae  wonder  they  laugh  at  sec  bodder  ! 

"Aa,  Cuddy!  They'd  jigs,  reels,  flings,  strath 
speys,  whorn-pepes,  cwotilons,  minnywhits,  coun 
try  dances,  dandy-walses,  an  whadreels.  Sec 
steps,  min !  yen- twee-three,  habbety-nabbety, 
ledder-te-patch,  heel  an  tae,  cross  the  buckle, 
gie  me  thy  daddle,  roun-roun-roun,  seydlin- 
seydlin,  an  kiss  an  coddle.  Aul  Squire  Gout 
an  a  wood-leggt  statesman  led  off  the  hall  in  im 
itation  of  Catty  baw  Indians,  to  the  tune  o' 
"The  Savage  Dance.  Wuns!  sec  a  caper  ne'er 
was  seen,  sin  fadder  Adam  shekt  his  cleuts  wid 
his  owre-bearin  rib  in  the  garden.  Our  clod- 
powls,  on  kitchen  an  barn  fleers,  move  leyke 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  179 


tips  in  tedders,  or  houns  at  faut  ;  wheyle  pantin 
husseys  scamper  an  put  yen  i'  meynd  ov  scared 
coos  in  a  meedow.  Sairy  things  !  owre  muckle 
wark  in  byres  an  sweyne-hulls,  peet  mosses  an 
muck  middens.  Girt  grandees,  reart  on  het-beds 
ov  fashion  can  lowp  leyke  larks ;  whur  roun 
leyke  Tom  Tully's  an  dui  owt ;  what  they're  aw 
Donises,  Hebys,  Venuses — Nay  what  neabody  kens 
wheel " 

"  Aye,  aye !  Monstrous  feyne  fidgin !  nimbnel 
as  fleas !  I'll  hod  a  penny  Wully  Haw  cuddent 
hop  leyke  them  ! — Gang  on  !  trot  on  !  gallop  on!  " 

"Shaf,  Cuddy!   this  warl's  but  a  show,"  &c. 

Neest,  singin  leyke  monie  things  else, 
Frae  hee  an  low,  care  it  oft  cheases ; 

True  pictures  aw  sangsters  sud  pent — 
Owre  monie  puir  scribblers  disgreaces  ; 

Thro'  preyde,  have,  gain,  ignorance,  meade. 
They  cause  a  laugh,  fun  an  vexation ; 

Wer  sangs  but  leyke  weather,  still  gud, 
How  happy  'twad  pruive  to  the  nation  ! 

"  Aa,  Cuddy  !  What  they'd  recitativos,  cranzin- 
ettos,  fandangios,  allegrettos,  affettuosos,  duettos, 
roratorios,  uprorios,  rondos,  trios,  solos,  airios  an 
polackios ;  then  ther  was  sangs,  glees,  catches, 
ditties,  rigmarowls,  lamentations,  burleskews,  vol- 
enteynes,  ippitaphs,  'nigmas,  rebuses,  an  riddles  ; 
but  nin  o'  thur  aul  eight-page  ditties  et  hugger- 
muggerers  sec  as  us  er  fworc'd  to  lissen  tui. 
When  upstart  pinks  o'  fashion  wi  pentet  chops 
an  far  fetch'd  cleedin,  sing  noo-a-days,  fwok  hear 
the  crunin ;  but  deil  a  word  !  Yen  sang  sae  low 
he  cuddent  be  heard.  Anudder  rwoar'd  sae  hee 
he  splat  the  ceilin !  Senior  Rockatoo  wid  his 
famish  fire-works  brunt  the  heale  onset,  but  did 
nea  mischief. — Mynheer  Van  Seyper  the  dutch 
Juggler,  luggt  out  the  sword  worn  by  Bonny 
when  he  left  Eygpt ;  he  danct  on't  an  cut  a 
squire's  heed  off.  Squire  laught  an  bade  him 
clap' t  on  ageane ;  wey,  he  did  sae  in  far  less 
nor  nae  teyrne  !  Sec  things  er  duin — Nay  what — 
neabody  kens  hoo!" 


i8o  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


"  Aye,  aye,  Nick  !  Monstrous  feyne  tricks  an 
sangs. — Sec  wonders  wad  draw  girt  flocks  to  the 
Carel  Play  hoose  ! — Gang  on  !  trot  on  !  gallop  on  ! " 

"Aye,  Cuddy!    the  warl's  but  a  show,"  &c. 


Nae  glowrin  or  grumblin  was  theer; 
Xae  dunchin  or  f  rat  chin  or  feghtin, 

Nae  nasty  sangs,  codlen  an  stuff, 
Owre  monie  teake  daily  deleyte  in  : 

Stampt  rules  wer  hung  up  at  the  duir ; 
Our  lanl words  '11  hae  them,  nae  fear  on't  ! 

How  muckle  they  geddert  for't  puir 
Just  caw  to-mworn-neet  an  thoo's  hear  on't ! 


Aa,  Cuddy!  Rule  the  ist  says,  Nowther  dogs  or 
Liv'rey  Sarvents  wer  to  be  admitted  into  Lword 
Bultrout's  Lodge ! — 2nd  Ladies  smuikin  or  chowin 
owther  pig-tail  or  shag-'bacco,  wer  to  be  sent  off 
to  Coventry! — 3rd  Gentlemen  wer  to  boo  the 
heed,  widin  hawf  a  fit  o'  the  carpet,  an  to  meynd 
an  screape  wi'  beath  feet  togidder  I — 4th  Ladies 
curcheyin,  wer  just  to  lowp  a  yard  hee,  or  else 
hae  their  gayters  poud  off! — 5th  to  prevent 
wickedness,  aw  wer  to  leave  their  sweerrin  tackle 
at  heame,  or  be  feyn'd  a  soveriegn  an  kickt 
out ! — 6th  Onie  yen  givin  annuder  the  lee  nine 
teymes  in  a  minute,  to  hev  just  as  monie  tnock- 
doon  blows ! — 7th  Onie  yen  yawnin  wi'  t'  jaws 
nine  inches  asunder  or  mair,  to  be  doukt  in  the 
horse  pon,  an  lig  theer  nine  hours ! — 8th  Onie  yen 
stealin  weyne,  cordials,  piggin  bottoms  or  owt 
else,  to  be  advertised,  as  queyte  unfit  fer  poleyte 
society  ! — pth  Onie  yen  talkin  about  politics  (except 
he  wer  nobbet  dum),  to  be  expwosed  to  guver- 
ment ! — loth  Onie  yen  eatin  the  weyte  ov  his  sel 
or  drinking  far  mair  than  eneugh,  to  abeyde  by 
the  consequences! — nth  Aw  Leadies  to  com  be- 
weshed — be-cwom'd— be-ringleted — be-beaded— be- 
scented — an  be-locketed  ;  feaces  to  be  be-smuir'd 
wi'  cream  o'  violets,  an  tnockles  be-plaister'd  wid 
oil  ov  marcury  ! — Noo,  Cuddy,  ther  may  be  monie 
mair  sec  Balls ;  but  nay  what — neabcdy  kens 
when  !  " 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  181 


"  Aye,  aye  Nick  !  Monstrous  gud  rules  !  what 
they  wad  gedder  a  sheaf  o'  mvotes  big  as  a  hay 
stack,  fer  the  puir  fwok  I  whop  ! — Gang  on !  trot 
on  I  gallop  on  !  " 

"  Nay,  Cuddy  !  this  watTs  but  a  show  ; 
Whoar  hawf-wits  are  wheedelt  by  kneav'ry  ; 

What's  grandeur  an  preyde  ? — Nowt  at  aw, 
Just  meent  to  fling  fuils  into  slav'ry  ! 


LUIVE-LWORN    BESS. 
TUNE— "  Ettrick  Banks." 

O,  Jenny  !  partner  ov  ilk  joy, 

Thoo  ne'er  did  yence  my  trust  betray  ; 
On  thee,  sweet  lass  !  I  can  rely, 

Then  lissen  mey  sad  teale  o1  wae  ; 
An  share  the  grief  o'  luive-lworn  Bess — 

The  tears  noo  frae  my  een  oft  start ; 
But  friendship  soon  may  sooth  distress, 

An  pity  heal  the  painfu'  heart. 

Oft  thee  an  me,  sae  fond  and  true, 

Hae  join'd  in  spworts  beath  far  an  near  ; 
When  lads  and  lasses  met,  nae  few, 

An  to  the  lave  we  aye  wer  dear  ; 
I  happy  leev'd  in  oor  low  cot, 

Mey  puir  aul  mudder  fain  to  please  ; 
But  noo,  O  lass  !  false  luive's  mey  lot, 

Nae  mair  I  whop  fer  joy  or  ease. 

'Twas  nit  young  Jemmy's  hoose  an  Ian 

That  wan  this  gueyleless  heart  o'  meyne 
His  smeylin  luik  nin  cud  withstan — 

To  luive,  owre  monie  aye  incleyne  ! 
'Twas  here,  we  monie  teyme  wad  meet, 

To  see  me,  O,  he  seem'd  queyte  fain  ! 
Sweet  flew  the  hours  by  day  or  neet, 

But  yen  mair  rich  he  now  hes  taen  ! 


1 82  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Nae  mair  will  I  be  heard  to  sing  ; 

Nae  mair  thro'  leyfe  e'er  cheerfu'  pruive  ; 
For  whop  to  me  nae  joys  can  bring, 

Tir'd  o*  this  warl  sin  cross 'd  in  luive  ; 
I  daily  leeve  mey  mudder's  cot, 

An  weepin  sit  aneath  this  tree  ; 
Ilk  fawin'  leaf  aye  paints  mey  lot — 

Ilk  seegh  forbodes  ;  I'll  follow  thee  ! 


ANNE. 
TUNE— "Hollow  Fair." 

Wheyle  numbers  hunt  roun  fer  neyce  lasses, 

What  numbers  hed  better  see  neane  ; 
Shut  oot  frae  friens  and  forgotten, 

I  daily  can  gaze  upo'  yen  ; 
Her  feace  beams  wi'  gudness  an  beauty, 

Her  heart  let  nae  mortal  trapan  ; 
To  gie  worth  its  praise  is  oor  duty, 

Then  let  me  dui  justice  to  Anne. 


She's  fair  as  the  flowers  i'  the  meedow  ; 

She's  blithe  as  the  lamb  on  the  lea  ; 
To  toil  away  teyme  is  her  phishure, 

Nae  mortal  frae  preyde  is  mair  free. 
She  laughs  at  the  playthings  o'  folly  ; 

To  dui  as  aw  sud,  is  her  plan ; 
A  squire  wid  a  keynd  heart  and  plenty, 

May  gain  a  true  partner  in  Anne. 


Luive  leads  monie  thoosands  to  greatness, 

To  comfort,  the  wealthy  an  low  ; 
Luive  sinks  monie  thoosans  to  ruin, 

An  meks  leyfe  a  dull  scene  o'  woe  : 
O'  pity  gud  lasses  sud  suffer, 

Won  by  the  foul  flatt'ty  o'  man  ! 
Be  sorrow  his  lot  whea  wad  offer 

To  torture  the  feeling  ov  Anne  ! 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  183 


Wheyle  virtue  sal  gueyde  ev'ry  action, 

Ne'er  yence  may  she  boo  to  dull  care  ! 
When  Luive  throws  the  ring  on  her  finger, 

The  sweets  o'  this  warl  may  she  share  ! 
When  yage  on  her  feace  plants  a  wrinkle, 

An  rwoses  o'  beauty  turn  wan, 
May  Happiness  be  her  companion, 

Nor  Poverty  e'er  frown  on  Anne  ! 


MISTRESS     CREAKE'S    TEA    PARTY, 

TUNE—  "Jack  o'  Latten." 

"  Sin  we're  aw  met  a  reet  neyce  set, 

Fie,  Dolly  bring  in  t'  kettle  ! 
Set  oot  caul  lam  ;  broil  bits  ov  ham  ; 

Heaste  !  shew  thoo's  meade  o'  mettle  !  " 
"  Here's  butter-sops,  an  curran-keakes  ;  " 

"  Aa !  better  niver  crost  us  !  " 
"What,  cheese  as  sweet  as  e'er  was  eat  " — 

A  groat  a  pun  that  cost  us  !  " 

That's  famish  tea!"  — "It  'grees  wi'  me" — 

"  I's  fasht  wi'  win  fer  iver  ! " 
Aa,  Mistress  Creak,  that's  monstrous  ham; 

What,  sarvent  Dolly's  cliver  !  " 
Ay,  Greace,  she  is  ;  but  dunnet  neame't ; 

She's  far  owre  fon  o'  men-fowk  !  " 
"  Ne'er  ak!  puir  thing,  she'll  tire  o'  that " — 

"  Hut!  she's  owre  young  to  ken  fwok  !  " 

"Nay,     dunnet     fratch  !  " — "Wey,     Mistress 
Creake, 

It's  nobbet  lees  they're  tellin  ; 
The  purson's  always  fair  an  true, 

Some  fwok  disarve  a  fellin  !  " 
"  Be  duin  !    Shek  hans  an  murry  be 

Sec  weyl  wark  pruives  provwokin, 
What,  if  ye'd  fught,  I'd  felt  the  twee — 

Aye  laugh — I's  nobbet  jwokin  !  " 


1 84  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

"  Here,  Dicky  darlin  !   sugger  teake  ; 

Hut,  shaf  !   he  luiks  queyte  shy  on't !  " 
"  Whee  iver  seed  sec  legs  an  thies  ? 

Wey,  Dick  '11  pruive  a  giant !  " 
"  Theer's  f adder  nwose,  an  mudder'  mooth  I  '* 

"  Nay,  divvent  gowl  lal  pritty  ! 
Thoo's  torn  mey  apron  ! — Mudder,  here, 

Let  Richard  hev  some  titty  ! " 

"  We've  sent  lal  Wulliam  off  to  schuil ; 

What,  he  kens  aw  his  letters  ; 
An  doffs  his  cap  as  fwok  sud  dui, 

Whene'er  they  meet  their  betters." 
"  That  cream's  owre  rich  " — "  A  room  sae  neyce, 

Nae  decent  fwok  can  sit  in  !  " 
"  Ay,  luik  at'  clock  an  kist  o'  drores  " — 

"What,  theer's  a  box  to  spit  in ! " 

"  Sec  tengs  an  por,  nin  iver  seed, 

They  sheyne  as  breet  as  siller ! " 
"  They  cost  us  eight-pence  ;  they  wer  bowt 

O'  deef  aul  Keatie  Miller." 
"  Here's  Whuttinton  !  Aa,  Lunnon  May'r, 

Sec  picters  theer's  nit  menny  " — 
•'  What  Robin  Huid,  an  leytle  Jwohn  "- 

"  That  cost  us  nar  a  penny  !  " 

"  Aa  !  paper's  fou  ov  famish  news  ; 

The  king's  thrown  by  aw  taxes" — 
"  Then  cworn,  the  preyce  '11  suin  be  threyce, 

What  noo-a-days  yen  axes"- 
"  Is  that  queyte  true ?  "-  -"Sae  Nichol  says " — 

"  O,  Mar  get  ne'er  believe  him  ; 
Twee  glasses  meks  him  lee  aw  neet, 

But  nin  can  e'er  deceive  him  ! " 


"  Our  girt  dog  bit  lal  Judy'  leg, 

I'  t'  croft  as  bairds  wer  laikin  " — 
"  Aa,  sairy  thing  1  she  mun  be  bad  !  " 

"  Ay,  aw  her  beanes  er  aikin  !  " 
"  Ann,  git  cow-scairn,  an  chammerley, 

Nowt  meks  a  pultess  better  ; 
Then  reesty  bacon  she  mun  eat, 

But  owt  else  divvent  let  her  1  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  185 


*'  Wey,  Mistress  Creake  we've  bed  rare  tea 

The  best  yen  e'er  sat  down  tui  !  " 
"  Aye  !  what  four  shillin  mun  be  gud  ; 

I  gat  it  i'  the  town  tui  !  " 
"  Come,  ah-ah,  Tommy  !  that's  mey  man  ! 

Here  Dolly  !  bring  some  san  in — 
Hut  !  fidgin  thing  !  at  muddy's  breest, 

Him  wants  to  hev  his  han  in  !  " 


"  Now  sin'  we've  aw  got  fou  wi'  tea, 

Heaste,  Dolly  clear  the  teable — 
That  whusky  nar  three  shillin  cost  ; 

Let's  cowpt  off  wheyle  w^'re  yeable  !  " 
"  Here's  husbans  comin,  yen  an  aw  " — 

"  We're  yet  at  tea  they're  thinkin  " — 
Whup  roun  the  glass  !  they  ne'er  sud  tnow 

That  weyves  er  fon  o'  drinkin  !  " 


O,  weyves,  an  lasses  !  teake  adveyce, 

If  neybors  wheyles  inveyte  ye, 
Let  fratchin,  drinkin,  noise,  an  preyde, 

Ne'er  yence  thro'  leyfe  deleyte  ye. 
Teaste  holsome  liquor,  decent  yell, 

Wish  health  to  yen  anudder  ; 
But  leein,  sland'rin,  ne'er  can  feale 

Aw  happiness  to  smudder  ! 


186  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

THE   LILY    O'    THE    VALLEY. 
TUNE — "  Sally  in  our  Alley." 

Her  neybor's  joy,  her  ladder's  preyde. 

Her  mudder's  greatest  blessin  : 
In  yon  sraaw  cottage  leev'd  a  lass, 

Ilk  winnin  greace  possessin  : 
How  monie  a  lad  wad  sing  the  praise 

Ov  bloomin  f air-hair 'd  Sally  ! 
For  she  was  caw'd  by  aul  an  young, 

The  Lily  o'  the  Valley. 


Young  Wulliam  pruiv'd  the  envied  youth, 

Her  heart's  true  preyde  an  treasure  ; 
Amang  his  flocks  whene'er  he  stray'd, 

Queyte  fain  beyond  aw  measure, 
He'd  frae  the  hill-top  seegh  an  gaze, 

An  watch  an  pray  for  Sally, 
An  gedder  flow'rs,  sec  as  wad  please 

His  "  Lily  o'  the  Valley." 


Her  fav'rite  lam  ae  mworn  he  saw, 

Entangelt  i'  the  river  ; 
To  seave  the  charge  he  ventur'd  deep, 

But  beath  wer  lost  forever  : 
She  watch' d  aw  day,  an  on  the  hill 

In  vain  ran  seeghin  Sally — 
At  neet  some  neybors  weepin  brong — 

His  corp  along  the  Valley. 


She  saw,  she  shriek' d  but  cuddent  weep 

She  fell  queyte  robb'd  ov  reason  ; 
Sin  that  hawf-clad,  wi'  crazy  luik, 

She  heeds  nae  stormy  season  ; 
She  laughs,  she  sings,  her  ditties  weyld, 

An  when  f  wok  luik  at  Sally, 
The  aul  an  young  will  sighin  say, 

"  Peer  Lily  ov  the  Valley    '; 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  187 

THE  APPROACH  O'  WINTER. 

TUNE — "  Loch  Errock  side." 

The  blust'rin  breeze,  the  leafless  trees  ; 
The  flow'rless  gardens,  meedows,  leas  : 
The  reedbreests  hoppin,  crums  to  seize, 
Now  tell  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 

Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy  smeyles  o'  Spring, 
When  weyld  burds  wanton  on  the  wing  ; 
The  will  o'  God  aye  gud  can  bring, 

Then  welcome  !  welcome,  Winter  ! 

The  low'rin  clouds,  the  fell's  dark  frown  ; 
The  flocks  frae  hills  to  glen  driv'n  down  : 
The  tremlin  peer,  throughout  the  town, 
Now  tell  the  approach  o'  Winter  ! 
Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy,  &c. 


The  shworten'd  day  ;  the  bleezin  fire  ; 
The  turnpeykes  deep,  wi'  wet  an  mire  ; 
The  glitt'rin  gas  ;  top-cwoated  squire, 
Now  tell  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 
Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy,  &c. 


The  nestless  throssle,  lennet,  lark  ; 
The  watters  spreedin,  deep  an  dark  ; 
The  whey-feac'd  laborers,  out  o'  wark, 
Now  tell  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 
Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy,  &c. 

The  bees  confeyn'd  ;  the  hares  oft  taen, 
The  cworn-creakes,  cuckoos,  swallows  geane 
The  cwoals,  peets,  selt  by  monie  a  yen, 
Now  tell  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 
Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy,  &c. 


The  pourin  rains,  sae  oft  we  hear  ; 
The  clwoaks  an  clogs,  on  rich  an  peer  ; 
The  dresses  seen,  some  fain  wad  weer, 
Now  tell  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 
Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy,  &c. 


1 88  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Leyfe's  varyin  seasons  aw  mun  share  ; 
Some  rapt  in  joy,  some  sunk  in  care  ; 
His  suff'rins  man  sud  patient  bear, 
An  hail  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 
Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy,  &c. 

In  youth  we're  won  by  luive  an  preyde  ; 
In  manhood  folly's  oft  our  gueyde  ; 
It's  wise  to  fling  sec  cares  aseyde, 
An  hail  th'  approach  o'  Winter  ! 

Tho'  sweet  the  rwosy  smeyles  o'  Spring, 
When  weyld  burds  wanton  on  the  wing 
The  will  ov  God  aye  gud  can  bring, 
Then  welcome,  welcome,  Winter. 


WHEN  SHALL  WE  MEET  AGEANE. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

O,  sec  a  kiss  I  gat  yestreen, 

Frae  yen  I  darna  neame  ! 
An  sec  a  luik  frae  twee  black  een 

As  set  me  in  a  flame  ! 
For  sec  a  luik,  an  sec  a  kiss 

A  saint  meeght  quit  his  cell  ; 
An  on  sec  happy  hours  ov  bliss, 

Ay  mem'ry  pleas'd  mun  dwell. 

The  partridge  wail'd  his  absent  mate  : 

The  owlet  sowt  his  prey  ; 
The  Eden  murmur'd  at  our  feet, 

When  by  mey  seyde  she  lay  ; 
The  siller  muin  a  witness  shone  ; 

Nowt  nar  us  seave  the  kye  ; 
But,  O,  nae  man  the  muin  shone  on, 

Mair  happy  was  than  I  ! 

We  talkt  o'  monie  a  joyfu  hour, 
Sin  furst  her  feace  I  tnew  ; 

A  feace  as  fair  as  onie  flow'r, 
That  e'er  in  garden  grew  ; 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  189 


I  prais'd  her  shape,  she  sang  o'  luive, 

A  sang  to  me  aye  dear  ; 
If  leyfe  a  scene  ov  woe  may  pruive, 

Aye  luive  the  meynd  may  cheer  ! 

Thou  lazy  hated  day,  flee  fast  ; 

Luive  shuns  thy  leet  an  thee  ; 
Heaste,  welcome  eve  !  gie  labour  rest, 

An  bring  the  lass  to  me  ! 
For  when  she  tore  hersel  away, 

I  fan  her  heart  mey  ain  : 
An  wi'  a  luik  she  seemt  to  say, 

When  shall  we  meet  ageane  ? 


JACK  AN  TOM. 
TUNE — "  Since  love  is  the  plan." 

O,  Tom,  to  sup  sorrow  will  dui  nae  yen  gud, 
An  care  when  we  teaste  it,  pruives  poisonous  food 
Thou  hes  plenty,  an  I's  but  a  peer  sarvent  man, 
Then  why  sud  thoo  freet  at  the  froun  o  lal  Nan  ? 


"  O  Jack,  hod  thy  bodder  !  I  can't  sleep  a  wink 
I  tummel  in  bed  an  I  wheyne,  an  I  think  ; 
Theer's  twee  o'  ye  keynd  as  a  cock  an  a  hen — 
I'd  gie  aw  I's  worth  fer  a  lass  leyke  thy  Jen  !  " 


"  O  Tom,  nobbet  gie  me  a  fiel  an  twee  kye, 

An  a  hantel  o'  siller  some  cleedin  to  buy  ; 

Thoo's  hev  yan,   that's  weel  shept,   larn'd,   bonny 

an  aw, 
Wi'  twee  rwosy  cheeks,  an  a  skin  wheyte  as  snaw  !  " 


"  O  Jack  !  it's  a  bargain — come  tell  me  her  neame  ; 
Can    she    sing  ?  can    she    dance  ?  will    she    mek    a 

gud  deame, 

I'll  teake  her  to  kurk,  if  I  leeve  ere  ten  days — 
I's  marry,  an  Nan  sal  nae  mair  hae  mey  praise  !  " 


190  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  O,    Tom  !  thy    awn    Nancy's    the    neyce    lass    I 

sell, 
She   leyke's    thee    far    better   nor    tongue  e'er   can 

tell  : 

It's   nobbet  her  schemin,   thy  fondness   to  pruive, 
Say  anudder  thoo's  won,   an  she'll  then  shew  her 

luive." 

"  O,  Jack  ! — Here's  a  hantel  o'  siller  for  thee — 
I'll  try  her  to  neet — Aa  !  how  sulky  I'll  be  ! 
An  bwoast  o'  some  udder,  an  say  aw  I  can — 
See,    yonder    she    comes,    lad  ! — Fareweel  !  I'll    to 
Nan  !  " 


TO  CRITO. 
TUNE — "  Woo'd  an  married  an  a'." 

Come,  Crito  !  dear  frien  o'  my  bwosom, 

An  crack  wi'  peer  Robby  a  wheyle  ; 
Wer  I  at  Deeth's  duir,  broken  hearted, 

Thy  visit  wad  caw  forth  a  smeyle  : 
Let's  luik,  think,  read,  talk  about  aw  maks, 

But  ne'er  to  ambition  yence  bow  ; 
Let's  scribble  to  please  monie  roun  us — 

The  warl's  turn'd  a  wilderness  now  ! 


I  meynd  when  we  furst  met,  dear  Crito  ! 

Fwok  welcom'd  wi'  smeyles,  thee  an  me, 
But  O,  what  sad  changes  man  suffers, 

Sec  days  we  can  ne'er  whop  to   see  ! 
Then  Plenty  led  monie  to  plishure, 

That  Poverty  now  hes  laid  low  ; 
O,  wer  but  content  ilk  yen's  treasure, 

'Till  welcome  deeth  gies  him  a  caw  ! 


Aul  Englan's  bow'd  down  by  Oppression 
Trade's  left  us  scairce  e'er  to  return  ; 

Ov  aw  that  can  comfort  the  wretched, 
Owre  few  fer  distress  e'er  will  mourn  ! 


THE     BANKS    O'     THE     LEYNE. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  191 


Luik  roun  amang  neyborin  farmers, 
Base  tyranny  monie  mun  bear  ; 

The  reets  o'  puir  fwok  are  but  laught  at, 
An  bwoasted  laws  pruive  owre  severe  ! 

O,  Crito  !  if  whopes  they  mud  cherish, 

'Twad  mek  millions  merry  to  day  ; 
But  frae  the  peer  hard-workin  bodies, 

Leyf e's  comforts  er  aw  sweept  away  ! 
It's  painfu  to  think  ov  our  country, 

An  turn  to  the  yence  happy  teymes  ; 
Industry  bade  decent  fwok  flourish — 

Starvation  now  leads  them  to  creymes  ! 

Some  lawyers  cheat  peer  fwok  for  ever  ; 

Some  doctors  mek  puzzen  fer  pay  : 
Some  priests  get  owre  mickle  fer  readin, 

An  fuil'ry  oft  shew  when  they  pray  ; 
Some  squires  think,  ay  bwoast  o'  seduction. 

But  leyle  wi'  peer  suff  rers  will  share — 
Dear  lasses  ! — They  hurl  to  destruction  ; 

Ov  sec  wheedlin  sinners  beware  ! 

Dear  Crito  !  We'll  turn  frae  thur  pictures. 

An  praise  aw  that  wish  to  dui  gud  ; 
Ay,  thousans  seave  thousans  frae  ruin, 

An  fin  fer  the  peer,  as  aw  sud  ! 
Cud  we  rammel  the  weyde  warl,  we'd  daily, 

Wi'  sorrow  hear  Poverty's  cry — 
Aye  blest  be  the  fwok  in  ilk  country 

That  mis'ry's  sad  tear  fain  wad  dry  ; 

Thou  charms  the  larn'd  fwok  in  aw  quarters 


Thy  preyde  is,  to  gaze  on  woods,  watters  ; 

I's  boxt  up  a  slave  i'  the  town  ; 
Frae  swinlin  base  neybors,  thou's  suffer'd 

I's  peer,  an  scairce  frienship  can  own. 

How  oft  by  sweet  scenery  surrounded. 
We've  met  on  the  Banks  o'  the  Leyne  ; 

When  sangsters  wad  carrol  their  welcome, 
Sec  led  to  thy  plishure  an  meyne  ; 


192  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


O,  dear  are  her  works  when  deame  Nature 
Puts  on  ev'ry  heart-winnin  greace  ! 

We've  spent  merry  hours  wi' — deuce  tek  them    ! 
Pause  frienship  suin  weers  a  new  feace  ! 


Then,  Crito,  dear  frien  o'  my  bwosom  ! 

Come  crack  wi'  peer  Robby  a  wheyle  ; 
\Ver  meyne  hawf  the  wealth  o'  the  county, 

Thy  visit  wad  draw  monie  a  smeyle  ! 
If  bow'd  down  by  pain,  want  an  sorrow 

Gud  mortal's  wi  plishure  I'd  see  ; 
But  sin  the  weyl  warl  I  furst  studiet, 

Aye  dearest  was  Crito  to  me  ! 


HARD-HEARTED  HANNAH. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

Leyke    a    weyld    rwose    was    Hannah,    wi'    bonny 

blue  een, " 

Brong  up  in  a  cottage  close  to  Cauda-seyde  ;    . 
Young    Harry    her    neybor,    thowt    sec    was    ne'er 

seen  ; 
When  labour  was   duin,   he   wad   watch  her  wi' 

preyde  ! 

The  wish  he  enjoy 'd  was  to  mek  her  a  breyde, 
His  heart-warm  affection  to  pruive — 
Her  heart  beat  a  stranger  lo  luive. 


She  frown' d    if    wi'    luiks    o'     true    fondness    he'd 

gaze  ; 

She  laught  at  the  letters  he  writ  her  wi'  care  ; 
She  lissen'd  nae  sangs  he  hed  meade  in  her  praise  ; 
She  sneer'd   at   the  presents   he   browt   frae   the 

fair  ; 

An  vow'd  nae  peer  mortal  her  luive  e'er  sud  share  : 
Sec  beauties  how  thowtless  they  pruive, 
That  scworn   the   true   plishures   o'   luive. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  193 

To  murry-neets,  kurn-winnins,  Hannah  ne'er  went, 
But  weekly  at  market  wad  strut  thro'  the   toon  ; 
An  theer  fer  mock-feyn'ry,  her  money  was  spent  ; 
An  novels  she  read  that  nae  wreyter  sud  own  : 
But  a  word  frev  a  beggar  aye  cawt  forth  her  froon — 
What  pity  a  mortal  sud  pruive, 
Her  hatred  to  gudness  and  luive. 


A  squire  tho'  a  stranger,  sowt  Hannah  to  gain, 
An  won  by  preyde,  wealth,  she  suin  off  wid  him 

flew  ; 

Sec  flatt'rers  owre  oft  will  cause  sorrow  an  pain — 

Desarted,  in  mis'ry  turo'  leyfe   may  she  rue  ; 

Leyke  a  hawf-wither'd  lily  lads  luik  on  her  now  : 

Thus,  man  a  base  tyrant  may  pruive  ; 

Thus,  women  are  won  by  false  luive  ! 


Her  mudder  lang  happy,  suin  laid  in  her  greave, 
When  telt  by  the  neybors,  what  e'en  brak  her 

heart, 
How  the  squire,  fer  a  parson  hed  breyb'd  a  base 

kneave 
That  married  the  tweesome  ;    weel  pay'd  for  sec 

art  ; 

Ere  deeth  he  mun  suffer  that  plays  sec  a  part, 
An  wealthy  owre  offen  will  pruive 
Their  ruin,  by  preyde  an  false  luive  ! 


Gud  lasses  !  be  wary  ! — Sec  preyde  ever  shun  ; 
It's  nobbet  a  trap,  just  to  catch  hee  an  low 
By  dress,  flat  fry,  folly,  if  onie  be  won. 

She  suin  sinks  a  pittiless  victim  to  woe  ! 
Whate'er  I  endure,  frae  mey  pen  sal  aye  flow 
The  verse,  that  sec  follies  may  pruive, 
An  praise  the  deleytes  o'  true  luive. 


194  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

WULLY  AN  MARY. 
TUNE — "  Andrew  wi'  his  cutty  gun." 

WULLY. 

"  Hey,  Mary  !  mey  sweet  Mary  ! 

Dunnet  gow,    an  wheyne  an  freet  ! 
Changes  peer  fwok  daily  suffer — 

Thoo'll  be  laughin  lang  ere  neet  ! 
Some  are  lucky  ;  some  get  brokken  ; 

Some  owre  greedy  ;  some  owre  gud  ; 
Some  aye  drink,  but  ne'er  git  slockent  ; 

Some  dui  wrang,  when  reet  they  mud  ! 

MARY. 

"O,  Wully  !  gud  keynd  Wully  ! 

What,  Tim  Teaylear's  taen  thee  in  ; 
Bonships  brek  men  ;  bealies  tek  men 

Fwok  to  int'rest  oft  pruive  blin  ; 
Twee-scwore  pun  a  serous  loss  is, 

When  yen  labors  to  dui  weel  ; 
I's  sae  vext,  what — I  can  darn  nin  ! 

Nea  I  cuddent  turn  a  wheel  !  " 


"  Hut  Mary,  shaf,  dear  Mary  ! 

Let's  be  cheerfu  wheyle  we  leeve 
Tho'  it's  shemfu  fwok  sud  rob  us, 

Better  far  nit  yence  to  grieve  ! 
Aw  the  money  they've  taen  frae  me, 

Hard  I  yernt  it,  weel  thoo  kens; 
It  wad  stowt  a  house  ;  nae  matter, 

Let's  nit  mourn,  when  ther's  nee  mens." 


"  O,  Wully  !  reet  blithe  Wully  ! 

Auntie's  starvin — peer  am  I  ; 
Gud  rich  lasses  theer's  aw  roun  thee 

Court  an  git  yen — pry  thee  try  ! 
Wer  I  rich  as  our  laird's  dowter  ; 

Wer  thoo  but  a  beggar  peer  ; 
Here's  a  han  thoo'd  git,  wi'  thousans — 

Oft  I'll  bless  thee,  wid  a  tear  !  " 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  195 


WULLY. 

"  O,  Mary  !  wish't  for  Mary  ! 

Promise  thy  wheyte  ban  to  me  ; 
Let's  be  axt  to  kurk,  on  Sunday — 

Fwore-scwore  pun  I've  here  fer  thee  ! 
Uncle  Arthur  hobbelt  owre  wi't ; 

"  Wull !  "  says  he,  "  keep  up  thy  heart !  " 
Fadder's  fain  an  mudder's  merry — 

Gie's  a  buss,  afwore  we  part !  " 


THE    COCKFEGHT. 

TUNE — "Jenny's  bawbee'.' 

"  Our  young  gam  cock  the  main  hes  won  ; 
He  gar't  them  aw  leyke  cowards  run  ; 
Sec  bettin  ! — "  Ten  to  yen  !  " — "  Done,  done  !  ' 
Gae  joy  to  me. 

Wheyle  others  set  a  kettle  on, 
Heaste,  Martha  !  set  a  bottle  on  ; 
Thoo's  hear  the  famish  feghtin  fun, 
I  ruid  to  see. 

"  Suin  as' the  Fitter  doft  his  hat, 
Ours  crow't,  queyte  fain  to  lig  aw  flat  ; 
He  e'en  cud  feght  a  Bonnyprat, 
Nor  e'er  wad  flee. 

Now  Martha,  we've  a  bottle  on, 
We'll  drink,  an  smuik,  the  sattle  on  ; 
Leyfe's  nowt  widout  cock-feghtin  fun, 
To  sec  as  we  ! 

"  Kit  Craffet,"  our  feyne  cock  I  caw'd  ; 
He  fught  "Tom  Linton'1  on  the  sod, 
An  laid  him  deed  as  onie  clod, 

Wi'  bluid  stain'd  e'e. 


196  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Now,  Martha,  we've  a  bottle  on  ; 
In  silk  an  sattin,  thee  I'll  don  ; 
Beath  nwotes  an  siller  I  hae  won, 
Sae  rich  are  we  ! 

"  We  rwoarin,  arguin,  vaprin  hed  ; 
Some  raggt  ;  an  some  leyke  dandies  cled  ; 
Lang  Lanty  tnockt  down  aul  daft  Ned, 
An  strack  at  three. 

Matt,  bring  anudder  bottle  on  ; 
Theer  it  sal  stan,  neet,  mworn  an  nuin  ; 
We'll  drink  an  jwoke  an  rattle  on, 
An  aye  we'll  gree. 

"  Our  Bess  sal  dance  beath  day  an  neet  ; 
Our  Wull  sal  feght  on  muir  or  street  ; 
At  russlin,  sarvent  Jack  can  beat 
Aw  roun,  we  see. 

Now,  Martha,  set  the  kettle  on, 
For  hunger  meks  yen  dour  an  dun  ; 
We'll  always  hae  the  bottle  on, 
An  leace  our  tea. 

"  Waak  fuils  may  leyke  to  read,  an  wreyte  ; 
I's  fond  ov  fun,  an  fratch  an  feght  ; 
But  cockin's  still  be  mey  deleyte, 

'Till  Deeth  bangs  me  ! 

Now  Matty,  set  mair  bottles  on  ; 
Bring  aw  the  neybors  in,  fie,  run  ! 
Till  we  gloure  at  the  risin  sun, 

We'll  drink  wi'  glee  !  " 

O,  Cumrians  !  fling  sec  gams  aseyde  !* 
Let  virtuous  plishures  be  yer  gueyde  ; 
Then  you  may  welcome  Deeth  wi'  preyde, 
An  happy  be  : 

Bid  Jenny  set  a  kettle  on, 
Gud  meet,  an  wheyles  a  bottle  on  ; 
An  to  puir  fwok,  yer  sattle  on, 
Aye  comfort  gie  ! 

*  It  will  be  noticed  that  Anderson  describes  such  scenes  only 
to  condemn  them— and  they  stand  here  as  relics  of  a  bygone 
age.— ED. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  197 

Still  may  Kit  Craffets  Lintons  bang  ; 
But  glory  nit  in  what  is  wrang  ; 
Or  may  ilk  yen  that  wreytes  a  sang, 
Aye  feght  wi'  ye  ! 

Bid  Jenny  set  the  kettle  on, 
Then  talk  o'  happy  deeds  ye've  duin  ; 
An  larn  yer  Sarvent,  Dowter,  Son, 
Aye  gud  to  de  ! 


THE  LENNET. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

'Twas  nuin,  an  owre  the  fields  I  stray'd, 
A  wheyle  to  shun  leyfe's  noisy  crowd  ; 
When  frae  the  hawthworn's  wheyten'd  shade 

A  Lennet  sang,  blithe,  sweet,  an  loud  ! 
Rejoic'd,  I  stuid  his  voice  to  hear, 

Foi  dear  are  weyld  burds'  nwotes  to  me  ; 
Whene'er  we  meet, 
They  gie  a  treat  ; 

An  aye,  his  meanin  seem'd  queyte  clear, 
That  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  is  liberty  ! 

Blithe  Dick,  I  seeghin  thowt,  ilk  grove, 

Wood,  muir,  or  flow'ry  field  is  theyne, 
Thy  teyme  is  spent  in  peace  an  luive — 
O,  cud  I  say  sec  days  are  meyne  ! 
Shall  tyrant  man  yer  reace  enslave, 

When  Nature,  keynd,  proclaims  you  free  ? 
Rejoic'd  to  meet 
An  hear  your  treat, 
Aw  mortals,  still  sud  sarve  an  seave, 
For  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  is  liberty  ! 

In  youth,  by  fancy  forward  led 

Leyke  thee,  I  sang  the  hours  away  ; 

But  now  true  luive  an  frienship's  fled, 
I  cheerless  spen  leyfe's  ling'rin  day — 

He  warbl'd  on  : — I  nearer  drew, 


198  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

The  feather 'd  treybe  aye  fain  to  see  ; 

His  mate  to  meet. 

Wi'  luive  to  greet, 

He  ceas'd,  an  flutt'rin  frae  me  flew — 
Hoo  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  is  liberty  ! 

Whee  that  on  beast  or  burd  can  gaze, 

Mun  see  what  mortals  aye  sud  please  ; 
What's  formed  for  man  desarves  his  praise, 

Yet  oft  his  plishure  is  to  seize  : 
Hoo  leyke  the  Lennet  on  the  spray 

Or  lark  that  soars  aloft  wi'  glee, 
Tho'  coy  we  meet, 
Wi'  Nature's  treat, 
Each  cheerfu  sangster  seems  to  say, 

O,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  is  liberty  ! 

Puir  burds  leyke  men  oft  meet  their  foes, 

An  leyfe  is  robb'd  ov  peace  an  joy  ; 
His  heart  unfeelin  ilk  yen  shows, 

That  harmless  warblers  wad  destroy  ! 
To  view  their  nest,  to  hear  their  sang, 

To  aul  an  young  deleyte  sud  gie  ; 
If  foes  they  meet, 
The  heart  will  beat ; 
They  flee  when  nar  a  deyke  we  gang — 

Still  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  is  liberty  ! 


CORBY. 
TUNE — "  The  Lads  o*  Dunse." 

I  wander'd  round  Corby  in  frienship,  ae  day, 
Whoar  Nature  deleyteth  the  grave  an  the  gay  ; 
In  frienship,  it's  pleasing,  the  teyme  to  begueyle, 
Forgettin  the  cares  of  this  leyfe  for  a  wheyle  : 
Owre  monie  in  quest  o'  false  plishure  will  run, 
By  what  leads  to  ruin  some  daily  are  won ; 
Wer  I  yen  o'  the  greet,  an  aw  countries  cud 

see, 
The  gran  scenes  o'  Corby  wad  meast  deleyte 

me  ! 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.  199 


We  gaz'd  on  woods,   waiters,   rocks,   caves,   hills, 

an  vales, 

An  fan  the  enjoyment  of  health's  fav'ring  gales : 
We  mark'd  distant  villages  spread  far  an  weyde, 
The  haunts  ov  industry  an  oft  that  ov  preyde  : 
Then  canny  aul  jCarel  appear'd  fair  in  view, 
Whoar  Scotlan's  brave  sons  oft  oor  fworef adders 

slew ; 
Amang     oor     wish'd     blessings      are     plenty    an 

peace, 
But  guvvern'd  by  tyrany  cares  mun  increase  ! 


The  burds  sang  their  welcome  an  gev  us  a  treat, 

Nae  musical  ban  was  to  me  e'er  sae  sweet  : 

Their  voices    sud  charm    on    mead,    mountain,  or 

plain, 
They    share    what   in    towns    monie    wish    for    in 

vain  ; 

Noo  wand'rin  by  Eden  or  snug  in  a  bow'r, 
The  pictures  o'  mortals  we  saw  in  ilk  flow'r  ; 
Or  markt  the  peer  fishermen  weadin  the  stream, 
To     lure     leevin     creatures — leyke     monie     they 

seem. 


Rejoic'd   wi'    the  walks    that   nit    yen   can    think 

rude, 
Aul     Nature's     weyld     scenery     wi'     plishure     we 

view'd, 

The  herb  that  we  treed  on,  the  yek  on  the  brow, 
Leads  the  meynd  to  that  Pow'r  to  whom  aw  maks 

mun  bow! 
Neest,    donn'd  oot    in  feynr'y   what   numbers  we 

saw, 

Some  linkin  in  luive,  others  struttin  for  shew  ; 
Admirers  of  Nature  !  enjoyers  of  wealth  ; 
An  monie  desarted  by  plenty  an  health. 


At  length  in  the  castle,  the  fam'd  works  of  art, 
To  us,  leyke  aw  others,  did  plishure  impart  ; 
Here  scenes  of  antiquity  caw  forth  yen's  praise; 
On    earth's    greatest    patriots,    here  anxious    fwok 

gaze: 
Sec  ever  the  thanks  ov  aul  Englau  may  claim, 


200  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 


But    foes    o'    true    freedom  pruive    ilk  country's 

sheame ; 
Their    neames    will    for    ever    be    thowt    on    wi' 

scworn — 
What  loads  ov  oppression  by  Britons  are  bworn  ! 

May  the  awners  of  Corby  leyfe's  blissins  enjoy  ! 
Wheyle  feelins  of  gudness  puir  brethren  employ  ; 
Here  true  hospitality  succors  distress  ; 
They  comfort  the  helpless,  nor  seek  to  oppress  ! 
To  the  Howards  whose  pride  is,  each  mortal  to 

serve, 

Who  niver  from  freedom  or  justice  would  swerve, 
Oor  country's  indebted  ;  and  still  may  the  name 
Live  highly  enroll'd  in  the  annals  of  Fame ! 


LAIRD    JWOHNNY. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

Comin  owre  the  muir  ae  neet, 
Whee  met  me,  but  young  laird  Jwohnny  ! 

"  Bess  !  "  says  he,  "  I's  fain  we  meet ; 
Lang  I've  thowt  thee  gud  and  bonny  !  " 

Sweet  he  boo'd,  kiss'd  an  woo'd 
Seeght  an  sed,  "  Lass  will  ye  hae  me  ?  " 

"  No"  slipt  oot,  sinseyne  I've  rued, 
That  sec  a  word  sud  keep  him  frae  me. 

O,  wad  he  but  come  to  me  ! 
Day  an  neet  I  think  aboot  him — 

Mudder  says  I's  gaun  to  dee — 
Lang  may  I  nit  leeve  widoot  him  ! 


Leyke  a  dandy,  Arthur  com 
Thro'  the  wood  last  week,  to  woo  me  ; 

Weyde-gobb'd  Wully,  Watt  an  Tom, 
Fain  wad  aw  hae  buckelt  to  me  ! 

Chaps  leyke  these  leyke  butter-flees. 
Win  owre  oft  wi'  preyde  an  blether  ; 

Thowtless  lasses  f a'in  to  seize  — 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


201 


Jwohnny's  weel  worth  aw  thegether, 
O,  wad  he  but  come  to  me  ! 

Nowt  I  de  but  think  aboot  him  ; 
He's  the  apple  o'  mey  e'e — 

Faith,  I  cannot  leeve  widoot  him. 


Monday  neest  at  Hesket  Fair, 
He  shall  see  me  leyke  a  leady  ; 

Skeybels  ne'er  my  luive  will  share  - 
Jwohnny's  rich  an  lish  an  steady ! 

Weel  I  tnow,  he  caps  them  aw ; 
Singin,  dancin,  nin  can  match  him  ; 

Fuil  was  I  to  mutter  no  ! 
This  weyde  warl  I'd  gie  to  catch  him  ! 

What ! — I  see  he  comes  to  me, 
Mountet  feyne  wi'  dogs  aboot  him  ; 

Luiks  ov  luive  I  noo  mun  gie — 
Happy  I'd  ne'er  be  widoot  him  ; 


A  F ADDER'S  LECTURE. 
TUNE — "Joy  be  wi'  ye  a'." 

Come  Gworge,  let's  saunter  thro'  the  wood, 

Owre  this  bit  steyle  I  scearce  can  creep ; 
Fwok  say,  a  walk  dis  monie  gud  ; 

For  me  last  neet  I  gat  nea  sleep  ; 
Thoo's  hilthy,  weer's  a  rwosy  luik, 

Just  twenty  years  hes  seen  to-day  ; 
I  wish  thoo'd  worn  a  tunic  now — 

Thoo  seeghs  an  stares,  and  weel  thoo  may  ; 


A  frien  hes  brok  thy  ladder's  heart ; 

His  neame  thoo  ne'er  need  whop  to  tnow; 
A  twelvemonth  seyne,  thoo'd  ilk  yen's  praise, 

But  now,  thoo's  turnt  a  parfit  beau  ! 
Cock -fegh tin,  russlin's  thy  deleyte ; 

Of  leate  thoo's  grown  owre  prood  to  work; 
I  buy  thee  buiks  thoo '11  never  read. 

An  seldom  can  be  seen  at  kurk ! 


202  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 


What,  thoo's  taen  on  wi'   Squire's  feyne  Miss, 

An  oft  the  neybors  watch  ye  meet  ; 
Her  reckless  ways  are  tnown  aw  roun, 

O,  Gworge  !  can  sec  leyke  wark  be  reet  ? 
Just  coort  a  modest  decent  lass  ; 

Nae  matter  whedder  rich  or  puir  ; 
Teake  mey  adveyce,  thoo'll  happy  be, 

An  wheyle  ye  leeve  ye've  nowt  to  tear. 

At  King-muir  reaces,  leyle  I  dreemt 

That  our  rwoan  filly  thoo  durst  run  ; 
She  fell,  gat  learnt  an  suin  laid  deed — 

That  day  cost  me  just  tharty  pun  ! 
Thy  mudder  spoilt  the'  when  a  bairn, 

But  noo,  leyke  monie,  sair  she  rues  ; 
Last  neet  she  fentet  i'  mey  airms — 

Its  hard  gud  fwok  sud  hear  bad  news  ! 

Some  doctor  sent  a  box  ov  pills  : 

"What"  says  mey  deame,   "  Oor  Gworge  is 

weel ! " 
A  hawf-wit  dandy  neest  caw'd  in — 

We'd  just  as  leeve  hae  seen  the  deil ! 
Thoo  fought  three  teymes  on  Rosley  Hill, 

When  I  was  buyin  kye  an  sweyne  ; 
Aw  bluid  an  batter  heame  thoo  rid — 

Fwok  weel  may  think  ov  aul  lang-seyne ! 

See  sister  Marget  hard  at  wark, 

A  better  lass  ne'er  wore  a  goon  ; 
She  monie  a  neet  the  beyble  reads, 

When  thoo's  wi  eydlers  scamperin  'roun  ! 
I'  ne'er  be  sworry,  dud  she  wed 

A  sarvent  puir,  if  nobbet  gud  ; 
She'll  happy  be,  when  low  I's  laid  ; 

Thoo'll  suffer  what  sec  taistrels  sud  ! 

We  hae  but  twee ;    as  feyne  a  lass 

As  ever  claimt  a  f adder's  praise  ; 
A  gamblin  son,  a  lump  ov  preyde 

That  glories  in  aw  wicked  ways  ! 
I  fan  silk  stockings  i'   thy  kist — 

O,  lad !  thoo  weel  may  blush  fer  shea  me ! 
The  lawyer's  meake  mey  will  neest  week, 

An  mark  a  shillin  to  thy  neame ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  203 

I  see  the  tears  strowe  down  thy  cheek — 

For  me  :  I  scearce  can  gang  or  stan  ; 
Teake  mey  adveyce  !  I'll  say  nae  mair — 

O'  Gworge  !  dear  Gworge  !  gie  me  thy  han  I 
Thy  sister  comes,  aw  tir'd  nae  doubt ; 

I'll  ne'er  let  wit  what  hes  been  sed — 
Wey,  Marget !  we've  a  famish  neet  ; 

The  muin's  got  up — it's  teyme  fer  bed  ! 


THE  FLOW'R  O'  THEM  AW. 

TUNE—"  Watty1  s  awa'." 

O,  where  is  Young  Matty  the  flow'r  o'  them 

aw? 

We  mourn  the  sweet  lassie  that  ne'er  hed  a 
foe; 

She's  fairest  of  onie  ; 
She's  gud  as  she's  bonny  : 
She's  geane  wi'  the  wishes  ov  beath  nee  an  low. 

Peace  to  her  pure  bwosom,  whate'er  she  may 

tnow  ; 

The  loon  that  wad  harm  her,  ill  luck  him  be- 
faw! 

Sae  meyld  is  her  nature, 
Sae  bonny  ilk  feature, 
A  lassie  mair  temptin  man  never  yence  saw  ! 

For  her  I  wad  wander  weyld  mountains  o'  snaw, 
Nor  heed  the  rough  tempest,  that  roun  me  mud 
blaw ; 

Nae  cares  cud  oppress  me, 
Nae  wants  wad  distress  me, 
Were  she  but  mey  partner  in  cottage,  tho'  smaw. 

Where'er  Fate  may  lead  her,  leyfe's  comforts 

to  draw, 

May  fortune  aye  on  her,  wished  favors  bestow  ; 
She's  Nature's  sweet  charmer, 
May  mortals  ne'er  harm  her, 
But  Happiness  guard  her,  till  Deeth  gies  a  caw  ! 


204  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

A  fig  for  thur  husseys  just  meade  up  for  show, 
To   win    the   waak   heart    they   owre   oft    lead    to 
woe! 

Fworc'd  luiks,  an  mock  greaces, 

Their  sex  ay  debases— 
True  virtue  meks  Matty  the  flow'r  o'  them  aw ! 


GUD    ADVEYCE. 
TUNE — "  Caw  hawkey." 

Leyfe's  turn'd  a  wilderness  ov  leate, 
Nor  whopes  hae  we  ov  wish'd-for  changes  : 

Joy  yence  on  lab'rin  man  wad  wait, 
But  now  for  toil  he  daily  ranges  : 

Tho'  fled  the  bliss  o'  better  days, 
When  aw  to  sarve  was  man's  endeavour  ; 

Tho'  noo,  owre  monie  man  betrays, 
O,  let  content  cheer  us  for  iver. 

Tho'  trade's  sunk  low  an  rents  are  hee, 
Art  honest  peer  fwok  daily  suffer  ; 

Aw  countries  deep  distress  mun  see, 
Yet  what  avails  the  miser's  coffer  ? 

He  kens  his  share  o'  leyfe's  keen  care, 
An  him  frae  wealth  Deeth  suin  can  sever  ; 

They're  wise  that  ne'er  thro'  leyfe  despair- 
O,  cud  Content  cheer  man  for  ever  ! 

The  prince,  the  peer,  wi  aw  the'r  gear, 
Hoo  seldom  e'er  they  buy  true  plishure  ; 

Leyfe's  ills  are  painfu'  hard  to  bear, 
Yet,  aye  content's  the  sweetest  treasure  ! 

What  happy  changes  Teyme  may  bring 
Depends  on  Englan's  fond  endeavour; 

Let's  pray  for  peace  an  cheerfu  sing, 
O,  that  Content  may  cheer  man  iver  ; 

Aye  may  the  gud  the  wicked  rule, 
An  law  suin  help  the  weel-desarvin  ; 

But  he  that  pruives  oppression's  tuil, 
I  wish  him  suin,  leyke  millions  starvin  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  205 

Whee  scworns  the  puir,  mun  fear  grim  Deeth, 
True  blessins  he  need  whope  for  niver  ; 

The  peerest  creature  that  draws  breeth, 
O,  may  Content  cheer  him  for  iver ! 

The  wealthy  tyrant  who'd  enslave 
The  puir,  O  may  he  suin  sup  sorrow  ! 

But  he  wha  wad  th'  industrious  seave, 
May  care  or  pain  his  feace  ne'er  furrow  ! 

That  greet  gud  men  may  gain  gud  teymes 
Sud  be  aul  Englan's  fond  endeavour  ; 

Wheyle  hee  an  low  mun  pay  for  creymes, 
O,  let  Content  cheer  us  for  iver ! 


THE  INVITATION. 

TUNE — "  Hand  awa  frae  me  Donald." 

O  come  away  !  heaste  away  ! 

An  share  luive  sweets  wi'  me,  Nelly  ! 
Or  Winter  smears  the  earth  wi'  snaw, 

Threyce  welcome  thoo  sal  be,  Nelly  : 
We'll  wander  meedow,  wood  an  vale, 

An  pleasin  sights  we'll  see,  Nelly  ; 
Then,  oft  thoo'll  hear  a  lover's  teale, 

He  daily  dwoats  on  thee,  Nelly! 


O  come  away  !  heaste  away ! 

We'll  share  true  luive,  an  glee,  Nelly 
Oor  neyb'rin  lasses  yen  an  aw, 

Wi'  .envy  glowre  at  thee,  Nelly  ; 
They  dess  thersels  in  duds  owre  feyne, 

To  catch  ilk  dandy's  e'e,  Nelly  ;" 
But  cud  I  share  that  smeyle  o'  theyne, 

'Twad  drive  aw  care  frae  me,  Nelly. 


O  come  away !  heaste  away ! 

Nae  doubt  but  we'll  agree,  Nelly  ; 
My  health  is  good  !  mey  fortune's  great, 

I'll  share' t  wi'  nin  but  thee,  Nelly; 


206  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Thy  marrow,  aw  the  country  roun 
I'd  wander  prood  to  see,  Nelly ; 

For  on  the  earth  neane  can  be  foun 
Frae  veyce  or  preyde  mair  free,  Nelly  ! 


O  come  away  !  heaste  away ! 

Some  luive  just  shew  to  me,  Nelly  ; 
Mid  Summer's  smeyles  or  Winter's  froons, 

Thro'  leyfe  let's  happy  be,  Nelly  ! 
Blest  be  the  lass  if  rich  or  puir, 

That  keeps  mankeynd  in  glee,  Nelly  ; 
An  aw  leyfe' s  ills  may  he  endure, 

That  mis'ry  wad  cause  thee,  Nelly  ! 


LEYFE' S    COMFORTS. 

TUNE— By  the  Author. 

Wid  a  frien  iver  true,  an  a  lass  to  mey  meynd, 

Teyme  sleydes  away  daily  in  gladness  ; 
Wid  a  peype,   an  a  glass.    I  can  laugh  at    man 
keynd, 

This  whurligig  warl  an  its  madness. 
Away  wi'  repeynin,  dull  wheynin,  an  streyfe, 

Fworerunners  o'  seeckness  an  sorrow ! 
Be  merry  ;  sud  aye  be  oor  maxim  thro'  leyfe, 

We  ken  nit  what  happens  to-morrow  ! 


A  frien  frev  aw  ills  keeps  yen  iver  secure  ; 

T  o  sarra,  cheer,  larn,  is  oor  duty ! 
Ov  aw  this  leyfe's  joys,  nin  was  iver  sae  pure, 

As  luive  built  on  gudness  an  beauty. 

Away  wi'  repeynin,"&c. 

My  peype  when  I   smuik,    pruives  a  teype  o' 

frail  man, 

Noo  parfit,  neest  moment  in  pieces  ; 
To  think  o'  the  gud  fowk  sud  aye  be  our  plan, 
For  bad  still  yen's  pity  increases. 

Away  wi'  repeynin,  &c. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  207 


Leyfe's  comfort  is  happiness  few  can  enjoy, 
For  monie  deleyte  in  weyld  plishure, 

Men  seek  yen  anudder  owre  oft  to  destroy, 
An  rob  them  ov  health,  peace  an  trishure. 
Away  wi'  repeynin,  &c. 


THE    GUD-FOR-NOWT    WEYFE. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

Mey  frien  hes  a  weyfe  ;  sec  a  gud-for-nowt  weyfe 
Nae  mortal  e'er  tuik  to  embitter  his  leyfe  ; 
Nae  weyld  beast  was  iver  mair  fit  fer  a  show ; 
Hoo  happy  he'd  be  wad  Deeth  gie  her  a  caw ; 

She's  brong  him  to  woe, 

She  thumps  him  an  aw — 
Owre  aw  the  warl  nin  sec  a  hussy  e'er  saw ! 


Mey  frien  hes  a  weyfe  ;    sec  a  gud-for-nowt  weyfe, 
I'd  far  raider  kiss  the  sharp  edge  ov  a  tneyfe ; 
She's  shept  leyke  a  trippet,  she   crowks  leyke  a 

craw  ; 

Wi'    teeth    lang  as    stowres    sticking  out    ov    her 
jaw, 

Weel  may  he  cry — "  Oh  ! 
Deil  give  her  a  throw  ! 
The  sun,  muin  or  stars  sec  a  donnet  ne'er  saw !  " 


Mey  frien  hes  a  weyfe ;  sec  a  gud-for-nowt  weyfe, 
Aul  Nick  niver  sowt  sec  a  bundle  ov  streyfe ; 
An  sud  he  engage  her,  she'd  give  him  a  claw, 
Wad   mek  him  cry,    "  Imps,  set  to  wark  yen  an 
aw! 

Lowp  roun  in  a  raw, 
Kick  her  leyke  a  fit  baw! 

By  my  'cluits,  in  thur  pairts  sec  a  lump  I  ne'er 
saw ! " 


208  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

THE  LASS  THAT  LO'ES  ME. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

Sweet's  the  lass  that  lo'es  me, 
As  the  weyld  rwose  on  the  breer ! 

Blithe  she's  aye  who  lo'es  me — 
Weel  she  kens  to  me  she's  dear ! 


Preyde  an  fuil'ry  I  despise ; 
She's  the  only  yen  I  prize 
Healthy,  hearty,  gud  an  wise — 
Sweet  is  she  that  lo'es  me  I 


Wi'  the  lass  that  lo'es  me, 
Leyfe's  a  summer  free  frae  care  ; 

Luiks  ov  hur  that  lo'es  me 
Give  content ;  I  seek  nae  mair  : 

Toilin  cheerfu  aw  the  day, 
Thowts  ov  her  aye  mek  me  gay  ; 
Doubts  ne'er  tempt  my  mind  to  stray 
Frae  the  lass  that  lo'es  me  ! 


Oft  wi'  her  that  lo'es  me, 
Fain  I  walk  up  Pett'rel  seyde ; 

An  wi'  hur  that  lo'es  me. 
See  whoar  she'll  be  meade  a  breyde  ; 
Kith  or  kin  to  me's  unknown  ; 
Feckless  noo  her  mudder's  grown  ; 
Beath  sal  aye  mey  keyndness  own, 
Aw  for  hur  that  lo'es  me  ! 


When  she  awns  she  lo'es  me, 
Sweetly  flees  the  winter  neet, 

Smeyles  frae  her  that  lo'es  me, 
Mek  me  wish  for  mwornin  leet ! 

Sukey's  aw  the  warl  to  me  ; 
Heav'n  nae  greeter  gift  can  gie  ; 
Aw  on  earth  I  wish  to  see, 
Is  the  lass  that  lo'es  me  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.      209 

POVERTY'S  NAE  SIN. 

TUNE — "  Auld  lang  Seyne." 

O,  Greacy  !  grevin  day  an  neet, 

Can  dui  nae  gud  at  aw  : 
If  lanlword's  taen  our  cow  for  rent, 

Fwok  mun  abeyde  by  law  : 
It's  hard  when  peer  hae  nowt  to  dui, 

But  wark  I  whop  to  fin  ; 
Teyme  suin  may  welcome  changes  bring, 

An  poverty's  nae  sin  ! 

We've  but  twee  sons,  beath  fit  fer  wark, 

An  tho'  we  buried  three, 
Let's  hwop,  wi'  preyde,  or  years  er  owre, 

They'll  comfort  thee  an  me  ! 
They  hate  aw  mischief,  ply  the  buik, 

But  give  offence  to  nin  ; 
An  were  we  fworc'd  to  beg  for  breed, 

What — poverty's  nae  sin  ! 

Weyld  winter  flees  an  spring  steals  on, 

The  best  teyme  o'  the  year  ; 
I'll  drive  the  plew  wi'  onie  yen, 

Or  sow  or  mow  or  shear, 
That  wheel  thou  leate  cud  turn,  an  sing 

As  few  leyke  thee  cud  spin  ; 
But  come  what  will,  be  cheerfu  still 

For  poverty's  nae  sin  ! 

Mey  puir  aul  fadder  past  aw  wark, 

Oft  sed,  "  God's  will  be  duin  !  " 
Wi'  scairce  a  beyte  for  weyfe  or  bairns, 

I  meynd  ae  efternuin, 
A  purse  he  fan,  queyte  full  ov  brass  ; 

Wot  meal  was  suin  brong  in  ; 
If  ne'er  a  coin  sud  cross  mey  luif, 

Yet  poverty's  nae  sin  ! 

I  dreemt  lass  neet — nay,  dunnet  frown  ! 

They're  truths  we  wheyles  suppwose  ; 
I'll  bet  three  kisses  meyne  pruives  true, 

An  thou'll  be  fain  to  Iwose  : 


210  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

I  mendet  rwoads,  an  deykt,  an  swet, 
'Till  aw  queyte  pain'd  widin  ; 

The  squire  cried,  "  Peter,  never  fret. 
Since  poverty's  nae  sin  !  " 

The  squire  hes  gien  us  meat  an  claes  ; 

God  spare  me,  suin  to-mworn 
I'll  ax  his  wark  an  muck  the  byres, 

Or  deet  an  thresh  the  cworn  : 
If  on  the  rwoad  I  fin  nae  purse, 

Nor  yet  pick  up  a  pin  ; 
Reeght  happily,  I'll  flee  to  thee — 

Hut  !  poverty's  nae  sin  ! 

It's  wise  thro'  leyfe  to  envy  neane  ; 

For  wheyle  the  warl  turns  roun, 
Deame  Fortune  will  on  millions  smeyle, 

An  aye  on  millions  frown  : 
Frae  kings  to  beggars,  aw  ken  care, 

Mankeynd  are  nar  akin  ; 
The  rich  may  help  or  shew  their  scworn, 

But  poverty's  nae  sin  ! 

O  Greacy  !  pleas'd  I  see  the'  smeyle, 

That  luik  comes  frae  the  heart  ; 
We'll  pray  for  wark  an  be  content 

Till  Deeth  sal  bid  us  part  ! 
The  peerest  creeter  man  e'er  saw, 

Tho'  aul,  deef,  dum  an  blin, 
If  blest  wi'  reason,  aye  sud  think 

That  poverty's  nae  sin  ! 


TAMER  AN  MATTY. 

TUNE — "  The  humours'  o'  glen." 

MATTY. 

"  Aa  Tamer  !  wey  bliss  us,  mey  merry  aul  cronie  ; 
Come,  tek't  airmin  chair  an  I'll  throw  the  wheel 

by; 

I  thowt  thoo'd  been  deed — It's  a  yage  sin  I  seed  thee 
How's   thy  maister  Peter,   the  bairns,   naigs,  an 
kye  ? 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  211 


Sit    narer    to    t'    fire  !    teake  a  peype,  what  here's 
'bacco 

But  furst  try  a  mouthfu  ov  famish  Scotch  gin  ; 
The  day's  nobbet  caulish,  an  thoo's  gitten  aulish, 

Sae,  cock  up  lal  finger,  'twill  warm  the'  widin." 

TAMER. 

"  Aa  Matty  !  our  Peter  hes  lang  been  but  peerly  ; 

He's  pleg'd  wi'  the  watter-brash,  mworn,  nuin, 

an  neet  ; 
He's  fash'd  wi'  the  gravel  an  wheyles  cannot  travel  ; 

Sin  lain  up  i'  th'  jonas,  he's  niver  been  reet, 
Our  famish  naig  Boxer,  he  dee't  o'  the  glanders  ; 

They've  puzzent  twee  sheep  an  run  off  wid  a  cow  ; 
Fwok  aw  hae  their  losses,  their  trials  an  crosses — 

Thenk  God  !  our  nine  bairns  er  aw  weel  enough 
now." 

MATTY. 

"  Aa,   Tamer  !  our  Sukey  hes  got  a  neyce  sweet 
heart  ; 

He  reydes  owre  on  Sundays  an  they  gan  to  kurk  ; 
They  walk,  laugh  an  talk,  an  they  link  thro'  the 

meedows  ; 
What  she's    sae    fon    on    him,    she    haileys    can 

work  ; 
He  keeps  the  big  shop  owre  anent  Carel  market, 

An  sarras  girt  gentry  an  peer  fwok  an  aw  ; 
He's  git  heaps  o'  money,  an  Suke's  young  an  bonny — 
A  neycer  chap  f adder  or  mudder  ne'er  saw." 


• '  Aa,  Matty  ;   it  vext  us  when  our  Dolly  marriet, 

That  bit  ov  a  teaylear,  a  peer  silly  guff  ; 
For    Marget    at    Branton    she    sells    wot-meal,  sug- 

ger, 
Bread,    tea,    piggin-bottoms,    tape,    nuts,    thread 

an  snuff  : 

Our  Ann  tuik  a  Whaker  an  reet  weel  they're  leevin  ; 
Dick's  weyfe  gat  her  bed  o'   twee  twins  tudder 

day  ; 

He's  thrang  at  wark  threshin,  an  she's  up  an  weshin, 
I  seed  them  hard  at  it  as  I  com  this  way." 


212  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  Aa,  Tamer  ;  fwok  tell  us  your  James  is  a  tur- 

ney, 
God   speed   him  !  for    turneys   leyke  udders  dui 

wrang  ; 
Our  Henry's  for  kurk,   he  reads  buiks  meade  ov 

latin  ; 

Whea  kens  but  he  may  be  a  bishop  er  lang  : 
Come,    fou    thy    peype,    dui    now  !  what  divvent 

be  bashfu  ; 
Anudder   glass   teake,    an   just    think   thoo's   at 

heame — 
Nay,  bottom' t  !  Iword  bliss  thee  !  we  aw  sud  carress 

thee, 
A  woman  mair  varteous  ne'er  hed  a  neame." 


TAMER. 

"  Aa,  Matty  !  here's  to  thee  an  thy  gudman  Philip, 

A  neycer  chap  niver  yence  hannelt  a  plew  ; 
'Twas   at   Leady   Fair   wi'    the   tweesome   we   fell 

in, 

An  shwort-keakes  an  kisses,  they  gev  us  nit  few  : 
That   day   we   aw  weddet   we   twee   donn't   leyke 

leadies — 

The  fwok  wer  aw  merry  an  whopt  we  wad  thrive  ; 
Our  cheeks  wer  leyke  rwoses  but  colour  yen  Iwoses — 
What,  I  mun  jog  heame,  fer  the  clock  hes  struck 
five." 


MATTY. 

"  Aa    Tamer  !  be    whiet  !  thoo    sannet    flee    frev 

us  ; 

Here,  Nan  !  set  on  kettle  an  prod  up  the  fire — 
Odsbobs  !  luiks  te  Philip,  an  our  bonny  dowter, 
Come  cant'rin  up  t'  lonnin  thro'  mud  an  thro' 

mire  ; 

The  seet  ov  her  goddy  mun  'stonish  our  Sukey — 

I's  mek  gurdle  keakes  an  we's  hev  a  swop  tea  ; 

Our  man'll  suin  kiss   thee,   shek  hans,   seegh,   an 

bliss   thee, 

For  thowts  ov  aul  teymes  throws  a  tear  in  his 
e'e  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  213 

YAGE  AN  POVERTY. 
TUNE — "  The  aul  guidman." 

Our  cottage  yence  pleas'd  neybors  roun, 

But  now,  leyke  me  it's  in  decay  ; 
This  howlin  blast  may  e'er  fling' t  down, 

For  thro'  the  theek  the  rain  meakes  way  : 
Our  garden's  aw  strowt  owre  wi'  weeds, 

Yence  usefu,  flow'ry,  clean  an  neat  ; 
Theer  teades  an  varmin  daily  feeds, 

An  rotten  is  our  aul  yek  seat  ! 


Yence  burds  wad  sing  the  teyme  to  cheer 

On  oor  bit  peer-tree  ;  now  they're  dum 
An  reedbreests  hoppt  about  the  fleer, 

Nae  Robbin  now  e'er  seeks  a  crum  : 
Nae  beggar  creeps  up  towrts  the  duir, 

Tho'  proud  I've  sarrad  monie  a  yen, 
Aul,  weary,  heartless,  helpless,  puir, 

A  caw  frae  neybors  I  git  neane. 


If  owre  the  geate  I  chance  to  creep, 

The  bairns  '11  mock  me,  screamin  loud  ; 
Leyfe  nobbet  meks  me  seegh  an  weep, 

Ay  fain  to  be  wrapt  in  a  shroud  : 
Mey  gud  aul  Jwosep,  Deeth  laid  low, 

An  aw  the  bairns  he  stule  frae  me  ; 
I's  left  a  wither'd  lump  ov  woe, 

An  welcome  now  to  Deeth  I'd  gie  ! 


Wi'  leyfe  wheyle  this  waak  heart  mun  beat, 

The  thowts  o'  them  will  aye  be  dear  ; 
Their  neames  I  tremlin  oft  repeat, 

An  owre  their  greaves  drop  monie  a  tear 
Forseaken  I  ne'er  meet  a  frien, 

That  yence  wi'  me  wad  plenty  share  ; 
Whate'er  in  youth  our  joys  hae  been, 

In  yage  if  peer  leyfe's  nowt  but  care  ! 


214  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

THE    CONTRAST. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

I  hev  twee  sweethearts,  Nanny  and  Fanny  ; 
Some  chaps  can  git  neane,  an  others  owre  monie  : 
Nan's  queyte  puir,  an  just  leeves  by  hard  labour  : 
Fan's  queyte  rich,   an  aye  scworn'd  by  ilk  neigh 
bour, 

Owre  this  warl  o'  preyde,  you'll  fin  sec  leyke  lasses, 
But,  man,  the  gud-hearted  sud  choose  in  aw  classes  ! 

Nanny's  weel  shept  an  fair  as  the  lily  ; 
Fanny  meynds  yen  ov  a  daffydowndilly  ; 
Nan  hes  a  cheek  leyke  a  sweet  bloomin  rwosey  ; 
Fan  hes  a  feace  leyke  an  aul  withert  pwosey  ; 
Owre  this  warl  o'  preyde,  &c. 

Nanny  will  sing,  dull  care  aye  begueylin, 
Happem  what  will  she's  daily  seen  smeylin  ; 
Fanny  deleytes  but  in  lees  an  base  slander, 
In  preyde  an  in  folly  owre  muckle  she'll  squander. 
Owre  this  warl  o'  preyde,   &c. 

Nanny  will  crack  aye  wid  aw  decent  fellows, 
Blithe  as  a  lennet,  but  niver  yence  jilous  ; 
Fanny  will  speak  oft  to  chaps  that  hev  plenty, 
If  peer,  she'll  scairce  e'er  nwotish  yen  out  o'  twenty. 
Owre  this  warl  of  preyde,  &c. 

Nan  leykes  to  read  in  a  beyble  for  ever  ; 
Fan  thinks  ther's  nowt  leyke  a  novel  sae  clever  ; 
Nanny  hes  feelins  peer  fwok  she'll  ay  sarra  ; 
Fanny's  a  wretch  the  deil  ne'er  saw  her  marra  ! 
Owre  this  warl  o'  preyde,  &c. 

Nan  wad  dui  muckle  to  sarra  proud  Fanny, 
Fan  wad  e'en  spit  on  the  feace  o'  peer  Nanny, 
The  taen,  canny  Cummerlan  seldom  can  match  her  ; 
The  tudder  aul  Nick  if  he  dare,  he  may  catch  her. 
Owre  this  warl  o'  preyde,  &c. 

Monie  think  money  this  leyfe's  dearest  treasure  ; 
For  me,  I  think  gudness  the  warl's  greatest  pleasure  ; 
Some  greedy  curmudgen  may   venture  on  Fanny, 
I've  plenty  an  suin  will  leeve  happy  wid  Nanny  : 
Owre  this  warl  of  preyde  you'll  fin  sec  leyke  lasses, 
But,  man,  the  gud-hearted  sud  choose  in  aw  classes  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  215 

JACK  AN  FANNY. 
TUNE — "  Andrew  wi'  his  cutty  gun." 

JACK. 

"  How  wet  an  weary  is  this  weather  ; 

Nit  ae  star  darts  down  its  leet, 
Fling  by  thy  wheel,  let's  creep  together, 

An  wi'  luive  begueyle  the  neet  : 
O,  rwosey  Fanny  ! — I've  kent  monie, 

But  thy  marrow  ne'er  yet  saw  ! 
Gie  but  thy  milk- whey te  han  to  Jwohnny, 

Nin  thro'  leyfe  sail  pruive  thy  foe — 

Weel  I  luive  thee  neybors  tnew  !  " 

FANNY. 

"  Be  duin,  Jack  !  what  I  cannot,  munnet 

Sit  an  fling  mey  wark  aseyde  ; 
To  lissen  teales  leyke  theyne,  I  wunnet  ! 

Nin  hawf-reet  wad  be  thy  breyde  ! 
Aa  !  peer  Bet  Blair,  thou's  brong  to  ruin  ; 

Hur  an  bairn's  beath  gaun  to  dee  : 
Him  that's  sec  weyld  wark  pursuin, 

Ne'er  sal  win  a  smeyle  frae  me  ; 

Nabob-ley ke  tho  rich  wer  he  !  " 

JACK. 

"  Hut,  lass  !  fer  what  I've  duin.I's  sworry — 
Whee  the  deuce  wad  wed  Bet  Blair  ? 

What  thou's  taen  on  wi'  ill  Tom  Stworey, 
Raggt  widout  a  plack  to  share  : 

But  I've  got  Ian,  an  money  plenty  ; 
Leady-leyke,  I'll  don  thee  feyne  ; 

An  sarvents  han  thee  ev'ry  dainty, 
Peace  an  plenty  sal  be  theyne — 
Kiss  me,  Fanny  !  thoo's  be  meyne  !  " 

FANNY. 

'  Kiss  thee  ? — I'd  suiner  kiss  a  beggar  ! 

Him  I  luive's  a  sarvent  peer  ! 
Thoo's  just  an  empty  wheedlin  bragger  ! 

I'll  mek  Tommy  box  thy  ear  ! 


2i6  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Thoo's  gaun  ? — Ay,  faix,  we  hear  him  comin — 
Our  dog  Pinch,  to  beyte  thee  tries, 

The  man  that  seeks  to  cheat  a  woman 
Neybors  roun  sud  aw  despise — 
Wed  Bet  Blair,  if  thoo  be  wise  !  " 


THE  JOYS  OF  CONTENTMENT. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 


Fwok  may  tell  us  this  leyfe  is  nit  worth  the  pos- 

sessin, 

An  oft  meake  a  curse  what  was  gien  as  a  blessin  ! 
In     this     crazy-grown    warl     shall    we    jossle    ilk 

other, 

Nor  think  a  peer  man  to  a  monarch's  a  brother  ? 
Ther  are  evils  the  great  an  gud  men  endure  ; 
Ther  are   pangs   i'  the    bwosom    Deeth  only  can 

cure, 
Let's    laugh     at     preyde,    envy,     repeynin     an 

streyfe — 
Contentment  be  thou  our  companion  thro'  leyfe  ! 


Wi'  thee  fwok  may  smeyle  at  yon  aul  politician  ; 
He  clims  up  the  ladder  ov  boundless  ambition  ; 
Luiks  down  wi'  a  sneer  on  the  crowds  that  adore 

him, 

An  eagerly  cleeks  at  the  kick-shows  befwore  him  ; 
We  may  smeyle  at  leyfe's  follies,  it's  monie  keen 

cares, 
An    hair-breadth    escapes    frae    dark    villainy's 

snares  ; 
When    free    frae    preyde,     envy,     repeynin     an 

streyfe — 
Contentment,  be  thou  our  companion  thro'  leyfe  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  217 

Ilk  yen  reydes  his  hobby,  some  vicious,  some  civil  ; 
Reason  gueydes  us  to  gud,  an  preyde  drives  us  to 

evil  ; 

This  hunts  for  a  star,  an  that  courts  Madam  Honor, 
She  oft  pruives  a  jilt,   when  the  booby  has  won 

her. 
He's  happy  thro'  leyfe,   that  aye  meakes  it  his 

plan, 
Be  the  voy'ge  lang  or  shwort,  to  dui  what  gud 

he  can  ; 

Aye  free  frae  preyde,  envy,  repeynin  an  streyfe — 
Contentment,     be     thou     our     companion     thro' 
leyfe. 


THE  SAILOR'S  RETURN. 
TUNE — "  O'er  Bogie." 

MOTHER. 

"  O,  welcome  !  welcome,  Willy  lad, 
Now  seafe  return'd  frae  war  ! 

Thou's  dearer  to  thy  mudder's  heart, 
Sin'  thou  hes  been  sae  far  : 

But  tell  me  aw  that's  happen'd  thee- 
The  neet  is  weerin  fast — 

Ther's  nowt  I  leyke  sae  weel  to  hear, 
As  dangers  seafely  past." 


"  O,  mudder  !  I's  reet  fain  to  see 

Your  gud-leyke  feace  the  seame  ; 
In  fancy  still  you  follow'd  me, 

An  aye  my  luive  ye' 11  claim  : 
When  oft  I  walk'd  the  deck  at  neet, 

Or  watch'd  the  angry  teyde  ; 
Mey  thowts  wad  flee  to  this  luiv'd  spot, 

An  place  me  by  your  seyde." 


2i8  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


MOTHER. 

"  O  Willy  !  monie  a  sleepless  neet 

I've  spent  an  aw  for  thee  ; 
I  peyn'd  an  thowt  ov  happier  teymes- 

Fwok  sed  'twas  deeth  wi'  me  : 
An  when  the  wicked  war  broke  out, 

The  news  I  dursent  read  ; 
For  fear  thy  neame  mey  only  lad, 

Sud  be  amang  the  deed  !  " 


41  Aa,  mudder  !  freetfu  sects  I've  seen, 

When  bullets  roun  us  flew  ; 
But  i'  the  feght  or  threetnin  storm, 

I  thowt  o'  yen  an  you  : 
Beath  hur,  an  neybors,  aul  an  young, 

Please  God  !  to-mworn  I'll  see — 
O,  tell  me  !  is  the  yek  uncut, 

That  shelter'd  hur  an  me  ?  " 


MOTHER. 

"  Ay,  that  it  is  !  I  see't  ilk  day  ; 

An  fain  am  I  to  tell, 
Tho'  oft  the  axe  was  busy  theer, 

Thy  tree  they  waddent  fell, 
Oft  as  we  sat  below  the  shade, 

Thy  Jenny  dropt  a  tear  ; 
An  monie  a  teyme  to  Heav'n  I  pray'd — 

O  that  my  lad  wer  here  !  " 


WILLY. 

44  Now  mudder,  yeage  hes  bent  ye  down, 

Agean  we  munnet  part  ; 
To  leeve  ye,  tho'  for  Indy's  wealth, 

Wad  brek  this  varra  heart  ! 
You  say  my  Jenny's  weel  an  true, 

To  part  wi'  her  was  wrang; 
I  ax  nae  mair  than  your  consent — 

We'll  marry  or  it's  lang." 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  219 


MOTHER, 

"  God  speed  ye  weel  !  a  better  pair 

Ne'er  kneel'd  afwore  a  priest  : 
For  me  I've  suffer'd  lang  an  sair — 

The  greave  may  get  me  neest  ! 
Aye  Willy  !  bring  her  frae  the  town  ; 

Reet  happy  may  ye  be  ! 
The  house  an  fields  ;  the  cows  an  sheep, 

When  married,  I'll  gie  thee  !  " 


TRUE    LUIVE. 

Set  to  Music,  by  Mr.  J.  Anderson,  Surgeon,  Carlisle. 

"  Bess,  sweetest  ov  weyld-flow'rs  aroun  us  ! 

Thy  gudness  an  beauty  a  slave  hes  meade  me  ; 
At  heame  I  hev  plenty  an  share  monie  a  dainty, 

But  daily  I  leeve  them  in  whopes  to  gain  thee  ; 
In  dreams  on  my  pillow,  I  see  thee  wi'  plishure  ; 

Tho'  monie  rich  beauties  I'm  daily  amang  ; 
Nae  wealthy  I'll  covet  thou's  aye  my  heart's  treasure, 

An  seeghin,  I  think  o'  thee  aw  the  day  lang  !  " 

O,  Jwosep  !  man,niver  mair  teaze  me  ; 
Tho'  you're  rich  an  clever,  an  I's  waak  an  puir, 
Wealth  leads  some  to  ruin  but  niver  sal  win  me  ; 

Seduction  owre  oft  tnocks  at  Poverty's  duir  ! 
Just  mark  yon  peer  miller  he  toils  hard  as  onie, 

Wi'  him  I's  detarmin'd  leyfe's  plishures  to  share  : 
Sae   court   some   young  leddy   that's   browt   up  in 

feyn'ry, 
You've  plenty  yet  never  mek  flatt'ry  your  care  !  " 

"  Bess  !  seeghin  fair  fav'rite  I'll  leave  thee, 
An  wish  thou  may  suin  get  a  better  than  I, 
May  Heav'n   aye  bless   thee  !  an   gud   men  carress 

thee  ! 

To  gain  onie  other  I  niver  will  try, 
Our  aul  fwok  mun  suffer  when  cross  the  wide  ocean, 

Frae  kindred  an  Bessy  I  wander  an  grieve  ; 

Since  vain  my  endeavour  oh  !  farewell  for  ever  ! 

I'll  pray  for  sweet  Bessy  as  lang  as  I  leeve  ! 


220  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  Dear  Jwosep  !  I'd  scworn  to  deceive  ye  ; 
I  spak  but  in  jest  your  afiection  to  pruive  ; 
That  tear  in  your  e'e  I  now  gaze  at  wi'  sorrow  ! 

Whate'er  may  befaw  me  nae  other  I'll  luive  ; 
I've  sweethearts  a  number,  that  daily  will  flatter  ; 
In   preyde  some   deleyte   an   oft   try   their   base 

art  ; 

I  neer  yet  tnew  sadness  but  see  you  wi'  gladness, 
An  years  hae  flown  owre,  sin'  furst  ye  wan  my 
heart. 


MY  LUIVE  IS  BUT  A  LASSIE  YET. 

Sweet  bud  ov  beauty  hear  me  Jean  ! 
Or  by  my  luik  guess  what  I  mean  ; 
Thoo's  stown  my  heart  wi1  twee  blue  e'en, 
Tho'  thoo  art  but  a  lassie  yet ! 

Wer  meyne  the  wealth  o'  Cummerlan, 
Ov  Westmorlan,  Northumerlan, 
A  monarch's  ransom  for  thy  han 

I  gie,  tho'  thoo'rt  a  lassie  yet ! 

Lood  craws  the  cock  an  aw  the  mworn, 
I  wakin  freet  aboot  thy  scworn  ; 
"  Sec  froons,"  I  cry,  "  can  ne'er  be  bworne, 
Tho'  thoo  art  but  a  lassie  yet !  " 
Wer  meyne  the  wealth,  &c. 

O  why  did  Nature  form  that  feace  ? 
Why  bliss  thee  wi'  a  heav'nly  greace, 
To  steal  the  hearts  in  ilka  pleace  ; 

Tho'  thoo  art  but  a  lassie  yet  ? 

Wer  meyne  the  wealth,  &c. 

But  Jenny,  dunnet  luik  owre  hee  ; 
Lest  beauty  that  sec  pain  can  gie, 
May  suin  draw  tears  frae  thy  breet  e'e, 
Tho'  thoo  art  but  a  lassie  yet ! 

Wer  meyne  the  wealth,  &c. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  221 


The  bees  salute  the  blooming  rwose, 
Come  fairer  than  the  flow'r  that  grcws, 
I'll  luive.  thee,  truly  till  leyfe's  clwose, 

Tho'  thoo  art  but  a  lassie  yet ! 
Wer  meyne  the  wealth,  &c. 

Thy  beauty  sae  my  bwosom  warms, 
I  canna  coont  thy  matchless  charms ; 
A  heaven  on  earth  wad  be  thy  arms, 

Tho'  thoo  art  but  a  lassie  yet ! 
Wer  meyne  the  wealth,"  &c. 


OOR    AWN    FIRE    SEYDE. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

Deame,   lissen !    the   weyld   wint'ry   wins   lood    an 

keen  they  blaw, 
The  seasons  aye  keep  changin — Sae  'tis  wi'  fwok, 

we  see  ; 
Thy  cheek  whoar  yence  bloom'd  a  rwose,  is  noo  as 

wheyte  as  snaw, 

An  to  the  yerth  I's  bowin,  leyke  a  wither'd  aul  tree  : 
But  sin'  that  hour,  that  happy  hour,  I  furst  cawt 

thee  mey  breyde, 

Nae   twee   mair   plishure    teasted    by    their   awn 
fire-seyde ! 


Come,    fou,    twee   sups    o'    oor   brew'  d   yell ;    the 

bwosoms  it  may  warm, 
An  meynd  us  o'  luive' s  merry  neets  in  youthfu' 

happy  years ; 
A  swop  oft  leads  to  health  an  joy  at  other  teymes 

dis  harm, 
But    in    seeckness,    yage    or   poverty   sud    cause 

nae  fears — 

May  peace  an  plenty  to  the  puir  aye  be  the  state- 
man's  preyde ! 

An   gud  teymes  mek  fwok  happy  by  their  awn 
fire-seyde  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Ye  women-fwok  owre  often  lead  to  ruin  mankeynd, 

An  to  scenes  o v  false  plishure  oft  ye  victims  pruive ; 

Yer  weedlin  arts    an   wicked   luiks   hae    madden'd 

monie  a  meynd, 
But  oor  hearts  are  warm'd  by  innocence,  peace, 

truth  an  luive ; 
Tho'   neybors  oft  hae  tried   to  spread  sad  misr'y 

far  an  weyde, 

Nin  e'er  cud   coax   contentment    frev    oor    awn 
fire-seyde ! 

Leyfe's  oft  a  weary  pilgrimage  to  hee  an  low; 
The  nowbles  hae  their  troubles,  aches  an  pains 

leyke  the  puir ; 
We  daily  read  the  greetest  fwok  that  Englan  yet 

e'er  saw, 
Row'd  up  in  preyde  an  folly,  buy  their  plishure 

owre  dear. 
But  sin  thoo  furst  gat  on  the  ring  industry's  been 

oor  preyde, 

An    aye    brong    peace    an    plenty    till    oor   awn 
fire-seyde ! 

In  this  aul   theekt  an  heamly  farm,    we   plishure 

aye  tnew 

When  monie  a  starvin  beggar,  wid  a  tear  in  the  e'e 
Cawt  tremlin;    Oh!    hoo  pleas'd   on    the   fire    the 

peets  we  threw ! 
An  they  shar'd  whate'er  was  fittin  wi'  the  bairns 

or  we ; 
They'd   teake  a  whiff,  an  tell  the  news  that  suin 

flew  far  an  weyde, 

An    aye    they    foun    a    welcome    heame    at    oor 
fire-seyde ! 

As  happy  BOO   we're   seated   as   in   leyfe's  blithe 

spring, 
Tho  marks  o'    yage  on  ilk  pale  wrinkelt   feace 

is  shown ; 
Oor   bairns'    bairns   noo   aroun    us    will    laugh    an 

chat  an  sing, 

Or  read  sec  lessons  as  sud  be  to  aw  fwok  tnown ; 
They  court  a  kiss,  wi'  luiks  ov  bliss  ;   but  trimmel 

at  a  cheyde — 
A  paradeyse  is  sweetest  at  yen's  awn  fire-seyde ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  223 


For  fifty  ang'ry  winters  we  leyke  slaves  hev  toil'd, 

An  gamlin,  folly's  wickedness  oft  mark'd  in  man  ; 
But  when  frae  kings  to  cobblers  by  gamlin  fwok  are 

spoil' d, 
It's  strange,  the  wise  an  wealthy  cheat  an  wheyles 

trapan ; 
Hoo  happy  are  a  couple  that   sec  leyke  can   aye 

dereyde, 

Nor  blush  nor  seegh  at  past-teymes  by  their  awn 
fire-seyde ! 

Oor  Meaker's  gudness,   fourscwore   years  but   few 

fwok  share ; 
This  hour  o'  neet  remeynds  yen  o'  leyfe's  clwosin 

day; 

duty  is,  aye  for  a  better  warl  to  prepare, 
For   deeth's    a    debt    beath    young  an   aul  are 

fworc'd  to  pay ; 
To  rich  an  puir  tho'  thowts  o'  Deeth  owre  oft  are 

hard  to  beyde, 
We'll  welcome  him,  together  by  oorawn  fire-seyde. 


LUIVE    AS    IT    SUD    BE. 

TUNE — "  Come  under  my  plaidie." 

They  may  talk  as  they  leyke,  aboot  this  that  an 
tudder, 

Let's  dui  what  oor  conscience  still  whispers  is  reet, 
Wully  Todd,  tho'  but  puir  an  they  caw  me  a  leady, 

I's  dreemin  aboot  him,  aye  neet  efter  neet! 
He  toils  suin  an  leate  beath  in  summer  an  winter, 

An  keeps  an  aul  fadder,  what  mair  can  he  de  ? 
Wi'  brass  or  wi'  breed  he  oft  sarras  puir  beggars — 

Yen  better  nor  Wulliam,  nee  lass  can  e'er  see ! 

When   twee   bits   o'   scholars    we'd   laik  roun    the 

hay -stack, 

A  mayin,  a  nuttin,  we'd  run  here  an  theer; 
But  ne'er  fan  the  taws,  nor  e'er  yence  playt   the 

trowin — 

What,    oor  fwok  leyke  his    wer  at  that    teyme 
but  puir : 


224  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


'Twas  yen  fan  me  cleedin  an  bowt  me  a  beyble; 
God    bliss    him !     a    better    man    ne'er    clwos'd 

an  e'e. 
Than  aul  uncle   Tim ;    he  left   me   govvd   in  gow- 

pins, 
A  gud  hoose  an  lans;   ther  nae  better  can  be! 

O,  cud  I  but  meake  a  leyle  sang  aboot  Wully ! 
I'd  e'en  give  a  guinea,  ay  mebbys  far  mair; 
I'd    sing't    thro*    the    meedows    but    nit    to    mey 

mudder ; 

Mey  sarty  !  'twad  mek  her  fratch,  caper  an  stare  ! 
She  brags  ov  oor  doctor,  cries,   "  Suin  thoo  may 

git  him ! " 
Wer    he    king    nit   ae   smeyle   he   sud   e'er   buy 

frae  me ; 
Jenny   Stubb,    ay  Betty  Bealie,    ay   duzzens   he's 

ruin'd  ! 

They    gowl   owre   their   bairns   but   ne'er  happy 
can  be! 

O,  Wully  !  O  Wully  !— Hoo  fain  I  wad  meet  him — 
He  pro  mis' d   this   mtvorn  when  his  *darrak  was 

duin, 

In  this  varra  fiel  he  wad  spen  twee  hours  wi'  mey — 
Nay  chaps  promise  oft  what  they  wheyles  forgit 

suin  ! 
Is  yon  him  comes   reydin  ? — Shaf !    what  it's  the 

doctor, 

Deil  bin  him  !  I'll  heyde  mey  ahint  this  yek  tree  ; 
Aa  !  here  wid  his  flute  hoo  oft  Wully  hes  pleas'd  me  ; 
An  aye  in  his  company  merry  I'll  be  ! 

We'll  meet,  if  God  spare  us  at  Rosley  neest  Mon 
day ; 

On  fut  Wully  gans,  on  oor  naig  I  mun  reyde; 
He's  hev  a  lock  money  to  buy  whate'er's  needfu, 
An    when    he    thinks    fit    he   may    caw    me   his 

breyde  ! 
He's  dear  to  his  Nanny  as  man  is  to  onie, 

For  poverty  ne'er  yence  was  froon'd  at  by  me; 
To    dui   gud's    a  blessin    but    preyde   pruives    dis- 

tressin — 
To  mek  the  puir  happy  mey  wish  sal  ay  be ! 

*Darrak=day's  work— a  sheerin  darrak=a  day's  work  in  the 
harvest  field— a  darrak  o'peats=as  much  turf  as  a  man  could  dig 
in  a  dav. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  225 

THE    LAMENT. 
TUNE — "  The  aul  guidman." 

The  sun  shone  clear  owre  hill  an  vale, 

An  yellow  seem'd  the  wavin  cworn. 
When  Peggy  leyke  a  fadin  rwose, 

Sang  seeghin  nar  a  weel-kent  thworn 
"True  luive  owre  seldom  causeth  joy, 

For  mortals  will  too  oft  betray ; 
Here  seated,  plishures  aw  flung  by — 

Alas  !   leyfe's  whopes  are  flown  away  ! 

"This  thworn  caws  happy  hours  to  meynd, 

Wi'  Deavie  seated  by  my  seyde ; 
Noo  yen  mair  rich  his  heart  has  won  ; 

O,  may  gud  luck  the  twee  beteyde ! 
Mey  puir  aul  mudder  hard  the  news 

An  telt  me  aw,  wi'  monie  a  tear — 
'Mid  summer's  smeyles  or  winter's  froons, 

Mey  fav'rite  seat  sal  aye  be  here  ! 

"  Hoo  monie  an  offer  I  hev  hed, 

For  rich  an  puir  oft  courted  me  ; 
Thro'  leyfe  for  Deavie  aye  I'll  pray 

That  noo  in  vain  I  wish  to  see ! 
At  weddins,  murry-neets  an  fairs, 

A  blither  pair  nin  e'er  yet  saw ; 
An  aye  he'd  smeyle  an  gie  me  praise, 

But  luive  pretended  leads  to  woe ! 

"  Hoo  sweet  the  weyld  burds  roun  me  sing, 

Aye  to  ilk  other  they  pruive  true  ; 
An  sae  sud  we  ;  but  I'll  ne'er  be 

The  weyfe  ov  onie  yen,  I  vow  ! ' ' 
"  Yes  !  Peggy— Here  beats  Deavie's  heart 

That  nin  on  earth  sal  win  frae  thee  !  ' ' 
The  voice  of  true  luive  meade  her  start — 

Now  blest  they  leeve  as  pair  can  be  ! 


226  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

AUL     ENGLAN. 

TUNE — "  What  can  the  matter  be." 

Oh  !  dear !— What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

Think  !  Think  !— What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

Say  !  say — What  can  the  matter  be, 

Fwok  mnnnet  whop  for  Reform ! 
Oor    Statesmen    hunt    pleaces,    oppression's    their 

plishure ! 
They    bow    man     to     slavery    in    whops    to    gain 

treasure ! 
Oor    taxes    are    numberless;    laws    beyond    mea 

sure — 

Aul  Englan's  just  lost  in  a  storm  ! 


Oh  !  dear  !— What  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Think  !  think  !— What  can  the  matter  be  ? 
Say  !  say !— What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

Fwok  munnet  whop  for  Reform  ! 
Wad  Rulers  an   Judges  an    Bishops,  foriver 
Mek  gudness  their  study,  an  daily  endeavour 
Aw  tyrans   to  crush— Nay !    sec   teymes  we'll  see, 
niver — 
Aul  Englan's  just  lost  in  a  storm  ! 


Oh  !  dear ! — What  can  the  matter  be  ? 

Think  !  think  ! — What  can  the  matter  be  ! 

Say  !  Say  ! — What  can  the  matter  be ! 

Fwok  munnet  whop  for  Reform  ! 
Wer    tithes    flung    aseyde    that    oor   country    dis- 

greaces  ; 
Wer    freedom     their    preyde    that    hop    into    girt 

pleaces  ; 
The    Deil    meeght    sit    quiet ;     noo    millions    he 

cheases— 

Aul  Englan's  just  lost  in  a  storm ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  227 

MAD  MARY, 
TUNE— By  the  Author. 

The    furst    teyme   I   saw    yon    aul    hawthworn    ae 

eve, 

Returnin  heame  weariet  my  friens  fain  to  see  ; 
A  lassie  sang  under't  but  nin  to  deceive, 
An  burds  warbl'd  roun  her  wi  innocent  glee, 
Mair  innocent  nin  was  than  Mary  ! 

Gud,  cheerfu,  industrious  an  free  frev  aw  preyde  ; 
A    sweeter    young    bud    ne'er    cud    Cummerlan 

bwoast  ; 

To  win  her  chaps  far  in  weyld  winter  wad  reyde, 
An    a   neyborin    squire   wad    oft   mek   her   his 
twoast— 
Aw  roun  wer  rapt  up  in  Mary ! 

Not  riches  or  flatt'ry  her  heart  cud  betray — 
O,  lassies !  foriver  let  this  be  your  plan  ! 

Seduction  owre  oft  causes  leyfe's  clwosin  day ; 
Just  think  what  you'd  suffer  deluded  by  man ! 
Sec  ne'er  was  the  kease  wi'  blithe  Mary ! 

Her  fav'rite  was  Willy  a  lad  iver  dear, 

Sin'  deleyted  they  wandert  to  schuil,  or  to  fair ; 

Still  free  frev  aw  actions  that  cause  mickle  fear ; 
Still  fain  wi'  ilk  other  to  freeten  dull  care, 
Sec  cronies  pruiv'd  Willy  an  Mary  ! 

To   the   tweesome    whope   painted  sweet   pictures 

ov  leyfe  ; 

The  praise  ov  aw  roun  them  forever  they  sowt  ; 
True  foes  to  the  follies  that  lead  but  to  streyfe  ; 
Contented  wi'  little  ;  the  ring  was  now  bowt 
To  grace  the  wheyte  han  o'  young  Mary  ! 

Now   fix'd   was    the    day,    an   the    mwornin   shone 

breet, 

An  anxious  wer  monie  their  keyndness  to  show  ; 
But  Deeth  hed  seized  William,  unluikt  for  at  neet, 
An  robb'd  ov  her  reason  an  object  of  woe, 
The  neybors  aw  pitied  peer  Mary  ! 


228  CUMBERLAND   BALLADS. 


The  ring  on  her  finger  she'll  kiss  wid  a  smeyle, 

An  sing  to   the   weyld  burds  an  throw  them  a 

crum  : 

When  spoke  tui  by  neybors  her  ways  to  begueyle, 
She'll  gaze  wid  a  tear  an  to  strangers  seem  dum  : 
A  word  nin  can  draw  frae  mad  Mary  ! 

When  wintry  wins  howl  oft  her  seat  is  his  greave, 
An  roun  it  in  summer  sweet  weyld-flowers  she'll 

fling  ; 

Half  withert  an  helpless,  nae  pity  she'll  creave, 

But  nar  the  aul  hawthorn  oft  cheerfully  sing, 

Wheyle  monie  drop  tears  for  mad  Mary. 

The  last  o'  the  flock  tho'  not  yet  in  leyfe's  preyme, 
Frae  friens  she  yence  luiv'd  now  forgotten,  she'll 

run, 

Tho'  madness  sinks  low  it  can  ne'er  be  a  creyme  ; 
By  veyce  the  sad  pander,  what  thousans  are  won, 
An  suffer  far  mair  than  mad  Mary. 


NATHAN  AN  WINNY. 
TUNE — "  Aul  lang  seyne." 

"  What,  Winny  it's  owre  suin  for  rist, 

Tho'  that  fwok  mun  desire  ; 
I'll  try  a  whiff — this  neet's  queyte  raw — 

Bring  in  some  peets  to  t'  fire  ; 
Then  tell  us  thy  young  sweethearts  owre- 

Or  lang  thoo's  hear  ov  meyne  ; 
It's  reet  aul  fwok  hae  bits  o'  cracks, 

That  meynds  them  o'  lang  seyne  !  " 

"  Ay,  Nathan,  sec  as  donn't  leyke  Iwords, 

Peer  lasses  to  deceive  ; 
Wad  brag  o'  gear  an  lee  an  sweer, 

I  ne'er  cud  thur  believe  : 
Young  lasses  now  er  lumps  o'  preyde, 

Feyne  leadies  aw  mun  be  ; 
But  wer  I  this  day  i'  mey  teens, 

Preyde  suddent  conquer  me  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


229 


"  The  f urst  young  cuif  I  ever  gat, 

Was  when  we  went  to  schuil  ; 
I  meynd  his  buckles,  three  cock'd  hat, 

A  peer  cat-witted  full  ! 
I  coaxt  him  ae  neet  on  to  t'  eyce, 

It  brak  an  in  he  flew  : 
I  laught  an  laught,  but  frae  that  hour 

Nae  luik  at  me  he  threw. 

At  Carel  hirin  com  the  neest, 

Aw't  way  frae  Warnel  Fell, 
His  nwose  was'  but  leyke  thy  thum  en — 

We  met  at  the  Blue  Bell  : 
He  show'd  his  lang  purse,  drank,  an  reavt, 

Aw  decent  chaps  to  flay, 
But  cowpt  off  horseback  scamprin  heame, 

An  dee't  just  the  neest  day. 


"  At  Leady  Fair,  twee  courtet  me, 

What  I  was  then  eighteen  ; 
They  fratch't  an  fught  ;   wuns,  what  a  dui 

They  beath  gat  twee  black  een  ! 
That  neet  a  lish  chap  frae  Cock-Brig — 

Nay  I  forgit  his  neame  ; 
A  shillin  fer  a  keep-seake  gev, 

An  set  me  narlins  heame. 

"  Kitt  Lang,  the  miller,  thoo  kens  Kitt, 

To  our  farm  house  wad  run, 
Mey  bed-gown  dark  he  oft  meade  wheyte. 

What  he  was  nowt  but  fun  ; 
He'd  lowp  an  teer  an  lee  an  sweer  ; 

That  meade  mey  fadder  stare, 
An  shek  his  crutch  an  threeten  Kit, 

If  ever  he  com  mair. 


"  Yen  Sargin  Jakes,  puff  t  up  wi'  preyde, 

Neist  strutted  to  begueyle  ; 
Reed  cwots  owre  oflen  pruive  but  traps — 

I  ne'er  gev  him  asmeyle  : 
Then  William  Shaw,  frae  Hayket  Yett, 

To  win  me  sair  he  tried  ; 
Consumpshen  laid  him  i'  the  greave, 

Whoar  I  oft  seyne  hev  cry'd. 


230  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  Then,  Boutcher  Tommy  oft  com  down, 

An  bowt  beath  sheep  an  kye  ; 
He'd  stop  to  tea  an  gleyme  at  me, 

But  ne'er  this  han  cud  buy  ! 
The  Bishop's  lackey  tui,  wad  strut, 

Our  worchet  roun  an  roun — 
Aa  !  hed  his  maister  followt  me, 

He'd  mebby's  got  a  frown, 

"  What  ye  nee  a  captain  in  his  gig, 

Owretuik  me  on  the  muir  ; 
He  seeght  an  sobbt  an  kisst  mey  luif, 

An  set  me  till  our  duir  : 
I'd  lovers  then  in  Lunnon  now, 

Some  cwoaches  daily  reyde  ; 
Yen  gat  sent  owre  the  herrin-pon, 

Nae  gud  cud  him  beteyde  ! 


I  letters  gat  frae  aw  maks  roun  ; 

Some  braggin  o'  their  gear  ! 
Yen  pruiv'd  the  apple  o'  mey  e'e, 

Ne'er  knaggy — nobbet  peer  ! 
I  leyke  his  gud  heart,  sense,  an  luik  ; 

He  fairly  capt  them  aw  ; 
I  see  him  notch  an  laugh  an  smuik — 

Thy  marrow — lass  ne'er  saw. 

"  O,  Winny  !  oft  I've  blist  the  day, 

I  furst  cawt  thee  mey  awn  ; 
For  threescwore  years  we've  aye  duin  gud, 

An  aw  leyfe's  comforts  tnown. 
The  clock  streykes  nine  ;  here  teake  a  whiff, 

An  off  to  rist  let's  creep  : 
Thou'll  laugh  to  hear  mey  teales  o1  luive, 

Some  neet  afwore  we  sleep  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  23 £ 

WINNY  AN  NATHAN. 

TUNE — "  Aul  lang  seyne." 

"  Aa,  Nathan  !  this  neet's  dark  an  caul  ! 

What,  thou's  aw  wheyte  wi'  snaw  ! 
Come  teake  the  sattle,  fou  thy  peype 

An  let's   beath  hev  a  draw." 
"  Furst,  Winny,  bring  me  some  blown-milk  ; 

Let  girt  fwok  drink  their  weyne  ; 
We'll  gie  God  thenks  for  hilth  an  peace, 

An  crack  about  lang  seyne  !  " 


"  Gud  lasses  merry  free  frae  preyde 

I  praist,  but  flattert  nin  ; 
An  sec  as  braggt  o'  dress  or  preyd, 

I  ne'er  yence  sowt  to  win  ; 
Young  lads  owre  oft  pretenders  pruive, 

If  rwosy  cheeks  they  see  ; 
They'll  dance  an  prance  an  squeeze  an  teaze- 

It  ne'er  was  sae  wi'  me  ! 


"  When  I  ran  eerans  for  the  squire, 

His  dowter  leykt  me  weel  ; 
Wi'  churries,  sweetmeats,  pwoseys,  pies, 

Oft  till  our  house  she'd  steal  : 
We  roun  the  hay-stack  playt  ae  day, 

Her  f  adder  curs' t  an  ran  ; 
He  owre  mey  back  hi  stick  suin  brack — 

What,  she's  ne'er  taen  a  man  ! 


"  Neest  Etty  o'  the  Fur-bank  Heed, 

A  hartsome  rwosey  lass, 
Was  partner  when  we  larnt  to  dance  ; 

Tho'  she  hed  heaps  ov  brass  : 
I  set  her  heame  neet  efter  neet, 

We'd  aye  the  partin  kiss — 
Deeth  tuik  her  till  a  better  warl — 

She  was  owre  gud  fer  this  ! 

"  Rwose  Murphy  a  sweet  Irish  lass, 
Weel  shept  wi'  lang  black  hair, 

Neest  stuil  mey  heart,  an  gev  me  yen- 
We  met  at  Rosley  Fair  ; 


232  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Thur  reed  cwoat  chaps  git  whee  they  will  ; 

To  Gratena  ofl  she  flew 
Wi'  yen  :  his  captain  bowt  her  suin, 

But  God  kens  whoar  she's  now  ! 

"  Ae  Cursmess,  f adder's  cousin's  neice, 

To  see  our  fwok  com  owre  ; 
She  sang,  read  novels,  drest  in  wheyte, 

An  snin  gat  sweethearts  four  ; 
They  fratcht  an  fit  she  leyke  but  me, 

Togidder  we  rid  heame — 
She's  hed  three  husbands  ;  women  oft 

Leyke  weel  to  change  the  neame  ! 

"  Neest  Beemont  Betty,  ilk  chap's  twoast, 
I  sowt  to  meake  mey  breyde  ; 

But  leyke  owre  monie,  she  was  won 
.     By  yen,  a  lump  ov  preyde  ! 

She  bwore  him  twins  but  dee't  o'  grief, 
Hur  tweesome  oft  we  see — 

How  happy  she  mud  leev'd  this  day, 
Hed  she  taen  on  wi'  me  ! 

"  Aul  Widow  Watters  oft  wad  caw, 

Donn't  neyce  an  she  spak  feyne  ; 
"  If  cruikt,  she's  rich  "  my  mudder  sed, 

"  Sae,  Nat  lad,  meake  her  theyne  !  .' 
A  scarlet  weascwoat  she  gae  me, 

Nae  neycer  king  can  weer  ; 
She  dee't  neest  month,  just  fifty-five, 

Worth  threescwore  pun  a  year  ! 

"  At  Low-wood-Nuik  wid  Lucy  James, 

I  met  ae  Sunday  mworn  ; 
The  sun  ne'er  shone  on  bonnier  lass, 

An  better  ne'er  was  bworn  ! 
The  teyme  we  fixt  but  Deeth  slipt  in, 

An  Lucy  stule  away — 
Wi'  monie  a  tear  I  wet  her  greave, 

An  cud  this  varra  day  ! 

"  For  three  dull  years,  I  frownt  an  peynt, 
Queyte  tir'd  o'  luive,  an  leyfe — 

A  peer  bit  lass  yen  weel  thou  kens, 
Suin  pruiv'd  mey  decent  weyfe  ; 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  233 

Now  bliss' t  wi'  plenty,  hilth  an  peace  ; 

Till  Deeth  sal  give  a  caw, 
We'll  cheerfu  toddle  down  the  hill, 

An  pray  fer  yen  an  aw  !  " 

"  O,  Nathan  !  'twas  a  lucky  hour, 

When  furst  thoo  cawt  me  theyne  ; 
We've  meade  the  langest  days  seem  shwort, 

But  niver  rued  sin-seyne  ! 
Some  ill-gien  weyves  leyke  lazy  leyves, 

An  mek  tyme  dull  an  lang, 
We're  feckless  grown — O,  to  the  greave, 

Togidder  may  we  gang  !  " 


PRIMRWOSE    BANKS. 

TUNE — "Roy's  Weyfe." 

Ye  primrwose  banks  an  woody  braes, 
Oh  !  but  to  me  ye're  aye  deleytin  ! 

Theer  youthfu  Mary  wi'  me  strays, 
Her  gudness  aye  to  luive  inveytin  : 

Her  shep,  her  air,  her  smeyle'her  voice, 
Wi  beauty  bloomin  in  ilk  feature, 

Mud  mek  her  onie  mortals  choice — 

Leyfe's  dearest  joy  is  when  I  meet  her  ! 

Ye  primrwose  banks  an  woody  braes, 
Oh  !  but  to  me,  ye're  aye  deleytin  ! 

Theer  faithfu  Mary  wi'  me  strays, 
Her  heart  sae  true  to  luive  inveytin  : 

I  ne'er  will  bow  a  slave  to  care, 
Nor  pruive  to  woman  a  deceiver  ; 

Whate'er  I  earn  thro'  leyfe  she's  share, 
Nor  cud  the  warl  e'er  mek  me  leave  her. 

Ye  primrwose  banks  an  woody  braes, 
Oh  !  but  to  me,  ye're  aye  deleytin  ! 

Theer  cheerfu  Mary  wi'  me  strays, 
Her  words  sae  keynd  to  luive  inveytin  ; 

Now  Autumn  strips  the  shady  bow'rs, 
'Till  Spring  brings  forth  ilk  bonny  blossom, 

We'll  talk  o'  Summer's  happy  hours, 
Wheyle  oft  I  press  her  to  my  bwosom- 


234  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Ye  primrwose  banks,  an  woody  braes, 
Oh  !  but  to  me,  ye're  aye  deleytin  ! 

Theer  greacefu  Mary  wi'  me  strays, 
Her  temper  sweet  to  luive  inveytin  : 

She's  aye  the  dearest  to  this  heart, 
My  leyfe  o'  leyfe,  my  bwosom's   treasure 

An  when  at  last  we're  forc'd  to  part, 
I'll  bid  fareweel  to  peace  an  pleasure  ! 


ON  THE  AUTHOR'S  BIRTH-DAY. 

TUNE — "  The  Pensioners." 

Now  fifty  weyld  winters  on  Nature  have  frown' d, 
Sin'  Poverty's  son,  I  that  mwornin  was  own'd  ; 
This  varied  leyfe's  scenery  ilk  mortal  aye  snares, 
An  if  youth  hed  its'   plishures,   yage  now  hes  it's 

cares  ! 

Yes,    aw   human   mortals   know  plishure   an   pain, 
But  the  true  joys  ov  leyfe  I  ne'er  whope  for  agean  ! 

Tho'  a  parent's  affection  r.ieks  virtue  yen's  gueyde  ; 
Yet,    in    youth   we're    oft    won    by  luive,  folly  an 


preyde  ! 
Hope's  day-star,  in  manhood  lures  down  the  weyld 

stream, 

An  reflection  suin  pruives  aw  the  past  but  a  dream  ; 
Owre    monie    wi'    smeyles    then    luik    forward    in 

vain, 
But  the  true  joys  ov  leyfe  I  ne'er  whop  for  agean  ! 

To  the  pale  goddess  Poverty,  still  hev  I  bow'd, 
Nor  e'er  yence  wad  envy  the  wealthy  or  proud  ; 
The  burthen   tho'   painfu,    man   cheerfu   sud   bear, 
He  caws  forth  his  ruin  when  sunk  to  dispair  ; 
He's    wisest    mid'    suff'rins,    who    scorns    to    com 
plain, 

Tho'    the  true  joys   ov  leyfe  he   ne'er  whops   for 
agean  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  235 


What    numbers,  alas  !    hae    their    preyme    sweep 

away, 

Tho'  painfu  sec  thowts  some  will  ever  betray, 
An  raider  cause  suffrins  than  seek  for  relief, 
To    the    wretched,    whose    bwosoms    are    clouded 

by  grief  : 

Leyke  monie   who   on  earth's   dull   stage   now  re 
main, 
I  the  true  joys  of  leyfe  ne'er  mun  whop  for  agean  ! 

Leyke  aw  maks   I   waakness  hev  oft  shewn  thro' 

leyfe, 

But  ne'er  pruiv'd  a  frien  to  ambition  or  streyfe  ; 
By  trouble  bow'd  low,  now  the  winter  of  age 
Is  frownin,  with  mortals  I  seldom  engage  : 
Tho'    leyfe's    wish'd-for  blessings    man    cannot    ob 
tain, 
Be  his  whope,  efter  deeth  purer  plishures  to  gain  ! 


MUDDER    AN    JEMMY.* 
TUNE — "  Merrily  dance  the  quaker." 

Larre-dee-dum  ! — Tee-rowe  !  de-dowe  ! 

Come  gie  me  twoo  kisses  mey  pritty  ! 
That  bonny  bit  thoum  thoo  leykes  to  chowe, 

Wheniver  thou  wants  a  swop  titty  : 
Oh  !  wad  thoo,  James,  some  boilies  sup, 

For  day  efter  day  I  meake  them  ; 
Now  wags  thy  noddle,  as  if  to  say,  "  Nay  ! 

Our  pussy-cat  leykes  to  teake  them  !  ' 

In  thy  feyne  creddle,  thoo's  hed  a  neyce  nap  ; 

I  wish  I  cud  hev  sec  anudder — 
Be  duin  ! — leyle  baggish  !  I'll  gie  thee  a   slap  ! 

What,  beyte  thy  bonny  young  mudder  ? 

*  The  original  draft  of  this  song  in  the  Poet's  own  hand 
writing,  has  been  sent  to  me  by  a  gentleman  who  has  had  it  for 
over  40  years.  Upon  comparison,  I  find  it  differs  little  from  the 
song  as  here  given,  except  that  it  does  not  give  stanza  seven, 
which  the  Poet  evidently  added  afterwards. — T.E. 


236  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS 


Nay,  dunnet  whinge  !  mey  sweet  pet  lam  ; 

On  muddy  tnee,  see  tiow  he  dances  ! 
Now,  sitty  ways  down  till  I  meak  tea — 

Thy  nails  er  far  sharper  nor  lances  ! 

Aa  !  Cwoley's  cumt  in  ! — Huy,  dog  !  here,  here! 

Mey  boddy  leyle  Jim  sal  feght  the  — 
He  wags  his  tail — now  coddle  him  dear  ! 

Awt'  warl  cuddent  meake  him  beyte  the' — 
To  Carel  market  faddy's  away  ; 

Beath  snaps  an  taffy  he'll  bring  the'  ; 
He'll  cleek  out  his  chow,  an  fling' t  i't'  fire, 

An  then  a  sweet  sang  he'll  sing  the'  ! 

When  thoo  was  bworn  thoo  gowlt  an  gowlt, 

Sae  thou'll  be  lucky  nae  fear  on't  ; 
Here,  tek  some  suggy  an  neest  some  sop — 

A  flea  hes  just  bitten  the  ear  on't  ! 
Shek  hans  !  come  kissy  :  aye  darlin  dui  ! 

Bid  thy  ded-da  come  heame,  now — 
Just  luik  at  Dicky-burd  weshin  his-sel — 

O,  cud  thoo  but  dui  the  seame  now  ! 

Just  shew  them  teeth  ;    aa  looavins  !  five — 

Thy  cheeks  er  gittin  queyte  rwosy  ; 
When  sarvent  Bett  comes  in  fraet'  byre, 

She'll  bring  bonny  Jemmy  a  pwosey  : 
Clap,  clap  thy  hans  ;    now  nod  thy  heed  ; 

Fain,  fain  we'd  see  thy  gud  deddy  : 
God  grant  thee  hilth  !  or  twonty  years, 

I's  warn  thoo'll  wed  a  rich  leddy  ! 

I  wish  aw  peer  fwok  were  happy  as  thee  ; 

It  breks  yen's  heart  to  see  them  ; 
When  thoo  can  walk,  thoo's  gang  to  t'  faul, 

An  summet  to  eat  sal  gie  them — 
She's  brong  his  p  .vosey — teake  him,  Bett  ! 

Nay  !  luik  how  he  coddles  his  muddy — 
He'll  nit  let  me  a  bans'  turn  e'er  dui — 

To  coddle  a  sweetheart,  O,  cud  he  ! 

We'll  hie  to-mworn,  an  see  Mi.-ress  Creake, 
Hawf-craz'd  she'll  be  just  to'hod  thee  ; 

Thoo'll  git  lumps  o'  suggy  an  drops  o'  punch, 
An  shurries  an  plums  I'll  uphod  te  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  237 

We'll  hev  thee  cursen'd,  or  it  be  lang  ; 

When  priest  wet's  thee  wid  watter, 
Thou's  fou  o'  spirits  an  gittin  sae  strang, 

He'll  git  a  black  e'e  ;    nae  matter  ! 

To  Carel  we'll  gan  aye  varra  neest  week  ; 

I'll  buy  thee  a  hat  an  feyne  fedder  ; 
A  pair  o'  blue  stockins  ;    a  wheyte  silk  frock  ; 

An  shun  meade  o'  bonny  reed  ledder  : 
Here,  pussy  !  come  in  ! — Talk,  talk  mey  fowt  ! 

O,  cud  te  but  rwoar  an  flyre  out — 
Aa  !  what  he  laughs — reet  weel  he  may, 

He's  varra  nar  piddelt  the  fire  out  ! 

Yen  Brown  thy  leykeness  suin  sal  pent  ; 

He'll  mek  thee  a  canny  bit  dandy — 
Gie  me  three  kisses — now,  three  an  three  mair — 

They're  sweeter  nor  sugger-candy  ! 
What,  talking  ? — Laughin  ? — Fou  o'  leyfe  ! 

An  lowp,  lowp,  lowpin,  fer  iver  ; 
Flee  up  an  cleek  the  bacon  fleek — 

Ther  ne'er  was  a  bairn  sae  cliver  ! 

Mey  stars  sec  a  weyte  ! — Ay  chowin  the'  thoum  ? 

Nay  dunnet  lick  muddy  sweet  blossom  ! 
Just  tek  a  bit  souck,  an  thee  bee-boa — 

O,  but  thoo  is  dear  to  mey  bwosom  ! 
A  wheyle  seyne  thoo  was  ruttelt  i'  t'  thrwoat, 

But  pottiker  gud  stuff  gev  the'  ; 
I  cried,  an  fentet — fadder  oft  sed, 

I't  greave  we  mud  aw  suin  leave  the'. 

Clwos'd  er  blue  een — he  starts,  an  smeyles  ; 

He  tnows  what  mudder  is  sayin  : 
Nay,  leyke  aul  fwok  he  dreams  an  dreams, 

An  thinks  wi'  Cwoley  he's  playin. 
Just  ten  month  aul — teyme  slips  away — 

God  keep  him  frae  care  an  sorrow  ! 
Sud  onie  thing  serous  ail  him  to-day, 

I's  seer  I'd  be  deed  or  to-morrow  ! 


238  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

MICHAEL  THE  MISER. 
TUNE — "  /  am  a  brave  fellow.'' 

Aa,  Lanty  1  just  lucks  te  !  yon's  Skinflint  the  Miser, 

That  tnarls  a  bit  crust  on  the  binch  at  his  duir  ; 
He's  rich  as  the  squire  that  drives  roun  in  his  car 
riage, 

But  nin  in  aw  Cummerlan  leeves  hawf  sae  puir  : 
An  mark  his  aul  cwoat  patcht  wid  aw  maks  o' 
colours, 

'Twas  bowt  off  the  pegs  in  the  year  eighty- twee  ; 
His  whol'd  ledder  breeks  set  wi'  marrowless  buttons, 

An  stockins  aw  darnt  frae  the  fit  to  the  tnee. 

His  rents,  gowd  an  siller  he  trails  to  the  banker, 

But  whee's  to  come  in  for't  we  nin  on  us  ken  ; 
His  hawf-daft  thurd  cousin  sells  leaces  an  matches, 

But  a  match  fer  aul  Michael  we  cannot  fin  yen  : 
When  strangers  he  meets  wid  he  gits  monie  a  penny, 

An  moves  the  worn  hat  that  hes  lang  lost  its 

crown  ; 
What  pity  a  man  that  mud  help  the  peer  roun  him, 

Sud  pruive  a  disgreace  to  the  country  aw  roun. 

It's  now  a  lang  wheyle  sin  he  furst  turnt  a  miser. 

An  tuik  a  gud  weyfe  for  the  seake  ov  her  gear  ; 
She  struive  to  dui  weel  but  the  weddin  repen-tet, 

An  dee't  brokken-hearted,  in  less  nor  a  year  ; 
When  neybors  seemt  sworry  he  daily  seemt  murry, 

Queyte  fain  to  seave  mair  sin  peer  Biddy  was 

geane  ; 
He  selt  aw  her  duds  an  the  ring  off  her  finger — 

Except  the  starvt  cat,  he  has  company  neane. 

He  begs  locks  o'  strae,  frae  the  neybors  for  beddin  ; 

Chair,  cubbert  or  teable  is  ne'er  seen  widin  ; 
He  gedders  whins,  thorns  an  aul  stowres  fer  his  firm  ; 

An  stowters  an  hour  proud  to  pick  up  a  pin  : 
He'll  steal  bits  o1  turneps,  beans,  pez  an  potateys  ; 
His  denty  pruives  poddish,  beath  mworn,  nuin  an 

neet  ; 
How  happy  are  beggars  compar'd  wi'  rich  Michael, 

To  nin  the  curmudgeon*  e'er  yence  gev  a  treat. 

•Curmudgeon  is  well  known  both  in  and  out  of  the  Northern 
Dialects.  Its  original  meaning  according  to  its  derivation  is 
'Corn  hoarder  "  an  apt  term  for  a  miser.— T.  E. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  239 


His  aul  ladder's  preyde  was  to  sarra  aw  roun  him  : 

Leyke  wordy  Kit  Craffet  he  seldom  did  wrang  ; 
His  decent  weyfe  Barb'ry,  was  honest  an  cheerfu, 

To  help  her  peer  neybors  she  daily  wad  gan  : 
Their  only  bairn  Michael  the  hard-hearted  miser, 

Ne'er  kent  onie  plishure  but  money  to  seave  ; 
Nae  neybor  luiks  near  him,  his  tenants  aw  fear 
him, 

His  neame  '11  be  hated  when  thrown  i'  the  greave. 


This  warls  leyke  an  ocean,    we  see  by   weyld  pas- 

hion, 

Man,  waak  thowtless  creeter  is  hurl'd  tui  an  fro  ; 
He  oft  toils  wi'  trouble  fer  what  pruives  a  bubble, 

An  leads  to  vexation,  keen  want  an  dull  woe  ! 
Ye  fwok  that  hev  plenty  remember  your  duty  ; 

Be  honest  an  proud  to  dui  gud  wheyle  you  may  ; 
Prepare   to   meet    Deeth,    that   was   ne'er   breyb'd 

by   money — 

[.  To    Spenthrifts   leyke   Misers    this   leyfe's  but    a 
day  ! 


THE  SHEPHERDS'  COMPLAINT. 
TUNE — "  Nanny  Peel." 

The  sun  sheynes  breet  on  muir  an  fell  ; 

The  weyld  burds  sing  on  bush  an  tree  ; 
Each  hauds  sweet  converse  wid  his  mate, 

But  mey  true  luive  is  far  frae  me  ; 

Sweet  throssle  cease  that  cheerfu  sang  ! 

Hush  !  hush,  blithe  lark  that  soar'st  sae  hee  ! 
Mey  youthfu  days  ov  bliss  are  geane, 

Now  mey  true  luive  is  far  frae  me  ! 

Ye  leytle  lams  that  roun  me  play, 

In  spwortive  innocence  sae  free  ; 
Wee  wanton  things,  I  envy  you, 

For  mey  true  luive  is  far  frae  me  ! 


240  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Ye  streams  that  tinkle  at  my  feet, 
Ye  wimplin  hasten  to  the  sea  ; 

Sae  welcome  I  hae  sowt  the  airms 
O'  mey  true  luive,  that's  far  frae  me  ! 

In  vain  aw  roun  me  far  an  weyde, 
Gay  Nature  smeylin,  meets  my  e'e  ; 

Her  fairest  scenes  I  canna  prize, 
Sin'  mey  true  love  is  far  frae  me  ! 

Aw  that  yon  ebemin  sun  sheynes  on, 
An  ten  teymes  mair  if  meyne  I'd  gie, 

To  mark  ageane  the  witchin  smeyle 
Ov  mey  true  luive  that's  far  frae  me  ! 

But  I'm  a  slave  robb'd  ov  aw  whopes, 
Aye  vainly  strugglin  to  be  free  ; 

Yen  nobbet  yen  can  lowse  the  chain — 
It's  mey  true  luive  that's  far  frae  me  ! 

Ye  Pow'rs  whoare'er  I'm  forc'd  to  stray, 
Howe'er  I'm  cross'd  by  Fate's  decree  ; 

O,  crownjwi'  bliss  ilk  future  day, 

Ov  mey  true  luive  that's  far  frae  me  ! 


TO  A  FRIEN  IN  PRISON.* 
TUNE — "  The  Pensioners" 

This  warl  is  a  Prison  !    yen  daily  may  see  ; 

Gud  fwok  oft  confeyn'd  an  the  bad  fwok  aw  free  . 

Frae  prince  to  the  beggar  leyfe's  sorrows  aw  share, 

It's  wise  to  be  cheerfu,  an  laugh  at  dull  care  ; 

To  spurn  at  oppression  that  tortures  the  meynd, 

An  pray  for  the  freedom  an  joy  ov  mankeynd. 

*  On  visiting  him  in  Carlisle  Jail 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  241 


Leyfe  pruives  but  a  Prison  for  care  is  aye  tnown, 
Aul,  young,  rich  an  peer  thro'  this  warl  this  may 

awn  ; 
Some  crush' d  by  base  tyrants  some  bow'd  down 

by   fear, 

Desarted  by  monie  they  help'd  an  held  dear  : 
Yet  mid  aw  sec  suff'rins  let's  sorrow  destroy, 
An  aim  at  true  plishure  wi'  feelins  ov  joy. 

O,  peyne  nit,  my  frien  !  It  hes  aye  been  thy  plan, 
To  comfort  the  peer,  and  dui  gud  to  ilk  man  ; 
To  pray  that  girt  tyrants  wer  aw  flung  aseyde, 
An  rulers  wad  wish  to  mek  justice  their  preyde  : 
Be  cheerfu  dear  Frien  ;     true  respect  is  thy  claim, 
An  bless'd  be  aw  mortals  when  gud  is  their  aim  ! 


Just  mark  a  peer  sangster  hung  up  in  a  cage, 
Queyte  flayt,  wid  a  foe  ev'n  a  frien  to  engage  ; 
Of  liberty  robb'd  yet  his  nwotes  daily  pruive, 
In  fancy,  he  rests  in  the  meedow  or  grove  : 
Then,  aye  let's  shun  sorrow,  an  plishure  impart, 
Nor    thowts    o'    confeynement    e'er   hurt    a   warm 
heart. 


Whate'er  yen's  enjoyments  a  prison  is  leyfe, 
Tho'  courtet  by  girt  fwok  an  free  frev  aw  streyfe  ; 
In  plenty  gay  frienship  we  daily  may  view  ; 
In  poverty  visits  frae  friens  are  but  few  : 
The  wealth  o'  the  warl  ne'er  can  happiness  gain  ; 
A  king's  oft  a  slave  to  grief,  folly  an  pain. 

In  freedom,  wi'  monie  to  mix  will  aye  please 
But  sec  leads  to  foibles,  to  woe  an  disease  ; 
The  smeyle  o'  content  ev'ry  mortal  sud  bless  ; 
The  scworn  o'  the  warl  ne'er  a  meynd  sud  oppress  ! 
The    dark   frowns    o'    Fortune,    aye    meyld   let    us 

meet 
'Till  Deeth  frae  leyfe's  Prison  sal  mek  us  retreat. 


342 


CUMBERLAND   BALLADS. 


DINAH. 

To  an  old  Irish  Tune. 

'Twas  winter  an  the  neet  was  dark, 

An  heavy,  heavy  fell  the  rain, 
When  Fanny  oft  the  foot-pad  sowt, 

Owre  the  weyde  muir  fer  heame  in  vain  ; 
Then  for  the  eshes,  whoar  the  brig 

Across  the  shallow  stream  was  thrown, 
But  eshes,  brig  or  shallow  stream, 
She  sowt,  nor  fan  of  what  she'd  dream. 

The  pleace  sae  weel  in  cheyldhood  tnown, 
Sae  weel  in  cheyldhood  tnown. 

She  lissnin,  tremlin,  weepin,  stuid, 

Wheyle  fear  owr  com  the  youthfu  meynd  ; 
An  freetfu  phantoms  fancy  saw 

Reyde  on  the  hollow  blasts  beheynd  ; 
The  weyld  burds  only  hard  her  shriek 

When,  fenting  on  the  muir  she  fell — 
Oh  !  what  wer  her  peer  mudder's  fears, 
Her  watchin  prayin  painfu  tears  ? 

A  mudder  only  best  can  tell, 
Only  best  can  tell. 

Aul  Dinah  ran  an  on  the  muir 

By  muinleet  fan  the  leyfeless  bairn  ; 
Nae  tear  she  shed  ;  but  frae  that  hour 

In  her  nin  can  a  smeyle  discern. 
Aw  neybors  follow'd  to  the  greave  ; 

Wi'  monie  a  seegh  the  psalm  was  sung — 
Tho'  virtue  happiness  may  creave, 
Nowt  frae  grim  Deeth  can  onie  seave, 

The  king,  the  cottar,  aul,  or  young, 
Cottar,  aul  or  young. 

Now  pitied  by  aw  bodies  roun, 

The  last  o'  th'  flock  puir  Dinah's  left  ; 
Nae  joy  hes  she,  nae  wark  can  de — 

Ov  bliss  ay  monie  are  bereft  ; 
Amang  the  bairns  whene'er  she  gangs, 

In  fancy  Fanny  aye  she  sees  ; 
An  then  she'll  seegh  an  shriek  an  weep, 
An  to  the  greave  oft  fain  wad  creep — 

Heav'd  grant  the  puir  aul  sufF rer  ease, 
The  puir  aul  suff'rer  ease  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  243 

MARY  OV  CARLATTAN.* 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

Meyld  Mary,  that  breet  witchin  e'e  o'  theyne, 
Meeght  mek  monie  a  sweetheart  thy  awn,  fair  lassie  ! 

A  glance  wad  hae  won  this  bit  heart  o'  meyne 
In  youth  ;  but  in  yage  I'm  noo  thrown,  sweet  lassie  I 
Luiks  oft  pruive  a  snare 
An  add  to  man's  care  ; 

But  young,  cheerfu,  bonny  aye  conquer  but  spare, 
Then  sorrow  need  ne'er  mek  thee  peyne,  gud  lassie  ! 

On  beauty  an  gudness  when  man  can  e'er  gaze, 
Hoo  sweet  is  the  treat  to  the  heart,  fair  lassie  ! 
Sec  nin  owt  to  injure  but  aw  wish  to  praise, 
For  wickedness  causeth  leyfe's  smart,  sweet  lassie ! 
Veyce  mun  be  his  preyde, 
That  fling  bliss  aseyde ; 

To  turn  rwoses  to  lilies  the  warl  sud  dereyde — 
Woe  to  him  that  wad  play  sec  a  part,  gud  lassie  I 


The  burds   in   woods,   meedows  or   glens,  court 

a  mate, 
But  ne'er  yence  ilk  other  deceive,  fair  lassie! 

Whate'er  they  may  suffer  they  ne'er  froon  at  fate  ; 
Thus  a  lesson  to  mortals  aye  give,  sweet  lassie ! 
They  welcome  blithe  spring 
With  joy,  on  the  wing 
Wheyle   deeds   o'    mankeynd    daily    sorrow    will 

bring — 
May  sec  thro'  leyfe  ne'er  mek  thee  grieve,  gud  lassie  I 


Keen  woe  to  the  man,  may  he  never  teaste  joy. 
That  wad  frae  thy  e'en  draw  a  tear,  fair  lassie  ! 

'Tis  oors  still  to  please  you  but  joy  ne'er  destroy, 
To  women  we  owe  what's  aye  dear,  sweet  lassie  ! 
Where'er  thoo  mun  rove 
Leyfe's  bliss  may  thoo  pruive  ; 
Nor  iver  ken  cares  save  the  soft  cares  o'luive — 
Be  theyne  lang  leyfe,  health,  peace   an   gear,  gud 
lassie  ! 

*  Written  after  visiting  her  and  the  family. 


244 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


DANDY    DAN. 
TUNE—"  The  humours  o'  Glen?' 

Last  harvest   ae  neet   when  queyte  wearied  wi' 

shearin, 
I    cawt   at    Dick   Lowson's   to   teaste    a  swop 

yell, 
When    yen   com   in  struttin,   twee   dogs   cap'rin 

roun  him, 

Odswunters !   thowt  I,  this  is  seerly  Dan  Bell ! 
The  lanlword  boo'd  low,  an  aul  Becca  she  cur- 

cheyt, 
When    mister    (nay    Dan)    cawt    out,    "  Bring 

me  some  wine  !  " 
I    smuikt   my   black   peype,    meade    him    cough 

glowre  an  spit  oot,  . 

Thinks    I,    he    forgits    we    wer    cronies    lang- 
seyne ! 

Says    Dick    "We've    nee    weyne    sur    but    yell 

strang  as  brandy;" 
•  'Here  Dan"  says  I   "  cowp  off   a  glass  on't 

wi'  me ! " 

"  Dan !    Dan !    what   dost    mean  ?    Silly    beggar- 
like  fellow ! 
Few    gentles    wud    sit    near    a    creetcher    like 

thee!" 
"What,  Dan!    (I  mean  mister)   we're  beath  ov 

ae  parish, 
I've  lickt  the',  oft  fed  the'  when  we  went  to 

schuil  ; 
Thy  f adder  meade  swills,*  an  meyne  theekt  fer 

his  neybors; 
Noo  thoo's  a  puir  dandy  an  I's  a  puir  fuil ! 

"  Weel  I  ken  thy  weyfe,  yence  my  awn  rwosie 

sweetheart ; 
Thoo  gat   the  gud  lass  an  just  twee  hundred 

pun : 
We    wheyles    meet,   shek  hans,    what    she    weel 

meynds  Jack  Maggot, 

Leyke  me  she  weers  clogs — Aa !   her  fortune's 
aw  duin ! " 

*  A  swiller  or  basket  maker.     Another  form  of  the  word  k 
sweet."— T.E. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  245 


He  cawt  his  dog,  Juno,  an  bad  it  run  beyte  me — 
"Deil  bin  the,"  says  I  "min!  tie  up  mey  left 

han  ; 

Tho  fratchin  or  feghtin  I  ne'er  tuik  deleyte  in, 
I'll  pent  thy  wheyte  trowsers  wi'  bluid,  Dandy 
Dan." 


He  ruse  in  a  flurry,  nae  corp  was  e'er  wheyter  ; 

A  lish  chap  weel  mountet  ruid  up  to  the  duir — 

A  tap  on  the  shoulder  suin  meade  Dan  a  pris'ner  ; 

He  struts  nay  he  starves  i'   the  jail  raggt  an 

puir ; 
His    decent    weyfe,    Mary,   seemt    lang    brokken 

hearted, 
But  now  she   toils   hard   for    the   farmers   aw 

roun — 
Ye   wealthy,    your   feyn'ry   keeps   thoosans    frae 

ruin ! 

Ye  puir  wad-be-dandies,   Preyde  suin  boos  ye 
doon ! 


DANDY    DAN. 
Part  the  Second. 


Puir  Dan !  a  starv't  pris'ner  sat  peynin  in  sadness, 

A  prey  to  preyde,  folly,  want,  sorrow  an  care ; 
Relief  frae  aul  cronies  to  him  seem'd  but  madness, 

Nae  dandy  e'er  cawt  or  a  penny  wad  share  : 
He  wheyles  wad  keep  musing  ;   aw  prospects  wer 

gloomy  ; 
The  freedom  fwok  wish  for  owre  seldom  they 

tnow  ; 
Tho'  sleepless  he  thowt  o'  past  teymes  an  false 

plishures — 
Reflection  oft  eases  a  heart  sunk  in  woe  ! 


246  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Puir  Mary  keept  toilin  but  ne'er  was  seen  smey- 

lin; 

A  husband  a  pris'ner  is  hardship  to  bear  ! 
Her  hawf-starvt    bit    bairn   wad   oft    ax  for  his 

fadder, 

An  then  gat  a  kiss  with  a  seegh  an  a  tear  : 
Mid'   wintry  weyld  storms  she  wad  weade  owre 

to  Carel, 
An    hawf    her    hard  eernins    wi'   plishure   gev 

Dan; 
Nae  neybor  sent  weyne  but  reet  holsome  plain 

vittles, 

Thus   mid'    aw    his  suffrins  some  comfort  he 
fan. 


Mang    Cummerlan     Ballets     we    read    ov    Kitt 

Craffet ; 
A  statesman  their  neybor  meade  Kitt  aye  his 

gueyde ; 

He  cawt  at  the  jail  an  fan  Dan  at  the  beyble — 

Whee  clings  to  religion  mun  fling  away  preyde  ! 

Neest  day,  the  puir  pris'ner  ow'rjoy'd,   gat  his 

freedom. 
But  whee  pruiv'd  his  frien  ? — Nay,  he's  aye  i' 

the  dark ! 

He  off  an  in  nee  teyme  a  kiss  gev  sweet  Mary; 
The    neyborin    statesmen    paid    weel    for    her 
wark. 


They   toil  away   teyme   an   shek   hans   wi'   Jack 

Maggot : 
They  sleep  away  care  an  aye  welcome  the 

mworm  ; 
They  git  what  they  wish  for  an  luive  yen  anud- 

der  ; 
They  larn    the   bit   bairn    preyde  an   folly  to 

scworn : 

When  Dan  meets  a  dandy  he  gazes  wi'  pity, 
To   check   sec    weyld   fuil'rv,   his   wishes   he'll 

tell; 
—Ye  gentry,   yer   feyn'ry   fins    fwok   meat   an 

deeding; 
— Ye    puir    wad-be-dandvs,    just    think    o'    Dan 

Bell! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  247 

FALSE    LUIVE. 
TUNE — "O'er  Bogie." 

Peace  to  thv  bwosom  rwosy  cheyl, 

To  me  thou's  aw  that's  dear ; 
I  see  thy  fadder  in  ilk  smeyle, 

Thaf  causes  monie  a  tear! 
O,  pity  yen  sud  bear  luive's  smart, 

Widout  leyfe's  whopes  in  view ! 
Suin  as  he  stule  my  faithfu  heart, 

Far,  far  away  he  flew. 

How  monie  a  happy  hour  we  spent, 

What  owre  few  share  aroun ; 
In  summer  pleas'd  thro'  fiels  we  went, 

Free  frae  the  noisy  toun  ; 
In  winter  aye  this  lowly  cot, 

He  drew  tui,  day  an  neet ; 
By  him,  'till  deeth  can't  be  forgot, 

What  ruin'd  me — deceit. 

I  hed  a  mother  dear  to  aw  ; 

She  bless 'd  thee  at  thy  birth  ; 
But  grey  in  years,  a  dowter's  faw 

Suin  laid  her  in  the  y earth  : 
O,  pity,  sorrow,  care  or  pain, 

Gud  fwok  sud,.  e'er  enslave  ; 
If  I  thy  fadder  seed  agean, 

My  leyfe  he  cuddent  seave. 

Now  robb'd  o'  kinsfwok,  left  to  mourn, 

An  seegh  an  gaze  on  thee  ; 
The  joys  o'  leyfe  can  ne'er  return, 

Nor  owt  deleyte  gie  me : 
By  sorrow  worn  by  hunger  prest, 

My  leyfe  draws  nar  its  end  ; 
When  in  the  narrow  greave  I  rest, 

O,  whee  will  be  thy  friend  ? 

To  gain  true  friens  still  may  thoo  try, 

When  sec  rejoic'd  amang  ; 
A  better  warl  ther  is ;   an  I 

May  meet  thee  theer  or  lang  : 
Smeyle  on  sweet  bairn  !   O,  may  thoo  leeve, 

But  ne'er  a  lass  betray ! 
Deeth  noo   to  me  relief  can  give, 

Sae  welcome  him  I  may ! 


248  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

FAREWELL  TO  CAREL. 
TUNE — "  The  lovely  brown  maid." 

Fareweel  canny  Carel !  hoo  oft  by  thy  streams 

I've  studied  mankeynd  to  amuse  ; 
An  gain'd  praise  frae  monie,  but  monie  it  seems 

Will  sneer  at  whate'er  they  peruse  : 
To  paint  rustic  manners  ov  Cumbrians  aw  roun, 

To  rid  them  ov  sorrow  an  care  ; 
The  wretch  to  expwose  that  wad  boo  puir  fwok 

doon, 
May  please  when  puir  Robbin's  nae  mair. 


Fareweel  canny  Carel !  on  Hayton's  hee  hills, 

Tho'  winter  is  noo  stealin  on, 
I  view  what  wi'  plishure  the  meynd  ever  fills, 

Variety  niver  is  gone  ! 
By  Celt's  murm'rin  river  I  offen  perceive, 

Weyl  scenery  aw  praise  that  mun  claim  ; 
Hills,   rocks,  woods  an  watters   deleyte   can  aye 
give 

Mair  than  the  girt  city  can  neame. 


Fareweel  canny  Carel !  the  pleace  o'  my  birth, 

Whoar  years  o'  true  plishure  I  spent ; 
Whate'er  I  may  suffer  wheyle  gaz'n  on  earth, 

May  I  pillow  my  heed  wi'  content ! 
Hoo  chang'd  are  thy  manners  sin  I  was  in  youth, 

For  Modesty's  gien  way  to  Preyde  ; 
Then  innocent  pasteymes  fwok  sowt  for  an  truth  ; 

Noo,  Virtue  owre  monie  dereyde. 


Fareweel    my    dear    Friens !    may  ye  bliss   lang 
enjoy  ; 

Yer  keyndness  I'll  niver  forget ; 
Ther  are  whee  my  happiness  fain  wad  destroy, 

Tho'  oft  wi'  my  frienship  they've  met : 
At  neet  owre  the  ingle  or  strayin  by  day, 

I  iver  reflect  on  the  past ; 
Whate'er  may  beteyde  me  for  you  I'll  ay  pray, 

The  others  I'll  scworn  to  the  last. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  249 


Fareweel  my  dear  Friens !   when  deame   Nature 
we  view, 

Dress'd  ever  in  beauteous  attire  ; 
Ow'rjoy'd  let  aw  gaze  on  her  scenes  iver  new, 

An  gazing  still  mair  they'll  admire  : 
Let  panders  ov  veyce  court  the  joys  ov  the  toon, 

Owre  off  en  fause  plishures  that  lure, 
Then  eager  leyfe's  cares  in  oblivion  to  droon, 

They  show  what  owre  monie  endure. « 


Fareweel  my  dear  Friens !    wheyles    I'll  wander 
alang, 

Deleyted  a  few  but  to  see ; 
For  oft  I  hae  pass'd  thro'  the  midst  o'  the  thrang, 

Just  view'd  as  a  leafless  aul  tree. 
Leyke  weyld  burds  aroun  us  retirement  I  luive  ; 

A  neybor  I  ne'er  will  begueyle  ; 
Sud  Captain  Deeth  caw  he'd  a  tyrant  nit  pruive, 

My  welcome  I'd  gie  wid  a  smeyle ! 


THE   NORTHUMBRIAN    LASSES.f 
To  an  old  Scotch  Air. 


Three  Lasses  leate  to  Gilsden  com ; 

Three  sweeter  beauties  few  e'er  saw ; 
An  three  mair  greacefu,  cheerfu,  gud, 

Ne'er  teasted  watter  at  the  Spaw. 


The  charms  o'  Jane  claim  monie  praise 
Eliza's  luik  mud  thoosans  draw ; 

An  Mary's  modest  winnin  smeyle, 
These  aye  wad  please  at  ilka  Spaw ! 


t  Mi?s  J— H— ,  of  Burn  Foot ;   Miss  B— S— ,  of  Hexham  : 
and  Miss  M— A— ,  of  Allendale  Town. 


2$o  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


The  puir  fwok  praise,  the  rich  fwok  gaze. 
Sec  three  attract  beath  hee  an  low : 

O  were't  the  kease  wi'  ilka  lass 
That  wanders  daily  roun  the  Spaw ! 

Still,  still  may  Beauty  virtue  bwoast, 
An  share  the  praise  o'  yen  an  aw : 

Still,  still  may  virtue  be  the  twoast, 
Ov  sec  as  visit  Gilsden  Spaw. 

But  veyce  an  preyde  throw  thoosans  here. 
E'en  dandies  wi'  the  middle  smaw  ; 

An  useless  tuils  in  borrow'd  duds, 
Are  struttin  seen  at  Gilsden  Spaw. 

Yet  painfu  'tis,  alas!    to  view 

Fwok  that  nea  health  or  plishure  tnow ; 
By  sickness,  sorrow  care  bow'd  down, 

But  whope  aye  leads  them  to  the  Spaw. 

Northumbria  weel  may  fin  girt  preyde, 
A  witchin  threeseme  here  to  shew  ; 

A  fair  example  ay  they  pruive, 
To  aw  that  drink  at  Gilsden  Spaw. 

Dear  lasses  three,  it  pleaseth  me 
Sec  pictures  o'  yer  sex  to  draw  ; 

An  woe  to  he  whae'er  he  be, 

That  .veyce  admires  in  town  or  Spaw. 

In  summer,  tracing  fiels  or  bow'rs, 
In  winter,  weadin  thro'  the  snaw, 

I'll  think  ov  aw  the  happy  hours 
Spent  wi'  the  threesome"  at  the  Spaw. 

Lang  may  ye  health  an  peace  enjoy, 
When  I'm  in  kindred  yearth  flung  low ; 

For  three  mair  bonny,  blithe,  an  gud, 
Ne'er,  ne'er  will  drink  at  Gilsden  Spaw  I 

Farewell  keynd  three !    blest  may  ye  be, 
And  ne'er  yence  teaste  a  cup  o'  woe ! 

But  share  the  joys  gud  men  ay  gie, 
An  lang  in  health  see  Gilsden  Spaw. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  251 

THE  MUDDER  AM  DOWTER. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

*'  O  Dowter  !  whoar's  thoo  been  this  weyld  wintry 

neet  ? 
To  leave  thy  aul  helpless  deef  mudder's  queyte 

wrang ; 

But  lasses  o'  thy  yage  owre  seldom  dui  reet, 
Cross  mountains  fer  meyles,  to  meet  sweethearts 

ye'll  gang  : 

Thoo'd  better  been  singin  this  neet  at  thy  wheel — 
May   aw  fowk  leeve  happy   that   wish  to  dui 
we  el  " 


"  Wey  Mudder !  I've  just  hed  a  crack  as  aw  sud, 
(Wi'  mey  sweetheart,  to  hear  on't  how  vext  she 

wad  be) 

About  peer  aul  Rowley  that  aye  wad  dui  gud, 
I'  th'  wark-house  now  liggin  unhappy  is  he, 
He  yence  was  oor  lanlword  an  gae  ye  the  fiel — 
Aw  fwok  leeve    nit   happy    that    wish   to   dui 
weel ! " 


"  O  Dowter  !   thoo's  brong  frae  mey  een  monie  a 

tear — 
Keynd  Rowley  !    the  luive  o'  the  neybors   aw 

roun  ! 

To-day  fwok  are  rich  but  to-mworn  may  be  puir — 
T'was  nobbet  his  gudness  that's  noo  crusht  him 

doon. 
He'd  give  an   he'd   len   an   chaps  frev  him  wad 

steal — 

Cud   fwok  but  leeve    happy  that  wish  to   dui 
weel !  " 


"Wey  Mudder  !  his  son  gat  beath  hooses  an  Ian, 
(He  yence  was  mey  sweetheart  that  nin  let's  her 

ken) 

Linton  leyke  he  to  aw  maks  ov  wickedness  ran, 
An  or  twelve  months  wer  owre,  what  he  gat  was 

aw  geane ; 

Hoo  monie  neyce  lasses  he  flang  heed  owre  heel — 
They    neer    can    leeve   happy    that    wunnet    du 
weel ! " 


252  CUMBER! AND    BALLADS. 

"O  Dowter!  when  Rowley  was  just  a  bit  bairn, 
To  help  starvin  bodies  for  meyles  roun  he  ran, 

In  youth  he  but  wisdom  an  gudness  wad  lairn — 
Aa  pity  Bet  Bunnyan  e'er  gat  sec  a  man  ! 

Her  daily  ill  deeds  cud  please  nin  but  the  deil ! 
She  ligs  nar  her  son  nowther  yence  e'er  did 
weel," 

"  Wey,  Mudder !   the  maister  i'  th'  wark-hoose  aw 

say, 

To  torture  the  puir  pruives  his  greatest  deleyte  ; 

He  puts  on  a  frown  the  weyde  warl  it  wad  flay ; 

He  starves  young  an  aul  but  gies  nae  yen  a 

meyte : 

Wer  Rowley  but  keeper  for  aw  he  wad  feel — 
Nit  yen  can  leeve  happy  that  wunnet  dui  weel" 

"O  Dowter!   the  fiel  sal  nae  langer  be  meyne, 

'Till  the  varra  day  Deeth  gies  puir  Rowley  a  caw  ; 
An  that,  wi'  this  hoose  when  I's  geane,  mun  be 

theyne — 
They  sud  aye  meet  wi'  friends  that  ne'er  yence 

was  a  foe ! 

He  sal  come  an  leeve  wi'  us  the  aul  wordy  chiel— 
May  aw  fwolc  leeve  happy,  that  wish  to  dui  weel!" 


THE    BONNY    LASS,   WI'    APRON    BLUE. 
TUNE — By  the  Author. 

I  met  her  nar  the  meedow  steyle, 

When  burds  at  evenin  gie  deleyte  ; 
Her  luik  ov  hilth  her  winnin  smeyle. 

Meade  me  at  yence  a  captive  queyte  : 
Luive's  fev'rish  flame 
Fires  monie  a  frame. 

Unmov'd  some,  lasses  charms  can  view  ; 
Sweet  was  her  feace  few  flowers  sae  fair 

E'er  supp'd  at  neet  the  freshnm  dew  ; 
Wheyte  was  .her  breest,  hawf-hid  haw  f -bare, 

Streyte  was  her  shep  an  free  frae  care, 
The  bonny  Lass,  wi'  apron  blue ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  253 

Says  I,  "  Sweet  Lass  !   day  efter  day 

I'll  see  thee  wheyle  thy  luive  thou'll  shew  ; 
Owre  hills,  through  glens  I'll  seeghin  stray, 

When  winter  speeds  the  storm  an  snow : 
Noo  won  by  luive, 
I'll  ever  pruive 
My  wish  to  be  thy  partner  true  ; 

An,  if  the  weddin  knot  be  tied, 
We  thrivin  bairns  may  whope  to  view  : 

When  sec  to  rear  wi'  joy  we've  tried, 
I'll  tell  the  teyme,  whoar  first  I  spied 

Their  mudder  dear,  wi'  apron  blue." 

I  held  her  to  my  heart-warm  breest, 

An  vow'd  wi'  truth  a  lover's  pain  ; 
Then  threyce  her  dewy  lips  I  prest — 

She  struive  to  leave  me,  but  in  vain  : 
A  sweet-gien  kiss, 
Heart-winnin  bliss, 
Owre  oft  base  flatt'rers  will  renew; 

She  blushin  hung  her  heed,  aye  shy, 
Says  she,  "Dear  sir!  you're  kind,  if  true!" 

Yes  ;    by  the  Pow'r  that  rules  on  high. 
To  meake  her  blest  thro'  leyfe  I'll  try, 

The  bonny  lass  wi'  apron  blue  ! 


TO  MARGET.* 
TUNE — "  The  Wounded  Hussar.." 

Sweet   Lassie!    thoo   kens   nit    what   mortals   mun 

suffer ; 

This  warl  is  to  monie  a  dull  scene  ov  woe ; 
The  many  in  pow'r  seldom  keyndness  will  offer 

For  some  that  mud  help  pruive  to  thoosans  a  foe  : 
To  thee  this  leyfe's  nobbet  a  play-day  ov  plishure, 

An,  till  thy  last  hour  may  it  aye  be  the  seame  ; 
When    years    hae    flown    owre    be    content     thy 

companion  ; 

Aye    shun    the    weyld    foibles   that  draw  but  to 
sheame. 

•An  infant,  the  grandaughter  of  M.  J.  Brown. 


254  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Sweet    Lassie!     O    meynd    the    adveyce    o'    frien 

Robin  ; 

Ne'er   bow    to   a   wretch    that  wad    women   be 
tray  ; 

Mek  virtue  thy  study  wheyles  help  a  puir  body, 
An  when   bow'd  by  yage   leyfe   may  seem  but 

a  day  : 

Preyde,  folly,  ambition  lead  millions  to  ruin, 
An  mortals  we  daily  see  lumps  ov  deceit ; 
The  days  that   are  geane  fowk  may   think  on  wi' 

sorrow — 

Oor    bwoasted   law    pruives    to    owre    monie    a 
cheat. 


Sweet  Lassie !     thy  rwosy  cheek,  smeyle  an  feyne 

features, 
May    gar    thee    sup    sorrow    leyke    owre    monie 

mair ; 

Beath  beauty  an  gudness  yen  daily  sees  suffer — 
The  best  i'  the  warl  are  oft  bow'd  to  despair  : 
What  pity  mankeynd  sud  e'er  jossle  ilk  other, 
When    sec    destroys    comfort    an    leads    to    the 

greave ; 

The  prince  in  his  preyde  to  the  beggar's  a  brother, 
But    girt    men    owre    seldom    our   suff'rers    will 
seave. 


Sweet    Lassie!     when    wealthy    or    puir,    do    thy 

duty  ! 

To  scworn  base  oppressors  mek  ever  thy  plan  ; 
A  king  leyke  a  cobbler,  by  veyce  is  deluded, 
For  few  on   this  earth  seek    to    dui   what   they 

can  : 
Hoo  blest  is  the  being  that  ne'er  offends  onie ; 

But  sec  durin  leyfe,  we  owre  seldom  can  see  ; 
Oh  !    lissen    mey    lesson ! — I'll    bless     thee,     caress 

thee; 
Whativer  mey  troubles  I'll  oft  think  o'  thee! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  255 

THE    AUTHOR'S    REFLECTION. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 

A  slave  to  nae  party — To  nae  sect  a  foe  ; 
I  hate  flatt'ry,  falsehood,  they  sink  monie  low  ; 
I  someteymes  am  reet  an  owre  offen  git  wrang, 
But  ne'er  entrap  onie  by  words  or  by  sang. 


I've   hed    monie   sweethearts   sin   luive   was    my 

preyde, 
But  manhood's  flown  owre,  an  luive 's  now  flung 

aseyde  ; 

Yet  women  I  leyke  an  forever  I'll  praise, 
If  virtue's  their  study — veyce  millions  betrays  ! 

To  dabble  in  politics  ne'er  was  my  trade ; 
Nor  in  human  bluid  for  the  warl  wad  I  weade  : 
But  blest  be  the  man  that  will  freedom  defend ! 
Tho'  Care  clings  to  aw  maks  till  leyfe's  at  an  end. 


For  seake  o'  religion  on  some  I  wheyles  froon, 
An  hear  read  o'  priests   they   sud  drum  out   o' 

toon  ; 

Yet  praise  let's  gie  onie  that's  anxious  to  seave 
A  wretch,  that  wad  sin  till  flung  into  the  greave. 


A  doctor  leads  monie  to  mis'ry  an  pain, 
Wi'  nostrums  an  quackry  fuils  wish  for  in  vain : 
A  lawyer  wi'  preyde  risks  his  soul  for  girt  fees ; 
An  grandeur  robs  oft  a  pure  conscience  ov  ease. 


A  statesman  oppressive  thro'  leyfe  I'll  despise ; 
A  frien  to  true  freedom,  as  aw  sud  I'll  prize. 
An  pray  hee  an  low  were  fra  bigotry  free, 
Ah !   seldom  the  heart's  dearest  wishes  we  see. 


I  never  launched  deep  into  warldly  affairs, 
To  cleek  heaps  o1  money  or  add  to  my  cares  ; 
To  comfort  the  helpless  rich  fwok  sud  desire, 
But  owre  monie  suffer,  frae  knight  or  a  squire. 


256  CUMBF.RLAND    BALLADS. 

Teyme's     weyld     revolutions     we     need'nt     think 

strange, 

For  Nature  in  aw  pleaces  iver  will  change. 
Hooe'er  disappointment  may  darken  leyfe's  scene, 
Contentment  sud  aye  mek  the  bwosom  serene. 


A  WEYFE'S  ANXIETY. 
TUNE — "Crazy  Jane." 

Whisht,  mey  baini !   Let's  whope  fer  fadder 

Nobbet  see  yon  bonny  muin 
Sens  him  leet  frae  canny  Carel — 

Weel  at  heame  may  he  sit  suin ! 
Caul's  the  win,  weyld  winters  froonin, 

Back  I'll  bear  thee  thro'  the  mire  ; 
Play  sweet  lam,  in  peace  wi'  pussy, 

Wheyle  I  mek  a  bleezin  fire. 

Cry  nin  Jinny,  mey  sweet  hinny ! 

Thowts  o'  fadder  gies  beath  pain ; 
Leyke  owre  monie,  he  may  suffer — 

O,  hoo  hiwy  faws  the  rain ! 
Cling  sweet  blossom  to  my  bwosom — 

Weyfe  and  bairn  he  suin  may  neame  ; 
O,  that  he  sat  nar  us  smuikin  ! 

Heav'n  in  seafty  sen  him  heame ! 

Four  short  years  we've  noo  been  weddet  ; 

Leate  he  ne'er  yence  stay'd  befwore  ; 
Hears  te  !    Cock  crows  ;    what  it's  mwornin- 

Lissen  !  Cowley's  at  the  duir  ! 
See  he  fawns  roun  bairn  an  mudder ; 

Suin  his  maister's  fit  we'll  hear  ; 
Thy  sweet  faddy,  hoo  I'll  fratch  him — 

Oh  !    no,  no  !    to  me  he's  dear  ! 

Noo,  let's  whope  he's  in  the  meedow, 

On  pur  fire-leet  fain  to  gaze  ; 
Thinkin  oft  ov  deame  an  dowter  ; 

Wishin  for  them  happy  days  : 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  257 


Cwoley  runs  and  barks  his  welcome  ; 
Noo  mey  bairn,  we'll  beath  rejoice  ; 
Sorrow  changes  oft  to  plishure — 
God  be  thenkt !  I  hear  his  voice  ! 


RAFF    AN    THE    SQUIRE. 

TUNE — by  the  Author. 

Says  oor  Squire,  "  Raff  tell  me  the  truth,  young 

lad 

Wou'd  riding  to  London  noo  make  thee  glad  ; 
Where  gentry  from  iv'ry  part,  good,  an  bad, 

An  all  fine  sights  thoo'd  see  ?  " 
"  Wey,   nay!    by  your  leave,   oor   girt  sur  !  " 

says  I, 
"When  Cummerlan    chaps    their    manners    fling 

by. 
They  shworten    their    days    an    on    thworns    oft 

lie: 

But  Content  ay  leeves  wi'  me ! " 

Says    the   Squire,    "  I'll    dress    thee   in    clothing 

fine  ; 

From  ev'ry  choice  dainty  with  me  thoo'lt  dine ; 
Lac'd  servants  shall  hand  thee  each  costly  wine — 

Think,  Raff,  what  honour  'twill  be  !  " 
"  In  heame-meade  claes,  I  can  merrily  sing  : 
Owre  a  holsome  meale  I's  girt  as  a  King  ; 
An  if  tharsty  I  aye  tek  a  drink  at  the  spring,  t 

Whoar  Content  still  waits  on  me  !  " 

Says  the  Squire,  "  Rich  ladies  thoo'll  court  at  play, 
Where  music,  mirth,  wit  can  drive  Care  away  ; 
Then    while    the    sun    shines,    still    try   to  make 

hay; 

Come  now,  or  never  !  "  says  he. 
"At  a  dance  on  the  green  when  the  sun  gans 

down, 

Wi'  my  sweetheart,  I'd  envy  nae  fwok  in  toon  ; 
Nor  Letty  I'd  leave  to  wear  a  king's  croon  ; 
For  Content  guards  her  an  me  !  " 


258  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

"•  Noo    'mid    yer    girt    fwok,    wealth,    weyne    an 

shows, 

Ye  cannot  kill  Care,  that  ev'ry  yen  tnows  ; 
Ilk  neybor's  mey  frien — I  ken  nae  foes, 

An  smeyle  at  poverty  : 

It's  my  wish  ay  to  leeve  in  yon  theekt  shed, 
Whoar  honest  aul  fwore-fadders  lang  wer  bred  ; 
An  hooe'er  by  Misfortune  thro'  leyfe  I's  led, 

May  Content  aye  sit  wi'  me  ! 


THE    LASSIE    OV    HAYTON. 
TUNE — "  The  bonny  Highland  Laddie." 

Thoo'll  ax  whoar  I've  been  aw  the  day, 
Cheerfu  lassie  ! 
Gud  keyn  lassie ! 
Frae  thee  I've  ne'er  ae  wish  to  stray, 

Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie ! 
The  truth  we  aw  sud  tell  reet  plain  ; 
Mey  luive  frae  thee  can  ne'er  be  ta'en  ; 
The  thowt  thro'  leyfe  wad  cause  me  pain, 

To  part  wi'  thee  dear  lassie ! 
I  see  thy  bloomin  smeyle  aw  day, 
Gud  keyn  lassie ! 
Cheerfu  lassie  ! 

The  warl  cud  ne'er  thy  heart  betray, 
Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie ! 

Up  Celt's  sweet  banks  thoo  meynes  ae  neet, 

Cheerfu  lassie ! 

Gud  keyn  lassie ! 
We  went  just  when  the  muin  shone  breet, 

Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie  ! 
Thoo'seegh'd  an  sed  'twad  be  thy  preyd, 
On  that  sweet  spot  ov  yearth  to  beyde  ; 
An  leeve  wi'  me  whate'er  beteyde 
That  theyne  sal  be  dear  lassie ! 
Noo  theer  a  hoose  they  build  aw  day, 

Gud  keyn  lassie  ! 

Cheerfu  lassie  ! 

An  theer  till  deeth  let's  ay  be  gay, 
Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  259 

A  worchet,  garden  on  the  hill, 
Cheerf  u  lassie ! 
Gud  keyn  lassie! 
Will  bring  us  beauty,  plenty  still, 

Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie ! 
An  wheyles,  a  beggar  tremlin  roun, 
May  wearied,  in  oor  cot  sit  doon, 
He'll  keyndness  share,  nor  see  a  froon 

Frae  tbee  or  me,  dear  lassie  ! 
Blithe,  peacefu  ay  we'll  pass  the  day, 
Gud  keyn  lassie ! 
Cheerf  u  lassie ! 

An  for  gud  mortal  oft  we'll  pray, 
Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie  ! 

When  yence  their  busy  toil  is  duin, 
Cheerfu  lassie ! 
Gud  keyn  lassie ! 

The  ring  I  shew  thoo'll  weer  it  suin, 
Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie ! 
An  when  the  smeyles  o'  spring  we  see, 

Wheyle  burds  sing  roun  an  plishure  gie  ; 
On  Nature's  sweets  we'll  crack  wi'  glee, 

Mey  bonny,  bonny  Hayton  lassie  ! 
Noo  theer  we'll  stray  this  clwosin  day, 
Gud  keyn  lassie ! 
Cheerfu'  lassie  ! 

An  theer  thro'  leyfe  fling  care  away, 
Mey  bonny,  bonnie  Hayton  lassie  ! 


DAFT    DICK. 

TUNE— "The  lads  of  Dunse." 

"Aye  Debby  !    come  in;    what  the  neet's  gitten 

flowe  ; 
Thur  Toakin-fell   cwoals  hae  nae  heet  nor  yence 

lowe — 
Nay !    tek    t'airmin    chair,    an    let    me    hae    the 

stuil ; 
Thoo's  lish,  as  the  teyme  when  we  twee  went  to 

schuil : 


26o  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

What,    I's    eighty    seebem,    thoo's    fourscwore    an 

five, 
But   few    ov   our    yage    leyke   the    tweesome    noo 

thrive  ; 

Creep  into  the  fire  ! — What  I  bid  ne'er  refuse — 
Fou    the'    peype,  here's  shag-bacco  ;    then  tell  us 

some  news." 

"Aye,  Dolly!    Daft  Dick's  ta'en  a  weyfe,  neybors 

say  ; 
Lword    help   us!     peer  creeters    leyke    him   lasses 

flay  ; 
Yen  coaxt  him  to  kurk,  fwok  may  weel  froon  at 

Nan, 
She's   weddet    his   money    but    scearce   fash'd   his 

han  : 
What    joys    can   they    whop    for    that    wed    nowt 

but  gear, 
Frae    Dick    tull  a  squire    worth    twee   hundred  a 

year  ? 
Aw   fwok  sud  court    gudness   an  sense,  but  shun 

preyde, 
An  ay  let  daft  bodies  in  peace  sit  aseyde !  " 


"Aye,    Debby !    peer   Dick   at    oor    hoose    whyles 

wad  caw, 
Then    soukin    his    thoum,   he    wad    glowre    at    us 

aw  ; 

Still  hopeths  o'bacco  feyne  prisents  he'd  bring, 
An  kiss  me  an  clap  me  an  airms  roun  me  fling ; 
At  teymes  he  com  laughing,  but  offen  wad  gowl ; 
If    he    e'er    seed    a    stranger    he'd    creep    off    an 

howl — 
Oor  Dan's  his  thurd  cousin,  thoo  kens  that  reet 

weel  ; 
What,   fadder  was   deylt,  mudder   aw  things   wad 

steal." 


"  Aye    Dolly !    his    granny    was    wrang,    weel    I 

meyn, 
An    ay    leyke    owre    monie    she    donnt    far    owre 

feyne  : 

In  winter  she'd  flap  wid  her  fan — sec  a  seet  ! 
But  monie  girt  gentry  we  see  nit  hawf-reet : 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  261 


I  meyn  the  strait- jacket  the  furst  yen  she  wore — 
What   fwok   roun    aboot    us    sud    weer   monie  a 

scwore ! 

She  married  an  offisher  wantin  his  teeth  ; 
He  pat  her  in  Bedlam  an  theer  she  met  Deeth." 


"Aye  Debby!    Daft  Dick  dud  as  ilka  yen  sud. 
Hut !    he  niver  sowt  mischief  but  struive  to  de 

gud: 
What,    he'd    sarra    puir    beggars    when'er    they 

went  by, 
To   see    them   in   rags — Aa !    it    ay   meade  him 

cry: 

Oft  day  efter  day  scearce  a  word  he  e'er  sed 
Except  the  bit  pray'r  when  he  crap  into  bed — 
Oor  aul  dwoting  parson  that  buckelt  the  twee, 
Reet  sworry  sud  fin  till  the  day  that  he  dee!" 


"  Aye  Dolly !  ill  Nan,  that  cud  freeten  aul  Nick, 
I'   the   greave   just   i'   nae   teyme,   '11   cowp  silly 

Dick, 
What  neybors  aw  say  she  gev  th'  priest  twenty 

pun  : 
I's  warn  that  he'd  rue  for't  when  t'  weddin  was 

duin : 

Nit  leyke  Bishop  Clogger  ill  husseys  he'll  buy  ; 
The  Bishop  bowt  men  fwok,  brong  yen  to  deeth 

nigh  : 
Then  owre  seas  he    ran   just    to   git   him    some 

mair — 
Oh!  hed  he  been  brunt  deil  a  body  wad  care!" 


"Aye  Debby!  what  Nan  '11  now  drink  the  day 

thro', 

An  faw  in  wi'  skeybells  an  riff-raffs,  nit  few  ; 
An  decent  bit  lads  wid  her  brass  she'll  decoy  ; 
For  Dick  on  this  yearth  he'll  nae  plishure  enjoy: 
Then  his  titty  that   ay  dud  a  good  honest  part. 
The  thowts  o'  the  weddin  '11  suin  brek  her  heart !  " 
"  Aye   Dolly !    its  bed   teyme   sae    I'll    creep   off 

heame — 
Oor    Parson    an    Clogger,    war    chaps    few    can 

neame ! " 


362  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

TAXES  FLUNG  BY. 
TUNE — "  Aul  lang  seyne." 

"  Come  Jemmy  !— Let's  to  Becka's  gang 

An  teaste  a  swop  gud  yell ; 
That  taxes  noo  are  flung  aseyde, 

Thoo's  mebhy's  just  hard  tell : 
What  Nichol  brings  yen  aw  the  news  ; 

Frae  Car  el  he's  got  heame  ; 
That  Englan's  suffered  sec  distress, 

Mun  pruive  a  country's  sheame  ! 


'  To  think  o'  teymes  we  leate  hae  tnown, 

Meks  decent  fwok  bewail ; 
Hoo  monie  an  honest  farmer  brak, 

An  gat  thrown  into  jail  : 
Yen  cuddent  toddle  roun  the  toon, 

But  Stock  an  Crop  he  saw 
On  ban-bills  stampt ;  but  as  for  scale, 

They  brong — wey,  nowt  at  aw  ! 

'  Cud  fwok  that  yence  kent  happy  teymes, 

Just  rise  up  frae  the  greave  ; 
They'd  seegh  for  neybors  roun  an  roun, 

That  nowt  frae  want  can  seave  : 
Aul  Englan's  turnt  a  scene  of  woe, 

Tho'  yence  the  weyde  warl's  preyde  • 
Foul  tyranny's  oor  statesmen's  show, 

An  whops  are  laid  aseyde ! " 

'Hut  Jwohnny  ;  leyke  owre  monie  mair, 

Aul  Nichol  thou'll  believe  ; 
But  when  to  truth  we  turn  the  meynd, 

It  nobbet  meks  yen  grieve  : 
This  warl  a  wilderness  noo  pruives, 

Tho'  yence  strowt  owre  wi'  flow'rs  ; 
Nae  whopes  hae  we  until  we  de, 

Leyfe's  comforts  are  nit  ours. 

'  Taxation  brong  our  country  doon  ; 

Waes  me !  it  scearce  can  rise  ! 
Some  rulers  o'  this  yence-fam'd  land, 

Gud  fwok  may  weel  despise  ! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  263 


For  freedom  ay  we  wish  an  pray, 
But  that  we  ne'er  mun  share— 

Let's  scworn  the  base  that  men  oppress, 
But  ne'er  bow  to  despair. 

'  Oor  bairns  an  bairns' -bairns  may  enjoy, 

What  we  ay  seek  in  vain  ; 
Owre  oft  waak  man  will  bliss  destroy, 

An  caw  forth  care  an  pain  ; 
The  wisest  chap  the  warl  can  neame, 

Leyfe's  ills  cud  ne'er  throw  by  ; 
But  ne'er  let  tyrants  throw  content 

Frae  sec  as  thee  an  I !  " 


THE    PREYDE    O'    THE    BWORDER. 

TUNE — "  The  Scot's  cam  owre  the  Border." 

Slip  down  stairs  Jenny,  an  bring  me  mey  claes, 
But  dunnet  let  fadder  or  mudder  e'er  see  them  ; 
They    ay    think' t    preyde    if    to    market    yen 

ga'es, 
In   Sunday    neyce    drisses,   leyke    lasses    oft    wi' 

them  ; 

Bring  pettikit  wheyte  an  chinse  muslin  goon, 
The  purple  silk  bonnet  an  bonny  green  spencer — 
My  fadder  an  mudder  wad  scaul  an  aye  froon, 
To  see   a  young  dowter  in  what  sud  aye  mense 
her  : 

I'll  reyde  the  grey  meer, 
At  Carel  suin  theer, 

In  whopes  to  see  Harry  accordin  to  worder  : 
Nit  yen  far  or  near 
To  me  is  sae  dear. 

As   rwosy  lish   Harry,  the  Preyde  o'    the   Bwor- 
der ! 

O  lass!    hoo  gaily  on  me  oft  he  gaz'd, 
Last  week   at   the   Fair  the  furst   teynie  I   seed 

him  ; 
My    luik    an    shep    wi'    sweet    smeyles    oft    he 

prais'd  : 


264  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

An  whisper!  nin  leyke  me  to  luive  cud  e'er  lead  him  : 

Ov  neyborin  lasses  nin  theer  I  saw 
That  gat  sec  a  sweetheart  sae  merry  an  clever 

At  dancin,  he  meade  lads  leyke  hawflins,  aw — 
To  miss  him  to-day  wad  cause  sorrow  for  ever, 

We  promis'd  to  meet, 

Mey  heart  '11  aye  beat 
When  luikin  at  Harry,  accordin  to  worder  ; 

I'd  walk  thro'  ilk  street 

Frae  mwornin  to  neet, 
Ae  word  to  gie  Harry,  the  Preyde  o'  the  Bworder  ! 

Lads  aw  nar  us  are  weyld  fops  an  fuils, 
Owre  offen  the  bonny  gud  lasses  deceivin  ; 

If  warm  in  luive  wi'  them,  suin  a  heart  cuils — 
For  onie  pretenders  I  ne'er  yet  was  grievin  : 

The  rwose  in  our  window  that  daily  I  view, 
Just  meynes  me  ov  him  that  sae  cheerfully  tret  me  ; 
At   partin   his    airms   roun    my  weast  he  threw, 
An   sed   wid    a   kiss,    "  Bonny   Lass  !  ne'er    forget 
me  !  " 

My  heart  e'er  to  buy, 
Nae  body  need  try, 

I'll  aye  think  ov  Harry,  accordin  to  worder  ; 
O  wad  he  but  cry, 
"  Sin"  Gratena's  sae  nigh, 
Theer  gang  wi'  thy  Harry,  an  leeve  i"  the  Bworder  !  " 

Geane  is  mey  mudder  ;    Ay  fain  to  admire 
Our  crops  aw  roun  that  promise  great  plenty  ; 

An  fadder's  away,  some  peer  shearer  to  hire — 
Frae  Carel  I  ay  bring  the  tweesome  a  dainty  : 
What    I've    telt    the',    Jenny,    to    nowther    e'er 

neame, 
Wi"    squire's   silly   lackey    ay   fain    they    wad    see 

me  ; 
Beath  ribbons  an  gluives  I'll  to-neet  bring  the' 

heame, 

An  when  I  git  weddet,  thou's  happy  leeve  wi'  me, 
The  grey  meer  now  bring, 
On  seyde-saddle  fling  ; 

O  may  I  meet  Harry,  according  to  worder  ! 
To  buy  me  a  ring, 
Wad  ay  mek  me  sing 

"  Gud  luck  to  mey  Harry,  the  Preyde  ov  the  Bwor 
der  !  " 


CUMBERLAND   BALLADS.  165 

MAD  BESS. 
Music  by  Mr.  Thompson. 

"  Oh  !  why   silly  lass  ;      sitt'st   thou   on   the   caul 

grass, 

Now  darkness  is  spreedin  owre  aw  ? 
The  angry  win'  howlin  amang  the  bare  trees, 

An  fawin's  the  sleet  an  the  snow  !  " 


"  Oh  !  I  hae  nae  frien  ! — Oh  !  I  hae  nae  heame, 

To  shelter  me  frae  the  caul  sky  ! 
An  during  lang  Avinter  anonder  this  oak, 

The  sleet  an  the  snow  I'll  defy  ! 

"  My  ladder  is  deed  ! — My  mudder  is  deed  ! 

Brother,  sister  nor  kinfwok  are  near  ; 
Bnt  the  young  an  the  aul,  passin  thro'  the  weyld 
warl, 

Oft  pay  to  peer  Bessy  a  tear. 


'  See'st  thou  the  pale  primrwose,  that  blooms  by 

the  tree  ? 

The  rwoses  that  fade  i'  the  lake  ? 
Them  lilies  an  pinks  I  for  Jemmy  will  seave, 

Nor  e'er  my  true  lover  forseake. 


"  See  !  yonder's  his  palice  ov  chrystal  !     Just  mark* 

It  reaches  as  hee  as  the  muin  ; 
He  sails  in  yon  vessel  deep  laden  wi'  gold, 

An  whispers  he'll  leeve  wi'  me  suin. 


"  The   sheep    on   yon    mountain    I    watch   for    my 

luive  ; 

I'm  his  shepherdess,  clad  in  weyld  flow'rs  ; 
By  muin-leet  he  wedded  me  wi'  this  strae-ring, 

Then  sweet  sang  the  burds  in  the  bow'rs. 


"  They  aw  are  my  Jemmy's,  an  sing  at  his  nod — 
He's  Iword  o'  the  sky  an  the  sea  ; 

He's  King  o'  this  weyde  warl  an  I  am  queen — 
Say  whea  are  sae  happy  as  we  ? 


266  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


"  Twas  cruel  to  tear  him  away  frae  his  Bess — 
My  heart  ;  No  !  alas  !  I  hae  iieane — 

See     Wretches     pursue     him  !  Pale     wounded     he 
faws — 
To  feed  the  peer  worms  he'll  be  taen. 

"  I'll  dig  a  deep  greave  an  wi'  Jemmy  will  rest, 
But  few  i'  this  hard  warl  wad  stay, 

Whear  plishure's  but  folly  an  luive  leads  to  woe, 
An  pity  meks  naebody  gay  !  " 


BLITHE  JWOHNNY  GREAME. 

TUNE — "  Andrew  wi'  his  cutty  gun.." 

Last  neet  I  went  leyke  monie  mair, 

To  pass  the  hours  in  harmless  glee  ; 
O,  cud  ilk  yen  sec  plishure  share  ! 

But  that  we  needent  whop  to  see  ; 
The  singin  kettle  aw  sud  please, 

The  seet  o'  kurn-keakes  just  the  seame  ; 
An  when  I  e'er  chowe  Chesser  cheese, 
I  ay  mun  think  o'  Jwohnny  Greame  ! 
Blithe  Jwohnny'!  keynd  to  monie  ! 
Nin  a  better  chap  can  neame  ! 
He  ne'er  gies  offence  to  onie, 

Few  we  ken  leyke  Jwohnny  Greame  ! 

The  cups  o'  tea  leyke  lekker  strang, 

Wi'  feyne  leafe-  uggar  sweetent  weel  ; 
The  siller  spuins  beath  stout  an  lang  ; 

The  cheeny  fit  fer  Iwordly  chiel  ; 
The  welcome  tui,  wi'  smeyles  was  gien, 

"  Gud  fwok,  just  meynd  yer  aw  at  heame  !  " 
Nae  preyde  or  fuil'ry  theer  was  seen, 

Nor  welcome  gits  frae  Jwohnny  Greame. — Cho. 

The  teable  clear' d  was  cover' d  suin  ; 

Reet  famish  yell  in  Betty  brong  ; 
An  now  was  hard  the  lively  tuin, 

That  ay  sud  please  the  aul  an  young  ; 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  267 


The  twoast  went  roun  to  neybors  gud  ; 

O,  cud  ilk  body  brag  the  seame  ! 
To  dui  what  ev'ry  wise  man  sud, 

Is  ay  the  wish  o'  Jwohnny  Greame. — Cho. 


The  sangs  wer  sung  ;    the  news  wer  telt, 

Mair  bad  nor  gud  they  daily  pruive, 
How  stock  an  crop  owre  oft  are  selt, 

Howe'er  the  toilin  farmers  struive  ; 
We,  gloomy,  neam'd  the  war  wi'  Spain, 

That's  leyke  to  be  aw  Europe's  sheame — 
To  lower  rents  wer  girt  fwok  fain,. 

'Twad  please,  leyke  monie.  Jwohnny  Greame. — 
Cho. 


To  fratch  an  feght  oft  gies  deleyte, 

An  leads  to  ruin  hee  an  low  ; 
An  gamlin  slander,  wicked    speyte, 

Oft  pruives  the  source  o'  want  an  woe  ! 
A  country  that  meks  war  its  preyde, 

We  aw  sud  wish  the  warl  cud  teame  ; 
Sec  brutal  wark  to  fling  aseyde, 

Is  ay  the  wish  o'  Jwohnny  Greame — Cho. 


For  supper  now  the  death  was  spred, 

An  that  set  on  mud  please  a  squire  ; 
Wheyle  some  sup  sorrow,  ne'er  hawf-fed, 

Proud  dulberts  dainties  aye  admire  ; 
The  mouths  wer  busy  aw  weel  tret, 

Beath  merry  maisters  an  douce  deame  ; 
A  blither  set  in  town  ne'er  met, 

Than  aw  that  sat  wi'  Jwohnny  Greame. — Cho* 


Wid  aul  an  young,  wid  rich  an  peer; 

A  lassie  bloomin  leyke  a  rwose  ; 
But  dandy -drisses  nin  wad  wear, 

That  i'  the  town  fuils  strut  tin  shews  : 
May  Hay  ton  fwok  preyde  ne'er  display, 

But  manners  ilk  yen's  praise  aye  claim  ; 
They're  blithe  an  keynd,  for  freedom  pray, 

But  nin  mair  gud  nor  Jwohnny  Greame. — Cho. 


268  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


The  clock  now  telt  it's  teyme  for  rest, 
Then  up  we  ruse  an  hans  we  shuik  ; 
Nin  e'er  o  wealth  howe'er  possest, 
A  sweeter  glass  o'  frienship  tuik  : 
The  hours  thus  spent  we'll  ne'er  repent, 

O,  cud  ilk  party  say  the  seame  ! 
Thro'  leyfe,  mey  wish  sal  be  content, 

To  aw  gud  men  leyke  Jwohnny  Greame  ! 
Blithe  Jwohnny  !  keynd  to  monie  ! 

Nin  a  better  chap  can  neame  ! 
He  ne'er  gies  offence  to  onie — 

Few  we  ken  leyke  Jwohnny  Greame 


WILLIE  THAT'S  FAR  ON  THE  WAVE. 


Aul  Lonny.  our  lanlword,  of  gear  aye  keeps  brag- 
gin, 

An  oft  tells  mey  mudder  his  breyde  I  sal  be  ; 
Wer  his   heaps   o'   gold   that   cud   threyce  fou   the 

waggon, 

If  king  ov  aw  countries,  he  ne'er  sud  buy  m«  ! 
Rich    fuils    will    owre   offen   puir   lasses    en 
slave — 

Mey  heart   follows  Willy  that's   far  on  the 
wave  ! 


Nae    joys    a    young  lassie  can  share,   that   keeps 

turnin 
Her   thowts  on  aul  bodies,   their  wealth  but  to 

win  ; 
How    monie     pretens    that     the    heart    aye    keeps 

burnin 

Wi'  luive,  just  a  feckless  rich  chap  to  teake  in  ; 
Let's  wish  for  the  cheerfu,  the  wise,  gud 
an  brave, 

An  sec  aye  pruives  Willy  that's  far  on  the 
wave." 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  269 


How  monie  a  deep  seegh  he  still  gies  when  we're 

partin  ! 
How  monie  a  feyne  present  he  flings  when  we 

meet  ! 
Wheyle    neyborin    flatterers    wad    fain    be    sweet- 

heartin, 
I  gaze  on  them  laughin  at  lumps  o'  deceit  : 

I'd  suiner  this  day  be  flung  into  the  greave, 
Than   e'er   forget   Willy,    that's   far   on   the 
wave. 

When  wee  bits  o'  younkers  we  daily  keept  roamin, 

For  pwosies  or  fruit,  woods  an  meedows  amang, 

Now    suin    he'll    return    owre    the    weyde    watters 

foamin, 

An  press  me  wi'  preyde,  an  oft  please  wi'  a  sang  : 
Wid  a  kiss  o'  true  luive  then  my  han  he  will 

creave  ; 
I'll  gie't  but  to  Willy  that's  far  on  the  wave. 

When  far  frae  the  noise  o'  the  Ian  he's  retirin, 

By  true  luive  an  whopes  o'  contentment  aye  led  ; 
On  me  he  seems  gazin,  him  still  I's  admirin, 
An  will  aye  till  deeth,  if  we  never  sal  wed  ! 

A  salior  as  aw  sud,  his  brethren  wad  seave — 
My  blessin  gan  him  that's  far  on  the  wave  ! 

Sud  weyl  wins  be  howlin,  I's  seeghin  an  gowlin. 

Aye  freetent  my  lover  may  lig  in  the  main  ; 
I  think  when  wheyte  waves  hee  as  mountains  ar« 

rollin, 
O  that  in  a  cottage  to  leeve  he  were  fain  ! 

We'd    toil    away    teyme    ev'ry    comfort    to 

have — 

I  submit  to  dear  Willy  that's  far   on    the 
wave. 

Oft  neet  efter  neet,  about  him  I  keep  dreamin, 
Wheyle  he   bears   a  storm   or   mun   toil   on   the 

deck; 

If  I  chance  to  neame  him  my  mudder  keeps  screamin, 

An  cries,  "  Shem  !  O,  Nanny  !  to  heed  onie  sec  ! 

Just  tek  our  gad  lanlword  the  best  o'  the 

lave  !  " 

No  !  my  wish  is  for  Willy  that's  far  on  the 
wave  ! 


a;o  CUMBERLAND  BALADS. 


What,    here   comes    aul    Lonny    that    ne'er   sarras 

onie  : 

Now  aw  shekt  to  tatters  he  coughs  on  his  crutch  ; 

He'll  smuik  on  the  sattle  an  aye  caw  me  bonny, 

An  say,  "  Rowsy  Nanny  !  thy  han  let  me  touch  !  " 

I'll  down  to  my  wheel  an  hewe'er  he  may 

reave, 

I'll   sing   o'    sweet   Willy   that's   far   on   the 
wave  ! 


THE  FORTUNE-TELLER. 

TUNE — "  Johnny's  grey  breeks." 

The  Fortune-teller  cawt  last  neet 

When  aw  wer  knittin,  spinnin  thrang  ; 
A  Fortune-teller  aye  tells  reet, 

Tho  monie  say  they  aye  dui  wrang  : 
The  aul  dum  body,*  raggt  an  peer, 

Crap  owre  the  fire  an  tuik  a  whiff, 
What,  dum  fwok  nit  ae  word  can  hear, 

Yet  on  aw  roun  she  kest  a  gliff . 

We  talkt  ov  sweethearts  roun  an  roun 

Ov  Issaac,  Jacep,  Dan  an  Joe; 
An  when  I  tuik  the  bellows  down — 

I  thowt  the  last  was  worth  them  aw  : 
Mey  gud  aul  mudder  ill  in  bed, 

Tho'  deef  she  wheyles  can  hear  yen  rant  ; 
"  Heaste,  Jenny  !  supper  mek  !  "  she  sed, 

"  A  puir  dum  body  ne'er  sud  want  !  " 

I  flang  on  peets  ;  the  neet  grew  caul  ; 

Thick  fell  the  snow  ;  loud  blew  the  wind  ; 
The  chaps  we  hard  come  thro'  the  faul, 

I  lockt  the  duir  an  let  nin  in  : 
We  gev  her  money,  meat  an  drink  ; 

A  famish  han  wi'  choke  she  writ  ; 
Aw  neet  I  ne'er  yence  sleept  a  wink — 

Wise  fwok  yen  never  can  for  git. 

1  '•  The  aul  dum  body." — See  also  "  Sally  Gray,"  stanza  5. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  271 

She  nwotish'd  Isbel  wid  a  smeyle, 

An  sed  she'd  pruive  a  gud  weyfe  suin  ; 
Wid  Isaac  that  wad  nin  begueyle, 

She'd  off  to  Gratena,  by  the  muin  : 
Now  Isbel  blusht,  an  laught  queyte  fain, 

Says  she,  "  God  grant'it  true  may  be  ! 
If  e'er  I  marry  Isaac  Crane, 

An  ill  weyfe  he's  ne'er  fin  in  me  !  " 

She  coddelt  Judy  roun  the  weaste — 

We  wondert  muckle  what  she'd  wreyte  ; 
Thur  varra  words  she  meade  wi'  heaste, 

"  What,  Judy  !  Jacep's  thy  deleyte  : 
But  he  hes  sweethearts  moiu'e  mair, 

They'll  pou  thy  cap  off,  sud  ye  meet  ; 
Ther's  twee  he  meets — Nay  !  dunnet  stare 

Thoo'll  be  his  breyde  an  needent  greet  ! ' 


She  neest  cleekt  Dinah  by  the  han, 

An  threyce  she  tapt  her  rwosy  cheek, 
Then  on  the  bellows  writ,  "  Wid  Dan, 

Thoo'll  off  to  kurk  on  Easter  week  : 
Ye'll  keep  a  farm  an  happy  leeve, 

An  in  five  years  ye'll  bairns  hae  four 
They'll  aw  grow  rich  but  nin  deceive, 

An  sarra  peer  fwok  till  leyfe's  owre." 


Now  wid  a  kiss,  she  seiz'd  mey  leuf, 

An  smeylin  writ,  "  O,  lovely  Jane  ! 
Thoo'll  be  a  weyfe  but  wed  nee  guff, 

For  thou  hes  lovers,  monie  a  yen  ; 
Some  rich  an  peer  ;    some  far  an  nar  ; 

A  wealthy  squire  wad  fain  be  theyne 
A  captain  tui  geane  off  to  war — 

The  apple  o'  thy  ee's  Joe  Heyne  !  " 

The  pen  she  tuik  an  writ  a  charm, 

A  varse  frae  t'  beyble  to  be  seer  ; 
She  sed  mey  mudder  ne'er  did  harm, 

An  weel  she'd  leeve  eleebem  year  : 
The  aul  grey  clwok  mey  mudder  gev. 

An  kisst  her  threyce  away  she  went  ; 
May  mudder  thrive  !  we  plenty  hev — 

The  varra  thowt  now  gies  content. 


27.2  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

Thou  meynes,  our  naig  lang  seyne  was  stown, 

She  says  nae  doubt  they'll  bring  him  back  ; 
The  twee  pet  lams  we  fain  wad  awn, 

Wer  taen'she  telt  by  ill-gien  Jack  : 
Aa  !  Bella  !  oft  we  wisht  thou'd  cawt, 

To  hear  consarnin  sweetheart  Bill — 
For  God's  seake,  let  nae  neybors  tnow't — 

Gud  luck  to  Fortune-tellers,  still  !  * 


LUIVE'S  KEYNDNESS. 

TUNE — "  Bonny  Dundee." 

O,   lassie  !  whoar  gat   thou   that   bonny  silk  bon 
net  ?  " 
"  Twas    bowt  me  by  Jemmy  that's  far  owre  the 

sea," 
"  Nae  doubt  monie  a  teyme  he'd  be  fan  to   gaze 

on   it, 

An  glance  at  thy  features  that  plishure  can  gie." 
"  Aye  neet  efter  neet  wheyl  I  toil'd  wi'  mey  mudder, 

He'd  sit  on  our  sattle,  an  sing  wid  a  smeyle  ; 
Young,  healthy  an  cheerfu,  we  luiv'd  yen  anudder — 
Now  some  foreign  lassie  may  Jemmy  beguile  !  " 

"  O,  why  did  he  leave  yen  leyke  thee,  gud  an  bonny?  " 

"  A  sowdger  he  suin  was  taen  off  to  the  war, 

"  Weyl  war  leads  to  ruin  beath  sexes  an  monie  ; 

Draws    thousans  to    deeth    wheyle    some  show  a 

sad  scar," 
"  He   seegh'd   an   thus   spak   on   the   brow,    when 

we  parted, 

"  O  peace  to  thy  heame  wid  a  mudder  sae  dear  ! 
Lang  happy  leeve  thou  if  I  dee  brokken-hearted — 
Be    theyne    health    an    plenty    wheyle    meyne's 
a  saut  tear  !  " 

*  In  this  Ballad  and  "Sally  Gray,"  stanza  v.,  our  author  has 
spoken  of  the  firm  and  general  hold  the  superstition  of  the 
Fortune-teller  had  upon  the  Cumbrian  character.  I  have  dealt 
with  this  more  especially  in  its  relation  to  the  Norse  whence  it  is 
derived  in  my  "  Glossary  of  the  Cumberland  Dialect,"  published 
by  the  English  Dialect  Society,  and  in  "  Landnama,"  p.  46,  under 
heading  of  Spaka  or  Seer.-  T.E. 


CUMBERLARD  BALLADS.  273 

"  O  lassie  !  weep  nin  for  the  loss  ov  a  lover  !  " 

"  Yes,  partin  brings  sorrow  ;    nae  mirth  I  enjoy." 
"  Mey   fortune   thou's   share,    an   frae   sadness   re 
cover — 
Be  meyne  ;    nor  think  mair  o'  yen  war  may  dis- 

troy." 
No  !  aw  the  warl's  wealth  cuddent  buy  me  frae 

Jemmy  ; 

Whate'er  be  my  sufFrins,  he's  ay  i'  mey  meyne  ; 
He  yet  may  return,  but  sud  Deeth  draw  him  frae 

me, 

I'll    mourn     for    his    fate    but    to   luive   ne'er 
incleyne  !  " 


O,  whoar  leeves  thy  mudder  ?      Reet  fain  I  wad 

see    her," 

"  She  leeves  in  yon  cot  an  aye  toils  at  her  wheel," 

"  A  stranger,  I'm  wealthy  an  money  will  gie  her  ; 

Then  pray  that  ye  lang  may  leeve  healthy  an 

weel.' 
"  Nae    keyndness    she   courts  ;       but    our    thenks, 

wordy  stranger, 

Ye  daily  sal  hev  ;     an  whate'er  may  beteyde, 
I'll  wish  for    my  Jemmy  wha's  flung  into  danger  ; 
An  ay  bless  the  man  who  sowt  me  for  a  breyde  !  " 


BETTY   O'    BRANTON. 

TUNE — "  The  hay-mew." 

Young  Betty,  blithe,  bonny,  hes  sweethearts  twee, 

Beath  rich  an  just  sec  as  few  lasses  can  see  ; 

Yet  tied  to  some  beggar  mair  happy  she'd  be  ; 

They  ne'er  can  please  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 
For  hur  in  a  saw-pit  a  duel  they'd  feght  ; 
The  tweesome  wi'  cannons,  mud  monie  deleyte 
Sec  marrowless  chaps  ne'er  a  challenge  cud  wreyte — 

Just  laugh  at  them,  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 


274  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Furst  Nathan  we'll  nwotish  he'll  brag  ov  his  gear, 
Sud  Justice  but  hod  him  he'd  nobbet  be  puir  : 
When  talkin  ten  teymes  in  a  minute  he'll  sweer — 

Be  cowshious,  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 
He's  shept  leyke  a  trippet ;  atween  his  cruikt  tnees 
When  walkin,  a  sew  cud  just  waddle  wid  ease  ; 
A  star  or  the  muin  he  but  seldom  e'er  sees — 

Just  laught  at  him,  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 


Neest  Jeymie  the  swinler,  that  nowt  e'er  can  teame, 
Sud    he    tek    in    aw    roun    him    he'd  never  think 

sheame; 
Scairce  yence  in  a  fornet  the  truth  he'll  e'er  neame 

What  a  match  for  sweet  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 
His  lang  reed  snout  ay  turns  off  to  ae  seyde  ; 
His  gob  will  measure  full  eight  inches  weyde  ; 
His   teeth  leyke  stowres,   the    twee   lips    ne'er  can 
heyde — 

Just  laugh  at  him,  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 


If  leyke  monie  lasses,  thou's  fain  hev  a  man, 
Ne'er  link  wid  a  deevil  for  houses  or  Ian  ; 
A  peer  bit  gud  body  just  tek,  if  thou  can  ; 

He'll  wish  to  please  Betty  o'  Branton. 
Gud  sheps  an  feyne  features  fwok  ay  will  prize, 
But  deformity  nae  yon  sud  ever  despise  ; 
If  a  sweerer  or  lear,  to  catch  thee  e'er  tries, 

Just  laugh  at  him,  Betty  o'  Branton  ! 


HEAME'S  HEAME. 


A  hee-rented  farmer  oft  thrang  at  the  plew, 

At  threshin  at  deykin  I  toil  the  day  thro'  ; 
I  rise  wi'  the  lark  an  oft  work  by  the  muin, 
In  lang  days  o'  summer  yen's  wark's  never  duin  : 
Nae  lab'rers  I  keep  nor  a  sarvent  can  neame  ; 
Yet  weary  I  ay  fin  leyfe's  comfort  my  heame. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  275 


At  kurnin  at  cuikin  our  weyfe's  ever  thrang, 
At  weshin — Aa  !  twenty  things  aw  the  day  lang  ; 
At  milkin,  mworn,  neet  then  wi'  glee  at  the  wheel, 
At  darnin  at  knittin  an  wheyles  at  the  reel — 
O,  wer  peer  bit  women-fwok,  thrang  at  the  searae  ! 
For    leyke    her    luiv'd    partner    leyfe's     comfort's 
her  heame. 

Oft  wearied  by  labour  but  ne'er  bow'd  by  care, 
I  sit  nar  the  clock-kease  an  fadder's  aul  chair  ; 
I  put  on  my  speckets  an  wheyles  read  the  news, 
But  owt  about  happiness,  seldom  yen  views  ; 
If  meakin  a  swill  I  crack  on  wi'  mey  deame, 
Ay    cheerfa    ne'er    fearful,    leyfe's    comfort's    our 
heame. 

Our  bairns  '11  sit  laikin  queyte  funny  i'  th'  nuik, 
Greace  now  dons  her  doll  an  Bill's  ply  in  his  buik  ; 
Beath  biddible,   peaceful  an  daily  weel  fed  ; 
Beath  larnin  an  thrivin  an  decently  cled  ; 
May  the  twee  niver  be  what  to  monie's  a  sheame, 
But  ay  think,  leyke  we  that  leyfe's  comfort's  their 
heame. 

When  weekly  to  market  I  gang  wi'  the  cworn, 
I  teaste  a  swop  drink  but  aye  drukkenness  scworn  ; 
An  if  to  some  fair  wid  a  neybor  I  reyde, 
To  git  back  e*er  darknin  is  ever  my  preyde  ; 
Oft  seeck  wi'  weyld  reavin  thersels  monie  bleame — 
O  feegh  !    this  leyfe's    comfort  sud    aye    be    their 
heame  ! 

Girt  gentry  leyke  gamlin  aye  beath  neet  an  day, 
An  anxious  fine  ever  to  mek  f wok  their  prey  ; 
At  cairds  wi'  my  neybors  I  wheyles  pass  an  hour, 
Then  crack  about  monie  that  muckle  endure  ; 
If  gamlin's  yen's  preyde  it's  foriver  a  sheame, 
Owre  leate   monie   wish   they'd  shar'd   comfort   at 
heame. 

Some  neybors  i'  th'  yell-house  sit  neet  efter  neet, 
In  weyld  ness  deleytin  that  ne'er  can  be  reet  ! 
Now  yawnin,  now  fudlin,  now  praisin  the  yell  ; 
Now  fratchin.  now  leein,  leame  stwories  they  tell  ; 
Now  reacers,  now  ruslers,  now  boxers  they'll  neame — 
O   neybors  !  just   think   this  leyfe's   comfort's   yer 
heame  I 


276  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

We've  bed  monie  crosses  sin  heath  in  our  preme 
And  tnown  monie  losses — Aa  !  teyme  efter  teyme 
Our  house  was  brok  intui,  when  beath  out  at  wark 
Our  black  meer  an  fwoal  were  beath  stown  efter 

dark. 

Ae  mworn  we  our  hay  an  cworn  seed  in  a  flame — 
Ne'er    ak  !  what    we    suffer,    leyfe's  comfort's  our 

heame. 


Neest  twee  in  a  fever  Deeth  tuik  to  the  greave  ; 
The  doctor  cawt  daily  but  nowther  cud  seave  ; 
Ann  an  Jwoseph  to  mudder  an  fadder  wer  dear — 
When  I  think  o'  the  tweesome  it  causes  a  tear  ! 
Then   deame   gat  her  thie  brak,  at  this  hour  she's 

leame, 

Yet    peacefu    an    varteous,  leyfe's    comfort's    her 
heame. 


I  ne'er  can  forgit  what  she  then  smeylin  sed, 

When  geane  wer  twee  eldest  an  she  laid  in  bed  ; 

"  O  weep  nit  gud  maister  !  bad  rwoads  ye  ne'er  trod  ! 

Submissive  an  cheerfu  let  sec  bow  to  God  ! 

To   aw   that    reet    strive    wheynin    ay    pruives    a 

sheame — 
Let's  whop  a  gud  warl  may  at  last  be  our  heame  !  " 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  277 

ETTY  BELL. 

TUNE — "  The  aul  guidman" 

Last  neet  when  aw  our  wark  was  duin, 

Loud  blew  the  win'  thick  fell  the  snovr  ; 
The  crackets,  chirp — chirpin,  seem'd  to  say, 

Aroun  this  harth  we're  happy  aw  ! 
In  bed  our  bairns  ;  mey  peype  I  smuikt  ; 

The  clock  just  telt  the  hour  ov  rest  ; 
Mey  deame  she  seeght  for  ay  she  seeghs 

Whene'er  she  thinks  o'  fwok  distrest. 

T  hard  a  tap  at  our  front  duir, 

A  feeble  voice  cried,  "  Let  me  in  !  " 
We  started,  "  Run,  gud  man  !  "  deame  cries, 

"  For  beggars  we  have  room  widin." 
The  duir  unlockt  surpris'd  we  seed, 

Wi'  snow  a  puir  aul  creeter  cled  ; 
Wi'  yage  bent  double,  tremlin,  pale, 

An  to  the  fire  she  suin  was  led. 


She  cuddent  speak,  she  scairce  cud  breathe  ; 

Away  leyke  leetnin  ran  mey  deame  ; 
She  brong  her  what  suin  gev  her  ease, 

Says  she,  "  Just  think  our  house  yer  heame  ! " 
A  posset  neest  I  bad  her  meake  ; 

Nowt  better  is  fer  rich  or  puir  ; 
This  duin,  mey  deame  wad  smeyle  owrejoy'd, 

An  then  she'd  drop  a  painfu  tear. 

Th'  aul  body's  yage  we  fain  wad  ken, 

She  muttert,  "  Fourscwore  years  an  five  ; 
Lang,  lang  I've  toil'd  an  begg'd  for  breed, 

But  whopt  nit  now  to  be  alive  ; 
I've  suffer'd  mickle  sin  my  youth  ; 

Far  mair  than  mem'ry  lets  me  tell  ; 
In  this  farm-house  I  furst  drew  breeth  ; 

But  few  fwok  meyn  aul  Etty  Bell  !  " 

"  O  aunt  !  dear  aunt  !  "  mey  deame  now  shriekt, 
She  fentet  ;   tears  stream'd  down  my  cheek  ; 
Aul  Ester  on  the  sattle  rwoar'd — 

I  tried  an  tried  but  cuddent  speak  ; 


278  CUMBERLAND   BALLADS. 


Wi'  pain  I  rais'd  her  frae  the  fluir, 
An  thowt  her  deed  but  O,  or  lang 

Recover'd,  how  she  gaz'd  an  smeyl'd, 
An  roun  her  aunt  her  airms  she  flang. 


Aul  Ester  now  wi'  luiks  ov  joy, 

Drew  monie  a  picture  ov  her  leyfe  ; 
When  young,  beluiv'd  by  rich  an  puir, 

Yet  she  ne'er  yence  becom  a  weyfe  : 
A  cousin  mean  she  work'd  for  hard, 

Nar  threescwore  years  in  Lunnon  town  ; 
Now  brokken-hearted,  starvt  an  aul, 

She's  to  her  parish  toddelt  down. 

Rejoic'd  we  by  the  fire  aw  sat, 

An  talkt  an  hard  the  clock  streylce  yen  ; 
I  nowt  leyke  this  e'er  seed  befwore, 

Nor  sec  a  seet  can  see  agean  ! 
Beteymes  this  mworn,  mey  deame  she  ruse, 

Queyte  fain  a  lang-lost  aunt  to  see — 
Wheyle  I've  a  penny,  she's  nit  want, 

An  deame  an  aw  sal  happy  be  ! 


OUR    MAISTER    AN    DEAME.* 
TUNE — "  St.  Andrew's  Cross." 

Some  praise  our  girt  nowbles  that  seldom  dui 
gud  ; 

Some  brag  ov  our  squires,  that  offen  dui  \\rang  : 
Peer  scribblers  leyke  me  aye  wreyte  as  ye  sud, 

Let  truth  be  yer  study  when  meakin  a  sang  : 
Mankeyn  if  they  bodder  '11  scairce  wreyte  anudder, 

Tho'  few  in  aul  Englan  sae  monie  can  neame  ; 
I've  prais'd  gudness,  beauty  ;  I've  pointed  out 
duty — 

Mey  study  to-day  is  our  Maister  an  Deame. 

*  Mr.  Justin  B.  Brown,  and  his  amiable  partner. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  279 


Our  Maister  ne'er  pruiv'd  a  base  picture  to  man  ; 

Deil  tek  them  that  think  he  wad  onie  betray  ! 
To  shew  what  veyce  leads  tui  an  ^keybels  to  flay 

To  sarra  gud  bodies  hes  ay  been  his  plan  : 
His  wish  is  for  freedom  nae  mortal  can  lead  him 

To  praise  whate'er  yence  leads  a  brother  to  sheame  ; 
True  virtue  his  creed  is  an  daily  ilk  deed  is, 

What  happiness  draws  to  our  Maister  an  Deame. 


Our    Deame   is   lish,    clever   gay,    modest    an   free, 

A  foe  to  ambition,  veyce,  fuilr'y,  an  preyde  ; 
She  frowns  on  nae  mortal,  she  toils  leyke  the  bee  ; 

Her  luik  tells  a  meynd  that  nit  yen  can  dereyde  : 
She's  weel-shept  an  bonny,  she's  friendly  to  monie 

That  caw  raggt  an  helpless,  ayehowe  i'  the  weame  ; 
Clean,  hilthy,  cleleytefu  ;  ne'er  tnaggy  or  speytefu — 

Owre  few  ever  see  sec  a  Maister  an  Deame  ! 


Our   Maister  leyke   monie   hes   wheyles    been   tre- 

pann'd, 

For  gudness  owre  seldom  an  claim  what  is  due  ; 
He  studies  correctly  the  laws  ov  our  land, 

An   praises    the   statesmen   that   wish   to   pruive 

true  : 

He  scworns  base  oppressors  ;     he  hates  aw  trans 
gressors 

That  glory  in  war  ;  e'en  the  King  he  dar  bleame  ; 
He  censures  aw  slav'ry,  he  laughs  at  aw  kneav'ry — 
Aye  peacefu  an  happy  are  Maister  an  Deame. 


Our  Deame  is  queyte  cheerfu,  she'll  crack  an  she'll 

jwoke, 

But  ne'er  pnie  mortal  yet  sowt  to  offend  ; 
She  courts  nit.  the  favors  ov  onie  girt  fwok  ; 

To  what  she  thinks  wrang  for  the  wa:l  she'd  nit 

bend  : 
Nae  Mistress  Creake's  party  whoar  sland'rers  seem 

hearty, 
Nae  dainties,  drink,  chatt'rin  cud  win   her  frae 

heame  ; 
Sec   fuil'ry's   owre    common    'mang    men-fwok    an 

women, 
But  aye  was  despis'd  by  oor  Maister  an  Deame. 


280  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Oor  Maister  the  scen'ry  ov  Nature  admires  ; 

He's  statesman  to-day  an  tradesman  to-mworn  ; 
Health,  peace,  plenty,  frienship  is  aw  he  desires, 
An    the    luive    ov    his    Nancy    yen    nin'll    e'er 

scworn. 
Oor    Deame    wad    toil   iver   yet    weary   seems   ni- 

ver — 
Lang  free  frev  aw  care  may  they  beath  be  the 

seame ; 
By    yage    when    boo'd    double    nae    sufFrers    frae 

trouble, 

May    Deeth    freeten    nowther    oor    Maister    or 
Deame  ! 


HEDDERSGILL  KEATIE. 
TUNE — "  Fye  gae  rub  her  o'er  wi'  strae." 

Young  Keatie  leev'd  in  Heddersgill  ; 

An  sweetheart  Jwohnny,  owre  the  geate 
Peer  Keatie  !  seeghin,  toilin,  still 

Was  fain  to  see  him  suin  or  leate  : 
But  Jwohnny  leyke  beath  hee  an  low, 

Wi'  yen  mair  rich  now  on  hed  teane  ; 
An  Keatie  aye  row'd  up  in  woe, 

Wad  think  ov  hours  o'  luive  aw  geane. 


To  kurk,  to  market,  fair  or  dance, 
In  costly  trappins  oft  she  went  ; 

In  whopes  at  Jwohnny  wid  a  glance, 
To  catch  what  gies  a  heart  content  : 

But,  Oh  !  in  vain,  they  ne'er  yence  met, 
Aye  fruitless  her  endeevors  pruiv'd  ; 

He  neets  an  days  wad  spen  wi'  Bett, 

But  ne'er  yence  thowt  o'  hur  he  luiv'd. 

Ae  neet  when  spinniu  by  the  fire, 
Rejoic'd,  his  trailin  clogs  she  hard  ; 

She  seeght  an  wisht  'twer  his  desire, 
Just  then  to  toddle  thro'  the  yard  : 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  281 

She  up  an  flang  the  wheel  aseyde, 

An  seeghin  crap  across  the  faul  ; 
Whope  whispert  suin  she'd  be  a  breyde, 

But  whope  deceives  beath  young  an  aul. 

Now  cross  the  town-geate  quick  went  she, 

An  thro'  the  lettice  tuik  a  gaze  ; 
Now  rap-raps  at  the  duir  gae  three, 

Wheyle  he  sat  whiffin  in  amaze  : 
"  Whea's  theer  ?  "  quo  Jwohnny,  wi'  surprise, 

"  It's  me  !  "  she  answert  quick,  "  It's  me  !  " 
"  An  whee  the  deevil's  me  ?  "  he  cries, 

"  Wey,  I's  thy  Keatie  1  thoo  kens  whee  !  " 

She  bruist  her  tnockles  rappin  threyce, 

An,  "  Jwohnny  !  Jwohnny  !  "  oft  she'd  neame  ; 
"  Hut,  shaff  !  "  he  cried,  "  teake  mey  adveye  ! 

Sec  leyke  as  thee  er  best  at  heame  ! 
"  What  wants  thoo,  fuil  ?  "  says  she,   "    I'll  lay 

Thoo  canna  fin  me,  tho'  I's  nigh  !  " 
"  Puir  sumph  !  "  says  he.  "  een  gang  thy  way, 

For  me,  I'll  lay  I  wunnet  try  !  " 

Now  heameward  stowtert  tremlin  Keate, 

A  luckless  lump  o'  luive  to  wail  ; 
Her  heart  just  leyke  a  penlum  bet  ; 

The  tears  she  shed  wad  f  ou  a  pail  ; 
Her  seeghs  were  leyke  the  wintry  breeze  ; 

An  whopes  alas  !  she  hed  nae  mair  : 
Thus,  true  it  is  yen  daily  sees, 

Luive  leads  to  joy  an  oft  to  care  ! 


AUL  BEN'S  COURTSHIP. 

TUNE — "  The  Gaberlunzie  man." 

What,  Lizzy  !  sit  down  an  lissen  the  news  ; 
To  crack  wi'  thy  cousin  thou'll  ne'er  refuse  ; 
Or  nae  teyme  we'll  aw  be  rich  as  the  Jews 

An  thou  our  brass  sal  ay  share  : 
Aul  Ben  com  here  last  neet  afwore  dark, 
When  Betty  an  fadder  an  me  wer  at  wark  ; 
Our  dog,  deil  bin  him  !  dud  nowt  but  bark 

When  Ben  crap  into  the  chair  ! 


282  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

"  Heaste,  Elsy  !  "  he  cries,  "  fling  peets  i'  the  fire, 
I've  stowtert  down  lonnins  thro'  wet  an  deep  mire  ; 
A  feckless  aul  fellow  tho'  some  caw  me  squire — 

Nae  kinsfwok  hev  I  at  aw  ; 

I  mean  to  meake  yet  neyce  dowter  my  breyde  ; 
She's  reype  an  rwosey  an  free  frev  aw  preyde  ; 
She's  git  heaps  o'  money,  Ian,  houses,  beseyde — 

She'd  better  wed'  me  nor  a  beau  ! 

"  O,  Betty  !  "  says  he,  "  when  I  meake  the'  meyne, 
We'll  leeve  thick  as  thieves,  ay  merry  an  keyne, 
Thoo'll  hev  bit  o'  bairns,  we'll  don  them  reet  feyne, 

An  laik  wi'  them  neet  an  day  ! 
Our  squire,  our  lawyer,  our  parson,  an  deame, 
An  monie  girt  gentles,  yen  needent  neame, 
Sal  daily  mek  our  gran  parlor  their  heame  ; 

An  beggars  teake  plenty  away. 

"  Come,  clap  on  the  kettle  an  meake  a  swop  tea  ; 

An  swat  tey  ways  down  o'  top  mey  tnee  : 

I'll  gie  thee  a  buss  aye  tweyce  twee  or  three — 

We'll  crack  an  coddle  queyte  fain  : 
To-mworn  thoo's  reyde  an  buy  a  gowd  ring  ; 
An  claes  for  the  threesome  thoo  heame  sal  bring  ; 
A  secfu  ov  nwotes  i'  thy  lap  I  mun  fling, 

That  day  I  meake  thee  mey  ain. 

"  I'll  built  a  girt  house  as  hee  as  a  haw  ! 
Thoo's  feast  o'  gud  meat  as  the  queen  e'er  saw  ; 
Thoo's  sarra  puir  bodies  wheniver  they  caw, 

An  fain  starvt  deevils  to  seave  ; 
Run    Ellik  !  bring   owre   some   famish   Scotch    gin. 
We'll   twoast   roun   an  roun   till   the    muin    keeks 

in  ; 
For  me —  I's  aw  pain'd  widout  an  widin, 

An  suin  I  mun  lig  i'  mey  greave  !  " 

He's  shwort  an  double,  yence  streyte  an  strang  ; 
His  neybors  aw  roun  him,  he  hobbles  amang 
He's  duin  muckle  gud  an  seldom  dis  wrang, 

But  wishes  ilk  yen  to  dui  reet  : 
He's  worn  to  the  beane  nae  hair  on  his  powe  ; 
Hawf-blin,    deef    an    tuithless,    nae    beyte    he    can 

chowe  : 

His  legs  er  like  thivels,   he  smuiks  the  day  thro', 
An  ligs  on  the  sattle  aw  neet. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  283 


They  busst  yen  anudder  ;  she  patted  his  cheek  ; 
He  huizt,*  cought,  an  laught,  but  harleys  cud  speak  ; 
Our  parson  mun  buckle  the  tweesome  neest  week  ; 

An  thoo  breyde's  maiden  sal  be  : 
What,  Betty  queyte  murry  to  Carel  is  geane  ; 
Aa  !  nwotes  ov  aw  maks,  gow'd  an  siller  she's  taen  ; 
— He's  seebemty  seebem,   she's  just   twenty   yen — 

A  famish  weyle  weddin  we'll  see  ! 


INVITATION  TO  CRITO. 

TUNE — "  The  Pensioners" 

Dear    Crito  !  my    frien    that    can    ne'er    be    forgot, 
Whcyle   Mem'ry   reflects    on    the   days    that    are 
geane  ; 

I  teyme  spen  wi'  plishure  in  this  retir'd  spot 
An  monie  amuse  but  ne'er  try  to  vex  yen  : 

To  sarra's  the  duty  ov  beath  hee  an  low, 

But  preyde  an  ambition  brings  monie  to  woe  ! 


I  rest  wi'  gud  fwok,  that  ne'er  try  to  dui  wrang  ; 

I  share  holsome  food  that  the  wealthy  mud  please  ; 

Their  keyndness  is  sec  that  a  day  ne'er  seems  lang  ; 

When  neet  flings  her  curtain  blithe  neybors  yen 

sees  : 
Wi'  a  crack,  sang  or  tune,  we  aul  teyme  can  be- 

gueyle— 
O  cud  the  weyld  warl  bwoast  the  seame  wi'  a  smeyle  ! 


Our  maister  weel  kent  by  aw  maks  far  an  weyde 
Shews  daily  his  wish  for  truth,  freedom  an  luive  ; 

Yes  justice  forever  is  Justin'sf  true  preyde, 

Wer  Justice    leyke  him  fwok  happy  mud  pruive  ! 

Aul  Hayton  a  better  man  never  will  bwoast, 

An   wer   claret   mey   drink,    I'd   oft   mek   him   the 
twoast. 

*  To  huiz. — To  cough  or  breathe  hard  as  a  cow  does. — T.E. 
t  Mr.  Justin  Bird  Brown,  Hayton. 


284  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 

Nae  fratchin  or  feghtin,   e'er  bodders   yen's  ear  ; 

Nae  slander  that  rowes  monie  thousans  in  care  ; 
That  statesmen  an  pleacemen,  wad  fin  for  the  puir, 

An  lop  off  base  taxes,  is  eve'ry  yen's  pray'r  : 
But  tyranny,   Rulers  owre  oft  mek  their  preyde   ; 
Ne'er  ak  !  Deeth  throws  kings  leyke  puir  beggars 
aseyde. 

Weyl  Winter  prevents  me  frae  wand'rin  aw  roun, 
Whoar  "  Canny  aul  Cummerlan "  fain  I  wad 

view  ; 
By  yage,  pain  an  poverty,  offen  bow'd  down, 

Yet  a  buik,  pen  an  paper  can  charm  the  day  thro'  : 
I  read  what  the  meynd  aye  frae  folly  can  seave  ; 
I  wreyte  what  may  please,  when  I'm  flung  i'  the 
greave. 

The  storm  leate  sea  flaysome,   is   now  duin  away  ; 
At  nature's  sweet  change,  man,  beast,  bird  may  re 
joice  ; 

To  whop  for  mair  changes  peer  Britons  weel  may, 
But  oppression  in  Englan,  seems  owre  monie's 

choice  : 

O,  wad  ev'ry  mortal,  when  'tis  in  his  pow'r, 
But  sarra  his  brethren  that  mickle  endure  ! 

How  pleasin  'twad  pruive  cud  yen  truly  describe, 
That  honest  fwok  shar'd  aw  that's  doubtless 
their  reet  ; 

But  Englan  leyke  aw  pleaces  lures  in  a  treybe, 
That  aim  at  ambition  ;  sad  lumps  o'  deceit  ! 

This   country's   a   wilderness   cover'd   wi'    thworns, 

Whoar  deeds  o'  girt  fwok  the  neame  seldom  adorns. 

Now  seated  in  peace  fain  to  wreyte  to  my  frien,f 
That  ne'er  for  a  breyde  wad  a  mortal  betray  ; 

I  see  wi'  surprise,  what  by  fwoks  daily  seen, 

Our  weel-fed  aul   dog  a  puir  beggar   will   flay  : 

At  rich  fwok  in  preyde  he  forever  will  fawn — 

Shaft  !  men-fwok  leyke  Touch  by  owre  monie 
are  tnown  ! 

f  "Our  friendship  commenced  on  my  return  from  London, 
October,  1795."  This  is  Anderson's  own  note,  as  it  occurs  in  the 
original  M.S.  of  this  Ballad,  and  marks  the  commencement  of  his 
life-long  friendship  with  Crito,  otherwise  Sanderson,  the  Kirklin- 
ton  Poet. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  285 

Retirement  to  some  wad  leyfe's  plishures  destroy, 
Tho'  towns  the  best  bodies  to  ruin  oft  lead  ; 

Hills,  valleys,  woods,  watters  to  me  affword  joy  ; 
An  whether  yen  gaze  at  the  yek,  or  the  weed, 

They  wither  leyke  men,  but  a  lesson  aye  gie, 

That  points  to  the  Ruler — His  gudness  aw  see. 

Tho'  distant  are  we  a  true  frien  I'll  inveyte — 
A  wheyle  wi'  puir  Robin  mek  Hayton  thy  heame  ; 

The  thowt  wad  our  keynd-hearted  neybors  deleyte, 
Mair  respected  than  thee  few  in  this  warl  can 
neame  ; 

Tho'  monie  forget  me  ;     thy  frienship  but  shew — 

For  Crito,  I'll  pray,  till  Deeth  gies  me  a  caw  ! 


SALLY  OV  IRTHIN. 

TUNE — "  The  Wounded  Huzzar." 

Yen  fairer  than  Sally, 

Ne'er  yet  trod  a  valley, 
Whoar  Gelt  in  wheyl  murmurs  to  Irthin  pow'rs  down  ; 

The  preyde  ov  a  mother, 

A  sister,  an  brother  ; 
Her  countenance  breet  as  the  sun  smeylin  roun  ; 

Simplicity,    beauty, 

Health,  gudness  an  duty, 
Aye  wan  her  the  luive  that  owre  few  leeve  to  share  ; 

Young  Jwohnny  her  neybor, 

Brong  up  to  hard  labour, 
Was  fav'rite  at  murry-neet,  market  or  fair. 

Nae  kinsfwok  hed  Jwohnny, 

An  wheedelt  leyke  monie, 
At  Branton  gat  trapt  by  some  ill-gien  recruits — 

Oh  !  heeds  o'  the' nation, 

Ye  oft  cause  vexation  ; 
Sec  deeds  to  encourage,  pruives  men  war  nor  brutes  ! 

You  trail  off  puir  seamen, 

O'  joys  when  they're  dreamin  ; 
Wi'  drums,  feyfes,  cockades  honest  lads  ye  trepan  ; 

Leyke  teades  under  harrows, 

His  country  ilk  sarras, 
Gits  slain,  ligs  uncoffin'd  in  sea  or  on  Ian. 


286  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Now,  monie  a  keyn  cronie 

Fan  sworry  for  Jwohnny, 
An  sec  as  hed  money  the  smart  wad  fain  pay  ; 

But,  no  !  he  was  sworn  in  ; 

The  proud  sarjin  scwornin, 
Neest  bad  him  git  ready  to  march  the  neest  day  ; 

Owre  hill  an  thro'  valley, 

He  saunter 'd  wi'  Sally, 
An  whopt  she  wad  git  yen  wi'  plenty  ov  gear  ; 

Adveyce  pruives  a  blessin, 

An  wheyles  pruives  distressin — 
They  kiss'd,  shuik  hans,  parted  wi'  monie  a  saut  tear. 

Wi'  some  she  hed  spworted, 

She  oft  now  was  courted, 
But  fareweel  to  dances  an  parties  she  bade  ; 

The  lanlword  son  Harry, 

Neest  sowt  her  to  marry, 
But  low-sunk  in  spirits  oft  sleepless  she  laid  : 

Frae  Branton  ae  e'enin, 

When  Sally  sat  spinnin, 
He  cawt  wi'  fause  tears,  an  suin  whispert  the  news, 

That  Jwohn  he'd  deeth  suffer'd, — 

His  han  he  now  offer'd — 
A  han  frae  the  rich,  lasses  seldom  refuse. 

Young  Jwohnny  nit  cheerfu, 

Tho'  niver  yence  fearfu, 

Hed  dung  down  proud  Frenchmen  an  won  a  gud 
neame  ; 

He'd  stuid  monie  a  battle, 

Mid  cannons'  loud  rattle, 

Gat  wounded,   discharg'd  an  wi'   whops   wander'd 
heame  : 

In  Irthin's  green  valley, 

Wi'  joy  he  met  Sally  ; 
The  smeyle  an  the  seegh  ov  affection  he  gave  ; 

She  shriekt,  weept  an  fentet  ; 

Her  marriage  lamented — 
Or  three  days  wer  owre  she  was  taen  to  the   greave. 

The  above  was  written  at  the  request  of   a  respectable 
young  lady. 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  287 

I'LL  NE'ER  LUIVE  ANUDDER. 
TUNE — "  The  flow'r  o'  Dumblane." 

I've  a  house  an  gud  Ian  ;    I've  a  mill  up  the  watter  : 
I've  pultry  ov  aw  maks  ;   I've  naigs,  sheep,   an 

kye  ; 
I've   sarvents   that    toil   for   me  ;      grey-houns,5|an 

spaniels  ; 

I've  nwotes,  gow'd  an  siller  ;  an  aw  things  can  buy  ; 
I've  kinsfwok  aw  wealthy  ;  I'm  cheerfu  an  healthy  : 
I've  spent  years  o'  plishure  now  turn'd  thurty- 
three  ; 

I've  sweethearted  monie 
But  ne'er  cud  wed  onie — 

I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  wheaever  luives  me  ! 
Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 
Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  ov  aw  I  may  see. 

Furst  Betty  o'  Bow'rbank  when  young,  I  fell  in  wi', 

At  Dick's  saller-opnin,  togedder  we  sat  ; 
Her  cheeks  were  queyte  rwosy  I've  pou'd  monie  a 

pwosie, 

But  ne'er  in  the  garden  a  sweeter  flow'r  gat  : 
Wi'  yen  a  pretender,  she  cwoacht  off  to  Gratena — 
To  teake  me  I  promis'd  she  happy  sud  be  : 
I  oft  ruid  to  see  her, 
Spent  happy  neets  wi'  her — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  wheaever  luives  me  ! 
Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 
Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  ov  aw  I  may  see  ! 

Neest,   Fanny  o'   Fenton,   lish,   clever  nit   wanton 
I  owretuik  when  reydin  ae  day  towerts  heame 
My  heart    was    aye    beatin   at   neets  ever  dreamin 
I  thpwt  her  the  sweetest  aw  Englan  cud  neame 
She  tuik  off  to  Lunnon  to  see  a  thurd  cousin, 
In  nae  teyme  a  parson  just  buckelt  the  twee 
She  writ  me  a  letter, 
Whopt  I'd  git  a  better — 

I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  wheaever  luives  me  ! 
Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 
Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  ov  aw  I  may  see ! 


288  CUMBERLAND  BALLADS. 


Then  Dinah  ov  Dawston,  ilk  body  wad  bwoast  on, 

I'd  hard  monie  neame,  an  at  Rosley  furst  saw ; 
She  donnt  leyke  a  leady.  was  aye  fou  ov  humour  ; 
If  scwores  she  just  smeyl'd  at,  she  conquer'd  them 

aw  : 
She  drew   frev  aw    quarters ;     sec  caus'd    muckle 

feghtin ; 

The  flow'r  ov  aw  Cummerlan  reckon'd  was  she  ; 
A  trav'ler  off  tuik  her, 
But  sum  he  forsuik  her — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  wheaever  luives  me  ! 
Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 
Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow— 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  ov  aw  I  may  see  ! 


Ae  summer,  in  feyn'ry,  I  raid  owre  to  Gilsden, 
Wi'  yen,  a  strange  leady,  I  suin  fell  in  luive  ; 
We  waJkt  about  daily,  an  teyme  we  spent  gaily, 

But  I  ne'er  yence  dreemt  she  a  donnet  wad  pruive  ; 
Fwok  offen  wer  laughin,  when  we  wer  seen  passin  ; 
Yen    cowshent    me    ay    frae    sec    strumpets    to 
flee  : 

She  was  mistress  to  monie, 
Squires  ,  captains,  or  onie — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder  wheavever  luives  me  J 
Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 
Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder  ov  aw  I  may  see  ! 


Sweet  Hannah  ov  Hayton  at  ae  Cursmess  party, 

She  sang  an  she  danct  an  aye  stonisht  aw  roun  : 

She   promis'd   her    han — when    I     tuik    owre    the 

leycense, 
The  neybors  aw  weept  for  her  deeth   thro'  the 

town  : 

Young,  bonny,   blithe,   clever,   a  better  lass  never, 
Thro'   aw    the  weyde  warl    nae    man    e'er    kest 
an  e'e  ; 

Hours  happy  wer  wi'  her — 
I  ay  think  I  see  her — 

I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder,  wheaever  luives  me  I 
Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 
Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder  ov  aw  I  may  see  ! 


CUMBERLAND  BALLADS.  289 

On  scwores  I've  kept  gazin  an  scwores   hae    been 

praisin, 
But   ne'er   wad   cheat   onie   that   yence   wore   a 

I  aye  think' t  a  pity  thro'  country  or  city, 

That  women  leyke  men  pruive  owre  offen  a  trap  : 
I'm  healthy,  I'm  wealthy,  I've  plenty,  to  twenty 
Puir  beggars  meat,  money  an  cleedin  to  gie  ; 

Let  man  dui  his  duty, 

But  ne'er  bow  to  beauty — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder  wheaever  luives  me  ! 

Aw  whops  we  can  borrow, 

Will  oft  lead  to  sorrow — 
I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder  ov  aw  I  may  see. 


THE    QUILTERS. 

TUNE— "Sally  Gray." 

"Noo,  lasses  ;  aw  thrang  at  oor  quiltin, 

An  chaps  er  queyte  busy  at  wark  ; 
Let's  tell  roun  widoot  onie  blushes, 

Whea  fain  we  wad  meet  afwore  dark. 
We've  aw  bits  o'  fortunes,  guid  sweetheart 

Sae  nin  er  mair  happy  than  we  ; 
Come,  Elsy,  trot  on  wi'  thy  needle, 

An  tell  us  whea's  dearest  to  thee." 

"Yen  Ellik ;   a  lish  lad  an  cliver  ; 

Aye  merry  but  seldom  dis  wrang  ; 
Oh !   was  he  but  seated  amang  us, 

He'd  please  us  wi'  monie  a  sweet  sang ! 
Wer  meyne  aw  the  Ian  in  oor  parish, 

This  ban  to  nae  udder  I'd  gie  ; 
I  seed  him  last  neet  efter  supper — 

Noo,  Rachel  ;  whea's  dearest  to  thee  ?  " 

"Yen  Ritchy ;   industrus  an  modest, 
A  canny  young  lad  tho'  but  puir  ; 

Oh  !   hed  he  his  bagpeypes  amang  us, 
Nae  music  sae  sweet  cud  we  hear ! 


2QO  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 


Wer  I  oor  girt  squire's  only  dowter, 
To-mworn  he  mey  partner  sud  be ; 

When  dreamin  I  see  him  for  iver — 

Noo,  Martha ;  whee's  dearest  to  thee  ? " 

"Yen  Michael;   the  preyde  ov  his  cronies. 

That  ne'er  gev  a  body  a  froon ; 
Oh !  was  he  but  seated  amang  us, 

His  jwokes  wad  mek  aw  merry  roun ! 
I've  kent  him  sin  furst  we  larn'd  letters, 

An  few  e'er  his  marrow  can  see ; 
I'd  suiner  wed  him  nor  his  Iwordship — 

Noo,  Letty  ;   whee's  dearest  to  thee  ?  " 

"  Yen  Lanty ;   weel  leykt  by  lads,  lasses, 

In  whornpeypes  he's  fit  f  er  a  show ; 
Oh !   was  he  but  seated  amang  us, 

His  steps  wad  suin  'stonish  us  aw ! 
In  Lunnon  he'd  mek  a  girt  fortune, 

What,  king  o'  the  dancers  is  he ; 
He'd  please  nowbles  nabobs  an  statesmen — 

Noo,  Peggy  ;   whee's  dearest  to  thee  ?  " 

"  Yen  Peter  ;   the  preyde  o'  mey  bwosom, 

Ae  better  nin  e'er  meade  her  choice ; 
Oh  !   was  he  but  seated  amang  us, 

We'd  hear  iv'ry  leevin  thing's  voice! 
He'd  mimic  men,  beasts,  burds  ov  aw  maks. 

That  sing  away  summer  wi'  glee — 
O,  Peter !   wer  I  the  king's  dowter, 

I'd  pray  to  be  dearest  to  thee  ! " 

"Shaff!  seldom  yen  sees  whee  they  wish  for" — 

"  Nay,  hark ! — They're  aw  crossin  the  faul ! 
'Till  midneet  let's  whope  to  be  merry, 

For  sec  sud  ay  please  young  an  aul, 
"  Come  fling  off  the  quilt !    set  on  kettle, 

Let  aw  teake  six  cups  o'  leac'd  tea : 
Or  lang  may  we  quilters  git  weddet, 

An  try  to  dui  gud  till  we  dee! 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  291 

REFORM. 

TUNE — By  the  Author. 


"  O  !  let  Nature  speak, 

And    with  instinctive   force,   inform    thy   soul, 
That  LIBERTY,  the  choicest  boon  of  Heav'n, 
Is  REASON'S  birth-right,  and  the  gift  of  God!" 
Mrs.  Robinson. 


When  the  praise  ov  oor  statemen  by  dum  fwok 

is  sung  ; 
When    nae    man    on    yearth    meks  a  brother    a 

slave ; 

When  money  leyke  rain,  on  puir  bodies  is  flung ; 
When    gouty    girt    gentry    can    run    owre    the 

wave  ; 
When  priests,   lawyers,   doctors,  try  mankeynd  to 

charm ; 
Then  Englan,  puir  Englan  may  whope  fer  Reform ! 


When   pedestrens    in   nae  teyme  can    walk  to  the 

muin ; 

When  insecs  turn  giants  the  warl  to  surprise  ; 
When  asses  in  play-houses  hum  monie  a  tune ; 

When  teades  leave  the  yearth,  an  flee  up  to  the 

skies ; 
When    peace     thro'     aw   countries     sal    sowdgers 

disarm ; 
Then  Englan,  puir  Englan  may  whope  fer  reform ! 


When  preyde,  thro'  aw  countries,  by  nin  is  esteem'd  ; 
When    aul    fwok    er  young   an     the  bairns   are 

bworn  aul ; 

When  truth  sal  nae  langer  a  leybel  be  deem'd ; 
When   winter   tuins  het  an   the   summer  queyte 

caul; 
When   burds   or   fish   nowther  teaste  grain  or  the 

worm; 
Then  Englan,  puir  Englan  may  whope  fer  Reform ! 


2Q2  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

When    wolves    wi'    sheep    laik    i'    the    fiels    wi' 

deleyte  : 
When  cats,  wi'  rats,   meyce,  '11  dance  reels  or 

a  jig ; 
When  snaw  faws  queyte  black  an  the  blackburds 

er  wheyte  ; 
When  farmers  sow  san  that  grows  wheat,  rye, 

an  bigg, 

When  sangs  ov  the  lennet  a  hawk  can  alarm ; 
Then  Englan,  puir  Englan  may  whope  fer  Reform! 


When    cock-feghtin,    brutes    wi'    twee    legs    will 

despise ; 
When  drunkards  shall  scworn  a  full  bowl  or  a 

glass; 
When  gurse  tweyce  the  heeght  ov  a    yek   tree 

can  rise ; 

When  flatt'ry's  forgotten  by  lad  an  by  lass ; 
When  Iwords  wi'  puir  tenants  gang  linkt  arm  in 

arm ; 
Then  Englan,  puir  Englan  may  whope  fer  Reform! 


When  epicures  smeylin  can  feast  widoot  meat ; 
When    wickedness    ne'er    leads    to    sorrow    or 

woe  ; 
When  stars  sheyne  aw  day  an  the  sun  sheynes 

aw  neet : 
When  valleys  are  heegh  an  the  mountains  er 

low ; 
When  winter   ne'er  froons   on    the   warl   wid   a 

storm, 
Then    Englan,     puir    Englan    may     whope    fer 

Reform ! 


When  Newton  an  Shakspeare  by  aw  are  forgot ; 

When  burds  leeve  in  watter  and  fish  in  a  nest ; 

When    gunners   shoot   game    widoot    powder    or 

shot; 

When  virtue  thro'  aw  ranks  by  vice  is  carest ; 
When  nin  in  St.  Stephen's  e'er  try  to  dui  harm; 
Then    Englan,    puir    Englan    may    whope    fer 
Reform  ! 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS.-  293 

When    kings    at    gud   wishes   ov  subjects    ne'er 

f  roon  ; 
When    Brougham    or    Hume    ne'er    yence    to 

tyrants  need  boo  ; 

When  fwok  toil  fer  plenty  in  country  an  toon  ; 
When    faction's   aye  laught   at    that's   queyte 

common  noo  ; 
When   pleacemen's  lang  speeches   ilk   true  heart 

can  warm  ; 
Then     Englan,     puir     Englan    may     whope    fer 

Reform ! 


NICHOL    THE    NEWSMONGER'S    DEETH. 
TUNE — "  The  night  before  Larry  was  stretch'd" 


"  Reader,  whate'er  thy  fate,  if  rich  or  poor, 
The  ills  of  life  with  patience  still  endure ; 
Who  serves  mankind,  and  will  from  folly  fly, 
Shrinks  not  at  Fate ;   prepar'd  in  time  to  die." 


Aa !   NichoPs  noo  laid  in  the  greave, 
Lang  seyde  ov  aul  fadder  an  mudder  ; 

The  warl  nit  frae  deeth  cud  yen  seave, 
We  aw  gang  off — teane  efter  tudder : 

Queyte  cheerfu  he  pruiv'd  to  the  last, 
An  aw  fer  meyles  roun  '11  noo  miss  him  : 

The  dog  howls  as  if  just  to  say, 
"Mey  guid  Maister's  left  me,  God  bliss  him 

What,  Andrew  that  drew  in  the  stuil, 
Aunt  Meable,  lang  Agey,  Tib,  Sally, 

Joss,  Cuddy,  Leyle  Steebem,  Tim,  Sim, 
Grater  Lizzy,  Daft  Peg,  Tom  Tagwally, 

Mistress  Creake,  Sarjin  Gowdy  an  deame, 
They'll  aw  seegh,  an  talk  aboot  Nichol — 

Lword  Bultrout  that  built  the  new  lodge, 
Was  ne'er  leyk'd  by  yen  hawf  sae  mickle ! 


*94  CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 

Hoo  monie  a  lang  weyl  winter  neet, 
The  neybors,  aul,  young,  he  keept  murry ; 

He  telt  what  cud  aw  roun  him  please, 
But  ne'er  flung  them  intil  a  flurry : 

He'd  magazeens,  newspapers  read, 
The  squire's  dowter,  Caroline,  sent  him  ; 

An  novels,  plays,  histries,  gud  buiks, 
The  schuilmaister  willinly  lent  him. 

When  beggars  e'er  sowt  a  bit  breed, 
He  aye  gae  them  that  an  a  penny  ; 

They'd  smuik  an  he'd  cobble  their  shoon — 
Some  girt  fwok  ne'er  yence  sarra  enny  ; 

If  neybors  wer  seeck,  oft  he'd  caw, 
Still  gud  true  adveyce  fain  to  gie  them  ; 

At  partin,  he  aye  dropt  a  tear — 
A  better  chap  ne'er  cud  sit  wi'  them 

Feghts,  fratches,  corruption,  war,  preyde, 
Leyke  wordy  Kit  Craffet  he  hated  ; 

Fwok  say  they  sud  lig  seyde  by  seyde, 
Wid  Nichol,  Kit  monie  a  day  waited : 

Ov  slav'ry  an  priss-gangs  they'd  talk, 
An  tyrants  that  hod  sec  girt  pleaces  ; 

An  monie  aul  Englan's  kings,  queens, 
Wheas  neames  noo  oor  coon  try  disgreaces. 

His  money's  aw  left  to  the  puir, 
His  hoose  to  young  brokken-backt  Jwohnny  ; 

His  clock,  kist  c'  drores,  an  twee  sweyne, 
To  three  that  ne'er  yence  cud  buy  onie : 

Ov  kindred  he  nobbet  kent  yen, 
Queyte  rich  that  ne'er  sent  him  a  letter — 

Relations  some  daily  will  neame, 
Wheyle  neybors  oft  pruive  thersels  better. 


Thoo's  leame  or  to  t*  cwose-hoose  hed  geane, 
Whoar  scwores  aw  sat  talkin  an  grievin ; 

They  luikt  at  tha  corp,  seed  a  smeyle, 
Ay  just  as  in  hilth  he'd  been  leevin, 

To  th'  burryin  fwok  com  fer  meyles  roun, 
A  coffin's  seen  seldom  sae  croodet  ; 

The  parson  some  say,  dropt  a  tear — 
Nin  tnows  but  er  lang  he'll  be  shroudet. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  295 

A  heed-sten  they'll  hev  set  up  suin  ; 
The  schuilmaister's  ippitaph  meakin  ; 

The  fadder  an  mudder  he'll  neame ; 
'Boot  Nichol  girt  pains  he'll  be  teakin ! 

He  ne'er  luikt  at  yen  wi'  a  froon; 
He  dee't  when  just  seebemty  seebem  ; 

He  daily  cud  please  aw  mak  roun — 
Let's  whope  he's  noo  happy  in  Heebem ! 


THE    AUL    HOLLOW    TREE. 

TUNE — "  Come  under  my  plaidie." 

When  heame  I  ay  wander  an  see  the  sun  settin, 
Queyte  free  frae  hard  labor  an  care   till  the 

mworn, 
My  thowts  turn  to  yen  that  nin  roun  e'er  saw 

frettin, 

A  bonnier,  a  better  nay  ne'er  yet  was  bwornt 
Tho'    I's   a    puir    sarvent    an    money's    wheyles 

scanty, 

An  maister's  tarn'd  temper    some   daily  wad 
dree; 

At  eb'min,  tho'  weary, 
Mey  heart's  ay  quite  cheery, 
When  Peggy  I  meet  nar  the  aul  hollow  Tree. 

When  twee  bits  o'  bairns  theer  we  offen  sat  laikin, 
An  wheyles  wer  fworc'd  in  by  weyl  win  or  the 

rain  ; 
Noo  laikin  owre  pictures,  noo  seevy  caps  meakin. 

Or  sharin  an  apple  that  ay  meade  us  fain  ; 
We'd    lissen    the    blackburd,    lark,    throssle    or 

lennet. 

An  hares  playin  nar  us  in  summer  we'd  see; 
Lams  merry  wad  wander 
Its  branches  anonder; 
But  few  noo  will  nwotish  the  aul  hollow  Tree. 


CUMBERLAND     BALLADS. 


Hoo  happy  the  days  when  oor  teens  we've  just 

enter'd, 
An  luive  gies  a  glance  frae  the  lass  we  hod 

dear; 

But  O,  when  yen's  driv'n  frae  the  heart's  dear 
est  treasuie 

In  fancy  we'll  gaze  on  her  oft  wid  a  tear  : 
Content   hails   the   mwornin   an   joy   the   day 

clwoses, 

When  evenin  to  luivers  true  comfort  can  gie; 
When  Nature's  seen  smeylin, 

An  dull  cares  begueylin, 
An  teyme's  spent  in  peace,  nar  the  aul  hollow 
Tree. 


Mey   cruikt    cankert    maister,    queyte    greedy, 

hawf  crazy, 

Oft  cowshens  his  niece  aw  puir  fellows  to  shun; 
An   Peggy  wi'  smeyles  ne'er    an   uncle   yence 

crosses, 
But  ne'er  can  by   wealth,  preyde  or  flat  fry 

be  won ; 
I've   wheyles    thowt    o'   leavin    the    snarlin   aul 

body, 

To  hunt  oot  some  other  whea's  heart's  fou  o' 
glee; 

Luive  whispert,  "  O,  bear  aw ! 
Ay  cheer  aw,  ne'er  fear  aw, 
Just  think  o*  past  teymes  an   the  aul  hollow 
Tree! 


At  dances  she's  courted  by  chaps  thrang  aboot 

her, 

But  ne'er  yence  was  seen  to  give  onie  a  froon  ; 
To  win  her  wi'  feyn'ry,  the  squire  oft  hes  sowt 

her 

An  sent  owre  a  silk  shawl  an  gran  satin  goon  ; 
She'd  laugh  at  the  thowt  an   the  seame  hour 

return  them, 

Then  bid  him  nit  whope  a  squire's  mistress 
she'd  be ; 

Far  fitter  nor  wear  them 
She'd  burn  them  or  tear  them — 
At  neet  I  hard  aw  nar  the  aul  hollow  Tree. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  297 

Whene'er  the  sky's  cawm  an  the  muin  wheyte 

as  siller, 

An  partridges  caw  the  lost  partners  to  meet ; 
We  steal  oot  togedder  an  leeve    the   crabb'd 

uncle, 

He  snwores  on  the  sattle  ay  neet  efter  neet : 
Wi'  yage  he's  bent  double  an  row'd  up  in  trouble, 
But  dreams  nit   sweet  Peggy  her  heart  hes 
gien  me ; 

'Till  kindred  may  loss  him. 
We'll  ne'er  wish  to  cross  him, 
But  spen  hours  o'  luive  nar  the  aul  hollow  Tree. 


When  laid  i'  the  greave  by  his  decent  deame. 

Jenny, 

Of  aw  neybors  roun  him  but  few  will  repeyne; 

Sud  mey  favourite  Peggy,  be  left  nit  ae  penny. 

Ere  threyce  the  muin  changes  I  whop  she  11 

be  meyne  ; 

If  puir  or  if  wealthy,  ay  merry  when  healthy. 
We'll  pray  that  aw  countries  for  iver  may  'gree; 
We'll  comfort  ilk  other, 
But  brethren  ne'er  bother, 
An  think  o'  days  geane,  nar  the  aul  hollow  Tree. 


What,  trees  er  leyke  mortals ;    yeks  strang  an 

weyde  spreedin ; 
Waak  willows   to    iv'ry  leet  breeze  will  aye 

boo; 
Girt  cedars  leyke  breers  that  men,  cattle,  keep 

treedin, 
Are  nourisht  the  seame  yen  an  aw,  the  warl 

thro' ; 
On  yearth  seame  as  bairns,  fer  a  wheyle  they're 

seen  creepin, 

Oft  robb'd  ov  a  brench,  pity  sae  it  sud  be  ! 
Some  grow  up  togither, 
In  youth  monie  wither — 
A  teype  o'  frail  man  is  the  aul  hollow  Tree  ! 


98  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

LEYFE'S    CHANGES. 
TUNE — "  The  ftow'r  o'  Durnblane." 

Puir  Sukey  was  bworn  in  the  crazy  aul  warkhoose. 

But  sec  to  nae  mortal  can  pruive  a  disgreace ; 
Theer  monie  sup  sorrow  an  whopes  seldom  borrow; 
.  Theer  monie  fin  happy,  reet  propd  o'  the  pleace, 
When  toddlin  aboot  an  wi'  cronies  oft  laikin, 

Noo  pouin  apwosey  frae  deyke  or  the  green, 
Feyne  gentry  when  passin  at  teymes  wer  heard 
praisin. 

Her    rwosy   cheeks,    churry    lips    bonny    blue 


In  years  yen  squire    Gudman    the  heed  o'   the 

parish, 
That  ne'er  sowt  a  partner  nor  yence  was  in 

luive, 
By  dint  ov  industry  he'd  gain'd  monie  thousans, 

An  daily  to  help  aul  an  young  fwok  he  struive  ; 
Ae  ebemin  returmn  overjoy'd  frae  the  vestry, 

Whoar  hard-hearted  bodies  owre  often  are  seen, 
He  gaz'd  an  he  prais'd  wid  a  smeyle,  Orphan 

Sukey, 
Her  rwosy  cheeks,  churry  lips,  bonny  blue  een. 

He  cawt  the  neest  mworn  in  his  cwoach,  heame  to 

tek  her, 

An  suin  wid  a  kiss,  meade  her  sit  on  his  tnee ; 
Weel  fed  an  weel  cled,  leyke  a  dowter,  he  tret  her, 

An  sec  adveyce  gev  her  as  aw  maks  sud  gie  ; 
The  picture  ov  gudness  rich   neybors  aw  caw'd 

her, 

Tho'  row'd  up  in  rags  she  but  leately  was  seen  ; 
Puir  beggars   oft   thowt  her   some   nowbleman's 

dowter, 
Wi'  rwosy  cheeks,  churry  lips,  bonny  blue  een. 


Scearce   oot   ov   her   teens   for    the   wordy  man 

weepin, 
Grim  Deeth  on  squire  Gudman  ae  neet  gev  a 

caw; 

Brong  up  by  the  parish,  leyke  Sukey  an  orphan, 
To  puir  fwok,  his  sarvents  an  her  he  left  aw ; 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  299 


Now  hee  on  the  top  o'  leyfe's  hill  she  sat  sheynin, 
What  yen  bworn  in  poverty  yence  deet  a 
queen ; 

But  monie  are  lur'd  by  prood  flatt'rin  impostors. 
Then  rwoses  suin  fade,  an  tears  dim  the  black 


A  gamier  an  swinler  jumpt  in  for  her  fortune  ; 

Leyke  Hatfield  he  wan  her  an  leyke  him  he  fell ; 
Hoo  monie  frae  plenty  are  plung'd  deep  in  sorrow, 

In  this  wicked  warl  still  mun  misery  dwell ! 
Desarted  by  grandeur  at  neets  fworc'd  to  wander 

The  weyld  streets  ov  Lunnon  in  cleedin  queyte 

mean  ; 

Scearce  nwotisht  by  onie  tho'  yence  prais'd  by 
monie, 

Her  rwosy  cheeks,  churry  lips,  bonny  blue  een. 

Oft  puir  bodies  seavin,  noo  Sukey's  heard  creavin. 

The  pity  ov  monie  she  sarra'd  when  young  ; 
Whoariver  yen  ranges  leyfe's  scenery  oft  changes, 

To  wealth  she  was  rais'd  noo  to  poverty's  flung: 
Yence  plenty  she'd  offer  noo  daily  she'll  suffer, 

Reflectin  wi'  sorrow  on  teymes  that  hae  been  ; 
Noo  vanisht  for  iver  what  teyme  restores  niver, 

Her  rwosy  cheeks,  churry  lips,  bonny  blue  een  ! 


THE    BALLAD    SINGER. 
IUNE — "  The  humours  o'  Glen." 

Come,  buy  ov  puir  Peggy  a  Cummerlan  Ballad  ; 
Here's  aw  maks  o'  subjecs,  some  shwort  an  some 

lang, 
Here    veyce    is    expwos'd  an    true  praise   gien   to 

gudness — 
They'll  vex  an  they'll  please,  but  may  niver  dui 

wrang. 

I'll  start  wi'  "  Kit  Craffett,"  the  wordy  wise  neybor, 
Sec,  "  Canny  aul  Cummerlan  "  seldom  can  neame  ; 
He  sarrad  aw  roun,  hated  slav'ry  and  tythin, 
An  owt  else  that  pruiv'd  to  aul  Englanasheame. 


300  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Here's  "Borrowdale  Jwohnny,"  that  ruid  up  to 

Lunnon ; 
An  puir  "Luckless  Jonathan,"  queyte  brokken 

doon  ; 
An  "Watty"   frae  Croglin,   hawf-starvt,   an  ill- 

treatet, 

By  Madgery  Jackson,  an  fuils  i'  the  toon  : 
"The    fellows    roun    Torkin,"    in    twoastin    odd 

husseys, 

'Till  sailer  was  empty,  ay  boddomt  the  whart ; 
"The  village  gang,"  rif-rafs !  squire,  priest,  lawyer, 

doctor  ; 

An   "Michael   the  Miser"   tui,  play'd    a    base 
part. 

Here's  "The  Cocker  o'  Codbeck"  an  gamlin  "Tom 

Linton  "  ; 
"Ned  Hunter,"  a  murd'rer,  our  countie's  dis- 

greace ; 
"  Calep     Crosby  " — "  Tom    Toweheed  " — "  Jurry 

Jowlter  "— "  Dick  Watters  "— 
"The  bundle  ov  oddities"  ;  what  a  sad  reace ! 
Here's     "  Nichol     the     Newsmonger" — "Dicky 

Glendinin  " — 

"  Jack  Spang  " — "  Sowdger  Yeddy  "—an  "  Mat 
thew  McCree"— 
"  Daft  Dick  "— "  Gwordie  Gill  "— "  Corp'rel  Gow- 

dy  " — "  Rob  Lowry  " — 

"  Leyle  Steebem  " — "  Kit  Capstick  " — an  "  Jon 
athan  Slee." 

Here's    "The    Sailor" — "The  Stranger" — "The 

Shepherd  " — "  The  Author  " — 
"King    Roger" — "Frien   Crito,"    the    king    o' 

the  lave  ; 
"  Silly  Andrew  " — "  Laird  Jwohnny" — "  The  Cum- 

merlan  Farmer  " 
"Uncle  Wully,"  an  "  Wully  that's  far  on  the 

wave  "  ; 
"  Sarvent     Ned  " — "  Ned     Carnaughan  " — "  The 

Buck  o'  Kingwatter  " — 
"  Jeff  an  Job  " — Jack  an  Tom  " — "  Dandy  Dan  " 

an  "  Aul  Ben  " — 
"' Th'    aul    Beggar" — "Aul    Cuddy" — an    "Aul 

Robby  Miller  "— 
"  Aul  Calep  an  Watty  "  forbye  "  Twee  aul  Men," 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  301 


Here's  ' '  Bruff  Reaces, "  wi'  thoosans  drawn  up 

frev  aw  quarters, 
Some  struttin  wi'  preyde  an  some  owre  fain  to 

bet; 

"  Bleckell  Murry-neet,"  merry  as  onie  e'er  cud  be, 
Whoar  kisses  were  heard  leyke  the  sneck  of  a 

yeat . 
Here's  monstrous  weyld  Weddins,  at  "Codbeck"- 

an  "  Worton  "  ; 
"The  Kurn-winnin  " — "Clay  daubin  " — "Cur- 

senmess  Eve," 

Whoar  drinkin  an  sweerin  an  gam!  in  an  cheatin, 
An  fratchin  an  feghtin  fworc'd  monie  to  grieve. 

Here's  "  Variety" — "  Peace  " — "  The  Invasion  " — 

"Reed  Robin"— 
"  His  answer  " — "  Leyfe's  comforts" — "  The  days 

that  are  geane  " — 
"The  joys  ov   contentment" — "A  gud    weyfe's 

anxiety  " — 
"  The   Invitation  " — "  The  Fratch  " — "  Dandy 

Dan  " — frae  jail  taen  : 
Here's  "The  Cram  "— "  Gilsden  Spaw  "—  "Carel 

Fair  " — an  "  The  Cock-feght " — 
"Youth" — "Mistress    Creake's    tea   partv  " — 

"  Aul  Etty  Bell  "— 
"  Gud  adveyce  " — "  Yage  an  poverty  " — "  Corby  " 

— "  The  Lennet  " — 

"Peck  o'  punch  "—"  Fadder's  lecture" — "To 
Jwohn  " — "  Gud  strang  yell " — 

Here's  "  The  Contrast  " — "  Oor  Jwohnny  " — "  The 

Preyde  o'  the  Bworder  " — 

"Elizabeth'    burth-day  " — an    "Jenny's   Com 
plaint  " — 
"Will  an   Keate" — "The   Happy   Couple" — "A 

weyfe  fer  Wull  Miller"— 
"  Feckless  Wully  "— "  Be  merry  to  day  "— "  The 

Lament " — 
"  The   Dawston    gran    player-fwok  " — "  Jwohnny 

;in  Mary  " — 
"  Leyle  Deavie" — "  The  ThuirsbyWitch" — "Raff 

an  the  Squire" — 
"  Poverty's  nae  sin  "— "  The  bashfu  Wooer  "— "  On 

partin" — 
"  Oor  Lanlword  an  Lanleady  "  aw  mun  admire. 


302  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 


Here's  "The  Sailor's  return" — an  "The  Mudder 

an  Dowter  "— 
An  "When  mun  we  whop  for   Reform?"   noo 

fwok  peyne ; 
"Aw  taxes   flung  by" — "The  approach  o'  weyld 

winter" — 
Aul    "Nichol    the    Newsmonger's    deeth,"    an 

"  Lang  seyne  " — 
"The   Mudder's   Fowt" — "Marget"— an    "Fare- 

weel  to  Carel" — 
"  Happy  family" — "The  warl's  but  a  stage  " — 

an  "  Heame's  heame" — 
"The  Peet-cadger" — "  Dinah" — "To  a  Frien  laid 

in  Prison  " — 

"An     Blithe     Jwohnny    Greame" — an     "  Oor 
Maister  an  Deame." 

Here's    "Oor   awn   fire-seyde,"    whoar   we    held 

"  Jurry's  Cursnin  " — 
"Aul  Englan"— "My  luive's  but   a  lassie" — 

Ye '11  see  ; 

The  puir  "Widow's  wail" — "  Invitation  to  Crito" — 
"  On   the    Author's    birth-day " — He    sits    noo 

fifty-three ; 
"When   shall   we   meet    ageane" — "The    visit" 

was  pleasin ; 
"Primrwose  banks" — an  "The  bonny  lass  wi* 

apron  blue ; " 
"Adveyce    to    young    Nanny" — "The    Author's 

reflections" — 

Aul    Ben's    deeth,"    luive's    madness,    alas! 
meade  him  boo. 

Here's    "Nathan    an    Winny" — an    "Winny  an 

Nathan"— 

An  "Wully  an  Mary" — an  "  Jacep  an  Nell " — 

An  "Tamer  an  Matty '' — "  The  Beggar  an  Keatie  " 

An     "  Tib    an    her     Maister " — an    "  Barbary 

Bell"— 
"The    Lass    abuin     thurty" — "The     impatient 

Lassie"— 
"Jack    an    Fanny" — an   "Grizzy" — an  sweet 

"Sally  Gray"— 
An     "Hard-hearted    Hannah"— an     "Betty    o' 

Brantou  "— 

"The  Fortune-teller" — "Jwohnny  an  Jenny" 
she'll  flay. 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  303 

Here's    Sally    ov    Irthin "    that    dee't   brokken- 

hearted ; 

"The  aul  hollow  Tree,"  whoar  twee  true  luivers 
met ; 

"Leyfe's  Changes,"   that  fling  monie  gud  fwok 

to  ruin  ; 
An  "  Juggy  Mulrooney  "  that  tuik  in  a  set: 

"The  Quilters,"   at  wark,   an   "Mad  Bess"    an 

" Mad  Mary"— 

"Aul  Marget" — "Young  Susy"— "The  Aun 
ty  "_an  "Jean"— 

"Mary  o' Carlattan  "— "  The  Flow'r  o'  the  vil 
lage"— 

"The   Northumbrian  lasses" — "  Threescwore  an 
Nineteen." 

"Here's  "Heddersgill  Keatie"— "The  lily  of  the 

valley"— 
"The  Lassie  of   Hayton  " — "The  flow'r  o'  them 

aw" — 
"The  lasses  o'  Carel" — '  Peg  an  Jen" — "Ruth" 

— an  "Biddy" — 
"Betty    Brown" — an    young    "Marget    o'   th* 

mill,"  sunk  in  woe  ; 
"The  None-such  " — "  The  ill-gien  weyfe  " — "Ann" 

— an  "The  Dawtie" — 
"Nanny  Peal,"  an  "The  gud-for-nowt  weyfe" 

— "Madame  Jane" — 
"The    rwose   in    June" — "Luivelworn    Bess" — 

Puir  "Dinah  Duf  ton  " — 

"Andrew's  youngest  dowter" — an  Miss  "Peggy 
Penn." 

Here's   "The  lass    that  luives  me,"    an  "Furst 

luive,"  an  "  Luive's  keyndness," 
An  "Luive  disappointed" — "Luive  as  it  sud 

be" — 
"  The  Deleytes  o'  Luive  " — "  True  luive  " — "  False 

luive,"  an  luive's  fuil'ry, 

"  I'll  ne'er  luive  anudder  "  wheaiver  luives  me. 
Here's  "Fareweel  to  the  Muse";  ay  true  thenks 

for  her  keyndness. 

Puir  Robin  will  gie,  but  need  court  her  nae  mair  ; 
By  Hope  noo  deserted,  grim  Deeth  he  may  wel 
come — 

Leyfe's   winter  to  him  pruives   a  dull  scene  o' 
care  ! 


304  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

FAREWEEL    TO    THE    MUSE. 
TUNE— By  the  Author. 

Fareweel  my  Muse  !— Thy  rural  dress 
An  smeyles,  hev  monie  a  day  deleyred ; 

Noo  want  an  grief  mey  meynd  oppress, 
An  aw  the  whopes  ov  leyfe  are  bleghted  : 

As  fade  the  flowr's  at  autumn's  blast, 
So  boos  waak  man  to  age  an  sorrow  ; 

To-day  reflectin  on  the  past, 
Forgetful  ov  the  cheat  To-morrow, 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse! 
Thy  aid  refuse 

To  none  who  man  wou'd  serve ;  but  niver 
To  mortals  bow, 
Who'd  veyce  pursue — 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse !  Fareweel,  for  iver ! 


Hoo  monie  changes  some  endure ! 
When  furst  thy  aid  I  fondly  courted, 

Joy  welcome  gev  to  iv'ry  hour, 
An  labour  aw  I  sowt,  suppworted  ; 

Tir'd  wi'  confusion,  whoar  ilk  crood 
In  maddning  scenes  the  meynd  owrepowers, 

I  bade  adieu  to  Lunnon,  prood 
To  visit  Cumbria's  pleasin  bowers, 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse !  &c. 


Wi'  thee  hoo  oft  frae  noise  I've  flown, 
The  painfu  cares  o'  leyfe  begueylin  ; 

We've  stray'd  whoar  beauty  daily  shone, 
Ay  fain  to  view  deame  Nature  smeylin  ; 

At  op'nin  dawn,  at  darknin  eve 
When  weyld  buirds  sweet  their  praise  wer  pourin ; 

In  bush  an  tree  we'd  luive  perceive 
That  oft  to  man  pruives  past  endurin. 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse!  &c. 


In  peacefu  glen,  by  windin  stream 
We'd  sing  ov  mirth  or  woes  distressin  : 

Now  luive,  joy,  frienship  pruiv'd  the  theme, 
Or  virtue's  praise,  Heavn's  greatest  blessin  : 


CUMBERLAND    BALLADS.  305 

Ne'er  did  we  flatter  purse-prood  kneaves. 
Ne'er  cherish' d  veyce  or  base  oppression  ; 

For  he  who  makes  his  brethren  slaves, 
Mun  fin  the  pangs  o'  foul  transgression. 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse  !  &c. 


When  angry  Boreas  lood  wad  blaw, 
To  spoil  the  bonny  smeyles  ov  Nature  ; 

When  Winter  weyld,  wrapt  up  in  snaw 
Froon'd  on  ilk  puir  defenceless  creature  ; 

Thy  visits  at  the  close  of  day, 
In  lowly  shed  I  hail'd  wi'  gladness  ; 

We  sang  the  gloomy  neet  away, 
An  mourn'd  for  fwok  in  want  or  sadness. 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse  !    &c. 


We've  wander 'd  oft  thro'  Erin's  vales, 
An  heard  the  sangsters  hail  the  mwornin, 

When  Spring  gev  health  in  fav'ring  gales, 
Wi'  weyl -flowers  Nature's  dress  adornin  : 

Oft  then  wad  fond  remembrance  stray 
Owre  scenes  romantic,  iver  pleasin, 

Whoar  youth  enjoy 'd  the  peacefu  day  ; 
Nor  mortals  e'er  my  meynd  keept  teazin. 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse  !    &c. 


The  manners  ov  the  rustic  train 
To  paint,  hath  been  my  fond  endeavour  : 

The  frowns  ov  censure  I  dis  lain. 
The  smeyles  ov  fame  I  courted  niver  : 

The  peacefu  farmer  we'd  amuse, 
When  Neet  her  gloomy  robe  was  wearin — 

Thy  aid  thoo  seldom  didst  refuse  ; 
O,  thenks  my  Muse  !   for  teyme  thus  cheerin. 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse !   &c. 


To  neane  thy  sowt-assistance  len, 
When  lurin  lays  pruive  man's  undoin  ; 

Still  to  the  studious  be  a  frien, 
When  virtue's  path  they  seem  pursuin, 

Fareweel,  my  Muse !  thy  rural  dress, 


306  CUMBERLAND    BALLADS. 

An  smeyles  my  f riens  an  foes  deleyted ; 

But  yage  hath  boo'd  me  to  distress, 
An  leyfe's  endearin  hopes  are  bleghted  ! 

Fareweel,  dear  Muse ! 

Thy  aid  refuse 
To  none  who  man  would  serve  :  but  niver 

To  mortals  boo 

Who'd  veyce  pursue — 
Fareweel,  dear  Muse  !  Fareweel  for  iv«r 


of 


HITHERTO     UNPUBLISHED.* 


THE    JUBILEE    OF    A    CUMBERLAND 
MARRIAGE. 

Now,  weyfe,  full  fifty  years  are  geane 

Sin  in  our  kurk  I  meade  thee  meyne, 
But  frae  that  day,  we  neer  to  yen 

Did  what  could  hurt  our  hearts  sin-seyne  : 
The  rwoses  lang  have  left  our  cheeks  ; 

Sec  ne'er  to  thee  or  me  caus'd  care — 
We  help  the  puir  that  owt  e'er  seeks 

An  whop  to  leeve  a  happy  pair. 

At  Carel  market,  when  we  met, 

I  meyn,  as  if  'twas  just  to-day  ; 
We  sat,  in  luive,  an  thou  was  tret, 

I  set  thee  heamward  aw  the  way, 
When  wark  was  duin,  owre  hill  an  muir, 

Luive  led  me  oft,  for  what  was  fair  ; 
Thy  bonny  feace  I  saw  ilk  hour, 

An  whopt  we'd  leeve  a  happy  pair. 

We  lost  our  bairns,  leyle  Jwohn  and  Greace, 

Sec  neer  was  wrang — God's  will  be  duin  ! 
Leyke  thee  and  me,  ilk  shew'd  a  feace  ; 

An  nar  the  twee,  we  may  lig  suin  : 
Hed  they  leev'd,  we'd  hae  towt  them  reet, 

In  what  ne'er  leeds  to  want  or  care 
Sweet  things  !  this  day  they  plishure  meeght 

Hae  gien  us  twee,  the  happy  pair. 

O,  Greace  !  it  narly  brak  mey  heart 
When  in  a  fever  thou  was  thrown  ; 

I  seeght,  an  thowt  by  Deeth  we'd  part, 
But  wish  for  hilth  was  daily  shewn  : 

*  These  are  selected  from  about  fifty  unpublished  Songs  that 
have  been  very  kindly  sent  to  me  by  Mr.  R.  Anderson,  the  Poet's 
nephew,  and  other  Andersonian  collectors  all  over  Cumberland. 
I  have  carefully  compared  them  with  all  the  printed  editions  and 
cannot  find  that  they  have  appeared  before.— EDITOR. 


3o8  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

Then,  when  mey  shouder  yance  gat  brak, 
In  reydin  heame  frae  Rosley  Fair, 

Thou'd  try  to  speak,  but  gowl'd,  nor  spak 
Yet,  now  we  leeve  a  happy  pair. 

We're  now  beyth  gangin  down  leyfe's  hill, 

Yet,  hilthy,  leyke  owre  few  we  see  ; 
At  Carel,  suin,  I'll  mek  mey  will, 

An  try  to  please  beath  thee  an  me  : 
My  nephew,  leein,  sweerin,  caws, 

Sae  he  our  money  sannet  share 
Thy  niece  what's  reet  for  ever  shews, 

Sae  she  sal  thenk  the  happy  pair. 

We  ne'er  to  onie  gev  offence, 

I  ne'er  wad  differ  wi'  mey  deame, 
Nor  wi'  a  mortal  e'er  fratcht  yence, 

Let's  wish  aw  roun  cud  say  the  seame  ! 
When  fwok  dui  reet,  then  whop  they  may 

Bliss  in  an  udder  warl  to  share — 
Sud  we  leeve  lang,  till  leyfe's  last  day, 

We'll  ever  pruive  a  happy  pair. 


THE    GUD    SCHUILMAISTER.* 

Oor  Schuilmaister,  Barney's,  a  wise  worthy  fellow, 
To  larn  weel  the  scholars  pruives  daily  his  plan, 
He  keeps  them  aye  modest,  wants  aw  to  be  cliver, 
An  fondly  gies  praise,  when  they  dui  what  they  can, 
In  reedin,  in  reytin,  in  countin,  or  grammar, 
He  points  out  a  way  that  to  aw  mun  seem  clear, 
To  him  it's  the  seame,  whether  parents  hev  plenty, 
Or  if  leyke  sae  monie,  they  daily  leeve  puir. 

*  I  have  been  unable  to  find  in  my  searchings  amongst  the 
Poet's  Papers  and  Memoranda  any  evidence  pointing  out  directly 
and  by  name  the  Schoolmaster  here  referred  to.  In  those  old 
days,  many  of  the  Village  Schoolmasters  were  men  of  mark,  men 
of  high  mental  culture  and  education,  of  untiring  industry  and 
devotion  to  their  duty.  Rev.  Joshua  Relph,  the  first  Cumber 
land  Dialect  Poet  was  an  eminent  example.  He  taught  in  the 
village  of  Sebergham,  and  died  of  consumption  at  the  early  age  of 
31  years.  The  way  in  which,  when  he  was  dying,  he  sent  for  each 
of  his  pupils  and  impressed  upon  them  his  lessons  of  morality  and 
religion,  reminds  one  of  the  language  that  Anderson  has  put 
into  the  mouth  of  "The  Gud  Schuilmaister"  in  this  Poem. 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  309 

He  niver  liks  yen,  but  whilk  e'er  play  the  trowin, 

Nae  whops  need  enjoy,  back  to  schuil  to  return  ; 

What  then,  leyke  weyl  chaps  shew  their  impudence 
daily 

An  just  tek  upo'  them,  what  leads  sec  to  scorn  ; 

When  Freyday  neet  comes,  they  aw  git  a  lang  lec 
ture  ; 

If  sec  they  wad  meynd,  it  mud  cause  happy  days — 

Our  Jwhonny  can  aye  neame  what's  said  by  the 
maister. 

Last  week,  he  spak  thus  ;  it  desarves  ilk  yen's  praise. 

"  Now,    scholars,    instruction    still    larn    frae    yer 

teacher, 

An  study  but  what  to  true  virtue  may  lead  ; 
You  duty  shew  daily  to  our  great  Creator, 
And  works  that  give  knowledge  endeavour  to  read  : 
All  wickedness  scorn,  what  draws  mortals  to  ruin, 
Attend  to  Religion,  rich,  poor,  if  you  be  ; 
In  youth  and  in  manhood  let  Vice  still  prove  hated, 
Due  praise  give  to  Justice,  such  hoping  to  see  ! 

"  Still  make  conversation  what  may  afford  knowledge 

No  impudence  during  life  ever  once  shew  ; 

From  gaming  live  clear,   what  brings  numbers  to 

sorrow, 

All  idleness  scorn  to  distress  it  must  throw  : 
Industry  whenever  in  power  make  your  study, 
Still  with  true  attention  just  learning  pursue  ; 
Prove  fond  to  gain  wisdom  and  show  polite  manners, 
Do  always  to  others  as  you'd  be  done  to. 

41  A  lie  never  name,  tho  leyke  numbers  you  suffer, 
Swear  not  except  when  you  are  bound  by  the  law  ; 
Feel  anxious  for  friendship,  nor  glory  for  quarrel, 
Be  pride  ne'er  your  study,  what  too  many  shew  ; 
Let  that  not  be  done,what  your  health  may  endanger, 
When  still  you  can  serve,  do  your  good  to  the  poor  ; 
What's  stated  by  me  ever  anxious  remember, 
Then  happiness  hope  for  till  life's  closing  hour  !" 

Sanderson,  Anderson's  most  intimate  friend  and  commentator , 
was  also  an  example.  He  came  originally  from  the  same  village 
Sebergham,  and  annotated  and  published  a  volume  of  Relph's 
Poems.  Almost  to  the  last  he  taught  in  Kirklinton,  what  in  those 
days  would  be  known  as  a  Cumberland  Grammar  School,  and 
from  what  I  have  heard  and  known  of  him,  during  my  residence 
in  the  same  parish,  he  might  well  be  a  prototype  of  the  School 
master  described  in  the  text.  Anderson  himself  says  of  him,  that 
he  was 

"One  born  to  succour,  and  instruct  mankind 
To  vice,  ambition,  e'en  to  folly  blind." 


3io  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

Tho'  now  far  in  years,  yet  I  well  can  meyn  daily, 
In  schuils  aw  roun  us,  we  nin  sec  cud  neame. 
Our  Maister,  sad  tyrant,  ilk  hour  wad  keep  floggin 
Puir  innocent  fellows  that  nae  yen  sud  bleame 
Keyn  Barney  that  cliver  larnt  man  just  keeps  forty, 
Nor  waddent  to-mworn  tek  a  son  frae  the  Squire — 
I  wish  in  our  county  we  scwores  cud  fin  leyke  him, 
He's  aye  fain  to  dui  what  we  aw  mun  admire  ! 


THE    WIGTON    TRUE    SINGER.* 

The  Wigton  gud  singer,  lets  now  justly  gie, 
For  aw  that  hev  hard  him,  they  ay  fain  will  see  ; 
He  niver  sings  onie  thing  true  fwok  can  bleame, 
Pruives  just, in  sang,  music — Owre  few  dui  the  seamet 
I've  hard  him  sing  sweetly,  an  heaps  sec  aye  tell, 
Lang  may  he  leeve  weel,  shewin  gud  fer  his-sell  ! 

When  fwok  er  fain  singin,  let  them  gie  the  sang, 
Iv  gud,  or  bad,  yet  far  owre  monie  dui  wrang  ; 
They'll  alter  words,  leynes,  nor  true  music  shew  fain, 
In  nonsense  deleytin — Let  aw  dui,  whats  plain  ! 
Hes  best  we  aye  lissen  tui  !   heaps  leyke  me  tell  ; 
Lets  praise  a  just  man,  that  dis  gud  fer  his-sell, 

Hes  lang  leev'd  in  Wigton,  and  carries  on  trade, 
It's  gud  tew  aw    fwok,  heeps  ov  mony  thus  meade  I 
Hes  cutter,  at  Printfiel,  aw  busy  theer  still 

*  Known   long  by  the  Author. 

Mr.  McMechan  of  Wigton  informs  the  Editor  that  the  lines 
were  upon  the  late  Mr.  William  Johnston,  who  was  a  "block 
cutter  "  at  Wigton  Calico  printing  works,  that  is,  he  was  one  of 
those  who  cut  or  engraved  the  patterns  upon  the  blocks  used  to 
print  the  designs  upon  the  cloth,  then  done  by  hand,  for  which 
was  at  that  time  famous.  He  and  Anderson  were  very  intimate, 
and,  while  in  Cumberland  the  poet  almost  invariably  consulted 
Mr.  Johnston  as  to  tune  to  which  to  set  his  songs  to,  his  practice 
being,  I  understand  to  get  the  air  well  into  his  mind,  and  get  the 
rhythm  to  fit  in  with  it,  which  accounts  for  the  words  and  tune 
going  so  well  together.  Mr.  McMechan  adds  "  Mr.  Johnston  was 
my  uncle,  so  I  used  to  hear  a  good  deal  about  Anderson,  and  have 
had  many  of  his  pieces  in  his  beautiful  hand  writing  in  my  hands. 
Mr.  Johnston  had  an  extensive  repertoire  of  Anderson's  songs, 
of  which  he  was  an  inimitable  exponent,  as  was  also  one  of  his 
sons,  the  late  Mr.  Johnston,  dentist  of  Carlisle." 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  311 


What  niver  can  shew  to  be  mortal  owt  ill  : 
Sae,  lang  may  he  work  on,  an  fwok  fainly  tell, 
Ay  joyful,  thro  leyfe  he  dis  gud  fer  his-sell. 

Lets  wish  we'd  him  here,  in  hilth  fain  to  sing, 
A  gud  sang  gien  reetly,  true  plishure  may  bring, 
But  them  bawdy  sangs  nin  sud  sing  or  eer  reed, 
Sec  mun  pruive  disgreacefu  to  onie,  indeed  ; 
Yet,  aw  leyke  the  man  we  neame,  let  fwok  aye  tell, 
Lang  leyfe  may  they  share,  duin  good  for  their-sell. 


HARD-WORKIN    JWOSEP.* 

Joe  works  hard,  aw  day,  an  off  en  at  neet, 
Nae  teyme  he  e  'er  Iwoses,  when  hilth  he  can  share 
He'll  ne'er  leave  his  heame,  onie  cronies  to  meet  ; 
Ilka  Sunday,  he  aye  reads  the  Beyble,  whats  fair  ; 
Owt  wicked  or  weyld,  neer  thro'  leyfe  he'll  yence 

shew, 

Industry  sud  aye  pruive  the  study  ov  aw  ! 
His  wefyes  a  just  woman,  that  still  desarves  praise, 
Hard  wark  and  modesty,  aye  seems  her  preyde, 
She'd  raider  lig  ill,  than  mek  fuil'ry  leyfes  ways, 
Aa  !  happy  she's  been,  sin  he  meade  hur  his  breyde  1 
Nae  fratchin  she's  hed  sin  she  fell  in  wid  Joe, 
Peace  iver  sud  pruive  the  just  study  ov  aw  ! 

Twee  sons  they  brong  up,  in  a  schuil  beath  weel  towt, 

They  copy  the  fadder,  an  dui  what  he'll  bid  ; 

Sae,  they  may  share  plenty  ;    he  houses  hes  bowt, 

But  leyle  they'd  cum  in  for,  if  wrang  he  aye  did  : 

He  scairce  e'er  lickt  owther,  the  neybors  well  trow, 

Sae  duty  sud  aye  pruive  the  study  ov  aw  ! 

He's  keept  the  weyfe's  sister,  queyte  reet,  for  some 

years, 

Now,  leame,  an  unhilthy,  she  scairce  owt  can  dui, 
But  sits  by  the  fire  seyde,  an  offen  drops  tears, 
Puir  suffrer,  she  may  sum  submit  to  it,  tui  : 
If  hilthy  fwoke  be'r  in  illness  ligg'd  low, 
Deeth  iver  sud  pruive  the  just  study  ov  aw. 

*  In  looking  over  Anderson's  Poems  I  have  thought  the  above 
might  suitably  appear  in  this  Collection,  both  as  a  dialect  piece, 
and  more  especially  as  it  represents  what  is  by  no  means 
uncommon  in  Cumberland,  a  man  who  seems  to  live  almost 
solely  for  unceasing  hard  work. 


3I2  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

Keyn  Joe,  sae  industress,  nae  miser  is  he  ; 

Nay  puir  starvin  beggars,  that  muckle  endure, 

Meat,  money,  an  gud  adveyce,  aye  fain  he'll  gie, 

Sae,  joys  he  may  hae  thro  leyfe,  efter  Deeth's  hour, 

To  sarra,  sud  still  pruive  the  study  ov  aw  ! 

Let's  wish  fwok  in  aw  parts  men  leyke  Joe  cud  neame, 

Aul    Englan's   now   crowdet,    whoar   heaps  aye  dis 

wrang, 

They  wish  to  dui  daily,  what  truth  may  caw  sheam. 
Then,  how  can  sec  whop  in  the  best  warl  to  gang  ? 
Twer  wise  if  that  weylness  aseyde  chaps  wad  throw 
Theer  is,  what  sud  aye  pruive  the  study  ov  aw. 


FAIN    TO    DUI    REET. 
TUNE— By  the  Author. 

Gud  luck  to  ye  beath,  now,  aul  Jwohonny  an  Nannyi 
A  pair  leyke  ye,  aw  maks  owre  seldom  cud  see, 
Yer  modest,  an  cheerful  an  keynd  an  aye  labour, 
Sae,  lets  whop,  for  years  ye  beath  happy  may  be  ! 
You've  brong  up  rare  bairns,  that  leyke  fadder  and 

mudder 

Still  study  their  duty,  ilk  day,  an  ilk  neet  ; 
They  wunnet  shew  weylness,  that's  now  grown  queyte 

common. 
What  fwok  sud  aye  praise  them  thats  fain  to  dui  reet. 

Now,  Jwohnny,  it's  full  forty  years  sin  ye  married, 

An  comrades  we've  been  sin  we  furst  went  to  schuil, 

On  Sundays  we  set  off  to  kurk,  aye  togidder, 

Sae  nae  yen  need  owther  caw  ye  or  me  fuil  ; 

We  never  deleyted  in  fratchin,  or  feghtin, 

In  leein,  or  sweerin,  owre  oft  sec  we  meet  ; 

An'  what  can  their  meynes  be  when  Deeth's  cummin 

nar  them, 
Oh  Man  !  rich  or  puir,  sud  aye  study  whats  reet. 

Now,   Nanny,   we've  scwores   o*   teymes  met  i'  the 

market, 

An  oft  shar'd  true  plishure,  when  at  Leady  Fair  ; 
We'd  drink  a  glass,  crack  on,  an'  reyde  heame  to- 

gedder, 
Sae,  now  in  aul  yage,  we  just  whops  daily  share  : 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  313 

When  young  by  the  squire  you  wer  long,  long  sweet- 
fa  eart'd, 

To  lead  ye  to  ruin,  how  fain  he'd  oft  treat. 
He  tuik  in  neyce  lasses,  ith  greave  hes  now  liggin, 
Sec  fellows  sud  suffer,  that  shew,  whats  nit  reet. 

We  aw  three  leeve  hilthy,  by  wark  meade  plenty, 
An  aye  when  they  caw,  wi  fain  sarra  the  peer  ; 
If  flung  down  in  illness,  widout  whop  ov  leevin 
We'd  think-o'  the  better  warl  ;    fain  to  be  theer. 
Now,  i'  that  aul  yage,  wi'  me  thowts  o'  lang  leevin, 
I'll  creep  off  to  bed,  may  ye  share  a  gud  neet  ! 
If  weel  or  ill  lets  praise  to  God  still  be  given, 
We've  seldom  duin  rang,  ever  fain  to  dui  reet. 


THE    REDBREAST. 

Loud  o'er  the  Knockay*  bias  the  blast 

And  winter  frowns  wi  hollow  roar, 
I  thinkin  sit,  a  gloomy  guest, 

An  mark  thee  Robin,  ne'er  my  door  ; 
In  want  thou  seems  wi  simple  sang, 

To  mourn  the  sweets  o'  summer  fled  ; 
To  thee  the  low'rin  day  seems  lang 

Life's  autumn  bows  my  achin  head. 

Sweet  bird  !  ilk  mornin,  eenin,  ca  ; 

I'll  sair'the,  sae  I'd  help  the  puir, 
My  wish  is  aw  meade  sec  their  law, 

But  man,  beast,  bird,  maun  much  endure  ! 
Too  few  to  thee  will  thraw  a  crum — 

Too  few  shew  me  a  friendly  haun, 
Ilk  hour  thou  fins  a  fae  in  some  ; 

An  sec  to  me  pruives  monie  a  man. 

Puir  namesake  !    proud  on  thee  I  gaze, 

Whate'er  I  hae,  the  puir  may  share — 
O,  may  I  gain  good  mortuls  praise, 

And  heedless  seem  o'  want  and  care  ! 
Thy  prisner,  Fate,  a  boon  I  crave 

A  few  years  mair,  O,  grant  to  me  ! 
Fain  wad  I  shiel'  frae  care  the  lave, 

An  wipe  the  tear  frae  sorrow's  e'e. 

*  A  high  hill  in  the  North  of  Ireland. 


3I4  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

SUMMER    WEATHER*— 1830. 

Odd  changes  ov  weather,  this  summer  wev  hed 

Sec  aul  fwok  can  niver  yence  meyn  ; 
To  farmers,  nay  neane  to  plenty  its  led, 

What  aye  they  wer  mekin  lang  seyne  : 
But  summer  or  winter,  whate'er  they  may  be, 

Let's  wonder  nit,  coming  odd  ; 
True  thenks  ev'ry  body  on  Earth  sud  aye  gie 

It's  reet  to  show  duty  to  God. 

Aw  seasons  er  changin,  nea  wonder,  indeed, 

Howe'er  we  may  carry  on  lang, 
Theer  is  a  just  study,  that  eveny  yen  need 

Tell  truly,  whea  sitten  amang  : 
Yet  sad  fuils  alas,  far  owre  offen  er  seen, 

Aye  drivin  on  impudence  odd  ; 
How  shemfu  that  leein,  or  sweerin  be  gien  ! 

Its  reet  to  shew  duty  to  God  : 

What  weather  fwok  wish,  nea  wonder  to  tell, 

They  sec  for  a  few  days  may  hev  ; 
To  lang  leyfe  man  whopt  for  the  weyfe  an  his  sell, 

Nae  wonder  beath  suin  i'  the  greave  : 
We've  some  fwok  deleytin  to  aw  maks  aroun  ; 

We've  owre  monie  driven  on  odd 
Howe'er  rich  or  puir,  i'  the  country  or  town, 

It's  reet  to  show  duty  to  God. 


DEAVIE    THE    BEGGAR. 

Deavie,  a  Beggar,  now  gans  roun  an  roun, 

The  dog  leads  him  far  ev'ry  day 
He  still  leykes  the  country  much  better  nor  town, 

Nae  odds  the  seame  monie  can  say  ; 
A  wheyle  seyne,  hed  plenty  to  sarra  the  puir, 

Bit  bondships  laid  that  gud  man  low  ; 
An  when  fwok  he  meets,  wey,  nowts  said  but  what's 
clear — , 

That  man  sud  be  pitied  by  aw. 

*  From  both  internal  and  external  evidence  I  judge  this  to  be 
the  last  song  that  Anderson  wrote.  The  date  itself  is  I  think 
almost  sufficient  to  decide  this.— Editor. 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  315 


He  aye  mud  hae  caw't  at  our  house  when  he  wad, 

An  joyju  sat  theer  day  an  neet  ; 
Mey  fadder,  to  help  sec  a  yen,  was  aye  glad, 

By  givin  cleas,  money  an  meat  ; 
They've  been  weel  accquaintet  for  full  sixty  years, 

Nae  tweesome  was  iver  mair  keyn  ; 
The  taen's  hilthy,  wealthy  :   the  tudder  appears 

111,  blin,  an  now  laid  up  far  beheyn. 

Puir  Deavie  !    he'd  yence  a  gud  weyfe,  an  a  son, 

Now  lang  they've  beath  laid  i'  the  greave  ; 
Aa  !   daily,  when  axin  frae  fwok  what  he  mun, 

Bit  leyle  frae  acquaintance  he'll  hev  ; 
E'en  him  that  by  bondship  sae  muckle  has  lost, 

That  fuil  ne'er  yence  helps  the  puir  man. 
Sec  shews,  ther's  owre  monie  may  be  in  want  tost, 

When  aye  fain  to  dui  what  they  can  ! 

Twas  nobbet  this  mwornin,  mey  fadder  just  sed, 

"  A  beggar  nay  nit  lang  he's  be  ; 
He'll  come  an  leeve  wid  us,  hae  meat,  an  a  bed 

That's  nit  wrang  to  thee  or  to  me  ! 
"  Dear  fadder,    says    I,    "  you    aye  tell  what  may 
please, 

Mey  wish  is,  he'll  come  here  er  lang  : 
God  bliss  ye,  for  keepin  that  good  man  in  ease  ! 

A  beggar  nae  mair  may  he  gang. 


BONNY    GREACE.— A  DIALOGUE. 

BEN. 

How  dark  the  neet  when  we  twea  meet 

But  cannot  walk  owre  hill  or  glen 
Neer  ak  !    let's  sit  an  crack  a  bit 

Ov  luive,  just  till  the  clock  streykes  ten 
When  I's  in  bed,  asleep  weel  laid  ; 

I  aye  gaze  on  thy  rwosy  feace. 
An  dreamin  still,  brings  me  nae  ill  ; 

I's  talkin  on  wi  bonny  Greace  ! 


3i6  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 


Wey,  true  luive,  Ben,  pruives  reet  to  yen  ; 

I  now  may  say  the  seame  to  ye  ; 
When  just  laid  down,  an  sleepin  soun', 

I  see  nin  talk  wi'  neane  but  thee  : 
Tho  monie  caw,  preyde,  flatt'ry  shew, 

When  I  sit  spinnin  nar  our  fire  ; 
I've  luive  fer  nin,  that  eer  steps  in, 

But  thee — dear  lad — that  I  admire. 


BEN. 

O,  thenks,  sweet  lass  !  Gud  years  mud  pass, 
If  I  cud  just  caw  thee  my  breyde  ; 

We'd  happy  leeve,  nor  yen  deceive, 
For  virtue  aw  sud  mek  their  preyde 

Now  here's  the  ring,  to  thee  I  bring 
Twas  bowt  at  Carel,  just  this  day 

If  that  thu'd  tek,  it  joy  mud  mek — 

To  Gratena,  suin,  let's  reyde  away, 

GREACE. 

Ay,  Ben,  we'll  gang,  when  nit  owre  thrang, 

I've  money,  plenty,  that  thou's  share 
My  aunt's  laid  low,  an  she's  left  aw 

To  me,  an  that  we'll  lig  out  fair — 
The  clock  says  now  to  sleep,  beath  bow  ! 

Sae  true  luive  suin'll  be  our  dream  ; 
An  heer's  a  han,  I'd  gie  nae  man 

But  thee  howiver  rich  he'd  seem  ! — 

BEN. 

My  bonny  lass,  thou  brings  a  glass 

Here's  hilth  I  wish  to  thee  thro  leyfe  ! 
Thou'll  suin  be  meyne,  but  ne'er  repeyne  ; 

For  duty  I'll  aye  shew  to  the  weyfe  ! 
We'll  change  thy  neame,  what  nin  need  bleame 

We'll  teake  a  farm  in  some  sweet  pleace, 
We'll  whop  for  joy,  ne'er  hilth  destroy — 

Gud     neet — God's     bliss    be     theyne,    dear 
Greace  ! 

ROBERT  ANDERSON. 
November  ist,  1827. 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  317 

BONDSHIP.* 

O  deame  !  dunnet  gowl  sec  to  neane  can  dui  gud, 
But  profitless  aye  causes  grief 
Let's  shew  nit  the  picture  sae  monie  fwok  mud, 
But  try  to  leeve  cheerfu  as  puir  bodies  sud, 
An  whop  we  may  get  some  relief. 

We're  taen  in  fer  hundreds,  but  this  is  nit  aw, 
What  fortune  but  smeyles  on  a  few 
Her  dowter  Misfortune  owre  oft  gies  a  caw 
An  Bondship  he's  meade  monie  gud  farmers  few. 
Then  oft  in  a  jail  they  may  rue. 

For  full  twenty  years,  aw  our  crops  wad  luik  feyne. 
This  year  we  to  poverty  fell  ; 

Whene'er  fwok  grow  puir  oft  the  rich  leyke  to  sheyne, 
Our  landlword  now  tells  us  what  was  theyne  now  is 

meyne, 

Yer  stock  and  crop  suin  aw  mun  sell.  • 

Just  think  ov  our  Squire,  he  hed  rare  heaps  o'  gear, 
'Twas  Bondship  laid  him  in  the  jail, 
He  aye  shewt  his  keynness  to  rich  fwok  an  puir, 
But  now  robb'd  ov  aw  what  he  e'er  drops  a  tear 
O,  Pity  sec  fwok  owt  sud  ail. 

There's  Jwohn  my  keyn  cronie  says  he'll  gie  me  wark, 
An  weekly  gud  weages  aw  get, 
I'll  labour  wi'  plishure  by  day  leet  an  dark 
An  thenk  him  an  daily  his  goodness  remark, 
Sae  niver  let  thee  or  me  fret. 

Let's  ever  leeve  patient,  an  hilth  whop  to  share, 
Nor  e'er  wish  to  dui  wrang  to  yen, 
Be  honest  an  cheerfu,  and  laught  at  dull  care, 
We've  lang  enjoy't  blissings  an  beath  may  hev  mair 
When  frae  this  weyl  warl  we  are  taen. 

*  Bondship,  more  especially  amongst  farmers  and  yeoman, 
seems  to  have  been  the  curse  which  ruined  and  brought  to 
poverty  some  of  the  most  affluent  Cumbrians.  I  well  remember 
a  poor  old  lame  carrier,  who  used  to  trudge  alongside  his  donkey 
and  cart  two  or  three  times  a  week,  between  the  Abbey  and 
Wigton.  He  bore  the  name  and  claimed  relationship  with  a 
gentleman,  who  was  at  that  time  a  most  noted  Carlisle  banker, 
and  he  often  used  to  relate  how  his  father  was  entirely  ruined  by 
Bondship,  which  had  thus  brought  a  lasting  poverty  upon  himself 
and  family. 


3i8  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

THE    BONNY    STAMPT    GOWN.* 

Last  week  in  our  barn  I  thresht  ae  day, 

An  fain  to  git  duin,  I  struive  ; 
An  wrowt  on  as  hard  as  onie  chap  may 

But  niver  yence  thowt  o  luive. 
Just  duin,  a  neyce  lass  stonisht  me  a  wheyle, 

I  thowt  she  hed  cum  frae  town, 
Then  luikt  at  her  shep,  her  feace,  her  smeyle 

An'  nwotisht  the  bonny  stampt  gown. 

I  pat  on  mey  cwoat,  an  out  I  went, 

Thinks  I  we'll  a  crack  hev  now  ; 
East,  west,  north,  south,  wi  luives  intent 

I  glowr't,  but  her  ne'er  cud  view. 
I  crap  up  the  hill,  clam  up  't  yek  tree, 

An  luikt  for  a  meyle,  aw  roun  ; 
But,  that  canny  lass  I  ne'er  cud  see, 

Nor  onie  dont  in  a  stampt  gown. 

I  stowtert  off  heame,  an  fan  queyte  queer, 

Was  nit  yence  in  luive  till  then, 
I've  caw't  at  aw  houses,  far,  far  an  near, 

But  sec  a  lass  ne'er  seed  yen'! 
What  luive  flings  monie  chaps  back  owre  deep. 

When  't  clock  streykes  ten  I  lig  down, 
An  think,  wish,  seegh,  whene'er  I  can  sleep, 

A  dream  shews  the  bonny  stampt  gown. 

At  Card,  to-mworn,  I'll  saunter  ilk  street, 
In  luive  yen  scarce  wark  can  dui, 

I'd  gie  mey  leyl  farm  that  lass  to  meet, 
To  hev  her  give  the  girt  yen  tui  ; 

*  There  is  a  verse  in  the  author's  hand,  written  in  lead  pencil 
upon  a  separate  scrap  of  paper,  and  pinned  on  to  the  original  M.S. 
of  this  Song.  Though  written  doubtless  by  Anderson,  this  verse 
is  inferior  to  the  Song  generally.  In  this  verse  he  tells  us  that 
"  at  Woodbank,  near  Carel,  this  gown  was  stampt."  Where  he 
learned  this  he  does  not  say,  and  with  regard  to  "  the  neyce  lass," 
the  most  unaccountable  way  in  which  she  appeared  and  then 
disappeared,  makes  one  fancy  that  "the  thresher"  must  have 
seen  a  myth.  Possibly  she  was  the  Muse  of  Cumberland  Song, 
for  it  will  be  remembered  that  in  "The  Vision"  of  Burns,  the 
Muse  of  Scottish  Song  appears  to  him  under  somewhat  similar 
circumstances,  where  he  says — 

"The  threshers  weary  flinging  tree  ; 
The  lee  lang  day  hed  wearied  me." 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  319 


If  I  canna  see  her,  let  grim  Deeth  caw, 
He  niver  can  meake  me  frown  ; 

Wheyle  leevin  I'll  wish  for  the  lass  I  saw, 
An  think  on  her  bonnie  stampt  gown. 


THE    AUTHOR    ON    HIMSELF. 

I's  weary  grown  o'  this  weyld  warl, 

Whoar  bowin  fuils  can  off  en  thrive. 
But  at  puir  bodies  owre  oft  snarl, 

Wheyle  modest  merit  oft  may  thrive  ; 
I  wunnet  worship  costly  gear 

Or  praise  a  hauky  purse-proud  kneave  ; 
But  poverty  through  leyfe  I'll  bear, 

True  freedom's  ow  the  wealth  I  creave, 

That  pamper'd  Squire  seems  wretched  noWj 

Speyte  ov  his  ill  got  Ian  for  meyles, 
That  farmer  puir,  we  pleas'd  may  view 

At  our  misfortunes  frowns  he  smeyles, 
Leyke  me,  are  thrown  aseyde, 

'Een  laught  at  when  nae  whops  they  see  ; 
To  court  greet  fwok,  was  ne'er  mey  preyde, 

Nor  what  I  suffer  yence  shall  be. 

I've  labor'd  lang  for  aw  aroun, 

But  few  to  me  now  keynness  shew, 
Waak,  and  in  poverty  flung  down, 

Whops  wheyle  we  leeve,  aseyde  lets  throw 
How  monie  aye  are  wrapt  in  care, 

When  ne'er  a  mortal  wad  oppress. 
Wheyle  others  plenty  daily  share, 

Still  wishin  outhers  to  distress. 

Years,  fifty  five,  now  owre  are  flown, 

Sin  furst  on  this  weyl  warl  I  gaz'd, 
Weel  rear'd  by  twee  in  want  aye  thrown 

An  leyke  them  aw  mun  ne'er  be  rais'd  ; 
But  come  what  will  when  weel  or  ill, 

Nowt  sec  sud  e'er  effect  the  meynd  ; 
Man's  preyde  sud  be  his  duty  still. 

Then  on  his  death  bed  whopes  he'll  find. 


320  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

THE    BIRTHDAY    OF    ROBERT    BURNS.* 

O  !  blest  be  the  Bard  who  has  fancy  that  roves, 

Where  freedom  the  Beacon  of  glory  still  shews, 
Enriching  his  readers  while  virtue  he  loves, 

Great  thanks  to  that  writer  his  country  still  owes  ; 
How  many  will  flatter  the  wealthy  each  hour, 

Thus  scribbling  for  plenty    with    fal^e  hopes  of 

fame  ; 

But   Scotia's   great    Bard    shew'd  what  was  in  his 
power, 

And  gave  to  all  classes,  what  honours  his  name 

To  think  of  the  Bard  such  may  call  forth  a  tear, 

Love,  freedom,  true  sentiment  still  was  his  pride, 
And  stemming  corruption  ere  manhood's  late  year, 

All  hopes  of   life's  comforts  were    then    thrown 

aside  : 
Whate'er  be  man's  suffrin's,  bow'd  down  during  life, 

Tho  falsehood  detecting,  just  merit  to  claim  ; 
A  foe  to  pride,  folly,  ambition  and  strife — 

Think  such  was  great  Burns,  and  give  praise  to  his 
name, 

Too  many  gain  praise  who  would  brethren  enslave, 

And  glory  in  what  leads  to  want  and  keen  woe  ; 
Too  few  on  this  earth  wish  poor  suffrers  to  save, 

Tho  labrin  for  all,  they  may  daily  live  low  ; 
The  fame  of  the  Patriot  now  mortals  will  raise, 

Advice  to  his  brethren  prov'd  ever  his  aim 
O,  that  all  cou'd  boast  of  his  long  happy  days, 

The  readers  of  Burns    must    give    praise  to  his 
name. 

Sweet  Bard  of  the  North,  ever  bright  to  mankind 
Are  his  polish'd  stanzas,  enlivening  the  throng, 

The  warm  sun  of  genius  still  shone  in  his  mind, 

All  his  lays  are  delighting,  and  pleasing  each  song  ; 

*  Of  the  extreme  veneration  of  Anderson  for  Burns,  there  is 
abundant  testimony  in  the  Poet's  own  handwriting,  which  his 
relations  and  other  collectors  of  them  have  so-kindly  sent  to  me 
for  compilation  in  this  the  Centenary  edition  of  his  Ballads.  There 
are  no  less  than  six  or  seven  Poems,  either  directly  addressed  to 
or  warmly  eulogising  the  poet  Burns.  So  far  as  I  can  judge,  the 
Poem  here  given  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  Anderson's  visit 
to  Mrs.  Burns,  shortly  after  the  Poet's  death.  Of  this,  he  himself 
says,  "finding  it  impossible  to  do  justice  to  the  occasion,  the 
effusion  was  never  shewn." 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  321 


All  mortals  of  sense  his  true  works  must  admire, 
If  freedom  and  friendship  be  ever  their  aim  ; 

They  fill  every  mind  with  what  man  should  desire, 
Then  let  men  for  ever  give  praise  to  his  name. 

Wit,  sentiment,  humour,  simplicity,  truth, 

He  gave  Nature's  scenery  fond  daily  to  trace  ; 
The  true  bliss  of  wisdom  was  shewn  in  his  youth 

Exposing  sad  wildness  to  man  a  disgrace  : 
A  foe  to  corruption,  that  leads  to  despair, 

What  proves  to   each   country   on   earth  still   a 

shame, 

Such    Poets    thro    life    all    our    thanks  ought  to 
share, 

But  too  few  thro  life  the  great  Bard  thus  did  name. 

How  oft  on  this  wild  world  we  daily  may  view, 

Base  mortals,  to  whom  joy  and  plenty  are  shewn  ; 
While  some,  bless'd  with  genius,  who  virtue  pursue. 

Life's  suffrings  must  bear,  e'en  to  poverty  thrown  : 
'Twas  thus  with  the  Bard,  who  till  life's  closing 
day, 

Vice  ever  exposed,  that  draws  millions  to  shame, 
But  since  that  sad  hour,  when  by  death  drawn  away, 

That  pleasure  he  earn'd,  all  with  pleasure  still 
name. 


ADIEU    TO    ERIN. 

Yes,  Erin,  I  maun  quat  thy  shore, 

A  heartless  son  o'  want  and  woe  ; 
Thy  hills  an'  glens  delight  no  more, 

Now  misery  sinks  my  spirits  low  : 
When  forc'd  far  o'er  the  white  waved  main, 

Howe'er  I  to  Misfortune  bow, 
In  fancy  I'll  see  thee  again, 

For,  sighing,  now  I  bid  adieu  ! 


322  SONGS    OF    ANDERSON. 

Peace  to  thy  swains,  green  happy  Isle, 

Whase  plains  a  blest  abundance  yield  ! 
Thy  hardy  sons  inur'd  to  toil, 

Proud  for  their  country  grasp  the  shield  : 
Proud  to  defend  the  friend,  the  fair, 

An'  mak  ilk  vile  oppressor  rue  ; 
While  thus,  aye  be  they  Heaven's  great  care, 

Sae  prays  the  Bard  wha  bids  adieu  ! 

My  pipe,  first  tun'd  in  Eden's  Bow'rs, 

When  eager  fancy  forward  led, 
We  yet  may  cheat  some  lazy  hours, 

When  wand1  ring  far  in  hopes  of  bread  ; 
Yes,  Erin,  thine  are  plaintive  strains, 

That  when  I  hear  will  ca'  to  view 
Blest  scenes  amang  thy  smiling  plains, 

I  dreamt  not,  thus  to  bid  adieu  ! 

Ten  times  hath  Winter  stripped  the  trees, 

Sin  first  I  sa'  the  Shamrock  Isle, 
Aft  proud  I've  been  the  pen  to  seize, 

To  draw  the  tear,  or  court  the  smile  : 
Though  monie  scorn'd  my  humble  lays. 

To  freedom  and  to  Nature  true, 
I  sought  nae  puff'd-up  critic's  praise, 

To  such  I  smilin'  bid  adieu  ! 

Ye*  wha  the  Muse's  favors  share, 

Lang  may  ye  bauldly  sweep  the  string  ; 

To  crush  ilk  vice  be  aye  your  care, 
Syne  mak  aul  Erin's  valleys  ring  ! 

*  F.J.  Bigger,  Esq.,  Editor  of  the  Ulster  Journal  of  Arche 
ology,  says  in  an  article  on  Anderson  that  appeared  in  that 
journal,  February,  1899,  that  in  Anderson's  time  quite  a  coterie 
of  Poets  published  their  songs  and  addresses  in  Belfast  and 
neighbourhood.  James  Orr,  of  Ballycarry,  issued  a  volume  in 
1805,  containing  an  epistle  to  Samuel  Thompson,  the  schoolmaster 
of  Carngreine,  who  a  year  later  published  his  little  volume,  with 
many  sonnets  and  epistles.  Hugh  Tynan,  "un-noticed,  helpless 
and  forlorn  "  in  Donaghadee,  yet  found  time  to  publish  some  sad 
and  reflective  Poems  (published  in  1803),  whilst  a  few  years  later, 
Hugh  Porter,  a  County  Down  weaver,  sent  forth  his  poetic 
attempts,  by  no  means  devoid  of  merit.  Miss  Balfour,  from  her 
prim  ladies'  school  in  Belfast,  wrote  many  fine  pieces,  and  trans 
lated  with  taste  much  original  Irish  Poetry.  Mr.  Bigger  adds  in 
a  note  in  the  same  article  that  he  has  over  100  volumes  of  Poetry 
in  his  library  written  by  Belfast  men,  and  those  hailing  from  the 
immediate  vicinity  of  the  city. 


SONGS    OF    ANDERSON.  323 

Sweet  Bard*  wha  mark'd  my  hamely  strains, 

A  fav'rite  o'  the  Muse  art  thou, 
Enliv'nin  aye  thy  native  plains 

I'm  wae  to  say  to  thee  adieu  ! 

Companions  o'  my  social  hours, 

To  leave  you  prompts  a  heartfelt  sigh  ; 
Fond  mem'ry  turns  to  joys  aft  ours, 

When  care  an'  slander  we'd  defy  ; 
Let  Fortune  smile,  or  let  her  frown, 

Tho'  she  my  path  wi'  thorns  may  strew, 
Your  friendship  aye  wi'  pride  I'll  own, 

An  painfu'  'tis  to  bid  adieu  ! 

Fareweel,  ye  cheerfu  lasses  a', 

But  thou  the  dear  ane  I  loe  best, 
When  borne  frae  thee,  far,  far  awa', 

Keen  sorrow  aft  will  break  my  rest  ! 
I  pledge  thee  wi'  affection's  kiss, 

This  wae-worn  heart  to  thee  beats  true  ; 
We  yet  may  meet,  in  realms  o'  bliss, 

Ne'er,  ne'er  again  to  bid  adieu  ! 

'Tis  hard,  when  love  and  friendship  bind, 

The  caul,  caul  word  fareweel  to  use  ; 
It  draws  a  tear,  it  racks  the  mind, 

But  wha  Fate's  mandates  can  refuse  ? 
Fareweel,  dear  friens  !    farewell,  fause  faes  ! 

The  first  a  crowd,  the  last  but  few  ; 
My  heart  wi'  these — my  peace  wi'  thase, 

I  bid  ye  a'  a  lang  adieu  ! 

*  Mr.  Andrew   McKenzie. 

SWEET  BARD. — In  the  article  before  quoted,  Mr.  Biggar  thus 
speaks  of  the  Bard  here  noted.  Andrew  McKenzie,  from  his 
weaver's  loom  at  Dunover,  addressed,  in  1810,  his  stanzas  to 
Robert  Anderson,  who  arrived  at  Belfast  only  two  years  previous  ; 
so  their  poetic  instincts  had  soon  made  them  acquainted. 
Anderson  returned  this  compliment  in  the  news  letter,  dating  it 
from  Carnmoney,  29th  October,  1810.  By  a  custom  familiar 
enough  with  literary  men  in  those  days,  he  speaks  of  McKenzie  by 
the  nom  de  plume  of  Gaelus.  and  it  is  thus  in  Poems  and  Letters 
Anderson  most  frequently  refers  to  him. 


A    GLOSSARIAL 
CONCORDANCE 

TO    THE 

CUMBERLAND     BALLADS 

OF 

ROBERT    ANDERSON. 

Wherein  all  the  most  peculiar  words  are  explained, 

and  illustrative  references  are  given  to  the 

writings  of  the  Cumberland  Bard. 

COMPILED   FOR    THE    CENTENARY   EDITION, 

BY 

GEO.   CROWTHER. 


The  numbers  are  those  of  the  Songs  in  the  Index  in  which 
the  word  is  found.  The  Index  shows  the  page  at  which  the  Song 
is  found.  The  Glossarial  Concordance  takes  in  mainly  the  first 
8 1  Ballads.  Where  a  name  is  given  instead  of  a  number,  it  is 
the  title  of  a  Song.  Where  the  word  is  found  very  generally,  no 
number  is  given. 


GLOSSARY. 


A. 

Song 

A-bed,  in  bed 

i 

Abuin,  above 

—  5.  9     39 

Ack,    Ak,    to    care, 

to    lay 

to  heart 

...6,44     76 

Ae,  one 

5     41 

A-fit,  on  foot 

...     34 

Afwore,  before 

I 

Aga,  ague      

...     58 

Agean,  again 

49,  15       3 

Aggy,  Agnes 
Ahint,  behind 

76,  60     21 

A-horse,  on  horseback 
Aikton,  a  village  near 

Wigton              ...         ...  9 

Ail,  to  be  indisposed            ...  34 

Airms,  arms               ...          ...  83 

Ajy,  awry      4 

Ak  :    see  ACK. 

Alang.  along 

Allyblaster,  alabaster          ...  5 

Amang,  among         ...         ...  22 

Amang  hands,  among  other 

things     ...          ...          ...  22 

Ambrie,  aumry,  a  pantry  ...  41 

An,  and              ...          ...     79  80 

Anenst,  Anent,  opposite    ...  41 

Anonder,  under        ...         ...  50 

Anudder,  another       4,  8,  41  67 

Armin  chair,  an  arm  chair ...  94 

Aroun,  around          ...          ...  n 

As,  as  if         47 

As-buird,    ashes     board,    a 
box     to     carry     ashes 

40, 50  59 

Aseyde,  beside,  near  to 
'At,  contraction  of  That    ...  3 
Atomy,  a  skeleton  [an  ana 
tomy]                 56 

Atween,  between      ...         ...  i 

Aul,   Auld,   Oald,  old      2,  3  6 

Aunty,  aunt                  ...     22  27 

Aw,  all              6,15  12 

Aw    maks,    all    makes,     all 

sorts       35  03 

Awn,  own      ...         ...         ...  75 

Awners,  owners           ...     44  49 

Ax,  to  ask         8,24  41 

Ax    at   kurk,    to   have    the 

banns  published          ...  115 

Aye,  always,             ...         ...  41 


Song 
Ay,     expression    of     assent 

wonder,  41 

Ayont,  beyond         ...       3, 9     76 


Bab,  Barbara  ...         ...       2 

Babs,  babes  ...         ...     53 

Bacco,  tobacco,  41,    76,    54     63 

Back-buird,     a     baking 

board  ...         ...     54 

Back  seyde,  the  yard  behind 

the  house          ...         ...     38 

Badger,    a   pedlar,    a     corn 

factor  ...         ...       3 

Bailie,    Bealie,     bailiff      81     53 

PBain,  near 

Bairn,  child,  one  lately 
born  ...  3,6,13  41 

Bais'd,  Baizt,  Bazed,  mad 
dened  ...  ...  76  8 1 

Baith,  Beath,  both  ...     29 

Baitin,  a  beating  ;  a  teas 
ing  ...  ...  ...  ig 

Bakin,  bacon  ...         ...     76 

Ban,  band  of  musicians      ...     55 

Bandylan,  banned  the  land,  a 

woman  of  bad  character     35 

Bane,    Beane,   bone    ...     50     72 

Bang,  to  beat  or  excel  ;    as 
"  he     was     bad     to 
bang"     3,4     76 

Bang,  an  action  of  haste  ;  as 
"  he  com  in  wi*  a 
bang "  ...  ...  76 

Bannocks,  bread  made  of  oat 
meal  and  thicker  than 
common  cakes  ...  ...  60 

Banton,  Kirkbampton,  near 

Burgh  ...  9     44 

Ban,  barrel  ...         ...     55 

Barn,  child.     See    BAIRN. 

?  Barney's  croft,  croft-enclo 
sure  47 

Barra-cwoat,  a  child's  under 
garment  worn  next  over 
the  napkins,  and  folded 
up  back  over  the  feet  and 
legs  94 

Bashfu,  bashful 


328 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Batter,  dirt,  mud     44 

Batter,    to    make    sore    by 

beating    ...         

Baw.ball      58 

Bawk,  a  cross  beam  ...       4 

Beane,  bone.     See  BANE. 
Beastin-puddin,     pudding 
made  from  the  first  milk 
drawn  after  a  cow  has 

.      calved  76 

Beate,     abate,     "  Wunnet 
beate     a     hair    o*    my 

beard"  24 

Beatb,  Baith,  both,  4,  8,  15, 

41,    28 
Beck,  a  brook,  a  rivulet    ...     76 

Beel'd,  bawled          76 

Behin,    Behint,    behind,    5     41 

Bein,  being  

Belangs,  belongs      

Belder,  to  bellow,  to  voci 
ferate     ...         ...         ...     44 

Belsh,   to  emit  wind   from 

the  stomach         ...       4    54 
Bensil,  to  bang  or  beat 
Bet,   a  wager  ;      to  lay   a 

wager  44 

Beteyde,  betide,  to  happen 

to  24 

Bettermer,  better  ...     30 

Beyble,  Bible— the  book  58,  59,  61 
Beyde,  to  endure,  stay,  abide  i     9 
Beytin,  biting  ...          ...     20 

Biddable,    Biddible,    obedi 
ent         ...         ...         ...   172 

Biddy,  Bridget         27 

Bide,"  to  endure.     See  BEYDE. 
Bigg,  a  kind  of  barley         ...     52 
Biggin,  building        ...          ...     53 

Billie,  Billy,  brother.     See 

TITTY.    ...         ...         42     59 

Bit,  a  small  piece      ...  2       5 

Bizen,  by  a  sin,  i.e.,  besides 

a  sin  ...         ...     28     60 

Blakky-muir,  a  black  Moor, 

a  negro  ...         ...     81 

Blate,   Bleate,  bashful,   shy     30 
Bleakent,  blackened  ...       4 

Bleam,  blame  ...       3     38 

Bleckell,  Blackwell,  a  village 

near  Carlisle      ...         ...     30 

Bleer-e'ed,  blear  eyed         71     38 

Elects,  blights          38 

BUn,  blind        4     51 

Blissin,  blessing 
Blown     milk,     milk     from 
which    the    cream    has 
been  removed  by  blow 
ing          - 142 


Bluid,  blood  ...... 

Bluim,  bloom  ...         ... 

Bluitert,  naked,  deserted  ... 
Blusteration,  the  noise  of  a 

braggart 
Boddem,  Boddom,  to  drink 

to  the    bottom    of    the 

drinking-vessel  ... 

Bodder,  bother  —8,79 

Boggle,  hobgoblin  ...3,  14 
Boilies,  boiled  bread  and 

milk       ...         ...         ... 

Bonnie,  pretty  ...  3,  7 
Bonnyprat,  Napoleon  I.  3 
Borrowdale,  a  vale  near  the 

head   of   Derwentwater 
Bout,  a  turn,  a  "  spree  "     ... 
Boutcher,  butcher 
Bower,  a  parlour,  the  inner 

room  of  a  cottage       ...     53 
Bow-hough'd,  having  crooked 

houghs    .........     47 

Bowt,  bought  ...          3,     26 

Bra',  Braw,  handsome        ...     65 
Brack,  Brak,  broke,  2,  4,  39,     41 
Brackens,  Breckans,  fern    .  .     63 
Brag,  boast,     .  .      4,  74,  49,     83 
Braid,  broad  ......        27     54 

PBramery       .........       3 

Brang,  brought.     9ee  BRONG. 
Bran  new,  quite  new          ...       2 
Brant,  steep 
Branton  —  Brampton,  a  small 

market  town,  lorn,  east 

of  Carlisle  ...     35 

Brass,  a  common  word  mean 

ing  money.  See  KELTER. 


4 
16 
81 

35 


54 
50 
32 

94 
g 
15 

60 
4 


63 


Brast,  burst.     See  BRUST. 
BRAT,    a    coarse    apron    or 
pinafore  ...     10 

Bravely,  in  a  good  state  of 


39 


health  ...       2 

Bray,    to   beat  35,    30 

Breader,  broader 
Breed,  bread  ...         25 

Breeks,  breeches      ...  24,55 
Breer,  brier  ...         ... 

Brees'd,  bruised       ...         ... 

Breest,  breast  ...         ...     25 

Breet,  bright  14,      57     31 

Brek,  break,  25,      75     61 

Brench,  branch         ...         ...   183 

Breyde,  bride  ...   i,  4     76 

Breydegruim,    bridegroom  4     76 
Breydle,  bridle          ...          ...     57 

Bridewain  —  Bidden-weddin 

See  Dr.  Prevost's  Glos 

sary. 


GLOSSARY. 


329 


s 

ong 

Song 

Brig,  bridge     

3 

Cadger,  a  retailer  of   small 

Briggadeer,     Brigadier,     the 

wares,  having  a  cart     ...     77 

officer     commanding     a 

Caff,  Chaff       4-60     61 

brigade 

25 

PCairds,  Cairdins,  cards      40     50 

Brock,  badger... 

2O 

PCaldew           

PBrocklebank,     Cumberland 

Calep,  —  Caleb  28-38    42 

surname  and  place  name 

76 

Callan,  a  stripling,  a  lad      ...     41 

Brong,  Brang,  brought,  did 

Caller,  fresh,  cool       

bring            4,  39,  59,  78 
Brough-seyde,  residing  near 

25 

Canny,  decent-looking,  well- 
made       5-49,  40,  66,  71     76 

Burgh       
Bruff,  the  local  pronouncia- 
tion  of  Burgh      

4 

Cap,  to  beat,  to  excel,  4-20     49 
Capper,  one  who  excels       ...     20 
Cap'ring,  dancing  in  a  frolic 

Brulliment,  broil       

5O 

some  manner      4 

Brummel-keytes,       bramble 

Car,  cart          2,  76     74 

berries 

103 

Car  -gear,  harness  for  draught 

Brunt,  burnt,  4,  24,  38,  57 

76 

horses.    See  CAR-STANG  2      8 

Brust,  burst.    See  BRAST     6 

4' 

Carel,—  Carlisle,  3,  5,  6,  76, 

Buckabank,   a   township   in 

37     60 

the    parish    of    Dalston 

30 

Carel  Fair,  on  26th  Aug.       2     n 

Buckram,  coarse  linen  cloth 

Carel-Sands,     between     the 

stiffened  with  glue 

66 

river  Eden  and  Ricker- 

Buck   up,   to  subscribe  ;    to 

gate          35 

advance  ;     to    dress    up 

3O 

Carras,  cart  house  ;  a  shed 

Buff,  the  bare  skin    

53 

wherein  carts  are  kept   3     76 

Buik,  book;   the  Testament 

25 

Car-stang,  cart  shaft 

Buin,   above    (for  abnin)     8 
Buits,  boots    

43 
39 

Cassel,  castle  81 
Catch'd,  caught         7 

Bumbealie,  a  bailiff  

76 

Cat-witted,    silly    and    con 

Bumm'd,  struck,  beat 

33 

ceited        41 

Bunc'd,    Buns'd,    bounced  ; 

Cauda,  the  vulgar  pronunci 

an   action  of  haste    47 

53 

ation  of  Caldew  

Burd,  bird       67 

80 

Caul,  Cauld,  cold,  69,  n,  79, 

Burgh  (pr.  Bruff),  a  village 

59     62 

about    6   m.   from   Car 

Caw,  call            i,  71,  76,  67     14 

lisle               g 

44 

Caw'd,  called  5    7i 

PBurkheeds     

76 

Cawn,  calm.                 Nancy  Peal 

Buss,  to  kiss  ;   to  dress  ;  a 

Cawshens,  cautions,  advises 

bush          24,  52 

53 

See  COWSHENS. 

Butter-shag,  a  slice  of  bread 

Ceakes,  cakes  4 

spread  with  butter 

13 

Ceyder,  cider  2 

See  SHAG. 
Butter-sops,  bread  soaked  in 

Chammerley  —  chamber-lye, 
stale  urine           108 

melted  butter  and  sugar 

Chammer-pot,   chamber   pot     69 

16,  4 

76 

Chang,  the  cry  of  a  pack  of 

Bwor'd,  bored           

29 

hounds  ;    uproar  ;    loud 

Bworn,  born   12 

9 

talk           

By,  a  dwelling.     A  Danish 

Chap,    a    general    term    for 

termination    to    several 

man          30 

local  names,  as  Hiverby 

34 

Chawk,  chalk  

Begeane,  bygone,  past 

PChawk,  near  Thursby        ..      58 

Byre,  cow-house,  i,  22,  24,  57 

79 

Cheatery,  Cheatrie,  cheating 

Byspel,  mischievous,  full  of 

deceit        44 

vice           

Cheeny,  china  cups,  &c.      ..    167 

Byzen.    See  BIZEN   

28 

Cheyde,  chide  7 

See  note. 

Chiel,  a  young  fellow 

C. 

Chillip,  the  cry  of  a  young 
bird           

Cabbish,  cabbage      ...        76 

43 

Chimley,  chimmey     60 

330 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Chinse,  Chintz,  chints,  cotton 
cloth,  printed  in  five  or 
six  different  colours    ...     22 
Chirm,  to  make  a  mournful 

sound  ...         ...       6 

Chops,  mouth,  jaws  ...       4 

Choups,  Choops  (pr  "  shoops"), 

hips,  the  fruit  of  briars  103 
Claes,  clothes  ...         ...     50 

Clarty,  miry  ...         ...     50 

Clash,  tittle-tattle,  scandal  ; 
to  throw  down  heavily 
or  clumsily        ...         ...     19 

Claver,  to  climb       ...         ...       2 

Clay   Daubin,     a     thatched 
'  cottage,  the  walls  being 
built  of  clay      ...          ...     53 

Cleadin,  Cleedin,  clothing  16  79 
death,  the  table  cloth  ...  23 
Cleed,  Clead,  to  clothe  10  43 
Cleek,  to  catch  as  with  a 

hook       4,  21     76 

PCleutie         3 

Click-clack,  the  ticking  of  a 

clock      ...         ...         ...       7 

Clink,  a  blow  ;      a  jingling 

sound     ...     44 

dipt  dinment,  a  thin,  mean- 
looking    fellow.     See 
DINMENT  ...         ...     39 

Clipt-an-heel'd,     properly 
dressed,     like     a     cock 
prepared  to  fight         ...     30 
Clish-clash,  Clish-ma  -claver, 

idle  talk,  scandal 
diver,  clever  ...         ...     30 

Clog,  a  sort  of  shoe,  the  upper 
part     of     strong     hide 
leather,  and  the  soles  of 
birch  or  alder      i,  2,  7     39 
Clowsin,  closing        ...         ...     31 

Cluff,  cuff,  a  blow     53 

Clwoak,  cloak  ...         ...     61 

Clwose,  close.     See  CLOWSIN     78 
Co',  come,  or  came 
?Cobbles,  cobble  stones       ...     76 
?Cock  Brig  Nathan 

Cocker,  a  feeder  or  fighter 

of    cocks,  4,  12,  41,  48     58 
Cockin,  cock-fighting  ...     30 

Codageate — Caldewgate 
Codbeck,— Caldbeck,  a  town 
ship    about    8m.    from 

Wigton  76 

Coddle,  to  pillow  or  sleep  ; 

to  embrace        ...         51     76 
Codlin  tree,  an  apple  tree  2     24 

PCokert,  caulker ed 81 

Collop,  rasher  of  bacon   16     63 


Soug 
Collop    Monday,    the    first 

Monday     before     Lent       5 
Com,  came  ...      5,  9     12 

Compleens,  complains         ...       3 
?  Corbie,    the   carrion    crow, 

the  raven 
Corby,  a  village  nr.  Wetheral 

49  H8 

Corp,  corpse  24 

Cottinet,  cotton        ...         ...     57 

Cow'd-leady,  pudding  made 

of  flour  and  suet 


Cow'd-lword,  pudding  made 

of  oatmeal  and  suet    35     43 
Cowp,  to  exchange  ;  to  over 
turn,  to  tumble       2,  38     76 
Cowr'd,  crouched  ...     56 

Cowshens,  cautions,  advises  183 
Cowshious,  cautious  ...     99 

Cowt,  colt      3 

Crack,  chat  ;  to  boast ;  to  do 

anything  quickly  2,  3,  5     ri 
Cracket,  cricket        ...         ...     32 

Crammel,    to   perform   any 
thing  awkwardly          ...     28 
Crap,  crept,  did  creep  4     30 

Creetcher,  creature 
Creyke,  creek  ...         ...     44 

Creyme,  crime          ...         ...     60 

Cried   i'    the    Kurk,   having 
the   banns  of  marriage 
published.       See  Ax.          36 
?Crivet,  cravat        ...         ...     70 

Croft,    a    field    behind     the 

house     10,  38     47 

PCroglin         24 

Cronie,  an  old  acquaintance        9 
Crosset,  Crosthwaite  44     58 

Cross  the  buckle,  a  peculiar 

step   in  dancing  ...     30 

Crouse,  lofty,  haughty  4,  50     29 
Crowdy,    composed   of    raw 
oatmeal  and  the  marrow 
of      beef      or      mutton 
bones     ...         ...         57     26 

Crowks,  croaks         ...         ...     54 

Cruds,  curds  ...          5,     16 

Cruik'd,  crooked      ...         ...     59 

Cruin,    to    bellow,    to   hum 

a  tune    ...         ...  2     55 

Crum,  crumb  ...         ...     38 

Cubbert,  cupboard  ...         ...   146 

Cud, could     

Cuddent,  couldn't. 
Cuddy    Wulson— Cuthbert 

Wilson  ...         ...       i 

Cuif,  a  silly  person,  a  simple 
ton         8 

Cuik,  cook.  lU-gien  Wcyfc 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Cuil,  cool          8 

Cum,    a    prefix    to    several 

local  names          5 

Cummerlan — Cumberland   ...  49 
Cummersdale,  a  village  about 

3m.  from  Carlisle           ...  30 

Cunn'd,  counted        39 

Curchey'd,  curtseyed           ...  4 
Curly   pow,    curled   head. 

See  Pow. 

Cursen'd,     christened,     bap 
tised          12 

Cursenin,  Cursnin,  christening  41 
Cursenmas,  Cursmas,  Christ 
mas         9,    57,    34,    50  76 
Cursty,  Christopher              ...  4 
Curtchey'd,  curtseyed         ...  4. 
Curthet,  Curthwaite            49  94 
Cushat,  the  ringdove 
Custom,  usage          ...         ...  7 

Cutten,    cut   down             58  41 
Cutter'd,     whisper'd, 

wheedled           ...  30,  83  56 

Cutty,  Scutty,  short            ...  32 

Cwoach,  coach           ...          3  5 

Cwoal,  coal      2,  25  74 

Cwoat,  Cwot,  coat,  2,  8,  24, 

42,  44,  63 

Cwoax,  coax             ...         ...  71 

Cwoley,  Collie,  a  farmer's  or 
shepherd's  dog,  3,  24,  7 

57  40 

Cwom,  comb             ...         ...  71 

Cworn,  corn                 16,    38  61 

Cworse,  coarse          ...         ...  74 

Cwort,  court             ...         34  53 
Cwose-house,     corse     house 
in    which    a    corpse    is 

lying       3  182 

Cwot,  coat.     See  CWOAT. 

Cwozy,  cosey,  snug             ...  73 

D. 

Daddle,    hand  :        also,    to 

work  slowly      ...         ...       3 

Daddle,    waddle,     to    walk 

slowly        ...         ...     69     76 

Daft,  half-wise  ;    sometimes 

wanton  21,  24,  29     39 

Daggy,  drizzly          3 

Dalston,  a  village  sm.  from 

Carlisle.     See      Daw- 

ston. 
Dander,  Daunder,  to  hobble, 

to  saunter  64,  23     38 

Dang,  an  oath          76 

Dapper,  neatly  dressed      ...     30 
Darknin,  evening  twilight  53     57 


Song 

Darr !     an    oath    or    excla 
mation      

Darrak,  Darg,  Darrick,  day 
work,    a    day's    labour, 

53,  16,     41 
Darter,  active  in  performing 

a  thing      50     55 

Daubin,  a  cottage    built  of 

clay  53 

Dawston— Dalston  ...  30  55 
Dawstoners,  inhabitants  of 

Dalston     30     55 

Dawtie,  daughter,  a  darling     75 

De,  do i,  25     61 

Dee,  die  ...  4,  7,  41,  56     27 

Deame,  dame,  24,  53,  57,  60  43 
Deavie — David  ...  i  5 
Debby,  Deborah  ...  20  40 

Ded,  Deddy,  father 6 

Deef,  deaf  8,  69,  29,  41     51 

Deet,  died  ;  to  clean  3,  42  53 
Deeth,  death,  3,  5,  6,  10,  16, 

25     78 

Deetin,  winnowing  corn  50  66* 
Deevil,  devil  ...  ...  2 

Deil,  devil     3       6 

Deil    bin    (an    oath),    devil 

take        ...  4,  19,  41,  42     76 
Dein,  Deein,  doing  4       9 

Deleyte,  delight        72 

Desarve,    deserve,    to    earn 

by  service          ...         ...     37 

Dess,  to  adorn  ...  60  81 
Deuce,  the  Devil,  ...  3,  7  41 
Deyke,  Dike,  Dyke, 

hedge               2,  64,   16       7 
Deyl'd,  Deylt,  moped,  spirit 
less         i,  42     56 

Deyne,  dine  ...        60     6r 

Dibbler,  Dubbler,  a  pewter 

or  wooden  plate  ...     30 

Dick,    Dicky— Richard       2      4 
Diddle,  to  hum  a  tune       ...       2 
Dike,  hedge.     See  DEYKE. 
Din,  noise,  "  Mair  din   nor 
dow  " — more  talk  than 
work       ...         ...         ...     43 

Ding,  to  punch,  strike,  dash 

down      ...         ...         ...     54 

Dinment,  a  wether  sheep  in 
its  second  year  :     also, 
a  thin  mean-looking  per 
son         ...         ...         ...     39 

PDint,  energy 

Dis,  does        ...         ...  8     17 

Dispert,  Despart,  desperate, 

inveterate             ...     37     35 
Dissen'd,     distanced,     out 
stripped  44 


332 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Dissnins,  a  distance  in 
horse-racing,  the  eighth 
part  of  a  mile  ...  ...  44 


Song 

Durt,  dirt          8     46 

Durtment,  anything  useless 

or  tawdry          5 

Dust,  a  name  tor  money  ;  al- 


Divvent,  do  not.     Div  and 

so,  a  disturbance  2,  44 

4 

Duv,  do            ...  13,  24 

60 

Duzzens,  dozens 

35 

Doff—  do-off  —  to  undress     i 

4 

Dwoated,    doted,    Dwoatin, 

Don—  do-on—  to  dress           i 

39 

doting        ...         ...     10 

55 

Donnet  —  a   do-nowt  —  an    ill- 

Dyke,  hedge.     See  DEYKE. 

disposed    woman 

28 

Dour,   hard,   bold,   gloomy, 

E. 

sullen 
Douse,  jolly,  or  sonsy-look 
ing  ;    grave,  prudent  30 
Dow,  help,  usefulness,  profit 
?Dowie,  dull 

78 

76 
i 
67 

E,  sometimes  used  for  I     3 
Ebenin,  evening       
Edder,  adder            
Eddie,     Addle,      to     earn, 
Eddlin  brass. 

5 
bo 

55 

Downa,     Downet,    cannot  ; 
when  one  has  the  power, 
but  wants  the  will  to  do 
anything 

r 

Eden,   a   river  which   flows 
past  Carlisle,and  empties 
itself   into   Solway    Firth 

80 

Dowter,  daughter    ...         32 
61,  42, 
Dozen'd,  spiritless,  impotent 
Dree,  to  endure,  to  suffer,  to 
feel         103 

12 
73 
50 

78 

49i     52 
E'e,  eye.     Een,  eyes             3 
Efter,  after.     Efternuin,  af 
ternoon                ...  49,  3 
Eg  on,  Egge  on,  to  urge  on  ... 

12 
12 

Drissin,  dressing 
Drores,  drawers 
Drucken,  drunken    ... 
Drumleenin,  Drumleaning,  a 
hamlet  im.    from   Aik- 

37 
1  08 
55 

Eldin,  fuel,  sticks  for  the  fire 
Eleeben,  eleven 
Ellek,  Alexander     ...           8 
En',    end,    41,     54,     30 
Eneugh,  enough           ...       i 

43 

Dry,  thirsty              
Dub,   a   small  collection   of 

60 

Er,  are                         44,     53 
Er,  ere,  before   The  aul  Hol 
low  Tree            ...         ••• 

79 

stagnant  water 
Dubbler,  Dibbler,  a  pewter 
or  wooden  plate 

4 

30 

Esh,  ash.     Eshes,  ashes,  ash 
trees       45,  41 

Est  nest 

00 

3 

Dud,  did           38 

*Ettv                                        6 

Duds,  coarse  clothes,         28 
24,  62 

76 

*Eytonfield-street    ... 

76 

Duffle,  coarse  woollen  cloth, 

generally  blue  ... 
Dui,    do,    3,  4,    28,  55,    61 

74 
71 

• 

Fadder,  father,  i,  2,  8,  3,  40 

57 

Duin,    done,    doing,    8,    45 

76 

Faikens,  an  oath 

54 

Duir,  door,  13,  24,  32,  28,  59 

79 

Fain,   glad,  5,  9,   7,  24,  40, 

Dulbert,  a  dull  person 

167 

32.    79 

r,o 

Dunch,   to   strike  with   the 

Famish,  famous,  27,  30,  55 

HI 

elbows   ... 

4 

Fan,  found,  felt,  18,  23,  32 

76 

Dulciney,  Dulcinea,  a  lady 

?Far-larned  ... 

55 

love 

93 

Fares-te-weel,  fare-thee-well 

Dumb  weyfe.     Dumb  people 

2 

50 

were   thought   to    have 

Fash,  trouble,  i,  2,  67,  40,  41 

the  power  of  foretelling 
the  future 

5 

58 
Faul,   farm-yard  ;     the  fold 

50 

Dung   owre,   knocked   over, 

7,  39.  45 

"6 

exhausted 

Ig 

?Faulders,  Fuilduirs 

76 

Dunnet,  do  not        ...  59,  37 

21 

Faut,     fault,     21,     32,     46 

50 

Durdar,    near    Blackwell, 

Faw,  fall.     Fawn,  fallen,  27 

41 

3  m.  from  Carlisle 

Peace,  face.     Feacin,  facing 

eo 

Durdem,  broil,  hubbub,   15 

20 

Feale,  fail,  to  fall  short 

21 

GLOSSARY. 


333 


Song 

PFeal'd,  failed          21 

Feckless,     feeble,     effectless, 

69,    37  29 

Fedder,  feather        76 

Feegh,  alas    ...         ...         ...  76 

Feght,  Feight,  fight,  3-4-15. 

53>    76  54 

Feghter,  fighter           ...     41  58 

Fell,  a  rocky  hill  5,  24,  60  49 
Fallen,  Fellon,  a  disease  in 

cattle     58 

Fellow           28 

Fell-seyde,  the  edge  or  boun 
dary   of  a  fell   24,   74,  76 
Fen,  to  fare  ...         ...         ...  44 

Fettle,    order,    condition, 

Feulish,  Fuilish,  foolish'  ...  63 
Fewsome,  shapely,  becoming 

PFeykes         

Feyne,  fine,  nice,  beautiful, 

i,  4,  7,  u,  39,  58,  55     60 
Fiddlestick    ...         „.          ..       4 
Filly,  a  female  foal ;  a  young 

mare       ...         ...         ...     39 

Fit,  foot  ;  fought  ...  4,  8  49 
Fit-baw,  foot  ball,  27  50 
Fin,  to  find,  to  feel,  i,  49,  60  56 
Flacker'd,  flutter'd  ...  ' 

Flang,  threw,  flung  down  ...       4 
Plate,   frightened.     See  FLAY. 
Flay,     fright,     21,     47,     78     16 
Flay-crow,  a  scarecrow       ...     66 
Flaysome,  frightful  ...          ...     79 

Flee,  a  fly      58 

Fleek,  Flick,  flitch    ...         ...       4 

Fleer,  floor.       See  FLUIR. 
Flegmagaries,    useless    frip 
peries   of   female    dress       i 
Fleyte,   Flyte,   to  scold,   to 

rebuke  78 

Flinders,  splinters  or  shreds     81 

Flit,  to  remove 

Flowe,  wild,  stormy 

Fluet,  a  sharp  blow 

Fluid,  flood  ...         ...     31 

Fluik,  a  flounder,  a  kind  of 

fish  54     76 

Fluir,  floor.     See  FLEER. 

30, 72     76 

Flyre,  to  laugh  ;  to  gibe     29     36 
Flyte,  to  jeer,  to  scold 
Fodder'd,    supplied    with 

fodder  or  food 3 

Font,  fond,  foolish i 

Forby,  besides,   2,   8,   9,   33     44 
Forret,  forward        ...         ...     30 

Forseake,  forsake,  abandon     25 


Song 

Fou,  full  ;  to  fill       52 

Foumert,  a  polecat,  a  foul- 
mart      ...         ...         ...  20 

Foun,  found 

Fourscwore,  fourscore         ...  69 

Fowt,  a  fondling      ...         ...  34 

Frae,  from     ...         ...         ...  i 

Frae  t',  from  the      ...         ...  60 

Frase,  a  fray             ...         ...  i 

Fratch  to  scold  ;  a  quarrel    i  30 

Fratchin,  a  scolding            ...  3 

Fray,  an  attack,  or  affray  4  24 
Freeten,     to    frighten,     to 

alarm                  54,      63  14 

Freet,  to  grieve  ;  to  fret     13  78 

Freetfu,  fretful         78 

Fremm'd,  strange    ...         ...  50 

Frettin,  fretting       183 

Frien,  a  friend            ...         6  43 

Frostet,  frosted,  frozen      ...  3 

Frow,  a  worthless  woman    i  95 

Fught,  fought           ...         26  49 

Fuil,  fool,      i,     4,     31,     41  55 
Fuilduirs  (in  some  editions) 

— See  FAULDERS. 
Fun,  found.    See  FAN 

?Fur-bank,  Heed      ...         ...  142 

Furbelows,    useless    silks, 
frills,    or    gauzes    of    a 

female  dress      4 

Furm,  Fwurm,  form,  bench, 

or  long  seat       4 

Furst,  first,  foremost,  2,  4, 

57  76 
Furze,  firs 

Fuss,  bustle,  tumult            ...  47 
Fustin,  fustian,  coarse  cotton 

cloth       ...         ...         ...  57 

Fuz-baw,  the  puff  ball  fungus  105 

Fwoal,  foal               38 

Fwok,  Fwoke,  folk,  people,  53 

Fworc'd,  forced        ...    2,  13  15 
Fwurm,  a  form.    See  FURM. 


G. 

Ga,  Gae,  to  go  ...     41     61 

Gager,  the  gauger  or  excise- 
officer     ...         ...         ...     55 

Gaily,  pretty  well  in  health    44 
Gairn,  yarn       ...         ...     32     61 

Gam,  game       ...          14,  24     69 
Gambaleery,  a  kind  of  lea 
ther    from    which    the 
better  sorts  of  "  Sunday 
shoon  "  were  made    ...     57 
Gamlers,  gamblers  44    58 


334 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Gammelsby,  Gamelsby,  a 
hamlet  301.  from  Wig- 

toii         41 

Gammle,  to  gamble  ...     12 

Gammerstang,  a  tall 
awkward  person  of  bad 

_       gait         4 

Gan,  began 

Gander,  a  name  of  contempt      8 

Gane,  gone.     See  GEANE. 

Gang,  to  go  i,  2,  25     80 

Gar,  to  compel  13,     u       5 

Garrak,  awkward,  stupid    ... 

Garth,  orchard,  garden,   80     39 

Gat,  got         55 

Gate,  road,  path.     See  GEATE. 
Gavelick,  Geavelick,  an  iron 

crowbar  or  lever  ...     50 

Gawn,  going  ...       5     40 

Gawvison,  a  foolish  person     44 
Gayshen,  a  smock-faced,  silly 
looking,  emaciated  per 
son         ...         ...         ...       2 

Geane,  gone  ...  i,  3,  n     42 

Geape,  gape  ...     54     63 

Gear,  wealth,  money  ;  the 
tackling  of  a  cart  or 
plough  ...  60,  4  12 

Geate,  Gate,  road  or  path, 22     23 
Geavin,  staring  vacantly    ...     76 

Gedder,  gather         75 

Geuse,  goose  ...  4     76 

Gev,  give,  gave         ...         ...     n 

Geyle,  guile 

Gig,    a    light    two-wheeled 

carriage  61 

Gilsden— Gilsland,    18    m. 

from  Carlisle     ...          ...     13 

Girdle.     See  CURDLE. 
Girn,  Gurn,  grin,  4,  29,  30     60 
Gilderoy,  a  famous  robber...     47 
Girt,  great,  3,  4,  54,  12,  16     27 
60 

Git,  get  i,  3,     53 

Gizzern,  gizzard,  the  throat 
Gleid,  the  kite,  the  glede     ...     54 
Gleymin,    Glymin,    to    look 

sideways  ...         28     42 

Gliff,   a   glance,   a   transient 

view       ...         ...         ...     20 

Glime,     Gleyme,     to     look 

obliquely  ...         81     29 

Glowre,  Glower,  to  stare,  8, 

29     60 

Glownn,  staring 
Glump'd,  gloom'd    ...         ...     n 

Gob,  mouth  ...         35     55 

Goddy,  godmother  ...     41 


Song 
59 


Gomas,  a  simpleton 

Gomoral,  Gommarel  a  stu 
pid  felloe 

?Gonny 

Gow,  go.     See  GA 

Gowden,  golden 

Gowd   i'    gowpens,    gold   in 

handfuls  ...  8     41 

Gowdspink,  goldfinch      To  Mary 

Gowk,  the  cuckoo  ;  a  thought 
less,  ignorant  fellow     ...     40 

Gowl,    to   cry   sulkily  ;      to 

weep  i,  '24,    54     81 

Gowpens,  a  handful  ;  the 
two  hands  full.  See 
Gowd. 

Graith,  to  make  ready,  to 
clothe 

Graith'd,  dressed,  accoutred 

Grandideer,  grenadier         25 

Granfader,        Granfadder, 
grandfather 

Granny,  grandmother 

Granson,  grandson  ... 

Gratena, — Gretna    ... 

Grater- feac'd,  marked  with 
small-pox 

Greace,  Grace  ...  i 

Greapt,  grasped 

Greave,  grave 

Greet,  great  ;    Palso  to  weep 

Gretna  :    See  GRATENA. 

?Greybeard  

Greymin,  Grimin,  a  thin 
covering  of  snow 

Greype,  a  three-pronged  in 
strument  for  the  purpose 
of  cleaning  cow-houses, 
&c 

Grizzy 

Groat,  fourpence 

Grossam,    Grousome,    grim 

Grummel,  to  grumble,  8,  38 

Guff,    Goff,    a    fool,     i,    35 

Guid,  Gud,     good,     58,     79 

PGuidman 

Guidepwost,  guidepost 

Gulder,  to  speak  amazingly 
loud,  and  with  a  dis 
sonant  voice 

Gully,  a  large  knife 

Gurdle,  girdle,  the  iron  plate 
on  which  cakes  are 
baked  

Gurn,  grin.     See  GIRN. 

Gurse,  gorse,  or  furze  ;  also, 
grass  

Gusty,  savoury 


45 


GLOSSARY. 


335 


Gwordie,  George 
Gwoat,  goat 


Song 

i 

•      24 


PHack'd,  won  everything  ...     50 
Hae,  have         ...         ...       i       4 

Haffet,  the  forehead  or  tem 
ple          ......... 

Haggish,  haggis        ......     76 

Haked,  weary,  tired 

Hale,  Heale,    whole,    58,    28     66 

Hallan,     Hallen,    partition- 

21 


30 


„          u  ...... 

Han,  hand  ...    4     5 

Hangrell,  a  long  hungry  fel 

low.     See  HANNJEL. 
Hankitcher,  handkerchief          44 
Hannel,  handle,  hence  to  use 

Hanniel,  Hangrell,  a  worth 

less  person  ...     76     8  r 

Hantal,  Hantel,  large  quan 

tity.     See  LOCK  ...     4i 

Hap,  to  cover  ...         ...       A 

Hard,  heard  ...         ...         ...     82 

Hardleys,  Harleys,  hardly  ...     42 
Harraby,   im.  from  Carlisle     34 
Harry,  to  plunder,    to    spoil 
Hat,  hit         .......          ...       4 

Haud,  Hauld,  hold  ;  shelter     13 
Haveril,  a  conceited  foolish 
fellow     ......... 

Havey-scavey,    all    in    con 

fusion     "...  ...  ...        4 

Haver,  Havver,  oats  .     -50 

Haw,  hall          ......     53     49 

?  Hawbuck,  a  country   clown 
Hawf,  half  3,    8,    12     41 

Hawflin,  a  fool         ...  T7 

Hay-bay,    hubbub,     distur- 

bance  44,  53,  76     81 

Hay-stack  ......        5 

Hay-cruik,  a  rod  with  a  barb 
at  its  end  ;   metaphori 
cally  a  long,  lang,  greedy 
man        ...         ...  75 

PHayket-yett  ...        Nathan 

PHayton        .........    !67 

Head-wark,  head-ache        ...     30 
Heale,   whole,   healthy        8       « 
Heame,  home  i,    2,    3,       8 

Heartsome,     cheerful.  Days 

that  are  geane 

Heaste,  haste  ...  i     Io 

Heccup'd,  hiccup'd 
Hed,  had       ...         ...  '     2* 

?Heddersgill  '"    I7, 

Hee,high       ......   3,  I2   'J| 


Heed,  head  ...     3,  15     75 

Heed-wark,  head-ache 
Heet,  height 
PHeight,  The 

Helter,  halter  z 

Helter-skelter,  in  rapid  con 
fusion  ...          ...       ^ 

Hentails,    coarse,    worthless 
Mat-grass,    a   worthless 
person  ...         ...     75 

Herrin-pon,     Herring-pond, 

the  ocean  TAT 

Hersel,  herself 

Hes,  has         

PHesket  75 

Het,  hot         4",       g 

Hether-feaced,  rough  faced      42 
Heup,   hoop  ;      a   six-quart 

measure  ...       Kurn  Winnin 
Hev,  have  3,   12     25 

Heyde,  to  hide          ...          ...     66 

Hidder,  hither 

Highget,  Highgate  ...         '."     6o 

Hillibuloo,  a  great  noise  or 

shouting  ...  76 

Hilthy,  healthy        ...  .     fa 

Hing,  hang  ...          ...     37 

Hinmost,  hindmost 

Hinney,  honey         ...         it.     gj$ 

Hirple,  to  limp 

Hirplin,  h'mping  ...       4     35 

Hiverby,  Upperby,  2m.  from 

Carlisle.     See  By  30 

Hizzy,  huzzy  or  hussy         ...     30 
Hod,  hold  2,    3,    5,    30     44 

Hodden    grey,    cloth    made 

from  undyed  wool 
Holesome,  wholesome         ...     60 
Hoo,  how 
Hopeths,    half-pennyworths 

Daft  Dick 

?HoPS      :..  20 

Horse-cowper,     horse-dealer     44 

See  Cowp. 
PHotch,  to  shake 
Hout  !  pshaw  ! 
Howdey,    Howdy,    a    mid 
wife          ...          ...         A     35 

Howe,  empty  ...     75     5I 

Howe-strowe,  in  great  con- 

„     fusion     Fratch 

Howk,  to  dig,  to  scoop 
Howmes,    holms,    flat    land 

near  water         ...         ...     73 

PHowney,  empty,  dreary  ; 
spoken  of  a  house  deple 
ted  of  furniture 

Hug,  to  squeeze       44 

Hulk,  a  lazy,  clumsy  fellow     36 


336 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Song 

Hoy-boy,  hautboy,    a  high- 
toned  wooden  wind  in 

Kelter,  money              ...     74     81 
Kemp,  to  strive  with 

strument           

81 

Ken,     to     know.     Kent, 

Humiliation,    corr.    of    illu 

known  ;  knew,  2,  41,  60     13 

mination 
Hunsup,  scold,  quarrel  ;     a 

3 

Ken-guid,    the   example   by 
which  we   are   to  learn 

tumult  ;  the  hunt's  up... 

10 

what  is  good      28 

Hur,  her          

78 

Kep,  to  catch            ...         ...     54 

Hursle,  to  raise  up  the  shoul 

Kest,  cast,  to  reckon            ...       4 

ders        

53 

Keswick,    i8m.    from    Pen- 

Hush  
Hussy,  huzzy,    housewife  ... 

43 

24 

rith         ...          ...          ...     49 
Kevvel.     See  KEAVE. 

See  HIZZY. 

Keyndly,     kindly,     benevo 

lent         ...          ...          ...     78 

I',  contraction  of  In 
Ilk,  Ilka,  each,  every,  78,  14, 

21 

24 
II 

Keyte,  Kyte,  the  belly        ...     53 
Kill-dried,  dried  in   a  kiln,     " 
a  parched  and  withered 

•111,  contraction  of  Will       ... 

Kilt,  killed    "                      !"     69 

Pimps            
Inde,  East  Indies     
Ingle,  fire 
Intack,  an  inclosure  of  waste 

14 
9 

Kingwatter,  near  to  Asker- 
ton  and  Gilsland          ...     63 
Kinnel,  kindle          ...         Fratch 
Kist,  chest                69 

land 
Inveyted,  invited     ... 
Irthin,  Irthing,  a  river  near 
Brampton 
I's,  contr.  of  Its  —  I  am  n 
It'll,  contr.  of  It  will 
tther,  other              
Iver,  ever     46 

76 

73 
24 
41 

7 
49 

Kith,     kindred,      acquaint 
ances      ...         ...         ...     18 
Kittle,  to  tickle        ...         44     53 
Kneave,  Knave        ...         ...     60 
Knockle,  knuckle     ...         ...     57 
Knop,    a    tub    having    two 
stave-handles   ...         19     81 
Kurk,  kirk,  church,   4,    7          58 

J 

Kurkan'rew,     Kirkandrew. 

acep,  Jacob            
ant,  jaunt 
aunice,  jaundice     ... 
aw,  mouth.    See  GOB. 
emmy,  James 

60 

16 
58 

Rob  Lowrie 
Kurk  -garth,  church-yard    ...     80 
Kurk-gawn,  church  going  34     66 
Kurn,  Kern,  churn       2,    38     76 
Kurn-supper,   a   feast   after 

en,   Jenny,   Jane,   25,     13 
ew-trumps,  Jews-harps    ... 
eybe,  jibe 
illet,  a  jilt                
ilous,  jealous          

10 
20 
25 
75 
45 

reaping  is  finished       ...     50 
Kurn  Winnin            ...         ...   114 
Kye,  cows,  kine,  cattle,  i,  4, 
22     38 
Kyte,  Keyte,  the  belly        ...     53 

imp,  neat    ... 

57 

obby,     Jwoseph,     Joseph, 
3>     13 

4* 

Laal,  Lile,  Leyle,  little.    See 

'Jock                ...         .„     !? 

21 

LAL. 

follop,  jalap             
fwohnny,  John            ...       7 
fwoke,  joke,  jest,  4,  40,  53, 

76 

56 

PLace,  to  flavour      ...         ...     95 
PLadle            63 
Laggen,   the  angle  between 

30 

25 

the  side  and  bottom  of 

K*      i: 

a  wooden  pail   ...         ...       4 

Scale,    kail,    broth,    8,    20 
ieame,  comb 

26 

Laik,  to  play             ...  24,  32     41 
Laird,  a  proprietor  of  land, 

Ceatey,  Keatie,  Kate 
Keave,  to  leap  about  in  an 
awkward    manner        4 
Keek,  to  peep          ...    33,  5 

7i 

39 
16 

2»   4»   39     53 
Lait,  to  seek              ...         ...     42 
Lake,  to  play.     See  LAIK. 
Lai,  Laal,  Lile,  Leyle,  little, 
3     75 

Kelavey       ... 

4 

Lan,  land      ...         ...         ...     39 

GLOSSARY. 


337 


Song 
Lang,     long.     Langsome, 

wearisome          ...     i,  3       4 
Laalword,  landlord  39     56 

Lant,    a    game    at    cards  ; 

three-card  Loo  ...     30 

Lanters,  the  players  at  Lant 
PLanty  ...          ...          ...     15 

Lap,  leapt  4,   9,    30     71 

Lapsten,  Lapstean,  lapstone 

on  which  a  shoemaker 

beats  his  leather          30     81 

Larn,  learn.  Larnin,  learning    74 
Lash  away,   an  exclamation 

of  encouragement 
Lass,  Lassie,  girl       ...         ...       7 

Latch,  a  wooden  sneck       ...     32 

Lave,  the  rest 34 

Lavrick,  Lavrock,  the  lark  Mary 
Lea,  Ley,  arable  land  in  grass     49 
Leace,  lace     ...          ...          ...       5 

Leady,  lady  ...          ...       9 

Leady-Fair,   at   Wigton,  on 

Lady-Day,  25th  March      8 
Leame,  lame.     Leam'd,  lam 
ed  4,  6    38 
Leane,  alone    (all    one),   21, 

38,    71,    75     73 

Lear,  Leear,  liar       60 

Leate,  late.     Leately,  lately      9 
Leath,  loth,  unwilling          ...     17 
Ledder,  leather         ...         ...     19 

Ledder,    to    strike    with    a 

leather 3 

Ledder-de-patch,  a  plunging 
step   in   a   Cumberland 
dance     ...         ...         30  105 

Ledder-hungry,  a   poor  sort 
of  cheese.    See  WHILLY 

MER  ...  ...  ...       53 

Lee,  a  lie.     Leein,  lying      19     78 
Leed,  lead  (a  metal)  55     81 

Leet,  Leet  on,  to  meet  with  ; 

to  alight  ...    8,  39     41 

Leet,  to  light,  to  set  on  fire        25 
Leethearted,  lighthearted 
Leethet'  lass,    Lewthwaite's 

lass         48 

Leetsome,  lightsome  ...       i 

Leeve,  Leve,  live      ...  6    57 

PLeman,  Lemman,  a  lover... 
Leuf,    Leuv,  Luif,  the  palm 

of  the  hand        76 

Leum,  Luim,  loom  ...     35 

Leyfe,  life      6 

Leyke,  like,     2,     69,     75          80 
Leyle,  little.     See  LAL. 
PLeyne,     a     river     flowing 

through  Kirklinton   To  Crito 


Song 
Lig,  to  lie,  to  lie  down,  i,  12, 

22  41 

Liggin,  lying             ...         ...  2 

Likker,  liquor           ...         ...  74 

Lile,  little.     See  LAL. 

Lilted,  sang  cheerfully       ...  4 

PLimmer,  mischievous 

Link,  to  walk  arm  in  arm    ...  83 

Lish,  Leesh,  active,  strong  2  18 

Lissen,  listen             5 

Loavins,  an  exclamation  of 

surprise  or  delight       ...  55 
Lock,   a  small  quantity  or 

number.     See  Hantal  9  44 

Loff,  Laaf,  Lofe,  offer         ...  19 
Loft,  the  upper  apartment  of 

a  cottage               ...       4  22 
Lonnin,  a  narrow  lane        5  8 
Lopper'd,    coagulated,    cur 
dled        ...         ...         ...  76 

Loup,  leap.    See  LOWP. 
PLoundenn,  large,  immense 

Lout,  an  ,  wkward  clown     ...  47 

"-Low-wood  Nuik     ...          ...  142 

Lowe,  flame,  blaze              ...  9 
Lowp,  Loup,  a  leap,  to  leap, 

5,  20  27 

Lowse,  to  untie,  to  loose      ...  14 

PLowthet  Green       76 

Lug,  a  pull  ;    to  pull         44  55 

Lug,  ear     ...            4,  15,  39  47 
Luif,  palm  of  the  hand.     See 

LEUF. 

Luik,  Leuk,  look,  i,  2,  4,  5,  9  14 

Luikste,  lookest  thou          ...  146 

Luim,  Leum,  loom 35 

Luive,  love                   ...       2  8 

PLunnen  Duns          ...         ...  81 

Lunnon,  London      ...         ...  4 

Lurry,   to  pull  roughly,   to 

hurry  eagerly        ...     76  44 

Lword,  Laird,  lord,      5,     44  57 

Lwordly,  lordly        ...         ...  78 

Lwosers,  losers         ...         ...  44 

Lythey,  thick           ...         ...  30 


PMaff  76 

Maffle,  to  blunder,  to  mislead 
Mailin,  a  farm 

Main,  the  chief  prize  ...   116 

Mair,  more  ...         ...       i 

Maist,  Meast,  most  ...       4 

Maister,  master,     14,     50        42 
Mak,  make,  to  make          ...        i 

See  MEAKE. 
Maks,  sorts.     Aw  maks,  all 

sorts      35     81 


33* 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 
?MaUy  76 

Mangrel,  mongrel     46 

Mant,  to  stutter       

Mantin,  stuttering   ...         38     54 
Mappen,  it  may  happen      ...     24 
March,  a  landmark  or  boun 
dary 

Marget,  Margaret,  64,  38,  41  18 
Marra,  Marrow,  equal,  20,  27, 

56     78 
Marraless,    Marrowless,    not 

of  the  same  sort  ...       8 

Matty,  Martha          9 

Maun,  Mun,  must      61 

Mauna,  Munnet,  must  not  ...   101 
Mazle,  Mazzle,  Maze,  to  won 
der  as  stupified  9    42 
Meade,  made             4,   3,    25     41 

Meake,  Mek,  make 8 

See  MAK. 

PMeanders,  murmurs  ...     73 

Meast,  Maist,  most  ...       4 

Meat-heal,  meeat-heal,  heal 
thy  ;  having  a  healthy 
appetite 

Meedow,  meadow  5,  9  57 
Meeght,  Med,  Mud,  might  ...  61 
Meer,  a  mare  ...Peet-Cadger 

?  Meer' lad     4 

Mell,  to  meddle        

Mense,  to  improve   ...         ...     61 

Mensefu,   hospitable,   gener 
ous 
Mess,  indeed,  truly,  "  by  the 

"  mass  !  "         ...     3,  10     16 
Mey,  my.     Meyne,  mine     ...     69 
Meynd,  mind,  don't  neglect      63 
PMeyner        ...         ...         ...     76 

Meyte,  mite,  a  small  quan 
tity  62 

Mickle,  Muckle,  Mitch,  much 

3t  4        9 

Midden,  a  dunghill  ...  4       8 

Mid-neet,  midnight,  46  52 
Mid-thie,  mid-thigh  ...  39 

Mind,     remember,     call     to 

mind          ...      8,  9,  14,     41 
Minnywhits,  minuets  ...    105 

Mittens,  Mits,  gloves  19,  51 
Moider'd,  bewildered,  con-  ' 

fused      

Moilin,  pining,  drudging  ...  n 
Monie,  many  ...  i,  2,  4 

?  Mosstroopers,   border   free 
booters 
Mouter,  multure,  toll  or  fee 

for  grinding  corn          ...     76 
Mowdywarp,  mould  thrower, 

a  mole  ...         ...     44 


Song 

Mowdywarp  Farm   ... 
Muck,  dung  ;     to  carry  out 

the  dung              ...         i  3 

Muckle,  great.     See  MICKLE.  76 
Mud,   might  or  must.     See 

MEEGHT.             3,  5,   12  55 

Mudder,     mother,        i,     3,  7 
Muin,  Meun,  Mooan,  moon, 

17,  3,  8  57 

Mump,  to  sulk          ...         ...  38 

Mun,  must                        3,  5,  7 

Munnet,  must  not                  2  72 

Murry,  merry               ...     41  3 
Murry-neet     or     Tansy,     a 

night    appropriated    to 

mirth                       i,    30  52 

Mustert,  mustard     ...          ...  ;  > 

Mworn,  morn            ...         ...  2 

Mwornin,  morning   ...          ...  9 

Mwosey,  Moses         ...          ...  ?4 

PMwosin,  musing      ...          ...  58 

My  leane,  alone,  by  myself...  u? 

Mysel,  myself           ...         ...  2 


Nabab,  Nabob,  anyone  who 
returns    to    his    native 
district,  after    realising 
an  ample  fortune        ...     60 
Nae,  Nea,  Nee,  no,        3,     4,     28 
Naig,  horse,      3,    4,    39,    57     63 
Nar,  near  ...         ...       3     76 

Narlins,  nearly  ...    Nathan 

Narrashen,  for  Narration  ...     60 
Nattle,  to  strike  slightly    ...     53 
Nattier,    a    player    on    the 
"  bones  "  or  short  pieces 
of  bone  held  between  the 
fingers  and  shaken       ...     76 
Naturable,  for  natural        ...     fci 
Navies,  fleets  of  ships          ...     14 
Nayshen,  nation 
Neaf,  Neeaf,  fist.     See  NEEF. 
Neame,  name  8,     25     28 

Neane,  none  ...          ...     38 

Neb,  nose      ...         ...         ...     35 

Neckleth,    neckcloth,    hand 
kerchief  60 

Nee,  no.     See  NAE. 

Neef,  Neeve,  fist.     See  NEAF       2 

Neegers,  negroes       ...         ...     58 

Ne'er  ak,  nerer  mind     6,  44     76 
Neest,  Neist  ...       a       4 

Neet,  Neeght,  night,  i,  2,  3, 

5,  8,  9     78 


GLOSSARY. 


339 


Song 
Neibor,    Neybor,    neighbour 

24,  32,  41,  78 

Nether  Welton         ...         ...  76 

New-fangled,   new-fashioned  12 

PNewlans,  Newlands            ...  76 

Neyce,  nice                    i,  5,  7  39 

M-ChGl  i      •    Ui          -     3>  I5  l82 

Nimmel,  nimble       ...         ...  29 

Nin,  none          ,    41,    28,    52  58 
Nit,  not  ;    also  a  nut           23 

Niver,  never              ...     3,  8,  9 
Nobbet,  only,  nought  but     i, 

2,  3,  5  8 
Noggin,   a  little  mug  ;      an 

eighth  part  of  a  quart  33 
?Nbne-such   ...         ...           Youth 

Noo,  now 

PNope,  a  blow  on  the  head  ... 

Nor,  used  for  than    ...           2  54 
Nout,    Nowt,    nothing,    not 

aught                 ...         ...  en 

Nowt,  cattle             3 

Nowt    at    dowe,    not    over 

good.     See  Dow             i  95 

Nowther,  neither       ...  12,  16  56 
Nuik,   Neuk,   nook,   corner. 

Nwoble,  noble          ...    *'  37  44 

Nwose,  nose                  54,  55  59 

Nwotion,  notion                  ...  12 

Nwotice,  Nwotish     76 


Oald,  old.     See  AUL. 
Oaners,    owners.     See    Aw- 

NERS. 
Od,  an  oath  ...         ...       2 

Od  wheyte   leet   on,   God's 

blame  fall  on     ...         ...       2 

Oddments,  articles  of  no  great 

value      ...          ...          ...     53 

Odswinge,    a    rustic    oath. 

God's  wounds   ...         ...       3 

Odswunters,  an  oath  ...     60 

Often,  often 

*°9&>  -     76 

Ome,  Ony,  any  i,   3     3g 

Onset,     onstead,     dwelling-     * 

house  and  out  buildings       g 
On't,  foro/#  ...  .     44 

Oor,  our        

Oot,  out 

Oppem'd,  opened     44 

Or,  ere,  before  ...      3,  4     68 

Ought,  aught,  anything       ...     76 
Ousen,  oxen 
Ower,  Owre,  over,  2,  3,  4,  8, 

Owther,  either         ...       i,  9     32 


P  Song 

Paddock  rud,  frog  sprawn  ...     38 
Palace,  Palles,  cor.  of  Pelisse   61 

Pang'd,  quite  full     3O 

Pant,  a  cistern,  or  reservoir       76 
Parfet,  perfect  ...         24.     s6 

Parlish,  wonderful   ...         ..?     ' 
Pash,  very  wet  ;     to  throw 
down  with  great  force  ... 
Parson,  intended  for  person     60 
Pasture,  grass-field  for  graz 
ing  ...  ...  ,5 

Pat,  put         2     I0 

Pate,  head     

Patrit,  Patriot  (Carlisle  news 
paper)    ...          GilsdenSpaw 
.Haughty,  proud  and  haughty 
Paut,  to  walk  heavily,  as  a 

goose  does          ...          ...       4 

Pawky,  sly,  too  familiar     ... 
Paw  mair,  stir  more  27 

Peat.     See  PEET. 
Pech,  to  pant  with  a  stifled 

groan     ...         ...         ...       t 

Peed,  one  eyed         ...         ...       i 

Peer,  Puir,  poor     i,  2,  4,  13     16 
Peet,   Peat,  a  fibrous  moss 

used  for  fuel      ...  4     16 

Peet-heet,    the  height   of  a 

peat ;  about  knee  high  6     16 

Pel-mel,  quickly       2 

Penny-pie,  a  fall  on  the  ice  103 
Pennysteanes,    stones    used 
instead   of  pennies   for 

quoits  50 

Pentes,  penthouse 54 

Pet,  a  sudden  fit  of  peevish 
ness,  petulant 38 

Pettikits,  petticoats  ...     5« 

Pett'rel,  Petteril,  river  flow 
ing  into  the  Eden         ...   126 
Pewder,  pewter,  an  alloy  of 

lead  and  tin       ...       105     30 
Peyne,  pine 

Peype.pipe  ...         ;5     32 

Fez,  pease  43,  44     53 

Fez-stack       3g 

Pez-strae,  pease  straw  .     s? 

Pick,  pitch *$ 

Pick'd  the  fwoal,  foaled  be 
fore  the  natural  time  ...     38 
Piggen,  a  wooden  dish         35     76 
Pilgarlic,  a  simpleton  3     60 

Pinchbeck,   alloy  of  copper 

and  zinc ...     75 

Fitter,  of  cocks,  a  cocker   ... 

Pittin,put 20 

Flack,  a  very  small   copper 

coin         58,  6 r       6 


340 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Pleace,  place           i,     3.     5  5° 

Pleague,  plague        ...         ...  69 

Pleanin,  Pleenin,  complain 
ing         ...         ...         ...  41 

Pleugh,  plough         2 

Plewman,  ploughman         ...  16 
Plied,  read  his  book            ...  32 
Plishure,  pleasure    ...  62,  67  80 
Pluiks,  Plouks,  Pleuks,  pim 
ples        54 

Poddish,    pottage,    porridge 

26  56 

Point,  salt     63 

Pome,  poem             ...         ...  99 

Pops   an   pairs,  a   game  at 

cards      ...         ...         ...  47 

For,  poker     84  105 

Posset,    milk    curdled   with 

wine  or  acid      ...         ...  57 

Potticary,  Pottiker,  apothe 
cary       34 

Pou,  pull.     Poud,    pulled    4  8 

12,  40  60 

Pouder,  powder       ...         ...  74 

Pow,  Powe,  Powl,  the  head, 

the£o«              ...         74  78 

Powney,  pony          81 

Pox,  the  cow-pox     ...         ...  3 

Prent,  print              ...         ...  35 

Preyde,  pride           61 

Preyme,  to  fill          76 

Prickly  board,  when  a  person 

is  penniless 

Prod,  thrust             ...         ...  13 

Pruive,  prove,         3,    7,    38  41 

Puil,  pool                  ...         ...  39 

Puir,  Peer,  poor 

Puirtith,  poverty     ...  Mary 

Pun,  pound               ...            6  21 

Punch,  to  strike  with  the  feet  4 
Purn,   Pirn,   a    cylinder    of 
wood,  round  which  the 

weft  was  wound           ...  63 

Puzzen,  poison        9,   35   41  81 
Pwoke,     poke,     Pwokie,     a 

little  poke         ...         ...  29 

Pwort,  port               ...         ...  72 

Pwosey,  posy,  a  bouquet    ... 

Quality,    applied    to 
and  gentlemen 


ladies 


Rader,  Raider,    rather       78  81 

Raff,  Ralph              64 

Rakin,  rambling  idly           ...  lo 
Ram,  rank,  strong,  offensive 

smell  or  taste    ... 

Rammel,  ramble      ...         ...  81 


Song 
Rash,  a  rush  ;      also    brisk, 

hearty 41     59 

Rattens,  rats  ...          ...     51 

Reace,  race  ...         ...     44 

Reake,  rake  2 

Reape,  Rape,  rope  ...     47 

?  Rear,  to  rise  ;  to  rally 
Reave,    to    roam    about    or 
talk  in  a  state  of  great 
energy        ...         ...     56     66 

Reavelled  an  tewt,  so  much 
entangled    that    it    can 
scarcely  be  undone 
Reed,   red,         2,   8,   25,   59     67 

Reed-watter 58 

Reek,  smoke  ...         ...       4 

Reet,  right     ...  i,  3,  8     18 

Resh,  rush.     See  RASH. 

Reyder,  rider  44 

Reydin,  riding          ...          ...     72 

Rheyme,  rhyme        ...          ...     66 

Rickergeate,    Rickergate,    a 

street  in  Carlisle  ...     81 

PRiever,  a  border  freebooter 
Riff-raff,   a   disorderly    per 
son  ;    a  low  crowd      26     76 
Rin,  run         ...          ...  i       7 

Rock,   the  distaff  ;      an  in 
strument  used  in  spin 
ning        ...          ...16,    38     69 

Rosley,  a  village  4m.  from 

Wigton  ...  i     46 

Roughness,  plenty,  store  ...  22 
Roun,  round  ...  4  n 

?Rowe 

Row  up,  to  devour 175 

Rowth,  abundance 
Royster'd,    vociferated, 

laughed  loudly 
Ruddy,  ready 

Rumpus,    disturbance,    up 
roar 

Ruse,  arose,  got  up,  4,  23,  31     61 
Russel,  wrestle          ...          ...     27 

Russlin,  wrestling  ...  120  27 
Rust,  rest,  repose  ...  41  56 
Rwoar,  roar.  Rwoarin, 

roaring  ...  4     30 

Rwogue,  rogue         57 

Rwose,  rose 

Rwosie,  rosy  ...         ...     23 

S 

Sackless,  orig.  innocent, 
guiltless  ;  now  feeble, 
useless,  incapable  of  ex 
ertion 

Sae,  so  I       3 

Sair,  sore        ...         ...      i,  4     38 

Sairy,  sorry,  pitiable  i       9 


GLOSSARY. 


34i 


Song 

Sone 

Sal,  shall       13 

41 

Sel,  self          

i 

Sailer,   cellar  ;    a  cell  under 

Selt,  sold       6 

12 

fairground               ...         54 

60 

Sen',  seyne,  since     ... 

Sampleth,     sampler,     orna 

Serous,  serious 

mental  canvas  work    ... 

27 

Set,  Sett,  to  be  a  partner  in 

San,  sand          4 

72 

a   dance  ;       to    accom 

Sang,  song     

40 

pany  in  a  walk,  i,  8,  23 

7o 

Sark,  shirt  or  shift,  2,  3,  20, 

Setterday,  Saturday 

2 

Sarra,      to     serve.     Sarrat, 

60 

Seugh,   Sough,   Sowe,   ditch 
Seyde,  side,            2,     6,     24 

50 
50 

served                   ...2  50 

61 

Seyke,    Syke,    a    gutter,    a 

Sarten,  certain             ...     55 

57 

stream 

Sarvant,  servant          ...      50 

56 

Seyne,  since              ...           2 

4 

Sattle,  a  settle,  or  long  seat 

Seypers,  Sypers,  those  who 

41, 

61 

drink  to  the  last    drop 

30 

Sattled,  settled         

22 

Shaff,    Shaugh,    chaff,   non 

Sault,  Saut,  Sawt,  salt,  6,  69 

72 

sense                      ...     76 

81 

PSawney,  Nickname 
Scalder'd,  scawder'd,  scalded 

4 
19 

Shag,  a  slice.     See  BUTTER 

SHAG 

13 

Scar,  Scaur,  a  bare  place  on 

Sha'  not,  Sannot,  shall  not... 

46 

the  side  of  a  steep  hill 

38 

Sheame,  Shem,  shame       32 

45 

Scart,    Scrat,    scratch       54 

78 

Sheap'd,  shaped 

8 

Sceape-grace,   scapegrace,  a 

Shearing,  reapin 

graceless  fellow             i 

76 

Sheer,  Shear,  to  reap 

Scearce,  Skearce,  scarce 

Shek'd,  shaken         

I 

Schuil,  school                 3,     8, 

57 

Shek,  Sheck,  shake           i,  3 

8 

Scon,  Scone,  a  cake  made  of 

Shettle,  schedule,  inventory 

53 

wheat  or  barley  meal  ... 

53 

Shevin,  a  shaving     ... 

40 

Scotty  kye,  Scotch  cows     ... 

6 

Sheyne,     shine.     Sheynin, 

Scowp,  scoop  ;  a  tin  or  iron 

shining                   ...     61 

73 

dish        

Shift,  Skift,  to  remove 

44 

Scraffle,  struggle,  scramble 
Scrat,  scratch.      See  SCART. 

6 

Shilapple,  Shieldapple,  Chaf 
finch           

« 

Screap,  to  collect  ;  to  scrape 

Shill-house,  cold,  chill 

3-8 

up           9 

41 

Shoon,    shoes.     See    SHUN. 

Scribe  of  a  pen,  a  line  by  way 
of  letter 

32 

12,  24,  51 
Shot,  a  reckoning     

6r 
16 

Scrudge,  squeeze 

44 

Shot  of,  freed  from 

Scruffins,  ruffians     

76 

Shouder,  shoulder    ... 

76 

Scwore,  score 

32 

Shoul,  shovel 

53 

Scworn,  scorn 

51 

Shuffle,  to   scrape   with  the 

Seafe,  safe                     3,     38 
Seame,  same,  identical    i,  2 

78 
5 

feet  ;   to  evade 
Shuik,  shook             ...         24 

32 

Seap,  Seape,  soap,                14 

78 

Shun,  for  Shoon,  shoes 

81 

Seave,  save,  except 

78 

Shwort,  short           ...         72 

78 

Sebemteen,  seventeen 

5 

Shwort-keakes,     rich     fruit 

Sec,  Seccan,  Siccan,  such    ... 

i 

cakes  as  presents  to 

Seebem,  Seeben,  seven,  3,  6, 

sweethearts       ...           7 

44 

57 

58 

Sibby,  Sibel  

47 

Seed,  saw,  did  see        2,  3, 

10 

Silly,  a  term  of  sympathy  or 

Seegh,  sigh,      7,   32,   19,   40 

56 

respectful     endearment 

Seek,  sick      

103 

Sin',  since 

77 

Seer,  sure.      Seerly,     surely 
47,  56,  60 
See't,  contr.  oiseeit 

81 

Sin'  seyne,  since  that  time  15 
Siplin,  sapling,  twig  full  of  sap 
Sizel,  Sizle,  to  go  about,  to 

19 
60 

Seevy,  rushy.     Seevy  caps, 

saunter              ...         60 

76 

tall  comical  caps  made 
of  rush 

*4 

Skeap'd,  escaped 
?Skale,  to  spread  or  throw 

34 

Sect,  sight     ...          9,  25  78 

81 

about     ... 

342 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Skeape-greace,  scape-grace  i     76 
PSkelp,  to  whip  or  beat 
Skewball.     A    person    who 
sings     Skewball,     sings 
without  time  or  tune  ...     39 
Skeybeils,    good-for-nothing 

persons  ...          58     76 

PSkiddaw,     mountain    near 

Keswick  ...  26,  60     67 

Skift,  Shift,  to  remove 
Skirl,  to  shriek         ...  8     50 

Slae,  slee,  sloe  or  blackthorn 
Slap,  a  smack  ;  to  beat      ...     19 

Slape,  slippery         35 

PSlatter,  spill  

Sleate,  slate  20 

SLee,  sly         

Slee-black,  Slae-black,  black 

as  sloes  ...         ...       6 

PSleuth-hound,    the    blood 
hound    ... 

Slink,  an  idle  person 
Slink,  to  walk  away  abjectly; 

to  sneak  ...         ...       i 

Slocken,  to  quench  thirst  115     76 
Smart,  smart  money  ...     25 

Sma',  Smaw,  small  4     70 

Smiddy,  smithy       ...         ...       3 

PSmittal,  Smittle,  to  infect  ; 

infectious 
Smudder,  smother 
Smuik,  smoke          4,  18,  41     69 
Smutty,  obscene      ...         ...     30 

Snafflin,  a  trifling,  contemp 
tible  fellow        

Snap,   a  small   gingerbread 
cake.     Also,     a     dog's 

name          44     79 

Snaw,  snow  ...       7     13 

Sneck,  Snick,  the  latch  of  a 

gate  or  door      ...         ...     10 

Sneck  posset,  a  disappoint 
ment 

Snell,  sharp,  biting  (of  wind) 
Sneype,  a  snipe        ...         ...     63 

Snift  rin,  sniffling,  sneaking     53 
Snip,     Snippy,     a    byname 

for  a  tailor  ...       4       8 

Snout-banded,  having  an  iron 

plate  on  the  toe  of  a  clog  8 1 
Snurl,  to  snarl,  to  wrinkle  59 
Snwore,  snore.  Snworin,  7 

snoring 
Sonsy,  lucky,  generous,  plump 

and  in  good  condition  23 
Souple,  supple,  pliant  ...  4 
Soun,  sound,  weighty  ...  37 
Sour-milk,  butter-milk  ...  4 


Song 
Sous,    a    French    coin,    the 

S0!<              12 

Souse,  to  plunge  or  immerge  40 

Sowdger,  soldier       ...         ...  25 

PSowerby      76 

Spak,  spoke              ...         ...  46 

Speatry          44 

Speckets,  spectacles            ...  60 

Speyce,  spice           ...         ...  4 

Speyte,  in  spite  of    ...         ...  42 

Splet,  split 4 

Spot,  a  place  of  service       ...  24 

Spuin,  spoon            ...         ...  57 

Spunky,  sparkling 7 

Spwort,  sport            ...         34  53 

PStairnmire               76 

Stan,  stand              ...         12  60 

Standert,  standard  ...         ...  76 

Starken,  to  tighten,  to  stiff  en  53 
Statesman,    an   (statesman  ; 
one   living  on  his  own 

land        

Staws,  stalls             Si 

Stays,  corsets            ...         ...  66 

Stean,  stone              ...         ...  ro 

Stean-  deef,  stone-deaf        ...  71 

Steek,  Steuk,  to  shut           ...  7 
Stegshe-Stagshaw,  2  m.  from 
Corbridge.       Noted  for 

Horse  Fairs      81 

Stewt,  stewed           76 

Steyfe,  steam,  dust             ...  37 

Steyle,  stile               2 

Steyme,  Styme,  a  light  ;  the 
faintest    form    of    any 

object    ...         ...         ...  60 

Stibble,  stubble        25 

Stick  in  't,  a  glass  of  spirits 

added  to  the  pint  of  beer  76 

Sticks,  furniture       ...         ...  36 

Stomich,  stomach    ...         ...  i 

Stoun,  a  sudden  and  tran 
sient  pain          ...         ...  34 

Stour,  Stoure,  dust              ...  24 

Stoury,  Stoory,  dusty          ...  28 

Stown,  stolen            ...         41  60 

Stowre,  a  s'take        ...        125  146 

Stowt,  to  furnish      ...         ...  115 

Stowter,     to    struggle  ;     to 

walk    clumsily       8,    38  81 

Strack,  struck                        2  4 

Strae,  Strea,  straw             21  24 

Strang,  strong          57 

StrarTpin,  tall  

Streenin,  strainin     ...         ...  35 

Streyt,  straight        59 

Strowe           120 

Stuid,  stood                    4,   9,  24 


GLOSSARY. 


343 


Song 

Stuil,  a  stool    20,    4,    3,    69  24 

Stuil,  Stule,  stole     ...         20  64 

Struive,  strove         ...         ...  21 

Struttin,  strutting    ...         ...  55 

Stur,  stir        ...         55 

Stut'rin,  stuttering              ...  4 

Stwory,  story           ...         ...  i 

Subscription,  for  description, 

an  address  of  a  letter   ...  60 

Sud,  should               ...     3,  32  2 
Suds,  to  be  in,  to  be  sullen 

or  peevish         ...         ...  76 

Suggar,  Sugger,  sugar           4  20 

Suit,  soot       

PSukey          28 

Summet,    somewhat,    some 
thing      ...         ...         29  60 

Sumph,  a  block-head           2  33 

Suppwort,  support  ...         ...  62 

PSusy,     Susan,    or  Susanna  66 

Swally,  to  swallow   ...          ...  54 

Swap,  Swop,     to     exchange  3 

Swat,  sit  down         ...         41  81 
?Sweer,  lazy,  averse 

Sweyne,  swine          ...         ...  2 

Sweyne-hull,   a    small    shed 

for  pigs              ...         ...  79 

Swop,  to  exchange.  See 

SWAP. 

Swope,  a  sup              34,    52,  26 

Sworrofu,  sorrowful...         ...  3 

Sworry,  sorry            ...      6,  9  II 
Syke,    Seyke,    a    gutter,    a 

stream  

PSymie          ...          ...           i  70 

Sypers.    See  SEYPERS. 


Ta,  this.     Ta  year— this  year 

See  TE. 
Ta'en,  taken  ...         ...       3 

Tailyor,    tailor.    See  TEAY- 

LEAR 

Taistrel,  Waistrel,    a   scoun 
drel        ...         ...         32  41 

Tak,  take      „.  9 

Tamer — Tamar         ...      4-9  40 

Tane,   Teane,   the  one      15  63 

Tarn'd,  ill-natured               ...  19 
Tarraby,  a  hamlet  rm.  from 

Carlisle               ...          ...  34 

Tatey,  potato           ...         76  63 

Taw,  tall        ...  65 

Taws,  a  strap  of  leather  slit 
into  several   tails,   and 

used  for  punishment    ...  28 

Te,  this.  Te  year— this  year  51 

Teable,  table            ...         ...  4 


Song 
Teakin,  taking          ...         ...     76 

Teale,  tale        3     15 

Teane,  the  one.    See  TANE. 
Teane,  ta'en,  taken  ...     36 

Tearan,  Tearin,  tearing      ...     50 
?  Tease,     to    importune,    to 

pester     ... 
Teasty,  tasteful        ...         ...     53 

Teath,  teeth  40 

Teaylear,  Teylear,  a  tailor  4      8 
Tee,  thee       ...         ...         ...       i 

Te-dee,  Te-dea,  Te-dui,  to  do 

19.  36     76 

Teeght,  tight  54 

PTegedder,  together 

Tek,  Tak,  take         ...      3,4      6 

Telt,  telled,  told       n 

Tern,  them    ... 

Teugh,  tough  ...         ...     53 

Tew,  to  fatigue         

Teyde,  the  tide         72 

Teydey,    tidy,     16,    23,    26     66 
Teydins,  tidings       ...         ...     20 

Teyme,  time          4,    61,    76     81 

PTeyney,  tiny,  small 

PTeype,  type 

Thar,  Thur,  these  or  those  ... 

Thee,  for  thy  ...         ...       5 

Theek,  thatch  

Theer,  there  

Theer's,  there  is        

Thick,  friendly,  intimate    ... 
Thie,  thigh    ...         ...         ...     39 

Thimmel,  thimble    ...         ...     47 

Thirl,  to  pierce.     See  THURL. 
Thivel,   Thyvel,   a  porridge 

stick       105 

Thockin,  a  lisping  mode  of 

pronouncing  shocking...       4 
Thof,  though  ...         ...    175 

Thoo,  thou 

There,  those.     See  THUR. 
Thorpe,  a  village 
Thou'll,  Tou'll,  thou  wilt    ...     10 
Thoum,     Thoom,    Thum, 

thumb  ...         15     19 

Thowt,  thought,4,  8,  9, 15,  37     60 
Thrang,  throng,     2,     6,  55 

Threap,  threep,  to  argue  ;  to 

aver  ...     35     81 

Threed,  thread         8 

Threepin,  arguing     ...         ...     55 

Threesome,  three  together,  i     76 
PThrelket,  a  village  near  Kes- 

wick       ...         ...         ...     81 

Threyce,  thrice 

Thropple,  the  windpipe       ...     30 

Throssle,     throstle,    Auld 

Hollow  Tree      , 


344 


GLOSSARY. 


Song 

Song 

Thrwoat,  throat 

81 

Tworn,  torn 

Thuirsby,    a     village     6m. 

Twote,  the  whole  lot 

74 

from  Carlisle         ...       4 

34 

Thum,  thumb.     See  THOUM 

15 

U 

Thur,  these  or  those          16 
Thurl,  Thirl,  to  pierce 
Thurteen,  thirteen  
Thurty,  thirty          
Thysel,  thyself         
Tig,  to  touch  lightly 
Tig-touch-wood,  a  game     ... 
Ti',  Till,  to      9-« 
Tindal  Fell,  a  few  miles  from 

28 
66 

3 

21 
*4 

39 

Udsbreed,  an  oath    ... 
Unco,  Unket,  very  ;  strange 
Unlarned,    unlearned,    un 
taught    
Unsarra'd,  unserved 
Upbank,  uphill,  upwards,  58 
Uphod,     uphold,     warrant, 
vouch  for 
Upperby,  near  Carlisle.     See 

37 
44 

14 

& 

60 

Brampton 

2 

HlVERBY. 

Titter,  sooner           
Titty,  sister                 ...i,  19 
Tizzy,  sixpence 

183 
22 
55 

Upseyde,  upside 
Upshot,  a  merry  meeting  in 
a  barn,  for  music  and 

Toddle,  to  walk  unstably,  n 

24 

dancing 

Tom-beagle,  the  cock-chafer, 

Urchin,    hedgehog.     Used 

Yt 

mth 

jocosely  for  a  child 

38 

To-mworn,  to-morrow 

i 

Top,    Topper,    of    a    good 

v 

quality,         3,     22,     27 
Torkin,  a  hill  near  Crofton 

4 

Vaprin,    vapouring,    boast 

Hall        

54 

ing 

4 

Tou.  thou       i, 

10 

Varmen,  Varment,  vermin 

Tou's  —  thou  is,  for  thou  art 
Tou'll,  thou  will       

IO 
IO 

Varra,  very   2,  3,  4 
Varse,  verse 

5£ 

Tought,  taught 

Vathly,   a  lisping   mode  of 

Towerts,  towards        ...     72 

76 

pronouncing  vastly 

4 

PTowertly,  kindly,  willingly 

Veyle,  vile     

Trepan,  to  allure,  to  catch 

24 

Trible,  treble            

58 

W 

Trig,  tight  ;   neat,  trim 
Trimmel,  tremble    ... 
Trinkums,    trinkets,    useless 

29 

21 

Waak,  weak              
Wa  or  Wey,  dang  it,  an  oath 
Wad,  would                 ...       4 

78 

2 

8 

finery     ... 
Trippet,  a  small  piece  of  wood 
obtusely    pointed,    and 

I 

Waddle,  to  walk  from  side 
to  side    
Wadden't,    Wadn't,    would 

3 

used  for  a  game           8 

5O 

Trouncin,  a  beating 
Trow,  to  believe       
Trowin,  truant         ...         97 

28 

4 

12 

not       ...         ...         ...4 
Wae,  sorry,  sorrowful,  a  woe 
Warner,  a  waverer   ... 
Waistrel,  a  scoundrel 

5 

53 
27 

Tudder,  the  other,  3,  30,  25 

57 

Wake,  weak.     See  WAAK. 

Tui,  too,  or  to             ...         7 

61 

Wale,  choice.     See  WE  ALE. 

Tuik,  took,  2,  4,  9,         32 
Tuith-wark,  tooth-ache 

H 

Wample,  Wampool  ... 
Wan,  did  win 

4 

27 

Tuil,  Teul,  tool         

46 

Wanter,  a  person  who  wants 

Tull,  to          41 

70 

a  wife  or  a  husband  40 

71 

Tummel,  tumble      ...          3 

26 

War,  Warse,  worse,  i,  9,  38, 

Tuppens,  two-pence 

5 

25,  60 

72 

Turney,  attorney 

58 

War-day,  work-day          28 

39 

Twea,  Twee,  two,   i,  2,   n 

6 

Wark,  work              ...       2,  4 

J3 

Tweesome,     two     in     com 

Warl,  Warld,  world,  2,  5,  7 

18 

pany          ...         ...     n 

56 

Warn,  to  assure,  to  warrant 

Tweyce,  twice               41,  61 

25 

Warnell         

76 

Tweyne,  twine 

22 

Warse,  worse.    See  War. 

Twonty,  twenty 

50 

Watna  —  wot  not,  do  not  know 

66 

GLOSSARY. 


345 


Song 

Watter,  water              ...       8  22 

Watty,  Walter             ...       2  24 

Waw,  wall         41  53 

Wawby,  a  personal  surname  4 

Weade,  wade            8 

Weage,  wage                ...     24  60 

Weager,  wager             ...       5  76 

Weale,  to  choose.     See  WALE  40 

Weame,  breast,  stomach  ...  76 

Weast,  the  waist          ...     55  69 
Weastcwoat,  waistcoat,  27, 

55  fio 

Weastry,  wastefulness       ...  76 
Webster,  a  weaver.     See 

WOBSTER. 

Wedder,  a  wether  sheep      ...  3 

Weddet,  wedded      ...         54  7i 

Wee,  little     52 

Weel.well        2-3  4 

Weel-shep'd,  well  shaped   ... 
Welton,  Nether  Welton      ... 

Weshin,  washing      ...         ...  76 

Wey,  why  !               ...         ...  12 

Weyde,  wide             ...         ...  73 

Weyde-gobb'd,      wide 

mouthed 

Weyfe,  wife,    i,    5,    32,    41  71 
Weyl,  wild.     Weyldly,  wild 
ly            72 

Weyne,  wine            ...         60,  61 

Weyte,  Wyte,  blame           ...  38 
Weyte,  weight 

Whack,  thwack  or  blow      ...  4 
Whae,  Whea,  Whee,  who    ... 

Whaker,  Quaker      8 

Whang,  a  blow          ...          ...  4 

Whart,  a  quart,           3,      54  76 

Whee,  who.     See  WHAE       2  6 

Wheel,  the  spinning  wheel  ...  72 
Wheezlin,  drawing  the  breath 

with  difficulty       38 

Whey-feaced,  smock-faced  39 

Wheyle,  a  while,  until         ...  4 

Wheyles,  sometimes            ...  3 

Wheyn'd,  whined,         2,     41  55 
Wheynin,     whining.     See 

WHININ. 

Wheyte,  quite  ;   white,   i,  3,     8 

60,     61,  72 

Wheytefit,  nickname           ...  2 
Whiet,  quite.  Whietly,  quiet 
ly                         38,     55  69 
Whiff,  a  puff  ;  a  blast         ...  33 

Whilk,  which  

Whillymer,     Whillmoor.     A 

poor  sort  of  cheese      ...  27 

Whinge,  to  weep,  to  whine  25 
Whinin,    whining.     See 
WHEYNIN 


Song 
Whisht !      hush  !      quiet !, 

*>    2i    7     35 

Whissen-Monday,      Whit 


Monday 
Whitten,  Whitehaven 


Whoal,  whol,  a  hole 

Whoar,  where 

Whoar,  whether 

Whop,  Whope,  hope,  3,  n     14 

PWhorns        60 

Whornpeype,     hornpipe,     4     24 
Whupper  snapper,  a  term  of 

contempt 

Whuppin,  whipping 
Whurry,  wherry  ...       3       4 

Whusky,  whisky       ...          ...     53 

Whussenday,  Whit  Sunday, 

2     35 

Whussel,  Whustle,  whistle  16     39 
Whuzzin,  whizzing  ...          ...      15 

Whiet,  quiet 

Whye,     Wheye,     Quey,     a 

heifer     ...         ...         ...       3 

Wi',  Wid.with  ...     n     20 

Widout,  without,      3,   5,   6    40 
PWigganby  ...         ...     34 

Win,  wind,  22,  41,  51,  57,63,     79 
Windy,  noisy,  talkative 
Winna,  will  not.     See  WUN- 

NET. 

Winnins,  winnings  ... 
Wizzan,  Wizzen,  the  gullet     53 

Woath,  oath  74 

Webster,  Webster,  a  weaver    35 
Worchet,   orchard,    u,    41,     57 

Worder'd,  ordered 60 

Wordy,  worthy  ...     49     58 

Worton,    Orton,    sm.    from 

Carlisle  ...       4, 76, 44 

Wosler,  hostler         ...         ...     76 

Wot,  oat        ...  4,     51     60 

Wrang,    wrong,  i,    4,     20 

Wull,will      43 

Wullin,  willing         

Wully,  William,        i,   4,    13     43 
Wun,  to  dwell  ...         ...     29 

Wunnet,    Winna,   will    not, 

i,   6,   7,   41     67 
Wurried,  worried      ...         ...       3 

Wursle,  wrestle        ...         ...     41 

Wustler,  wrestler     ... 
Wyte,  blame.    See    WEYTE. 


Yable,  able.       See  YEBEL. 
Yacre,  acre    ...         ...         ...     59 

Yad,  Yaud,  a  mare  ...         i     51 


346  GLOSSARY. 

Song  Song 

Yage,  Yeage,  age,  5,  i3»  5i     18  Yer  leane,  by  yourself         ...     21 

Yallow,  yellow         ...         27     55  Yerth,  earth  

Yat,  Yeat,  gate,       ...  7     30  Ye's,  ye  shall  

Yebel,  yable,  able    81  Yestreen,  yesterday  ...     75 

?Yeddy          74  Youngen,  young  one  ...     71 

Yek,  oak  ...         ...     38     60  Youngermak,    Youngermer, 

Yell,  ale  2,   3,   4,   41     81  the  younger  persons,  32     76 

Yell-house,  ale-house         41     52  Yubben,  oven          ...         ...     54 

Yen,  one.     Yence,   once,  Yuk,  to  itch  ...         ...     51 

i,  2,  7,  ii,  20     40 


When  the  compiler  of  this  Concordance  first  offered  it  to  me  for  the 
Centenary  Edition  it  was  four  or  five  times  its  present  size,  for  in  a. 
work  of  years  Mr.  Crowther  had  written  out  full  definitions  of  every 
word,  and  under  each  word  had  likewise  written  out  each  quotation 
ia  which  it  occurs.  I  saw  at  once  that  this  size  must  exclude  it  from 
the  work.  I  suggested  to  Mr.  Crowther,  therefore,  to  reduce  it  to  the 
smallest  compressible  compass.  He  willingly  worked  at  reducing  it, 
bring;ng  it  to  concise  definitions — often  single  words  almost — and  left 
out  all  quotations  of  passages,  so  as  to  reduce  it  to  its  present  form. 
Then  another  difficulty  occurred,  omitting  the  illustrative  quotations 
had  made  it  cease  to  be  a  Concordance  at  all.  I  suggested  reference 
by  numbers  from  the  Glossary  to  the  Index  and  from  the  Index  to  the 
Page.  These  I  worked  out  myself,  and  it  took  me  two  or  three  weeks 
of  incessant  work.  I  hope,  however,  the  result  will  be  found  to  be  of 
service,  and  in  taking  my  leave  of  it  I  may  bear  this  willing  witness  to 
the  industrious  Compiler,  that  if  again  so  engaged  I  could  not  desire 
to  have  a  more  kind,  helpful  and  accurate  colleague  in  any  literary 
work.— EDITOR. 


INDEX. 


No.  Page 

1  Betty  Brown i 

2  Barbary  Bell     •       2  and  3 

3  Nichol  the  Newsmonger          ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  4 

4  The  Worton  Weddin 7 

5  Sally  Gray         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         10 

6  Will  an  Keatie              12 

7  The  Impatient  Lassie  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  13 

8  The  Bundle  of  Oddities           15 

9  Luckless  Jonathan       ...         ...         ...         ...  17 

10  DickWatters 18 

n  The  Lass  abuin  Thirty             ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  20 

12  Tom  Linton       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  21 

13  The  Happy  Family      ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  23 

14  The  Author  on  Himself           ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  25 

15  Peace     ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ..:  27 

16  The  Cummerlan  Farmer          ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  28 

17  Luive  disappointed      ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  30 

18  AulMarget       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  31 

19  First  Luive        ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  33 

20  LeyleSteeben    ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  34 

21  The  Bashfu  Wooer       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  35 

22  The  Aunty        ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  36 

23  The  Rural  Visit            38 

24  Croglin  Watty              ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  44 

25  Jenny's  Complaint       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  43 

26  Corprel  Gowdy's  Letter           ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  44 

27  Matthew  Macfee           ...         ...         ...         ...  46 

28  Calep  Crosby 48 

29  Feckless  Wully             ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  49 

30  The  Bleckell  Murryneet           ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  50 

31  The  Delights  of  Love               ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  51 

32  Ruth       53 

33  The  Peck  of  Punch       54 

34  The  Thuirsby  Witch 56 

35  The  Village  Gang         57 

36  Dicky  Glen dinin           ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  59 

37  The  Invasion     ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  61 

38  Grizzy    ...          62 

39  Gwordie  Gill      ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  63 

40  A  Weyfe  for  Wully  Miller       64 

41  The  Twee  Aul  Men       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  66 

42  Uncle  Wully      69 

43  Guid  Strang  Yell          70 

44  Bruff  Reaces      ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  71 

45  Biddy 74 

46  Dinah  Dufton    ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  75 

47  Ned  Carnaughan          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  76 

48  The  Cocker  o'  Codbeck            77 

49  Canny  Aul  Cummerlan           ...  78 


348  INDEX. 

No  Page 

50  Jeff  an  Job —         •••         —  A,"1 

51  Tib  an  her  Maister ,,82 

52  Jwohnny  and  Mary 84 

53  The  Clay  Daubin 85 

54  The  Fellows  round  Torkin  ...         ...         ...     87 

55  The  Dawston  Player-Fwok 90 

56  Our  Jwohnny  ...         ...         ...         —         ...         ...     93 

57  King  Roger  94 

58  KitCraffet 96 

59  Elizabeth's  Burthday          99 

60  Borrowdale  Jwohnny          ...   101 

61  LangSeyne 104 

62  The  Aul  Beggar        105 

63  The  Buck  o'  Kingwatter     107 

64  Marget  o*  the  Mill 108 

65  Madam  Jane  ...         ...         ...         ...   109 

66  Young  Susy no 

67  Reed  Robin in 

68  Reed  Robin's  Answer         ...         ...         ...  112 

69  Threescwore  and  Nineteen  ...         ...         ...         113 

70  Silly  Andrew  115 

71  Aul  Robby  Miller 116 

72  Nanny  Peal 117 

73  Andrew's  Youngest  Dowter  118 

74  Soldier  Yeddy  119 

75  The  Dawtie  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  121 

76  The  Codbeck  Weddin          122 

77  The  Peat  Cadger      127 

78  The  Ill-Gien  Weyfe 128 

79  The  Beggar  an  Keate          131 

80  The  Happy  Couple 133 

81  Carel  Fair      ...         ...         ...         ...   134 

82  Stranger        ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   140 

83  Peggy  Pen 141 

84  Cursmas  Eve 143 

85  Jack  Spang    ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   145 

86  Calep  an  Wully         147 

If    The  Flow'r  o'  the  Village 149 

88  KitCapstick  150 

89  Our  Lanhvord  an  Lanleady  ...         ...         152 

90  Jwohnny  an  Jenny  ...         ...         ...         ...   154 

91  The  Sailor     155 

92  Jean 157 

93  Aw  the  war'ls  a  Stage          ...         158 

£4    Sarvent  Ned  ...         ...   160 

§4  Jerry's  Cursnin         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   161 

96    To  Jwohnny ...         ...         ...   164 

$7    LeyleDeavie -       165 

98  Adveyce  to  Nanny  ...         ...         ...         ...   166 

99  Gilsden  Spa 167 

i»0    On  Parting 170 

101     The  Rwose  in  June 172 

108     Be  Merry  to-day       173 

103     Youth--          ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   173 

i»4  -Non-Such      ...         ...         ...         ...   175 

i»S  Cram,  or  Nichol  an  Cuddy  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   176 

ieS    Luive-lworn  Bess      ...         ...         ...   181 

td?    Anne 162 

108  Mistress  Creake's  Tea  Party          183 

109  -iilv  oUhe  Valley     186 


INDEX.  349 

No.  Page 

no  Approach  o'  Winter ...         ...         187 

in  When  shall  we  meet  ageane            ...         ...         ...         ...  188 

112  Jack  an  Tom...         189 

113  ToCrito         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  190 

114  Hard-hearted  Hannah        ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  192 

115  WullyanMary         ...         ...         ...         ...  194 

116  Cockfeght      ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         195 

117  Lennet           ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  197 

118  Corby             ...         ...         198 

119  Laird  Jwobnny         ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...  200 

120  Fadder's  Lecture      ...         201 

121  Flow'r  o' them  aw  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  203 

122  Gud  Adveyce            ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  204 

123  Invitation      ...         ...         205 

124  Leyfe's  Comforts      ...         ...         ...         ...  206 

125  Gud-for-Nowt  Weyfe           ...         .„         ...         ...         ...  207 

126  The  Lass  that  lo'es  me        208 

127  Poverty's  nae  sin      ...         ...         ...         ...         209 

128  Tamer  an  Matty       210 

129  Yage  an  Poverty      ...         ...         213 

130  Contrast        ...         ...         ...  214 

131  Jack  an  Fanny         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  215 

132  Joys  of  Contentment           216 

133  Sailor's  Return         :         ...         ...         ...  217 

134  True  Luive    ...         ...         ...         219 

135  My  Luive  is  but  a  Lassie  yet          220 

136  Oor  Awn  Fire  Seyde           ...         ...         ...  221 

137  Luive  as  it  sud  be     ...  223 

138  Lament          ...         225 

139  AulEnglan 226 

140  Mad  Mary      ...          227 

141  Nathan  an  Winny    ...         ...         228 

142  Winny  an  Nathan ...         ...         ...         ...  231 

143  Primrwose  Banks 233 

144  Author's  Birthday 234 

145  Mudder  an  Jemmy 235 

146  Michael  the  Miser     238 

147  Shepherd's  Complaint         239 

148  Frien  in  Prison         ...         ...         240 

149  Dinah...          ...          ...          ...          ...          ...          242 

150  Mary  ov  Carlattan ...          243 

151  Dandy  Dan  I             244 

152  Dandy  Dan  II           ...         ...         ...         ...  245 

153  False  Luive ...         ...         ...  247 

154  Farewell  to  Carel      248 

155  Northumbrian  Lasses          249 

156  Mudder  an  Dowter  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  251 

157  Bonny  Lass  wi  apron  blue              252 

158  To  Marget     ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         253 

159  Author's  Reflection 255 

160  Weyfe's  Anxiety      ...         ...         ...         ...  256 

161  Raff  an  the  Squire    ...         ...         ...  257 

162  Lassie  ov  Hayton     ...         258 

163  Daft  Dick      "...         ...  259 

164  Taxes  flung  by          ...         ...         ...         ...         262 

165  Preyde  o'  the  Border           ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  263 

166  Mad  Bess       265 

167  Blithe  Jwohnny  Graeme     ...         ...         ...         ...         ...  266 

168  Willie  that's  far  on  the  Wave        268 

169  Fortune  Teller          .«         270 


350 


INDEX. 


No,  Pags 

170  Luive's  Keyndness 272 

171  Betty  o'  Branton      273 

172  Heame's  Heame       274 

173  EttyBell       /. 277 

174  Our  Maister  an  Deame        ...         ...         •••         •••         •••  278 

175  Heddersgill  Keatie 280 

176  Aul  Ben's  Courtship  281 

177  Invitation  to  Crito 283 

178  Sally  ov  Irthin          285 

179  I'll  neer  luive  anudder          ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   287 

180  Quilters          ...         ...         ...         •••         •••         —         •••   289 

181  Reform          ...         ...         ...         —         •••         •••         •••  291 

182  Nichol's  Deeth          293 

183  Aul  Hollow  Tree       295 

184  Leyfe's  Changes        298 

185  Ballad  Singer  299 

186  Farewell  to  the  Muse  ...         ...         ...         ...         •••   3°4 

187  Jubilee  of  a  Cumberland  Marriage...         ...         ...         ...   307 

188  The  Gud  Schuilmaister        308 

189  Wigton  True  Singer  ...         ...         ...         ...         ...   3TO 

190  Hard-workin  Jwosep 

191  Fain  to  dui  Reet       ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         —   312 

192  Redbreast      3*3 

193  Summer  Weather     ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         •••   3T4 

194  Deavie  the  Beggar    ...         ...         ...         ...         ...         —   3*4 

195  Bonny  Greace  ...         ...         •••         ...         •••         •••   3*5 

196  Bondship        3*7 

197  Bonny  Stampt  Gown  ...         ...         ...         ...         —  3*8 

198  The  Author  on  Himself       3*9 

199  Birthday  of  Robert  Burns 320 

200  Adieu  to  Erin  321 


The  order  of  the  Ballads  as  here  given  is  in  a  great  measure 
the  order  of  date  of  composition  as  marked  by  Anderson  in  MS. 
and  followed  by  editions  of  1805  and  1808,  and  also  very  generally 
by  all  future  editions.  In  the  second  hundred  of  Ballads  I  have, 
with  some  notable  exceptions  given,  so  far  as  I  ^knew  it,  the 
Ballads  in  order  of  lime.  [EDITOR.] 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Portrait  of  Robert  Anderson       Frontispiece. 

Kirklinton  Church  and  Churchyard      facing  page      vii. 

Sanderson's  Tomb     „  xvi. 

Mural  Tablet  to  Anderson  page    xvii. 

Anderson's  Headstone        xviii. 

Cottage  of  "Sally  Gray" facing  page        10 

Banks  o'  the  Leyne  ,,  igr 

Sanderson's  Well      „  394 


We  have  to  thank  G.  and  T.  Coward,  of  Carlisle,  for  leave 
to  copy  Portrait  of  Anderson. 

The  Kirklinton  Photographs  were  most  kindly  taken  for  us 
by  G.  J.  Bell,  Esq.,  and  his  son;  also  the  cottage  of  "Sally 
Gray." 

View  of  Mural  Tablet  and  Headstone  were  kindly  lent  for 
tliis  work  by  Francis  Joseph  Bigger,  editor  of  Ulster  Journal 
of  Archaeology. 


PR  Anderson,  Robert 

4007  Cumberland  ballads  and 

A5C8  songs 

1904 


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