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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 ; 

gG i828. 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.) 

X 839. 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. 



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 ! 



2 4 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 o 1 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." " W r hat 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 3 rd, 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 : 

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' scuffle 1 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 ! 

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 3 o 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." 



I 3 6 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. 



I 4 o 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 : 



I 4 6 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 o 1 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 i 1 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 o 1 
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 sa rt - 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 o 1 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" Watty 1 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 wi 1 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 o 1 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 o 1 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 o 1 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 ! " 



2 5 8 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 : 



2 6o 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. 



2 7 .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 ivr 



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. 



3 o8 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. 



3 I2 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. 



3 I4 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 ! 



3 i6 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. 



3 i8 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 wand 1 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 



33 2 



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 ... 4 i 

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 ... T 7 

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 ......... !6 7 

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 ... '." 6 o 

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 

?Ho PS :.. 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- 

f usion 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 4 6 


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, 2 8, 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 3 g 

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 3 g 

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 ... ... ... 4 1 

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, 

theo ... 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 


4 1 


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 


J 3 


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 fi o 

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 



34 8 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 

i0 On Parting 170 

101 The Rwose in June 172 

108 Be Merry to-day 173 

103 Youth-- ... ... ... ... ... 173 

i4 -Non-Such ... ... ... ... 175 

iS 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 ... ... ... ... 34 

187 Jubilee of a Cumberland Marriage... ... ... ... 307 

188 The Gud Schuilmaister 308 

189 Wigton True Singer ... ... ... ... ... 3 TO 

190 Hard-workin Jwosep 

191 Fain to dui Reet ... ... ... ... ... 3 12 

192 Redbreast 3*3 

193 Summer Weather ... ... ... ... ... 3 T 4 

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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