Part 1
Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.
The footnotes are located at the end of the sections that refer to them.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.
In the original, many of the chapters have decorative borders above the title. These have not been indicated.
THE
Folk-Speech of Cumberland
AND SOME DISTRICTS ADJACENT;
BEING
SHORT STORIES AND RHYMES
IN THE DIALECTS OF THE WEST BORDER COUNTIES.
BY
ALEXANDER CRAIG GIBSON, F.S.A.
What hempen Home-spuns have we swaggering here.
_A Midsummer Night’s Dream._
Speech, manners, morals, all without disguise.
_The Excursion._
LONDON: JOHN RUSSELL SMITH; CARLISLE: GEO. COWARD. MDCCCLXIX.
TO
WILLIAM DICKINSON,
OF NORTH MOSSES AND THORNCROFT,
F. L. S.,
Author of “A Glossary of Cumberland Words and Phrases,” “Lamplugh Club,” “A Prize Essay on the Agriculture of West Cumberland,” “The Botany of Cumberland,” &c., &c., &c.,
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED,
IN CORDIAL RECOGNITION OF THE PRE-EMINENT INDUSTRY AND SKILL DISPLAYED IN HIS ELUCIDATIONS OF THE HOMELY SPEECH OF OUR NATIVE COUNTY, AND IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF THE UNFAILING SYMPATHY AND THE KINDLY HELP WITH WHICH HE HAS BRIGHTENED A FRIENDSHIP OF MANY YEARS.
PREFACE.
One or two of the Cumberland stories included in this volume, as well as some of the pieces in rhyme, have already been circulated very largely in newspapers, pamphlets, and collections. Their reappearance, along with many hitherto unpublished additions, in this aggregated form, is due mainly to the popularity attained by them separately. Whether they may be as popular in this more pretentious guise as in their humbler, and perhaps, more appropriate form, remains to be tried.
I claim superiority over most of the earlier workers in the same philological ground in respect of the greater purity of my dialect. The Cumberland speech as written herein is pure Cumbrian, as the speech of the Scottish pieces, introduced for variety’s sake, is pure Scotch. Miss Blamire, Stagg, Anderson, Rayson, and others, have all written their dialect pieces, more or less, in the _Scoto_-Cumbrian which prevails along the southern side of the west Border. In other respects my inferiority to those deservedly popular writers is sufficiently evident. But, as expositions of the folk-speech of those parts of the County where, and where only, the unadulterated old Norse-rooted Cumbrian vernacular is spoken, I claim for these Tales and Rhymes the distinction of surpassing all similar productions, excepting only the dialect writings of my friend Mr. Dickinson, and perhaps the _Borrowdale Letter_ of Isaac Ritson, and the _Gwordie and Will_ of Charles Graham. I should not omit to state, however, that Mr. John Christian of London, and a writer who assumed the _nom de plume_ of Jack Todd, have evinced in their contributions to the local press, a mastery over the dialect of Whitehaven and its vicinity which makes us wish that their pens had been more prolific.
For the illustrations I have attempted of the speech of High Furness and its Westmorland border, I ask no such distinction. The dialect there, as in the adjacent parts of Cumberland, is vitiated by an intermixture of that of the County Palatine, of which Furness forms a portion; and as it is spoken, so, if written at all, should it be written. These appear here for the reason already assigned for the introduction of the Rhymes given in the dialect of Dumfriesshire.
The work rests its claims to favourable consideration entirely on its value as a faithfully rendered contribution to the dialect literature of the country. No higher estimate is sought for it. The production of its various contents has been an occasional amusement indulged in during some of the intervals of leisure and repose afforded by pursuits of a more important, more engrossing, and it is hoped, a more useful character, with which, had it in any wise interfered, it had not been proceeded with. Its composition has been a relaxation, not a task; a divertisement, not an occupation; and had its success when published been deemed incompatible with these conditions, it had not appeared.
BEBINGTON, _December 18th, 1868_.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Joe and the Geologist (Cumberland) 1
T’ Reets on’t (Ibid.) 7
Bobby Banks’s Bodderment (Ibid.) 17
Wise Wiff (Ibid.) 27
Lal Dinah Grayson (Ibid.) 37
Jwohnny, Git oot! (Ibid.) 40
The Runaway Wedding (Ibid.) 43
Billy Watson’ Lonning (Ibid.) 46
Lone and Weary (Ibid.) 50
T’ Clean Ned o’ Kes’ick (Ibid.) 53
Ben Wells (Ibid.) 57
Sannter Bella (Ibid.) 60
Branthet Neùk Boggle (Ibid.) 63
Mary Ray and Me (Ibid.) 73
The Bannasyde Cairns (High Furness.) 76
Betty Yewdale (Ibid.) 82
The Skulls of Calgarth (Westmorland.) 89
Māp’ment (High Furness.) 101
Oxenfell Dobby (Ibid.) 104
Meenie Bell (Dumfriesshire.) 113
A Lockerbye Lyck (Old Scotch.) 116
The Farmers’ Wives o’ Annandale (Dumfriesshire.) 128
A Reminiscence of Corrie (Ibid.) 131
Reminiscences of Lockerbie (Ibid.) 143
Yan o’ t’ Elect (Cumberland.) 151
Keàtie Curbison’s Cat (Ibid.) 157
Joseph Thompson’s Thumb (Ibid.) 160
Cursty Benn (Ibid.) 168
Tom Railton’s White Spats (Ibid.) 172
A Sneck Possett (Ibid.) 180
Remarks on the Cumberland Dialect 183
Glossary 189
JOE AND THE GEOLOGIST.
Ya het foorneun, when we war oa’ gaily thrang at heàm, an oald gentleman mak’ of a fellow com’ in tul ooar foald an’ said, whyte nateral, ’at he wantit somebody to gà wid him on’t fells. We oa’ stopt an’ teuk a gud leuk at him afoor anybody spak; at last fadder said, middlin’ sharp-like—(he ola’s speaks that way when we’re owte sa thrang, does fadder)—“We’ve summat else to deu here nor to gà rakin ower t’fells iv a fine day like this, wid nèabody kens whoa.” T’gentleman was a queerish like oald chap, wid a sharp leuk oot, grey hair and a smo’ feàce—drist i’ black, wid a white neckcloth like a parson, an’ a par of specks on t’top of a gay lang nwose at wasn’t set varra fair atween t’ e’en on him, sooa ’at when he leuk’t ebbem at yan through his specks he rayder turn’t his feàce to t’ya side. He leuk’t that way at fadder, gev a lal chèarful bit of a laugh an’ said, iv his oan mak’ o’ toke, ’at he dudn’t want to hinder wark, but he wad give anybody ’at ken’t t’fells weel, a matter o’ five shillin’ to gà wid him, an’ carry two lāl bags. “’Howay wid tha, Joe,” sez fadder to me, “it’s a croon mair nor iver thou was wūrth at heàm!” I meàd nèa words aboot it, but gat me-sel’ a gud lūmp of a stick, an’ away we set, t’oald lang nwos’t man an’ me, ebbem up t’ deàl.
As we war’ climmin’ t’fell breist, he geh me two empty bags to carry, meàd o’ ledder. Thinks I to me-sel’, “I’s gān to eddle me five shillin’ middlin’ cannily.” I niver thowte he wad finnd owte on t’ fells to full his lal bags wid, but I was misteàn!
He turn’t oot to be a far lisher oald chap nor a body wad ha’ thowte, to leuk at his gray hair and his white hankecher an’ his specks. He went lowpin owre wet spots an’ gūrt steàns, an’ scrafflin across craggs an’ screes, tul yan wad ha’ sworn he was sūmmat a kin tul a Herdwick tip.
Efter a while he begon leukin’ hard at oa’t steàns an’ craggs we com’ at, an’ than he teuk till breckan lūmps off them wid a queer lal hammer he hed wid him, an’ stuffin t’ bits intil t’ bags ’at he geh me to carry. He fairly cap’t me noo. I dudn’t ken what to mak o’ sec a customer as t’is! At last I cudn’t help axin him what meàd him cum sèa far up on t’fell to lait bits o’ steàns when he may’d finnd sèa many doon i’t deàls? He laugh’t a gay bit, an’ than went on knappin’ away wid his lal hammer, an’ said he was a jolly jist. Thinks I to me-sel’, thou’s a jolly jackass, but it maks nèa matter to me if thou no’but pays me t’ five shillin’ thou promish’t ma.
Varra weel, he keep’t on at this feckless wark tul gaily leàt at on i’t efter-neun, an’ be that time o’ day he’d pang’t beàth o’t ledder pwokes as full as they wad hod wid bits o’ steàn.
I’ve nit sèa offen hed a harder darrak efter t’ sheep, owther at clippin time or soavin time, as I hed followin’ that oald grey heidit chap an’ carryin’ his ledder bags. But hooiver, we gat back tul oor house afoor neeght. Mūdder gev t’ oald jolly jist, as he co’t his-sel’, some breid an’ milk, an’ efter he’d teàn that an’ toak’t a lal bit wid fadder aboot sheep farming an’ sec like, he pait ma me five shillin’ like a man, an’ than tel’t ma he wad gi’ ma ūdder five shillin’ if I wad bring his pwokes full o’ steàns doon to Skeàl-hill be nine o’clock i’t mwornin’.
He set off to woak to Skeàl-hill just as it was growin’ dark; an’ neist mwornin’, as seun as I’d gitten me poddish, I teuk t’ seàm rwoad wid his ledder bags ower me shoolder, thinkin’ tul me-sel’ ’at yan may’d mak a lal fortune oot o’ thūr jolly jists if a lock mair on them wad no’but come oor way.
It was anūdder het mwornin’, an’ I hedn’t woak’t far till I begon to think that I was as gūrt a feul as t’oald jolly jist to carry brocken steàns o’ t’ way to Skeàl-hill, when I may’d finnd plenty iv any rwoad side, clwose to t’ spot I was tackin’ them tul. Sooa I shack’t them oot o’ t’ pwokes, an’ then stept on a gay bit leeter widout them.
When I com nār to Skeàl-hill, I fūnd oald Aberram Atchisson sittin on a steul breckan steàns to mend rwoads wid, an’ I ax’t him if I med full my ledder pwokes frae his heap. Aberram was varra kaim’ t’ an’ tell’t ma to tak them ’at wasn’t brocken if I wantit steàns, sooa I tell’t him hoo it was an’ oa’ aboot it. T’ oald maizlin was like to toytle of his steul wid laughin’, an’ said me mūdder sud tak gud care on ma, for I was ower sharp a chap to leeve varra lang i’ this warld; but I’d better full my pwokes as I liked, an’ mak’ on wid them.
T’ jolly jist hed just gitten his breakfast when I gat to Skeàl-hill, an’ they teuk ma intil t’ parlour tul him. He gūrned oa’t feàce ower when I went in wid his bags, an’ tell’t me to set them doon in a neuk, an’ than ax’t ma if I wad hev some breakfast. I said I’d gitten me poddish, but I dudn’t mind; sooa he tell’t them to bring in some mair coffee, an’ eggs, an’ ham, an’ twoastit breid an’ stuff, an’ I gat sec a breakfast as I never seed i’ my time, while t’ oald gentleman was gittin’ his-sel’ rūddy to gang off in a carriage ’at was waitin’ at t’ dooar for him.
When he com doon stairs he geh me t’udder five shillin’ an’ pait for my breakfast an’ what he’d gitten his-sel’. Than he tell’t ma to put t’ ledder bags wid t’ steàns in them on beside t’ driver’s feet, an’ in he gat, an’ laugh’t an’ noddit, an’ away he went.
I niver owder seed nor heard mair of t’ oald jolly jist, but I’ve offen thowte ther mun be parlish few steàns i’ his country, when he was sooa pleas’t at gittin’ two lāl ledder bags full for ten shillin’, an’ sec a breakfast as that an’. It wad be a faymish job if fadder could sell o’ t’ steàns iv oor fell at five shillin’ a pwokeful—wadn’t it?
T’ REETS ON’T;
BEING
_Another Supplement to “Joe and the Geologist.”_[1]
BY JOE HIS-SEL’.
That Tommy Towman’s a meàst serious leear—an’, like o’ leears, he’s a desper’t feùl. By jing! if I hed a dog hoaf as daft I wad hang’t, that wad I! He gits doon aboot Cockerm’uth an’ Wūrki’ton, noo’s an’ than’s; an’ sūm gentlemen theear, they tak’ him inta t’ Globe or t’ Green Draggin, an’ jūst for nowte at o’ else but acoase they think he kens me, they feed him wid drink an’ they hod him i’ toak till he can hardly tell whedder end on him’s upbank; an’ than they dro’ him on to tell them o’ mak’s o’ teàls—o’ mak’s but true an’s—aboot me; an’ t’ pooar lāl gowk hesn’t gumption aneuf to see ’at they’re no’but makin’ ghem on him. But, loavin’ surs! if he’d hed t’ sense of a gūrse gā’n gezlin he wad niver ha’ browte oot sec a lafter o’ lees as he’s gitten yan o’ them Wūrki’ton gentlemen (yan ’at ken’s weel hoo to write doon oor heàmly toke) to put inta prent; an’ what mak’s yan madder nor o’ t’ rest,—to put them i’ prent jūst as if I’d tel’t them me-sel’. I’s nūt t’ chap to try to cum ower an oald jolly jist wid whinin’ oot “Fadder’s deid!” when ivery body kens ’at fadder’s whicker nor meàst on us. My sarty! he’s nin o’ t’ deein’ mak’ isn’t fadder. Wes’ hev to wūrry fadder when his time cūms, for he’ll niver dee of his-sel’ sa lang as ther’s any wark to hoond yan on tull. An’ I needn’t tell any body ’at knows _me_, ’at I was niver t’ chap to tak’ in owder a jolly jist or any udder feùl; an’ if I was, I’s nūt a likely fellow to be freeten’t for what I’d done. But ther’s m’appen sūm ’at doesn’t; an’ mebbee ther’s a lock ’at doesn’t know what a leear Tommy Towman is, an’ sooa, bee t’ way o’ settin’ me-sel’ reet wid beath maks, I’ll tell yé what _dūd_ gā forret ’atween me an’ t’ jolly jist t’ seckint time he com tul Skeàl-hill.
I said afooar ’at I’d niver seen mair o’ t’ oald jolly jist, an’ when I said that, I hedn’t; but yā donky neet last summer fadder hed been doon Lorton way, an’ ’t was gaily leàt when he gat heàm. As he was sittin’ iv his oàn side o’ t’ fire, tryin’ to lowse t’ buttons of his spats, he says to me, “Joe,” says he, “I co’t at Skeàl-hill i’ my rwoad heàm.” Mudder was sittin’ knittin’ varra fast at hūr side o’ t’ hārth; she hedn’t oppen’t her mooth sen fadder co’ heàm,—nay, she hedn’t sa mūch as leuk’t at him efter t’ ya hard glowre ’at she gev him at t’ fūrst; but when he said he’d been at Skeàl-hill, she gev a grunt, an’ said, as if she spak till nèabody but hur-sel’, “Ey! a blinnd body med see that.” “I was speakin’ till Joe,” says fadder. “Joe,” says he, “I was at Skeàl-hill”—anudder grunt—“an’ they tel’t me ’at thy oald frind t’ jolly jist’s back ageàn—I think thu’d better slip doon an’ see if he wants to buy any mair brocken steàns; oald Aberram has a fine heap or two liggin aside Kirgat. An’, noo, ’at I’ve gitten them spats off, I’s away to my bed.” Mudder tok a partin’ shot at him as he stacker’t off. She said, “It wad be as weel for sūm on us if yé wad bide theear, if yé mean to carry on i’ t’ way ye’re shappin’!” Noo, this was hardly fair o’ mudder, for it’s no’but yance iv a way ’at fadder cū’s heàm leàt an’ stackery; but I wasn’t sworry to see him git a lāl snape, he’s sae rūddy wid his snapes his-sel’. I ken’t weel aneuf he was no’but mackin’ ghem o’ me aboot gittin’ mair brass oot o’ t’ oald jolly jist, but I thowte to me-sel’, thinks I, I’ve deun many a dafter thing nor tak’ him at his wūrd, whedder he meen’t it or nūt, an’ sooa thowte, sooa deùn; for neist mwornin’ I woak’t me-sel’ off tull Skeàl-hill.
When I gat theear, an’ as’t if t’ jolly jist was sturrin’, they yan snùrtit an’ anudder gurn’t, till I gat rayder maddish; but at last yan o’ them skipjacks o’ fellows ’at ye see weearin’ a lāl jacket like a lass’s bedgoon, sed he wad see. He com back laughin’, an’ said, “Cūm this way, Joe.” Well, I follow’t him till he stopp’t at a room dooar, an’ he gev a lal knock, an’ than oppen’t it, an’ says, “Joe, sur,” says he. I wasn’t gā’n to stand that, ye know, an’ says I, “Joe, sur,” says I, “he’ll ken it’s Joe, sur,” says I, “as seùn as he sees t’ feàce o’ me;” says I, “an’ if thoo doesn’t git oot o’ that wid thy ‘Joe, sur,’” says I, “I’ll fetch the’ a clink under t’ lug ’at ’ll mak’ the’ laugh at t’ wrang side o’ that ugly mug o’ thine, thoo gūrnin yap, thoo!” Wid that he skipt oot o’ t’ way gaily sharp, an’ I stept whietly into t’ room. Theear he was, sittin at a teàble writin—t’ grey hair, t’ specks, t’ lang nwose, t’ white hankecher, an’ t’ black cleàs, o’ just as if he’d niver owder doff’t his-sel’ or donn’t his-sel’ sen he went away. But afooar I cūd put oot my hand or say a civil wūrd tull him, he glentit up at mé throo his specks, iv his oan oald sideways fashion—but varra feùrce-like—an’ grūntit oot sum’at aboot wūnderin’ hoo I dār’t to shew my feàce theear. Well! this pot t’ cap on t’ top of o’. I’d chow’t ower what fadder said, an’ _hoo_ he’d said it i’ my rwoad doon, till I fūnd me-sel’ gittin rayder mad aboot that. T’ way ’at they snurtit an’ laugh’t when I com to Skeàl-hill meàd me madder; an’ t’ bedgoon cwoatit fellow wid his “Joe, sur,” meàd me madder nor iver; but t’ oald jolly jist, ’at I thowte wad be sa fain to see mé agean, if t’ hed no’but been for t’ seàk of oor sprogue on t’ fells togidder—wùnderin’ ’at I dar’t show my feàce theear, fairly dreàv me _rantin’_ mad, an’ I _düd_ mak a brūst.
“Show my feàce!” says I, “an’ what sùd I show than?” says I. “If it cūms to showin’ feàces, I’ve a better feàce to show nor iver belang’t to yan o’ your breed,” says I, “if t’ rest on them’s owte like t’ sample they’ve sent us; but if yé mūn know, I’s cūm’t of a stock ’at niver wad be freetn’t to show a feàce till a king, let aleàn an oald newdles wid a creùkt nwose, ’at co’s his-sel’ a jolly jist: an’ I defy t’ feàce o’ clay,” says I, “to say ’at any on us iver dūd owte we need shām on whoariver we show’t oor feàces. Dār’ to show my feàce, eh?” says I, “my song! but this is a bonnie welcome to give a fellow ’at’s cum’t sa far to see yé i’ seckan a mwornin!” I said a gay deal mair o’ t’ seàm mak’, an’ o’ t’ while I was sayin’ on’t—or, I sūd say, o’ t’ while I was shootin’ on’t, for I dudn’t spar’ t’ noise—t’ oald divel laid his-sel’ back iv his girt chair, an’ keept twiddlin’ his thooms an’ glimin’ ūp at mé, wid a hoaf smūrk iv his feàce, as if he’d gitten sum’at funny afooar him. Efter a while I stopt, for I’d ron me-sel’ varra nār oot o’ winnd, an’ I begon rayder to think shām o’ shootin’ an’ bellerin’ sooa at an oald man, an’ him as whisht as a troot throo it o’; an’ when I’d poo’t in, he just said as whietly as iver, ’at I was a natteral cur’osity. I dùdn’t ken weel what this meen’t, but I thowte it was soace, an’ it hed like to set mé off ageàn, but I beàtt it doon as weel as I cūd, an’ I said, “Hev yé gitten owte ageān mé?” says I. “If yé hev, speak it oot like a man, an’ divn’t sit theear twiddlin yer silly oald thooms an’ coa’in fwoke oot o’ ther neàms i’ that rwoad!” Than it o’ com oot plain aneuf. O’ this illnater was just acoase I hedn’t brong him t’ steàns ’at he’d gedder’t on t’ fells that het day, an’ he said ’at changin’ on them was ayder a varra dūrty trick or a varra clumsy jwoke. “Trick!” says I. “Jwoke! dud yé say? It was rayder past a jwoke to expect me to carry a leàd o’ brocken steàns o’ t’ way here, when ther’ was plenty at t’ spot. I’s nūt sec a feùl as ye’ve teàn me for.” He tok off his specks, an’ he glower’t at mé adoot them; an’ than he pot them on ageàn, an’ glower’t at mé wid them; an’ than he laugh’t an’ ax’t mé if I thowte ther’ cud be nèa difference i’ steàns. “Whey,” says I, “ye’ll hardly hev t’ feàce to tell me ’at ya bag o’ steàns isn’t as gud as anudder bag o’ steàns—an’ suer_lye_ to man, ye’ll niver be sa consaitit as to say yé can break steàns better nor oald Aberram ’at breaks them for his breid, an’ breaks them o’ day lang, an’ ivery day?” Wid that he laugh’t agean an’ tel’t mé to sit doon, an’ than ax’t me what I thowte meàd him tak so mickle trùble laitin’ bits o’ stean on t’ fells if he cud git what he wantit at t’ rwoad side. “Well!” says I, “if I mun tell yé t’ truth, I thowte yé war rayder nick’t i’ t’ heid; but it meàd nea matter what I thowte sa lang as yé pait mé sa weel for gān wid yé.” As I said this, it com into my held ’at it’s better to flaitch a feùl nor to feight wid him; an’ efter o’, ’at ther’ may’d be sum’at i’ t’ oald man likin steans of his oan breakin’ better nor ūdder fwoke’s. I remember’t t’ fiddle ’at Dan Fisher meàd, an’ thowte was t’ best fiddle ’at iver squeak’t, for o’ it meàd ivery body else badly to hear’t; an’ wad bray oald Ben Wales at his dancing scheùl boal acoase Ben wadn’t play t’ heàm meád fiddle asteed of his oan. We o’ think meàst o’ what we’ve hed a hand in oorsel’s—it’s no’but natteral; an’ sooa as o’ this ron throo my heid, I fūnd me-sel’ gitten rayder sworry for t’ oald man, an’ I says, “What wad yé gi’ me to git yé o’ yer oan bits o’ steàn back ageàn?” He cockt up his lugs at this, an’ ax’t mé if his speciments, as he co’t them, was seàf. “Ey,” says I, “they’re seàf aneùf; nèabody hereaboot ’ill think a lal lock o’ steans worth meddlin’ on, sa lang as they divn’t lig i’ the’r rwoad.” Wid that he jūmpt ūp an’ said I mud hev sum’at to drink. Thinks I to me-sel’, “Cūm! we’re gittin’ back to oor oan menseful way ageàn at t’ lang last, but I willn’t stūr a peg till I ken what I’s to hev for gittin him his rubbish back, I wad niver hear t’ last on’t if I went heàm em’ty handit.” He meád it o’ reet hooiver, as I was tackin’ my drink; an’ he went up t’ stair an’ brong doon t’ ledder bags I kent sa weel, an’ geh mé them to carry just as if nowte hed happen’t, an’ off we startit varra like as we dūd afooar.
T’ Skeàl-hill fwoke o’ gedder’t aboo’t dooar to leùk efter us, as if we’d been a show. We, nowder on us, mindit for that, hooiver, but stump’t away togidder as thick as inkle weavers till we gat till t’ feùt of oor girt meedow, whoar t’ steans was liggin, aside o’ t’ steel, just as I’d teem’t them oot o’ t’ bags, only rayder grown ower wid gūrse. As I pick’t them up, yan by yan, and handit them to t’ oald jolly jist, it dūd my heart gūd to see hoo pleas’t he leùkt, as he wipet them on his cwoat cūff, an’ wettit them, an’ glower’t at them throo his specks as if they wer’ sum’at gud to eat, an’ he was varra hungry—an’ pack’t them away into t’ bags till they wer’ beàth chock full ageàn.