Part 3

We’re hingin’ i’ t’ bell reàps[3]—to t’ parson I’ve toak’t, An’ I gev him a hint as he maffelt an’ jwoak’t, To mind when she sud say “love, honour, OBEY,” ’At she doesn’t slip through wid her “M’appen I may.” M’appen I may, may be—m’appen I may, But we moont put up than wid a “m’appen I may.”

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Comical, used thus, means _Pert_, in central Cumberland.

[3] During the period required for the publication of banns, a couple are said, figuratively, to be “hinging in t’ bell ropes.”

JWOHNNY, GIT OOT!

“Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny, thou’s no’but a fash; Thou’ll come till thou raises a desperat clash;[4] Thou’s here ivery day just to put yan aboot, An’ thou moiders yan terrably—Jwohnny, git oot!

What says t’e? I’s bonnie? Whey! That’s nowte ’at’s new. Thou’s wantin’ a sweetheart?—Thou’s hed a gay few! An’ thou’s cheatit them, yan efter t’ t’udder, nèa doubt; But I’s nūt to be cheatit sèa—Jwohnny, git oot!

There’s plenty o’ lads i’ beàth Lamplugh an’ Dean As yabble as thee, an’ as weel to be seen; An’ I med tak’ my pick amang o’ there aboot— Does t’é think I’d ha’e thee, than? Hut, Jwohnny, git oot!

What? Nūt yan amang them ’at likes mé sa weel? Whey, min—there’s Dick Walker an’ Jonathan Peel Foorsettin’ mé ola’s i’ t’ lonnins aboot, Beàth wantin’ to sweetheart mé—Jwohnny, git oot!

What?—Thou will hev a kiss?—Ah, but tak’t if thou dar! I tell the’, I’ll squeel, if thou tries to cŭ’ nār. Tak’ care o’ my collar—Thou byspel, I’ll shoot. Nay, thou sha’n’t hev anudder—Noo Jwhonny, git oot!

Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny—Thou’s tew’t me reet sair; Thou’s brocken my comb, an’ thou’s toozelt my hair. I willn’t be kiss’t, thou unmannerly loot! Was t’ere iver sec impidence! Jwohnny, git oot!

Git oot wid the’, Jwohnny—I tell the’, be deùn. Does t’e think I’ll tak’ up wid Ann Dixon’s oald sheùn? Thou ma’ gā till Ann Dixon, an’ pu’ hur aboot, But thou s’alln’t pu’ me, sèa—Jwohnny, git oot!

Well! That’s sent him off, an’ I’s sworry it hes; He med ken a lass niver means hoaf ’at she says. He’s a reet canny fellow, howiver I floot, An’ it’s growin o’ wark to say Jwohnny, git oot!”

FOOTNOTES: [4] Clash—_Scandal_.

THE RUNAWAY WEDDING.

My fadder said “Nay”—an’ my mudder said “Niver!” When Willie furst telt them we wantit to wed; We mud part—they said, beàth—part at yance an’ for iver, An’ they deavet me to deeth aboot foats ’at he hed. A sailor was Will, forret, free-tonguet, an’ funny, An’ gi’en till o’ manner o’ teulment was he; Rayder lowce i’ religion, an’ careless o’ money, But dear was my wild, thowtless Willie to me.

His life seemed meàd up of arrivin’s an’ sailin’s— Rough hardship at sea, an’ fair daftness at heàm. I cry’t ow’r his danger—I pray’t ow’r his failin’s, An’ offen forgev what I cudn’t but bleàm. An’ many a frind, an’ relation, an’ neighbour Brong hints an’ queer teàls aboot Will to poor me; But neighbours an’ frinds gat the’r pains for the’r labour, For t’mair they misco’t him t’mair thowte on was he.

An’ t’ upshot of o’ the’r fine hints an’ advices Was ’at, ya neet, weel happ’t i’ Will’s greet sailor cwoat, We dreàv, afoor dayleet, to Foster Penrice’s, An’ slip’t ow’r till Annan i’ t’ Skinburneese bwoat. An’ theer we wer’ weddit, i’ their way o’ weddin’;— I dudn’t hafe like’t, but they said it wad dee; An’ I dār-say it may’d—for a lass ’at was bred in Their ways—but it wasn’t like weddin’ to me.

An’ when Will brong me back, varra shām-feàcet an’ freetent, Ower t’ sin an’ disgrace on’t my mūdder went wild.— Sair, sair dud my heart sink, but bravely it leeten’t When Will prist me close up beside him, an’ smil’d. My fadder said lāl, no’but whishtit my mudder, An’ pettit an’ blest me wid tears iv his e’e; Till beàth on us ru’t what hed gi’en him sec bodder, An’ shām’t of our darrak steud Willie an’ me.

Eigh—for loave, he was kind! an’ he wad hev us weddit, As t’ rest of his barns hed been—menseful an’ reet— He leuk’t at oor Scotch weddin’-writin’ an’ read it, But went up to t’ Priest’s aboot t’ license that neet. An’ he keep’t me at heàm, though we hed a hoose riddy. He said he mud hev me, while Will follow’t t’ sea. An’ Will! weddin’ meàd him douce, careful, an’ stiddy, An’ he’s hoddenly been a gud husband to me.

He seun hed a ship of his oan, an’ meàd money, An’ seàv’t it, what he reckoned harder by far; An’, ola’s weel-natur’t, free-heartit an’ funny, He meàd his-sel frinds wid whativer com’ nār. An’ es for my mūdder, ’at thowte me so silly, An’ lang nowte but bad i’ poor Willie wad see, I’s thenkful she leevet to say—“Bless thee _son_ Willie, “Many cūmforts we’ve hed but meàst cūmfort i’ thee.”

BILLY WATSON’ LONNING.

O for Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght! When t’ stars come few an’ flaytely, efter weerin’ oot day-leeght— When t’ black-kite blossom shews itsel’ i’ hafe-seen gliffs o’ grey, An’ t’ honey-suckle’s scentit mair nor iver it is i’ t’ day. An’ nūt a shadow, shap’ or soond, or seeght, or sign ’at tells ’At owte ’at’s wick comes santerin’ theer but you, yer oan two sel’s. Ther’ cannot be anudder spot so private an’ so sweet, As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

T’ Hempgarth Broo’s a cheersome pleàce when t’ whins bloom full o’ flooar— Green Hecklebank turns greener when it’s watter’t wid a shooar— There’s bonnie neuks about Beckside, Stocks-hill, an’ Greystone Green— High Woker Broo gi’es sec a view as isn’t offen seen— It’s glorious doon ont’ Sandy-beds when t’ sun’s just gān to set— An’ t’ Clay-Dubs isn’t far aslew when t’ wedder isn’t wet; But nin was meàd o’ pūrpose theer a bonnie lass to meet Like Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght.

Yan likes to trail ow’r t’ Sealand-fields an’ watch for t’ comin’ tide, Or slare whoar t’ Green hes t’ Ropery an’ t’ Shore of ayder side— T’ Weddriggs road’s a lāl-used road, an’ reeght for coortin toke— An’ Lowca’ lonnin’s reeght for them ’at like a langsome woke— Yan’s reeght aneuf up t’ Lime-road, or t’ Waggon-way, or t’ Ghyll, An’ reeght for ram’lin’s Cūnning-wood or Scattermascot hill. Ther’s many spots ’at’s reeght aneuf, but nin o’ ways so reeght As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght.

Sec thowtes as thur com’ thick lang sen to yan, a lonterin’ lad, Wid varra lal to brag on but a sperrit niver sad, When he went strowlin’ far an’ free aboot his sea-side heàm, An’ stamp’t a mark upon his heart of ivery frind-like neàm;— A mark ’at seems as time drees on to deepen mair an’ mair— A mark ’at ola’s breeghtens meàst i’ t’ gloom o’ comin’ care; But nowte upon his heart has left a mark ’at hods so breeght As Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

Oor young days may’d be wastet days, but dār their mem’ry’s dear! And what wad yan not part wid noo ageàn to hev them here? Whativer trubles fash’t us than, though nayder leet nor few, They niver fash’t us hafe so lang as less an’s fash us noo; If want o’ thowte brong bodderment, it pass’t for want o’ luck, An’ what cared we for Fortun’s bats, hooiver feurce she struck? It mud be t’ time o’ life ’at meàd oor happiness complete I’ Billy Watson’ lonnin’ of a lownd summer neeght!

LONE AND WEARY.

Deid winter’s nūt sa dark to me As t’ lang leet days o’ t’ spring;— I hate to see a swallow flee, Or hear a throssle sing; I greàn at t’ fresh green leaves on t’ trees; I turn frae t’ flooers o’ May, For t’ croft was white wid dog-daisies When Jwohn was teàn away.

We coortit lang, dud Jwohn an’ me— We waitit lang an’ sair— He thowte oor weddin’ mūdn’t be While beàth war poor an’ bare; An’ sep’rat’, I gat past my prime, Jwohn barrow-back’t an’ grey;— Reet sair I grudg’t that wastit time, When Jwohn was teàn away.

Jwohn pinch’t an’ spar’t, an’ tew’t an’ streàv, Till t’ heart wid-in him brak’— Still aimin’ brass aneuf to seàv, Some lal bit farm to tak’: An’ when he’d gitten t’ farm an’ me, ’Twas plain he mūdn’t stay;— He dwined through t’ winter dark an’ dree— I’ t’ spring was teàn away.

We may’d hed many a happy year, If thowte to t’ winds we’d flung, An’ join’t oor strength life’s leàd to beear, When beàth war lish an’ yūng: But widdert was oor flooer o’ life Afoor oor weddin’ day; An’ I’d nūt been ya year a wife When Jwohn was teàn away.

Sooa t’ spring o’ life na sūmmer browte, To my poor man or me; An’ t’ spring o’ t’ year noo brings me nowte But t’ mind o’ misery. I can’t see what anudder sees I’ t’ fields an’ t’ flooers o’ May, For t’ croft was white wid dog-daisies When Jwohn was teàn away.

T’ CLEAN NED O’ KES’ICK.

This phrase is proverbial in central Cumberland, and is generally used in a negative sense; thus, of a person whose character for upright conduct will not bear the full light of day, it is said, “He’s nūt t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick.”

Lang an’ leàt we ma’ lait throo fray Fiend’s-fell[5] to Fles’ick,[6] Afooar we’ll finnd mair ner yā fellow or two Yan can fairly an’ freely co’ t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick; Oald Cūm’erlan’ t’sel’ on’t hods no’but a few! An’ hoo mūn us tell when we div happen on them? Whey, that, just off-hand, isn’t easy to say! But sūm of o’ yages hev marks plain upon them Showin’ they’re nin o’ t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—nūt they!

We ma’ leet on a barne wid t’ leùk of ill-natur’ An’ spite glowerin’ oot of a widderful feàce; A lean, discontentit, slee, gyversome creetur’, ’At kens hoo to mak’ its-sel’ t’ maister o’ t’ pleàce— ’At yowls when it wants owte, an’ glumps when it gits it, Till o’ but it’s mūdder wad droon’t iv a kit; ’An’ t’ mair ’at she dantles, an’ pampers, an’ pets it, T’ less like to growe t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick growes it.

Or mayhap, a lāl lad ’at tells teàls of his brudders, An’ cocks his-sel’ up, an’ example to t’ rest— ’At seàvs his oan laikins an’ laiks wid anudder’s, An’ geaps for owte gud like a gorb iv a nest; ’At boggles at lowpy-back, rack-ups, or shinny, An’ keeps his-sel’ ootside o’ t’ ruck at foot-bo’;— They ma’ praise him ’at hes him—I’d lay my last guinea He s’ niver be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick for o’.

Or a rovin’ yūng chap ’at ga’s hard efter t’ lasses, An’ stuffs them wid o’ maks o’ flaitchment an’ lees; Ol’a’s smùrkin’ an’ smilin’ an’ fair to the’r feàces, But skiftin’ his mattie as fancy ma’ please— Tackin’ up at t’ lang last, efter feùlin a duzzen, Wid sūmbody’s dowter he thinks weel to dee;— A taggelt like that sūd be hatit like puzzen— He’ll niver be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick, nūt he!

Or a man ’at likes brass, an’ cheats o’ maks o’ ways for’t, An’ clowks at advantage whoariver he can; An’ taks drink gaily free when anudder chap pays for’t, But wi’n’t stand his share iv a shot like a man: ’At ol’a’s for sūm dūrty profit ligs watchin’; ’At keeps o’ he cares for anonder ya hat; An’ pays what he owes fwok wid phraisin’ or fratchin’— He munnet be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—moon’t that!

Or a swaddlin’ oald sneak, wid a snowk an’ a snivel, ’At kests up his e’en when he hears a rūff jwoke; Co’in’ sangs an’ queer stwories o’ ’ticements o’ t’ divel— An’ snirrups his nwose ūp at t’ praise o’ poor fwok: ’At grùnts ageàn wrusslin’s, fairs, hoond-trails an’ reàces, An’ sec-like divarsions, as sinful an’ vain, Winkin’ hard at t’ seàm time at wār sins i’ hee pleàces— He niver was t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—that’s plain.

Nay! for be what it may be—his yeàge, steàt or station, A man hollow heartit, unfrindly, unfair, Makin’ mair nor reet use of a lofe or occasion,— Grippin’ hard by his oan, ah, still grankin’ for mair; ’At can toak like a bishop, an’ hod back his meanin’, But can’t wid his neighbours or kinsfwoke agree; Keepin’ bleàmin’ an’ backbitin’, grudgin’ an’ pleenin’— He cannot be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—can’t he.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Fiend’s-fell, an old name for Cross-fell, on the eastern verge of the county.

[6] The beautiful secluded bay which divides the two Heads of St. Bees, the most westerly points of Cumberland, is called Fleswick.

BEN WELLS.

Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!— Nowte’s left like what it used to be— T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew— An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see— T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart, For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils, An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heart Like “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.

“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn, When stars war breet an’ frost was keen, Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn, Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen. An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed, An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt, An’ hear, at ivery stave they played, Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.

Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet, Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels, For few cud whyet hod the’r feet When Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels. Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel, Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance; An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal ’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.

Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn— His marrow willn’t seùn be seen; But rare top dancers many a yan, He’s left to keep his memory green. Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neet We’ll see his gud reet elbow jog; An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet, T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.

Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair, An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang; We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to care For heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang. An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here, T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails, An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer; Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!

NOTE.

The late Benjamin Wells was, for about half a century, the best known and most popular of all the dancing-masters who have plied their vocation amongst the country people of West Cumberland; and, as a teacher of the old-fashioned style of dancing, in which vigour, activity, and precision are, rather than gracefulness, the main _desiderata_, he has never been surpassed. As a violin player his performance was remarkably correct, distinct, and strongly marked as to time—in fact, the best possible fiddling to dance to. The last time I met with him was about twenty years ago, in the bar-parlour of an inn in the southern part of the Lake district, which was somewhat out of his ordinary beat, and where the strains of his fiddle, produced at my request, caused such excitement that a general and very uproarious dance (of males only) set in, and was kept up with such energy that, the space being confined, the furniture was seriously damaged, and Ben was at last ejected by the landlady as the readiest, indeed the only method of putting a stop to the riot. He was light, muscular, and springy, and, in his earlier years, wonderfully swift of foot, so much so that the late Dr. Johnstone, of Cockermouth, told me that he once (at Scale Hill) saw him, without any assistance, run down and capture a wild rabbit—a proof of activity rarely paralleled. Poor old Ben! It will be long ere his erect, compact little figure, his bright, cheery expression, his sprightly address, and his quick firm step are altogether forgotten in the western dales and seaward parishes of Cumberland. REQUIESCAT!

SANNTER, BELLA!

Sannter, Bella!—Bliss the’, sannter, Th’u’ll be seun aneuf at heàm; Gā’n frae t’ chūrch at sec a cannter, Fwoke ’ll sweer th’u’s thinkin’ shām’— Shām’ ’at I sud woak aside the’! Does t’e, Bella, shām’ o’ me? Whey than, bide the’, dar it, bide the’!— Few’s sa leet o’ t’ feut as thee.

Si’s t’e, Bella, nay but, si’s t’e, Hoo th’u’s makin’ t’ ne’bours laugh; Th’u’s a taistrel fair ’at is t’e, But I like thee weel——Hŭt, shaff!— Whoa can tell his stwory rūnnin?— Whoa can coort an’ win a reàce?— If th’u’s flay’t I’s foase, or fūnnin’, Stop, an’ leuk me fair i’ t’ feàce!

Leuk, an’ see if I wad cheat the’— Leuk, I tell the’, glimes wont dee! Whativer wrang’t the’, I wad reet the’, Whoa-iver fails the’, trust i’ me. Wait! Nay, tak’ mair time, I pray the’— Shūttin’ frae yan like a dart— Nowte for nowte I’s axin’ frae the’— Nowte for nowte, but heart for heart.

Sannter, than! Nay, Bella, sannter! I’ll nūt say ya wūrd ’at’s wrang, But th’u’s a wannter!—I’s a wannter! An’ nowder sud be wannters lang. Thoo kens what sec a heàm I’ve gitten— Ken’s o’ ’s reet, an’ straight, an’ square— Ken’s o’ wad fit the’ like a mitten; What the hangment wad t’e mair?

Sannter! sannter!! sannter, Bella!!! Gi’ me time to tell my teàl; ’Tis n’t kind to mak’ a fellow T’ laughin-stock of hoaf o’ t’ deàl. Does t’e think o’ ’s nūt fairation? Hes t’e any foat to finnd? Nay! Whey than, ther’s nèa ’casion— Hŭh—By jing, I’s oot o’ wind!

’Beàt thy speed! Dar sonn, I’ll ho’d the’! Ho’d the’ till I’ve said my say— Till my heart’s ya wish I’ve shew’d the’, Gittin’ back for ’t ey or nay. Wil’ t’e than, say, wil’ t’e wed me? Ah! Thou wadn’t still say—no! Faith! a bonnie dance th’u’s led me, But that lāl squeeze mak’s up for o’!—

T’ squeeze frae thy smo’ fing-ers, Bella! Trimlin’ here i’ my rough hand; It’s queer a touch sa leet can tell a Teàl sa plain to understand; It’s queerer thoo sūd be sa freeten’t,— Flay’t when nowte at o’ ’s amiss. Loavin! How thy feàce has breeten’t, Reedenin’ up at t’ furst fair kiss.

BRANTHET NEUK BOGGLE.

(A TEAL FOR A WINTER NEEGHT.)

’At Marron Beck’s a bonnie beck, what mazelin wad deny? An’ what compares wi’ Branthet Neùk ’at Marron Beck gā’s by? Wid hoozes white, an’ worchets green, an’ Marron runnin’ clear, Eigh! Branthet Neùk’s a heartsome spot i’ t’ sūnny time o’ year!

But loave! it is a dowly pleàce when winter neeghts growe lang; For t’ lwoan ligs dark atween it’s banks,—- a flaysome rwoad to gang When t’ wind rwoars wild in t’ trees abeùn, an’ Marron rwoars below,— An’ Branthet Neuk’s a hantit spot, as I’ve some reeght to know.

They say a heidless woman woaks at sartin neeghts o’ t’ year, An’ greàns an’ yewls at sec a rate as freeghtens fwoke to hear; I wadn’t mind sec teàls, but yance I gat a freeght me-sel’ I’ Branthet Neùk, an’ hoo it was, just lissen an’ I’ll tell.

Yā neeght, lang sen, at Cursmass time, wid Cursmass mak’ o’ wedder, A lock on us at Branthet met, to hev a glass togidder; We crack’t, an’ jwok’t, an’ drank, an’ smeuk’t, while hoaf o’ t’ neeght went by, For Isbel Simon’ drink was gud, an’ we war rayder dry!

’Twas lownd an’ leàt—past yan o’clock—wid nūt a spark o’ moon: An’ like a clood o’ cardit woo’, thick snow keep’t sinkin’ doon, When reeght up t’ Neùk three Jwohn’s an’ me went wādin’ heàm through t’ snow— Jwohn Suntan, an’ Jwohn Bell o’ t’ Rayes, an’ Jwohn o’ Craypless Ho’.

We’d gitten hoaf o’ t’ way up t’ lwoan,—nār Edward Beeby’ yat, An’ theear we stopp’t, for marcy me! a parlish freeght we gat, Lood greàns we heard—lang hollow beels, ’at shak’t oor varra beàns, “For God-seàk, lads, mak on,” sez yan, “them’s t’ heidless woman’ greàns!”

“But nay,” sez I, “if wantin’ t’ heid, she raises sec a rout, I’d like to see what way she taks to fetch sec haybays oot; They say yan stops a woman’s noise when yan taks off her heid, But this, by gock! wad mak yan sweer they’re noisy whick or deid.”

It’s Burns ’at sez Jwohn Barleycworn can mak yan bold as brass; An’ Isbel’ drink meàd me quite keen this greànin’ thing to feàce. We shootit Edward Beeby up an’ meàd ’im git a leeght— He grummel’t sair to be disturb’t at sec a time o’ neeght,

But brong yan oot;—an’, led bee t’ lugs, we follow’t efter t’ soond, While clwose t’ swine-hull dooar we com, an’ stopt, an’ gedder’t roond. “By gockers, lads!” Jwohn Suntan said, “It’s no’but Edward’ swine!” “Nay, nay,” sez Edward, “mine’s i’ soat—it’s nèa pig o’ mine!”

“Well, I’ll gā in, an’ see,” sez I. O’ t’ rest steud leukin on As in I creept wid t’ leeght, an’ fund greit lang Joe Nicholson Hoaf cover’t up wid mucky strea,—soond asleep,—and _snworin’_, As if o’ t’ bulls o’ Dean war theear, an’ ivery bull was rwoarin’.

We trail’t him oot, an’ prop’t him up ageàn t’ oald swine-hull wo’— An’ dazet wid coald he glower’t aboot, an’ dadder’t like to fo’— We help’t ’im in, an’ hap’t ’im weel, on t’ squab aback o’ t’ dooar, He said his wife had barr’t ’im oot, as oft she’d deun afooar.

Sez Jwohn o’ t’ Rayes, “If iv’ry neeght he maks sa gurt a din, It’s rayder queer a wife like his sud iver let ’im in; It’s varra weel we hārd ’im though, he med ha’ dee’t o’ coald! Come, let’s git yam!”—an’ laughin’ loud, we lonter’t oot o’ t’ foald.

Jwohn Suntan’s rwoad left oor’s gay seun, an’ sooa dud Jwohn Bell’s, An’ Jwohn o’ Craypless Ho’ an’ me went poapin’ on oorsells, An’ no’but slow, for t’ snow was thick, an’ meàd it bad to woke, Sooa mid-leg deep we striddel’t on, but offen steud to toke.

Jwohn hed a faymish crack in ’im,—his fadder hed afooar ’im,— At teàls an’ sangs, an’ sec like fun not many cud cum ower ’im; An’ theàr an’ than, dud Jwohn set on, at t’ furst gud rist we teuk, To tell me hoo ther com to be a ghost i’ Branthet Neùk.

Sez Jwohn, sez he, “I’ Branthet Neùk, as varra weel thoo knows, ’Tween t’ beck an’ Edward Beeby’ hoose ther stands some brocken wo’s; Lang sen, when they hed roofs on them, yance, leàtish on i’ t’ year, Some tinkler fwoke gat leave fray t’ lword, an’ com to winter theear.

“Two oald fwoke, wid a scrowe o’ barns, an’ yā son, jūst a man,— A handy chap to shap’ a speun, or cloot a pot or pan,— An’ this chap hed a bonnie wife, ’at dūdn’t leuk like t’ rest, But fair, clean-skinn’t, an’ leàdy-like, an’ ol’as nicely drest.

‘An’ hoo she com to be wid them was niver reeghtly known, But nebbers so’ she wasn’t used as if she’d been ther oan; For t’ oald fwoke soas’t her neet an’ day,—her man—a dūrty tike!— Wad bray her wid a besom-stick, a thyvel, or sec like;

“Tull yance a nebber teùk her in, when t’ tinklers flang her oot, An’ she let fo’ a wūrd or two ’at brong a change aboot; She telt o’ sūm stown geese an’ sheep, an’ whoar they hed them hidden; Of mutton up on t’ sleeping loft, an’ skins anonder t’ midden.

“It wasn’t many wūrds she said,—but wūrds she said anew To bring t’ oald tinkler and her man tull what was weel ther due; For lang i’ Cārel jail they laid, an’ when t’ assize com on, T’ Jūdge let t’ oald waistrel lowce ageàn, but hang’t his whopeful son.

“An’ back frae Cārel t’ tinkler com, to Branthet reeght away, An’ ’ticet t’ poor lass frae t’ nebber’s hoose whoar she’d beep fain to stay; He promish’t fair to treat her weel, and dūd while t’ seckint neeght, An’ than, (reeght pleas’t was Branthet fwok,) he meàd a moonleeght fleeght.