Part 4

“An’ days went by an’ neàbody went nār to t’ tinkler’s dooar, At last some barns peep’t in an’ so’ some huller’t bleùd on t’ flooar, An’ than t’ hoose dooar was drūven in, an’ sec a seeght was theer, ’At sūm ’at so ’t went reid wid reàge, an’ sūm went white wid fear.

“Squeez’t up intull a dūrty neùk, an’ bleùdy, stark, an’ deid, They fūnd that nice young lass’s corp, bit niver fūnd her heid; T’ oald tinkler hoond hed hagg’t it off afooar he meàd a fleeght on ’t, An’ teàn it wid him, fwoke suppwos’t, to gud his-sel’ wid t’ seet on’t.

“An’ nin o’ t’ clan at efter that i’ t’ country side was seen. But iver sen a hantit spot hes that Neùk-lonning been, For t’ mūrder’t woman wokes aboot, an’ greàns, for o’ she’s deid, As lood as what we hārd to-neeght,—_they say she laits her heid_!”

“Wey, weel deùn, Jwohn!” to Jwohn sez I, “an’ thenks ta for thy teàl, It’s meàd me hoaf forgit hoo t’ snow maks o’ my teeàs geàl; Th’u’s just at heàm,—gud neeght, my lad, but fūrst hear this fray me, If iv’ry teàl ’at’s telt be true, thy stwory’s neà lee!”

MARY RAY AN’ ME.

Bonnie Mary Ray an’ me Wer’ barnish sweethearts lang, But I was wild an’ yūng, an’ she Was niver reetly strang; Sooa frinds o’ beàth sides threep’t it sair ’At partit we sud be— An’ life was darken’t t’ lang-er t’ mair To Mary Ray an’ me.

But yance lāl Mary Ray an’ me Met oot on Woker Broo, When t’ clouds burn’t reid far oot at sea, An’ t’ sūn com’ bleezin’ through, An’ sent ya lang-droan glissenin’ ray Across that dowly sea, Like t’ promish of a happier day To Mary Ray an’ me.

An’ “Sees t’e, Mary Ray,” I says, “That lang low line o’ leet;— It cūms to say oor leàter days May yit be fair an’ breet, An’ t’ cloods ’at darken owre us noo May rive like yon we see, An’ t’ sūn o’ love cūm glentin through, To shine on thee an’ me.”

But Mary lean’t her sinkin heid Ageàn my heavin’ breist “Tūrn roond,” she said, “an’ say asteed, What reads t’e here i’ t’ East; For t’ East’s mair sure to guide us reet, If dark an’ coald it be; It’s liker life—nor that reid leet— To Mary Ray an’ thee.”

I turn’t an’ leùk’t wid bodeful glooar, Whoar o’ was coald an’ gray, An’ like a ghost reàse t’ white church tooar, To freeten whope away; An’ Woker’s shadow heap’t a gloom Owre beck, an’ field, an’ tree, ’At said far darker days mud cūm To Mary Ray an’ me.

An’ niver mair on Woker Broo I strowl’t wid Mary Ray; They partit us that winter through— An’ than I went away. An’ Mary in her grave they’d laid When I com’ back frae t’ sea;— ’Twas true what Woker’s shadow said To Mary Ray an’ me.

THE BANNASYDE “CAIRNS.”

(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)

I’ yer jornas ooer Wa’na Scar to Seeathet ye’ll offen aneeuf ha nooatish’t a lot o’ round heeaps o’ steeans strinklet heear an’ theear ooer t’ feeace o’ Bannasyde mooer: an’ if ye leuk inta them fine maps ’at t’ gūverment’s putten owt ye’ll see ’at t’ pleeace ’at’s meeant for Bannasyde has _cairns, cairns, cairns_ dottit o’ ooer ’t. They wor sharp fellows wor t’ surveyors ’at went ooer t’ grund ùt meeak thor maps. Yā lot o’ them com’ efter anudder for iver so many years, sūm wi’ reed cooats an’ sūm wi’out; an’ they teeuk for iver o’ pains wi’ the’r wark. Why, when t’ doctor gat a lile lūmp off àld Geoordie Flimming’ field ùt meeak his-sel’ a bit of a gardin, efter they’d survey’t an’ mizzer’t it, they went o’ ooer t’ grūnd a-fresh, just ùt put it in; an’ theear it is i’ t’ maps, as plain as t’ field its-sel’.

Bit about thor cairns. I mun tell yé ’at when I furst hard o’ them, I cùdn’t meeak end nor side o’ what they cud be, an’ I went tull Rodger Forness ut ex about them. Rodger kna’s meear about sike things nor a deeal o’ fooak; sooa I went tull him, an’ he telt mé ’at cairns was heeaps o’ lilely steeans ’at hed been rais’t ooer t’ graves o’ girt men lang sen, afooer ther was any kirk-garths ut bury t’em in—’at Dunmal Raise is t’ biggest cairn i’ t’ country, an’ ’at it was pilet up ooer a king ’at was kil’t theear. Rodger an’ me hed a gūd laugh togidder ooer t’ Bannasyde cairns, for we beeath kna’t gaily weel how _they_ com to be theear, but we said t’ yan til’ t’ tudder, “Let’s hear, an’ see, an’ say nowte.”

Bit howiver, when them ’cute ordnance chaps, as they co’t thersel’s, was teean in wi’ thor heeaps, it’s lile wūnder ’at a gentleman ’at leev’t here—yan Mr. Rowlins, sud ha’ meead his-sel’ cock suer ’at they wor nowder meear nor less nor sooa many lile Dunmal Raises, an’ thowte he wod like ut see what they hed in belā’ t’em; an’ as it wodn’t be like a gentleman ut keep o’ t’ fun till his-sel’, he ex’t a lot of udder gentlemen, frinds o’ his, mainly what parsons, fray about Ooston, ut come an’ see t’ cairns oppen’t, an’ t’ grūnd under t’em groven up, ut finnd out what they cūver’t.

Well! they o’ torn’t up true to t’ day. Ald Billy Bamthet, Tommy Thackra, an’ yan or two meear Cunniston chaps hed been hired ut due t’ wark, an’ away they o’ went, out on Bannasyde, an’ at it they set.

O’ t’ fun ’at they gat, howiver, was a bit of a laugh noos an’ thans at āld Bamthet. He was a queer āld dog was Bamthet, an’ he keep’t exin’ on them o’ manner o’ questions about what they wor laitin on. At ya time he wod say till a parson varra seriously “Irr yé expectin’ ut finnd a Bishop?” at anudder he wod ex t’em if they thowte Moses was buriet theear. Bit nowte’s nowte, whativer may be laitit for! an’ suer aneuf ther’ was nowte ut be fūnd under t’ heeaps o’ steeans.

It was a cāld, sleety, slattery sooart of a day o’ through, but they steeak tull the’r wark like Britons, tull it was turnin’ sooa dark ’at āld Bamthet says “Irr we ut hod at it any lang-er, Mr. Rowlins? Tommy Thackra’s gittin’ terrable teer’t, an’ it’s growan sooa dark ’at we’ll seeùn nit be yable ut say whedder what we may finnd be t’ beeans of a bishop or t’ beeans of a billy-gooat, wi’out ther’s some amang ye ’at knā’s beeans by greeapin’ at ’em.”

Well, they o’ thowte they mud give it up for a bad job. They’d torn’t ooer meear nor a scooer o’ t’ steean heeaps, an’ they hedn’t fūnd sa mich as t’ shin beean of a cracket ut egg ’em on any farder. Sooa Mr. Rowlins tel’t his men ut gidder up the’r hacks an’ the’r speeads an’ things, an’ git away heeam.

As they wor o’ trailin away varra slā’ an’ varra whishtly, down Willy Garnett girt intak’, āld Bamthet sidelt up till amang t’ gentlemen, an’ says, “Now, Mr. Rowlins,” says he, “just tell us what ye thowte was to be fūnd i’ t’ clearin’s o’ t’ Bracken-beds.” “What do you call clearin’s of Bracken-beds, William?” Mr. Rowlins ex’t. “Why! dunnot yè knā,” says Bamthet, “dunnot yè knā ’at t’ farmers mā’s t’ brackens i’ t’ back-end, ut bed the’r beeas’s wi’?” “Of course I know that,” says Mr. Rowlins, “but what has mowing brackens to do with these cairns?” “Due wi’ them?” says t’ tudder, “why, ivery thing ut due wi’ them! How d’yè think the’r leys wad cūm on if t’ cobble steeans wor left liggin howe-strowe amang t’ brackens when they com ut mā’ t’em? They gidder ’em off, to be suer, an’ pile ’em up into t’ heeaps ’at we’ve been wrowkin’ amang o’ t’ day, an’ yee co’ cairns. I reckon cairns is t’ genteel wūrd for t’ clearin’s o’ t’ bracken-beds, bit I niver heer’t ’em co’t cairns afooer, an’ I’ll niver co’ t’em cairns ageean—t’ āld neeam’s reet aneeuf for fellows like me!”

Well, when they heer’t t’is, t’ parsons leeuk’t at t’ gentlemen, an’ t’ gentlemen leeuk’t at t’ parsons, an’ than they leeuk’t t’ yan at t’ tudder o’ round as they steeud, an’ than they brast out wi’ a laugh loud aneeuf ut raise o’ t’ ravens on t’ Bell Crag an’ o’ t’ gleads i’ Buckbarrow. Efter they’d whyeten’t down a bit, Mr. Rowlins says, “Well but, William, why didn’t you tell us this before?” “Nay, nay,” says t’ āld thief, “I wosn’t gā’n ut spoil yer day’s spooart i’ that fashi’n, when ye’d browte yer frinds sa far ut see’t. That wodn’t ha’ been manners!” An’ away down t’ intak’ he went sneeakin an’ sniggerin till Tommy Thackra an’ t’ rist o’ them. But Tommy an’ t’ rist o’ them didn’t snigger back ageean. They o’ growl’t at him, an’ yan o’ them said, “It’s an āld tūrkey! What for cudn’t it hod t’āld tūng on’t till we’d gitten anudder gud day’s weeage or two, an’ plenty ut itt an’ drink wi’t, out o’ t’ clearin’s o’ t’ bracken-beds? T’er’s anew o’ t’em left too ha’ keep’t us gā’n for a week!”

BETTY YEWDALE.

(_Extract from a Lecture on “The People of the English Lake Country, in their Humorous Aspect.”_)

Still harping upon married life, I wish to draw your attention to one of the finest passages in Wordsworth’s greatest poem—_The Excursion_, which abounds in fine passages. In that I refer to, the poet gives a very charming account of the daily life of a humble couple in Little Langdale, on whose hospitality he describes himself, or his hero, as being thrown, when benighted and lost in that narrow vale, where, as _I_ have found occasionally, the closely encircling belt of high mountains makes a dark night very black indeed. The poet says—

“Dark on my road the autumnal evening fell, And night succeeded with unusual gloom, So that my feet and hands at length became Guides better than mine eyes—until a light High in the gloom appeared, too high, methought, For human habitation.”

Climbing the heights, however, he finds that the light proceeds from a lantern, held out by a woman to guide her husband homewards from the distant slate quarry. The poet proceeds to tell of his hospitable reception, the husband’s arrival, and the unusual beauty of the good-man’s face, adding—

“From a fount Lost, thought I, in the obscurities of time, But honoured once, those features and that mien May have descended, though I see them here. In such a man, so gentle and subdued, Withal so graceful in his gentleness, A race illustrious for heroic deeds, Humbled, but not degraded, may expire.”

Thus much for Jonathan Yewdale. His wife, Betty, is made to speak for herself—but to speak in language very different from that she really used, as may be seen in a still more remarkable work than that I quote from—_The Doctor_, namely, by Robert Southey, wherein Betty Yewdale, in her “oan mak’ o’ toke,” relates “The true story of the terrible knitters of Dent.” In _The Excursion_, however, she is made to speak thus—

“‘Three dark mid-winter months Pass,’ said the Matron, ‘and I never see, Save when the sabbath brings its kind release, My helpmate’s face by light of day. He quits His door in darkness, nor till dusk returns. And through Heaven’s blessing, thus we gain the bread For which we pray; and for the wants provide Of sickness, accident, and helpless age. Companions have I many; many friends, Dependants, comforters—my wheel, my fire, All day the house-clock ticking in mine ear, The cackling hen, the tender chicken brood, And the wild birds that gather round my porch. This honest sheep-dog’s countenance I read; With him can talk; nor seldom waste a word On creatures less intelligent and shrewd. And if the blustering wind that drives the clouds Care not for me, he lingers round my door, And makes me pastime when our tempers suit;— But, above all, my thoughts are my support.’”

This, no doubt is, as I have said, a very charming picture of humble house life in a lonely home; but the picture is drawn by a poet, and, in _his_ words—certainly not in those of the worthy dame from whose lips they are made thus melodiously to flow.

I have conversed with many elderly people who knew this couple familiarly, and several have told me of the almost seraphic beauty of the old man’s features, lowered, as it was, by a lack of expression, denoting a weakness of mind and character, which, in the opinion of neighbours, perfectly justified Betty in maintaining full domestic supremacy and undisputed rule.

Of the manner in which she sometimes asserted that supremacy, and brought her husband back to his allegiance, when, as was rare, he happened to stray from it, an amusing instance was told to me by a respectable widow, who for many years occupied the farm of Oxenfell, a lonely spot, amid the wild craggy uplands on the Lancashire side of Little Langdale, and nearly opposite to Hackett, where the Yewdales resided. Were it only to show how differently great poets and ordinary people regard the same subject, this is worthy of preservation, and I give it, very nearly, in my informant’s own phraseology.

“Ther’ hed been a funeral fray about t’ Ho’garth, an’ varry nār o’ t’ men fooak about hed geean wi’ ’t till Cūnniston. Nixt fooarneeun, Betty Yewdale com’ through fray Hackett, an’ says she till me, ‘Hes yower meeaster gitten back fray t’ funeral?’ ‘Nay,’ says I, ‘he hesn’t!’ ‘An’ irrn’t ye gān ut lait him?’ says Betty. ‘Lait him!’ says I, ‘I wodn’t lait him if he didn’t cù heeam for a week.’ ‘Why, why!’ says she, ‘yee ma’ due as ye like, but I mun bring mine heeam, an’ I _will_!’ An’ off she set i’ t’ rooad till Cūnniston. On i’ t’ efterneeun, she co’ back, driving Jonathan afooer her wi’ a lang hezle stick—an’ he sartly was a sairy object. His Sūnda’ cleeas leeūk’t as if he’d been sleepin i’ them on t’ top of a durty fluer. T’ tye of his neckcloth hed wūrk’t round till belā’ t’ ya lug, an’ t’ lang ends on’t hung ooer ahint his shoulder. His hat hed gitten bulged in at t’ side, an’ t’ flipe on ’t was cock’t up beeath back an’ frūnt. O’ togidder, it wod ha’ been a queerly woman body ’at wod ha’ teean a fancy till Jonathan that day.

“Says I till Betty, ‘What, ye _hev_ fūnd him than?’ ‘Fūnd him!’ says she, ‘ey, I’ fūnd him! I knā’t whār ut lait him! I fūnd him at t’ Black Bull, wi’ yower meeaster, an’ a lock meear o’ t’ seeam sooart. They wor just gān ut git the’r dinner, wi’ a girt pan o’ beef-steeaks set on t’ middle o’ t’ teeable. I meead t’ frying pan an’ t’ beef-steeaks flee gaily murrily out o’ t’ duer, an’ I set on an’ geh them o’ sike a blackin’ as they willn’t seeun forgit. Than I hail’t Jonathan out fray amang them; bit when I’d gitten him out wi’ mè, I shām’t ut be seen on t’ rooads wi’ him. Dud iver yè see sike a pictur’?’ ‘Why, nay! nit sa offen, indeed,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says Betty, ‘as I wodn’t be seen i’ t’ rooads wi’ him, we hed to teeak t’ fields for’t, an’, as it wosn’t seeaf ut let him climm t’ wo’s, I meead him creep t’ hog-hooals.[7] I meead him creep t’ hog-hooals,’ says Betty, ‘an’ when I gat him wi’ his heead in an’ his legs out, I dūd switch him.’”

This true story shows Wordsworth’s humble heroine in not quite so romantic a light as he throws round her in the passages I have quoted; but I don’t see that it need lower her in our esteem.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Hog-holes are small apertures left in the dry stone fences, to allow the sheep, or _hogs_, to get through from one pasture to another.

THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH.

_A Reminiscence of Windermere._

(CHIEFLY IN THE DIALECT OF WESTMORLAND.)

Green verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres, How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spell That bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d years And held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel.

’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills, And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail, And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,[8] Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel.

And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long, A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,) Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong, Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame.

Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray; The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere, And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay— The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere.

And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest, Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone, And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast— The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone.

And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day, And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky, By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay, We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I.

Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong, And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride, As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long, He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide.

“Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I, When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell; For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky, And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell.

“And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long, Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time; The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song, So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.”

Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim— For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade— And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim, He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.

“A house ligs lā’ an’ leànsome theear, doon in that oomer dark, Wi’ wide, heigh-risin’ chimla-heeads, lā’ roof, an’ crum’lin’ wo’, O’ wedder-gnā’n an’ weed-be-grown—for time hes setten t’ mark O’ scooers an’ scooers o’ weearin’ years on hantit Co’garth Ho’.

“T’ āld Philipson’s o’ Windermer’ lang, lang hed theer the’r heeam;[9] An’ far an’ wide the’r manors spread ooer forest, field, an’ fell; But now ther’s nit i’ t’ cūntryside a steeatsman o’ their neeam— Ther’s Philipsons, but o’ work hard for breead like me mysel’.

“For niver thinkin’ they’d aneeuf, and strivin’ still for meear, They wantit ivery scrap o’ land the’r nebbers held aboot; An’ many a pooer man’s grund they gat, by meeans nit ol’a’s fair— An’ lang o’ that grund-greed o’ their’s, this teeal o’ mine fell out.

“An’ āld-ly man nār Burthet leev’t, his neeam was Kraster Cook, An’ whyetly his life hed ron wi’ Dorot’y his deeam. A conny lile bit farm was theirs, a lown an’ sunny neeuk, An’ t’ house ’at’s theear upon it still keeps up āld Kraster’ neeam.

“Myles Philipson wad often toak wi’ Kraster Cook an’ t’ wife, An’ priss them hard the’r bit o’ land ut swap wi’ him or sell; But beeath o’ t’em at last spak’ oot—they’d rayder part wi’ life Ner sell or swap a single yird of infield land or fell.

“‘Ye s’ part wi’ ’t than,’ said Philipson, as rantin’ mad he rooar’d, ‘I’ll hev that bit o’ land o’ yours, sud yee be ’live or deead.’ An’ Kraster fūnd ’at efter that as if ther was a sooard ’At hed to fo’ when t’ time co’ round, still hingin’ ooer his heead.

“Bit nowte com on’t till t’ Kersmas time, an’ than till āld Co’garth They went wi’ t’ tudder nebbors, kindly ex’t to t’ Kersmas feeast; An’ t’ best o’ t’ seeats at t’ sūpper booard, an’ warmest neeuk at t’ hearth Wer’ theirs, for t’ squire hed ooerder’t ’at they sud be that mitch greac’t.

“Bit seeun they fūnd that Kersmas treeat mud cost ’em parlish dear, For Philipson pertendit ’at they’d stown a silver cūp, An’ Cook’s house was ratch’t through an’ through, an’ t’ silver cup fund theear, Heead theear, girt like, o’ purpose—an’ t’ āld cūpple wer’ teean up.

“An’ for the’r lives they triet ’em beeath, an’ beeath condemn’t to dee. Myles Philipson was theear, an’ Dolly glooer’t him hard i’ t’ feeace, As meear ner plowmb she rais’t hersel’, an’, terrable ut see, She spak’ thir wūrds i’ seccan a skrike as rung through t’ justice pleeace:—

“‘Ey, gūd thysel’, Myles Philipson—thou thinks th’u’s mannish’t grand; Thou thinks th’u’s hooal’t our lile bit grund, and gitten’t o’ for nowte, Bit, harks te’ here, Myles Philipson—that teenie lump o’ land Is t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;

“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed; Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand, Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed, A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.

“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day, Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’; Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away, Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’

“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead, (They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,) Two skulls steead in a hooel i’ t’ wo’, aside o’ t’ wide stair heead, At āld Co’garth, an’ theear they gurn’t, a warnin’ fray aboon.

“An’, ivery mak’ o’ pains they teeuk ut git ’em druven away— They buriet them, they born’t them weel, they bray’t them till they brak’, They sunk ’em full’t wi’ leed i’ t’ lake, they pash’t ’em deep i’ clay, But just as Dolly said they wod, they still co’ gurnin’ back.

“An’ theear they’ve gurn’t an’ gurn’t ageean, for many a hundert year. An’ scòoars o’ fooak ha’ seen ’em theear—it’s neea lees I tell— Till t’ Bishop[10] wo’t ’em up i’ t’ hooal, bit still they’re gurnin’ theear, For just afooar he wo’t ’em up, I seed them theear mysel’.

“An’ t’ Philipsons went doon an’ doon, the’r schemin’ o’ went wrang, Though offen for a sinkin’ coase they meead a gallant stand; Fray t’ steeat rowls about Windermer’ the’r neeam hes vanish’t lang, _I_ divn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Landlords of the Ferry—the first named having been previously the well known guard of the coach that traversed the Lake district.

[9] In a foot-note to _West’s Guide to the Lakes_, published first about 1770—its 5th edition being dated 1793—the author or editor suggests certain other modes of accounting for the presence of the famous skulls of Calgarth, but fails in offering anything so satisfactory as the popular version here done into rhyme. The writer of the note appears to have seen them himself, and I have known more than one old person, besides John Long, who averred that in their youth, they had seen the said remains occupying their immemorial position. The misfortunes of the Philipsons of Calgarth and Crook are matter of local history, and with some of their recorded exploits, make them, perhaps, the most interesting family of the two counties.

[10] Dr. Watson, the celebrated Bishop of Llandaff, who purchased the estate of Calgarth, and long resided upon it, but not at the old Hall. He is always spoken of by the old people who remember him as “T’ Bishop.”

MAP’MENT.

(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)

Māp’ment—Martha—māp’ment! Thow knā’sn’t what thow says— An’ thow fair torments my heart owt Wi’ thy lile contrairy ways— It’s oa’ a heeap o’ māp’ment Ut say ’at this or that, Sūd meeak us put it off ageean— Thow toaks thow knā’sn’t what!

We irrn’t rich, an’ mayn’t be; What than!—wi’ time an’ keear, An’ pu’in’ weel togidder, We may meeak our little meear. We s’ niver, I’s insuer us, Be neeàk’t or clemm’d or cāld But spār’ a ho’penny or two Ut cheer us when we’re āld.