Part 6

Atweel it is a simple thing As ever dreamer wastit time on; Scarce worth the while to say or sing— For this is what I’m boun’ to rhyme on:—

The mem’ry o’ a denty quean, I couldna draw a plain-spak’ word frae; Scarce heard ava—no fairly seen— An’ never efter seen or heard frae.

A’ day we’d stey’t at Corrie Common, Drinkin’, thrawin’ quoits, an’ jeerin’; An’ doon to Stidriggs, or the gloamin’, Five wil’ chiel’s we gaed careerin’.

(Jock Porteous, An’ro Hen’erson, Wull Fergyson, me, Wullie Beaty. Twae, like mysel’, may yet leeve on— The ither twae—Aih me, the pity!)

But passin’ by a wee cot-house, Wi’ riggin’ laigh, an’ gable suety, Yin cries oot sae baul’ an’ croose, “Come, boys, c’ way in, an’ licht the cutty!”

I’d maist ill tricks a lad can ha’e— An’ _some I hadna neebors spak’ o’_— But naither frien’ nor foe could say I ever cared to blaw tobacco.

An’ in they gaed; but I stood there Before the door, a tentless sentry, Till startled by a vision fair Gaun jookin’ ben across the entry.

Blate—blate an’ backwarts aye I’ve been, An’ niver forrat-ways nor saucy. But where’s the guff at bricht nineteen ’At wadna chace a fleein’ lassie?

Sae ben I slinkit—hat i’ han’— An’ there, beside the wee bit wunnock, I saw a peerless maiden stan’, Just pantin’ like a hare i’ panic.

Wi’ shapely form i’ braw black silk— Lang curls as black’s the silk, an’ blacker— A changefu’ cheek—a throat like milk. An’ lown an’ pawkily I spak’ her.

I pled for my companions rouch— I trow’t they couldna mean to fley her: But only heard her breath’s quick souch, For fient a word could I get frae her.

I howp’t she didna think _me_ rude— Civility I weel intendit; An’, quit I naither wad nor could, But pardon—gin I _had_ offendit.

I ventur’t yince to speir her name— I offen askit where she cam’ frae— (That hoosie boodna’ be her hame) An’ thochte I heard ae word like _Wamphray_.

But plague licht on thae rantin’ chiel’s, ’At couldna let yin coort i’ quayet, But keepit cryin’—bletherin’ de’ils!— “Hoy! This is no the bit to stey at;

Co’ way to Stidriggs!”—sae I gaed, But first the lassie low I herkit, “I’ll come again?” was what I said— An’ nae denial I remerkit.

We wan to Stidriggs Bent—but haith! Our _bent_ was Stidriggs’ tea an’ toddy; An’ he that wadna roose them baith, Maun be a puir wanwauchtie body.

To Whitcastles I should ha’e gaen, But weet!—I’ve seldom seen the like o’ ’t— An’ An’ro swore i’ siccan a rain He wadna turn a gangrel’s tyke out.

Twae close box-beds, to five big chiel’s, Presentit scrimp accommodation; But, “heids an’ thraws, or necks an’ heels,” They’d haud by An’ro’s invitation.

As they begood to think o’ bed, An opportunity I grippit, Borrow’t, no askin’, some ane’s plaid, An’ furth into the rain I slippit.

An’ though the gate I hardly kent, I’ trustfu’ love’s instinct confidin’, I, darklin’, stayvelt owre the bent, An’ fan’ the cot, but ither guidin’.

An’ nearin’ that wee hoose at last, O’ monie a fletherin’ wordie thinkin’, I saw, what gar’t my heart beat fast, A licht frae oot it’s window blinkin’.

I keekit through, but nochte could see; A claith was there, half drawn, half drappit; But sure the licht was meen’t for me;— Upon the glass I lichtly chappit.

An’ suen I heard the openin’ door; An’ through it’s chink I saftly glidit; But turnin’ on the lichted floor, I saw I’d been sair, sair misguidit—

I saw what gar’t my heart stan’ still, An’ set my verra flesh a’ creepin’, While doon my limbs the sweit draps chill, Like thowin’ snaw gaed dreepin’, dreepin’.

I’ place o’ braw black silken goon— A bed-goon an’ a drogget coatie; I’ place o’ ringlets clusterin’ doon— A reekit mutch an’ chaft-locks tawtie;

I’ place o’ saft lid-droopin’ e’en— Ae wulcat spark—a winkin’ won’er; I’ place o’ lips wi’ bliss atween— Twae gums wad gar a corby scunner;

I’ place o’ broo an’ throat o’ sna’ An’ bosom fraucht wi’ sweet emotion— A face an’ figur’ ’passin’ a’ The gruesomeness o’ earth or ocean.

An’ sic a tongue—Gude guide a’ weel!— She lows’t on me—sic fearfu’ flytin’!— I’ sic a voice—half craik, half squeel— Wi’ jeers an’ jibes braid, bitter bitin’.

“To gie yin fash,” Rob Burns declared, “An aul’ wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter;” But honest Robin never heard That aul’ wife’s tongue i’ Corrie water.

An’ whan she made a calmer souch, An’ stey’t a wee her skirlin’ ang-er, I heard, far ben, a sweet wee lauch, An’ dowdna thole the ordeal lang-er.

I flang the carlin fierce aside, An’ left her up hersel’ to gether; An’, frae her cot, wi’ wrathfu’ stride, I fled to face the midnicht w’ather.

An’ back I took my darksome way, By gerse-grown dykes an’ resh-rouch heid rigs; By spretty knowe an’ staney brae, An’, sair forfowch’en, wan to Stidriggs,

Where, hingin’ up the borrow’t plaid, An’ owre my queer mischanter smilin’, I took my share o’ ae box-bed, But couldna sleep for thochte’s beguilin’.

For whae could yon sweet lassie be That lauch’t at that aul’ carlin’ scaul’in’? ’Twas plain, I’ve said afore, to see That cot-hoose couldna be her dwallin’.

How cam’ she to be wonnin’ there I’ that aul’ muirlan’ clay-wa’t biggin? How could a gem sae bricht an’ rare Be treasur’t ’neath its crazy riggin’?

It’s mair nor therty year sin syne— That maiden’s aiblins now a grannie— But ’mang the folk I like to min’, I offen see her, skeich an’ bonnie.

An’ whiles I’ve thochte that bed she gi’en, An’ keep’t, her word to be sweet-heartit, Like ither sweethearts, she’d ha’e been Frae mem’ry’s hauld lang, lang depairtit.

For weel I wat, fair favours won Ha’e frae men’s minds aye suener slippit Nor ochte we’ve set oor hearts upon, An’ triet to grip—but fail’t to grip it.

REMINISCENCES OF LOCKERBIE.

Aul’ Lockerbie! aul’ Lockerbie! the dear wee toon to me! Where, never fleyed, a boy I played, an’ roved a younker free, Wi’ heart sae licht that life was bricht as never mair it shall, For never mair I’ll ramble where I drank o’ Bessie’s wal’.[14]

Yes! dear to me is Lockerbie, its houses wee an’ big, Its “Up the gate,” its “Doon the gate,” its “Cross,” an’ “Through the brig,” Its closes mirk,[15] its stumpy kirk, its fu’ an’ thrang kirkyard Where caul’ an’ deep some dreamless sleep I wish dour death had spared.

A hame to me was Lockerbie when half its roofs were theek, An’ jeests, an’ jaums, an’ gapin’ lums, a’ black-japann’t wi’ reek; Whan monie were the middens nerr the whunstane-causey’t street; But cosie aye its hearthstanes lay afore the stranger’s feet.

Than Lockerbie had sichts to see at race times an’ at fairs, Wi’ Jocks an’ Jeans, strang chiel’s an’ queans, i’ scores an’ scores o’ pairs; An’ gledging oot the roads aboot or the fair had weel begun, We’d watch the braw, braw lasses a’ pu’ on their hose an’ shune.

I wadna’ gie aul’ Lockerbie for ony toon I ken, For kindly were the kimmers there, an’ kindly too the men,— Atweel the _bouk_ were kindly folk, an’ some were gey an’ queer, An’ whilk remain an’ whilk are gane I downa bide to spier.

My thochts oft flee to Lockerbie at midnicht’s waukrife hour, An’ thickly flock aul’ mem’ries back wi’ heart up-heesing power, An’ schulemates dear, an’ sweethearts fair, an’ frien’s o’ days lang fled, I’ shadowy train appear again like phantoms roun’ my bed.

There was gude aul’ Jeanie Kennedy, an’ Jimmie Rule, the blin’, Whase fiddle’s squeal we liket weel though’t had nae tune but yin, Lizzie Dobie, Winnie Stobie, Nickie Scott an’ puir Jean Hine, An’ aul’ John Kerr, a lamiter, a pawkie frien’ o’mine.

Josie Weepers, Geordie Robison, Tam Bell, an’ Cripple Peg, An’ the puir man nocknamed “Providence,” whae whiles gaed oot to beg. The Cameronian merchants twae, the wee yin an’ the lang, An’ Sawney Beck, wi’s aul’ white heck that scarce a fit could gang.

There was roup-crier Awnro’ Jimmison, whae hirplet in his walk, An’ Wullie Smith, a carle o’ pith whae squeekit in his talk, An’ wi’ a pow maist like a lowe the singin’ nailer chiel, An’ droothy twuns, twae burniewun’s, Bob Johnston an’ Jock Steel.

Wullie Corrie, Sandy Moray, than a licht amang the Whigs, An’ hairy-faced Bill Vairy, wi’ his wife gaun sellin’ pigs, Funny-speakin’ Peggy Meekin wi’ the meetin’ nose an’ chin, An’ Robie Rule,[16] aul’ noisy tule, whase drum made sic a din.

There was winkin’ Sandy Linton, makin’ peeries roun’ an’ fine (Within his doors hoo monie hours o’ merriment I min’), The pistol-fittit cooper carle whase name was aye a myth, An’ the twae whase names were bye-words, Wullie White an’ Michael Smith.

Wi’ mony mae than I may say, but yin I’d like to name (Gin I forget to him my debt, I’ll hide my heid for shame,) Wi’ great respec’, the maister stric’, an’ danglin’ frae his claws, His badge o’ rule i’ the thrang aul’ schule, the weel-worn cutty tawse.

Sweethearts a score I whyles rhyme ow’r—their names, Bell, Barb’ra, Bess, Ann, Kirsty, Kate, May, Margaret, Jean, Georgie, Jamesie, Jess, Johanna, Helen, Hannah, Agnes, Maries twae or three, An’ a pauchtie dame I’m sweir to name, the dearest yince to me.

But monie a day has passed away, ay, monie a lang dark year, Sin I’d the chance o’ smile or glance frae them lang syne sae dear, An’ hoo they’ve fared, whase lots they’ve shared, or where the hames they’ve blest, May sometime be revealed to me—but noo it’s just a mist.

My schulemates! hoo _they’re_ squander’t noo, I haena words to say, Some east away, some wast away, they a’ gaed far away— But what-for say they’re wide away, or sunder’t far abreed? When, weel I wat, it’s waur be that, the feck hae lang been deid.

Aih me! aih me! aul’ Lockerbie, my heart sinks cauld an’ wae At the doolfu’ thocht o’ changes wrocht sin I speel’t Mount Ulzie’s brae; But aye I’m fain to see’t again, an’ aye I hope an’ pray To rest a wee at Lockerbie afore I’m ca’t away.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] Bessie’s Well was not far from the foot of “Cuddie’s Lane.” The writer has been informed that the well was drained or filled up by operations connected with the formation of the railway. This ancient fountain, the destruction of which is to be deplored, had the traditional reputation of attaching all who drank of it with a lasting affection to the town of Lockerbie.

[15] The existence of “closes mirk” in Lockerbie may be disputed; but the writer holds one or two in his recollection well suited to the taste of those who love the darkness rather than the light.

[16] The town drummer and bellman, one of whose functions was to parade the streets, drumming the lieges of Lockerbie to bed at ten p.m., and out of bed at six a.m.—a custom which some thought “more honoured in the breach than the observance.”

YAN O’ T’ ELECT.

About five or six years ago a gentleman entered a station on one of our local railways, and found the worthy station master (whose original occupation was that of a small Cumberland farmer,) in a state of great excitement. He inquired the cause, and received a reply of which the following is a verbatim report, committed to paper immediately afterwards. We must premise that Dr. —— was a well known amateur preacher,—a really benevolent man, who did good in his way, but had no charity for the opinions of others, and was ever intruding his views and advice on all who came in contact with him, and believed all who differed from him destined to perdition. The extreme Calvinistic doctrine of election and reprobation was a perfect mania with him. On this occasion he was accompanied by his servant, a man of sleek aspect, who distributed tracts, etc., for his master.

“What’s t’ matter wi’ mé? Wey, theear matter plenty! That Dr. —— com’ here aboot hoaf an oor sen to tak’ t’ train. I was stan’in’ at t’ time aback o’ t’ ticket wole, an’ what d’yé think he says;—he says, says he, ‘Isaac, you are a very wicked old man, and will most certainly be damned; you are worse than Cass (then under sentence of death in Carlisle gaol)—you are worse than a murderer.’ Says I, ‘Me war’ ner a murderer! What the sham’ an’ hangment d’yé mean be that?’ Says he, ‘I mean this, old man; it has been elected from the beginning that certain men shall be saved, and certain shall be lost. You are among the latter, and you will most certainly be damned.’ Says I, ‘An’ what ’ill come o’ you?’ Says he, ‘Oh, Christ elected me many years ago.’ Then, says I, ‘I think he meàd a varra feckless choice; but if it be sooa, I wad like to know what I’ve deùn ’at I’s to be damned! I’ve been weddit abeun forty year, an’ I’ve hed twelve barns, an’ I browte them o’ up weel, an’ I edicated them weel, an’ they’ve o’ turn’t oot weel; I’ve wrowte hard o’ me life, an’ I niver wrang’t a man oot of a ho’penny—what mair can a man deu?’ Says he, ‘Isaac, you might do much more, you might follow the teaching of the Bible; you might sell all you have and give it to the poor.’ Says I, ‘Sell o’ ’at I hev an’ give ’t to t’ poor! Is I to sell t’ bed fray anonder me wife ’at she’s sleept on for forty year? Is I to sell t’ chair fray anonder her ’at she’s sitten on for forty year, an’ turn her oot intil a dike gutter? What kind o’ religion is ther’ i’ that? Says he, ‘Oh, the Lord would provide for you.’ Says I, ‘The Lord provide for mé! Wad t’ Lord finnd mé wid a new bed an’ a new chair?—an’ if he dud, I wad likely hev to sell them ower ageàn! Sell o’ ’at I hev an’ gi’ ’t to t’ poor! Do _you_ sell o’ ’at _you_ hev an’ gi’ ’t to t’ poor? I niver hard tell o’ yé sellin’ o’ ’at you hev an’ gi’in’ ’t to t’ poor! They tell me you hev atween fowrteen an’ fifteen hundert a year,—an’ mebbee yé may, for owte I know, gi’e away—we’ll say, a hunder’t a year, an’ that’ll be t’ ootside be a gay bit.— Do you co’ that sellin’ o’ ’at _you_ hev an’ gi’n’ to t’ poor. I tell yè, you’re a rich man, an’ I’s no’but a poor an’, wi’ a loosey ten shillin’ a week to leeve on; bit, accordin’ to what I hev, I consider mysel’ to be beàth a nowbler an’ a generouser fella ner you irr! Noo, theear a poor Irish family ’at leeves nar oor hoose, an’ ivery week end we send them o’ t’ scraps o’ meat an’ ’taties ’at we ha’e left, forby udder things;—that’s far mair, accordin’ to what I’ve gitten, ner your hunder’t a ’ear! You talk aboot me bein’ damned. Noo, I’s neea scholar, bit I’ve read t’ Bible for o’ that, an’ I’ve read ’at theear two mak’ o’ fwok ’at ’ill be damned—yan’s leears, an’ t’ tudder’s hypocrites. Noo, I’ll preùv ’at you’re beàth. You’re a leear for sayin’ ’at I was war’ ner a murderer i’ Carlisle gaol, an’ you’re a hypocrite for sayin’ seea when you knew you were leein’! I know hoo you mak’ o’ fwok argies—you reùt t’ Scriptur’ through an’ through to finnd owte ’at suits yé, an’ than ye throw o’ t’ tudder owerbword. An’ I tell you what, Mr. ——, theear anudder thing ’at I’ve read in t’ Scriptur’s—I’ve read ’at theear to be a day o’ judgment. Noo, you chaps say ’at it’s o’ settl’t afoorhan’ what’s to cum on us, whoa’s to be seàv’t an’ whoa’s to be damned. You say you’re to be seàv’t an’ I’s to damned. Noo, what’s t’ use of a day o’ judgment if it’s o’ settl’t afoorhan! Ther’ ’ill be nowte to judge aboot! I’ll tell yé what, Mr. ——, theear _will_ be a day o’ judgment, an’ beàth you an’ me ’ill ha’e to mak’ oor appearance; an’ I doon’t know bit upon the whol’ I’ll stan’ full oot t’ better chance o’ t’ two! An’ what’s t’ use, I wad like to know, o’ you ga’n an’ preachin’ i’ that girt leàth o’ yours of a Sūnday neet till a parshal o’ taggelts, if it’s o’ fix’t what’s to come on them?’ Says he, ‘Old man, I perceive you are a child of the devil.’ Says I, ‘Wey, mebbee! Bit I’ll tell you what, Mr. ——, t’ divvel hesn’t two better frin’s in o’ Cummerlan’ ner you an’ that man o’ yours—an’ which on yé ’s t’ bigger kneàv I’s sure I can’t tak upon mysel’ to say.’ Just than t’ train com’ up, an’ my gentleman slipes. Theear was a kind of a country chap stan’in’ ootside, an’ when t’ train hed gone, he com’ intil t’ stashun hoose, an’ says, says he, ‘Is that yan o’ thūr Methody chaps?’ ‘No,’ says I, ‘_it’s yan o’ t’ Elect_!’”

NOTE.

The above was most kindly sent to me by a gentleman well known in west Cumberland who has, from boyhood, been a keen and judicious observer of the peculiarities of thought and speech prevailing amongst his unsophisticated and unlettered neighbours; and who has also favoured me with extensive contributions to my stock of anecdotes illustrating the humorous side of rustic life in our common county. This remarkable piece possesses a higher value than any of _my_ dialect productions, amongst which it appears, as being the veritable words used by one speaking the Cumberland vernacular and nothing else; and also as an exposition and powerful expression of the opinions on the doctrine referred to that prevails amongst his class, who are generally very matter-of-fact, and impatient of anything that transcends their power of apprehension or that goes beyond the grasp of their every-day sense. The old man’s self-laudation, when put upon his mettle, is perhaps the most characteristic point in the sketch.

KEATY CURBISON’S CAT.

AN OALD, OALD STWORY.

Keàty Cūrbison’ cat hed a whudderin’ waow, A waow like a yowl, fit to freeten a man; An’ t’ leet iv it’ e’e was a green glentin’ lowe— Iv it’ _e’e_, we may say, for it no’but hed yan. T’ ya lūg hed been rovven an’ hung like a cloot, While t’ tudder stack ūp like t’ cockad’ iv a hat; Lang whiskers like brūssles spread o’ roond it’ snoot— It wosn’t a beauty—Keàte Cūrbison’ cat!

Keàty Cūrbison’ cat was a terror to t’ toon— Till butt’ry an’ pantry it may’d hed a kay. Intil ivery hoose, ayder up t’ geàt or doon, By air-wole or chimla it wūmmelt it’ way. For thievin’ an’ reàvin’ ’twas war’ nor a fox, Ther’ wasn’t a hen-hoose it hedn’t been at; Young chickens, an’ geslins, an’ pigeons, an’ ducks Wer’ “ghem, gā ’way tul’t” to Keàte Cūrbison’ cat.

Keàty Cūrbison’ cat like a tiger wad feight;— When it’ back was weel up an’ o’ ruddy for war It wad lick a cur dog mair nor ten times it’ weight, An’ mongrels an’ messans they dursn’t cū nār. It hed leet of a trap, an’ ya feùt was teàn off, An’ it’ tail bed been dock’t—but it dūdn’t mind that, It wad flee at owte whick ’at wad give it a lofe— A hero, i’ hair, was Keàte Cūrbison’ cat.

Keàty Cūrbison’ cat hed of lives a lang lot— Yè ma’ toak aboot nine—it hed ninety an’ mair; It was preùf ageàn puzzen or pooder an’ shot— They hed buriet it yance, but it still dudn’t care. It was tiet iv a meal-bag an’ flung into t’ beck, But t’ bag it brong heàm for it’ mistress a brat, Limpin’, trailin’ ’t ahint it wi’ t’ string round it’ neck— T’ beck cūdn’t droon Keàty Cūrbison’ cat.

Keàty Cūrbison’ cat browte oald Keàty to grief— Pooar body! she nowder was cūmly nor rich— An’ t’ neybors aboot settlet doon to t’ belief ’At her cat was a divil an’ she was a witch. An’ they said, “Let us swum her i’ t’ tarn,” an’ they dud; She swom a lāl bit, an’ than droon’t like a rat, An’ t’ cat aboot t’ spot swom as lang as it cūd; An’ finish’t at last was Keàte Cūrbison’ cat.

NOTE.

I remember reading somewhere the story of one of the many old women so treated, in the wisdom of our ancestors, who was drowned while undergoing the common ordeal of being bound and thrown into deep water—and her cat, supposed to be her familiar spirit, swimming in circles over the place where she sank till it became exhausted and was also drowned. A story which made a lasting impression on my young imagination.

JOSEPH THOMPSON’S THUMB.

AN OLD HARRINGTON STORY.

Jwosep’ Thompson leev’t lang up at Harrin’ton toon,[17] An’ a weel to dee, throughly oald marrow was Joe, Wid a neive like a neàf, an’ a feàce like a moon, An’ a shap’, standin’ ūp, like a tee-tak-up-o’.

Jwosep’ Thompson hed ola’s been hearty an’ stoot, But trūbble o’ sūm mak’s gay sarten to cūm, An’ when threescwore an’ two he hed jūst coontit oot, He was terrably tyl’t wid a gedderin’ thūmb.

For it feister’t an’ wark’t wid sa beàdless a stoon, ’At rist he gat nin for’t by neet nor by day; But he rantit aboot, or he reàv’t ūp an’ doon, Fairly greànin’ his life an’ fwokes patience away.

Ther’ wer’ pokey oald wives aboot Harrin’ton than, An’ a varst of advice, o’ free gratis, he gat; But he gat nèa ’mends, dudn’t pooar oāld man, An’ he fail’t varra sair iv his leùks an’ his fat.

He seeken’t at meat,—nay, he’d bowk at a speùn! An’ his beùrd he let growe like a Turk or a gwoat, An’ he squeak’t iv his toak like a fiddle oot o’ teùn, An’ like bags full o’ nowte hung his britches an’ cwoat.

But o’ things they telt him Joe triet tūll his thūmb— Sec as cerat’, an’ yal-grūnds, an’ turmets an’ skarn, Screàp’t taties, an’ ’bacca, an’ pooder wid rūm, An’ reūts ’at they raik’t oot o’ t’ boddom o’ t’ tarn.

An’ fegs, an’ bog-unnion, an’ blackberry buds, An’ carrots, an’ pūppies, an’ teàdsteùls, an’ sneels, An’ soave meàd wid rozzle an’ meal boil’t i’ sūds, An’ t’ fat rwoastit oot o’ beàth hag-wūrms an’ eels.

An’ strang reisty bakin, an’ boil’t cabbish skrūnt, An’ broon seàp an’ sugger, an’ typstic, an’ tar, An’ he keept an’ oald pūltess of o’ mak’s upon’t,[18] Till Joe an’ his thūmb warn’t nice to cū’ nār.

It was o’ nèa use-nūt a crūmb dūd he mend! An’ t’ parson co’ tūll him to pray an’ to read, An’ whisper, “I say, Jwosep’! think o’ thy end”— But he wadn’t—he thowte of a doctor asteed.

An’ tul’ t’ doctor he dreàv iv his car—thumb an’ o’— An’ t’ doctor said, “Well, my lad—off this mūn cūm!” An’ he haggelt an’ cot at his pultess-bleach’t po’, Till Joe was weel shot of his mūrderin’ thumb.

T’ doctor lapt ūp his hand varra fewsome an’ reet, An’ Joe, like a man, pait him weel for his job, An’, creùnin’, “I’s m’appen git sūm rist to-neet,” Joggelt heàm, pleased as Punch, wid his thumb in his fob.

An’ to t’ wife says he, “Tak’ ’t to t’ churchyard oot o’ geàt, An’ bury ’t whoar I’ll lig mysel’ when I dee.” An’ she went wid a trooin an’ lantern, leàt, An’ left it i’ t’ spot whoar Joe said it mud be.

Jwosep’ to’k till his meat, for his hand mendit weel— (He hed gud healin’ flesh, an’ fine natur’, hed Joe,)[19] He screàp’t off his beùrd—he gev ow’r wid his squeel, An’ was gittin’ as pūbble an’ roond as a bo’.

But jūst when he thowte o’ his trūbble was geàn, A pain com’ ageàn, wār nor iver he’d fund, An’ theear it keept burnin’ an’ bworin’ i’ t’ beàn O’ t’ thumb ’at was buriet an’ coald under t’ grūnd.[20]

Jwosep’ went back to t’ doctor, an’ t’ oald wicket teul H’ard his teàl, an’ says he, wid a snūrt an’ a gūrn, “If thy thumb’s i’ t’ churchyard, thoo pooar priest-bodder’t feùl, Thoo ma’ mak’ thysel’ suer while it bides it ’ill būrn.”

He laid him sūm plaisters o’ soav on his po’, An’ gev him sūm stuff to lig on tūl’t at heàm; But nowte putten on tul’t gev easement tūll Joe, For t’ būrnin’ an’ bworin’ wer’ iverly t’ seàm.