CHAPTER XV

ODD SCRAPS OF OLD YORKSHIRE, ETC.

SONG. [_Published at Bedale, 1800-1815._]

When Ah war a wee lahtle tottering bairn, An’ ‘ed nobbut just gitten sho’t frocks, When ti gan[81] Ah at fo’st war beginnin’ ti larn, O’ mah bru[82] Ah gat monny hard knocks; Foor sae waak an’ sae silly an’ helpless war Ah, Ah war awlus a tumm’ling doon then, Whahl mah muther wad twattle ma gently, an’ cry, ‘Honey, Jenny, tak care o’ thisen.’

Bud when Ah grew bigger an’ gat ti be strang, ‘At Ah cannily toddled aboot Byv mysen wheer Ah leyked, then Ah awlus mud gan Wivoot being tell’d aboot owt. When hooivver Ah cam ti be sixteen year au’d, An’ rattl’d an’ ramp’d amang t’ men, Mah mother wad call o’ ma in, an’ wad scaud, An’ cry—‘Huzzy! tak care o’ thisen.’

Ah’ve a sweetheart cums noo upo’ Seterdaay neets, An’ he sweears ’at he’ll mak ma his weyfe; Mah mam graws seea stingy, sha scauds an’ sha fleets, An’ twitters ma oot o’ mah leyfe. Bud sha may leeak soor, an’ consate hersen wise, An’ preeach ageean leyking young men— Sen Ah’s a woman, her clack Ah’ll dispise, An’ Ah s’ marry! tak care o’ mysen!

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO YORKSHIRE FARMERS, ON THE INDECENCY OF DRESS ADOPTED BY FASHIONABLE LADIES. [_Date about 1800-15. Published at Bedale._]

_Simon._

Good morrow, Johnny, hoo d’ye deea? If ya’re ganning mah road, Ah’ll gan wi’ ya. Hoo cau’d this mornin’ t’ wind diz blaw— Ah think wa seean s’all ’a’e sum snaw.

_Johnny._

Aye, Simon, seea wa s’all ere lang. Ah ’s Bedale wards; Ah wish ya’d gan, Foor Ah’ve a dowter leeatly deead— Ah’s boon ti git her coffin meead.

_Simon._

Heigh! Johnny! deead? Wha, seear, thoo’s wrang, Foor sha war wiv uz e’er seea lang. An’ oft wiv her i’ yonder booer Ah’ve joked and laugh’d full monny an hoor. Bud fo’st, good Johnny, tell ma this, What maad her dee? what’s been amiss?

_Johnny._

Ti tell tha, Simon, noo Ah’s boon. Thoo sees, Ah sent her ti yon toon Ti skeeal, an’ next ti larn a traad Byv which sha war ti arn her breead. Bud when sha fo’st cam yam ti me, Sha ’ed neea petticoats, ya see. Ah fan sha’d larl on bud her smock, An’ ower that a tawdry frock. Sike wark ez that, it raised my passion, An’ then sha telt ma it war t’ feshion.

* * * * *

Her hat sa fine to’n’d up afoor, It made her leeak just leyke—Oh lor!

_Simon._

Wha, Johnny, stop, thoo’s oot o’ breeath. Bud hoo cam sha ti git her death?

_Johnny._

Whya, ho’d a bit, an’ thoo s’all heear. I’ t’ next pleeace, mun, her breasts war bare; Her naaked airms, teea, sha mun show, E’en when t’ cau’d bitter wind did blaw. Her clock’d hose, ez ower t’ street Sha tripp’d, sha show’d, a sham’ful seet. An’ when Ah spak aboot it, then (Ya see, Ah’s awlus by mysen) Her muther maistly leean’d her waay— It matter’d nowt what Ah’d ti seeay. Ah tell’d mah deeam hoo it wad be, An’ seea sha caan’t lig t’ blaam o’ me: Sez Ah, ‘Afoor sha’s twice ten au’d, Sha’s seear ti git her deeath o’ cau’d.’

* * * * *

Ah’s seear it’s all t’ gert fau’ks’ pursuit Ti ’ev, like Eve, a birthday suit.

_Simon._

Thoo’s reet good, Johnny; reet, Ah saay. That Ah’ve obsarved afoor ti-daay; Foor t’ maist o’ wimmin nooadaays Nobbut put on ther goon an’ staays. An’ noo i’ t’ toon, ez each yan passes, Ya caan’t ken deeams fra sarvint lasses.

* * * * *

_Johnny._

Aye, Simon, thoo sez reet, Ah sweear; Bud noo, ez Bedale’s drawing near, Deean’t let on wiv owt Ah’ve sed Aboot mah dowter ligging deead.

* * * * *

_Simon._

Neea, that Ah weean’t; but whahl Ah’ve breeath, Ah’ll nobbut saay ’sha starved ti deeath.’

NOTE. Much of the above has had to be suppressed.

SONG.

T’ LASS FRA LUNNON.

Yan nivver ’ed seean sike a yan Foor dhriss an’ feathers spik an’ span; Sha war maistly t’ match foor onny man, War t’ lass fra Lunnon. Sha c’u’d raffle on, an’ tell a taal ‘At put i’ t’ shaad Jonah an’ t’ whaal; Bud sha wadn’t hug a hauf-filled paal, That lass fra Lunnon.

Sha c’u’d slather oot a bit o’ Frinch, An’ sit an’ swing her legs on t’ binch; Sha warn’t partic’ler tiv a pinch, Warn’t t’ lass fra Lunnon. Sha c’u’d sing yan comic songs byv t’ year— Sike songs yan dizn’t offens hear— Bud sha wadn’t scrub a kitchen fleear, That lass fra Lunnon.

A bisittle sha’d larnt ti rahd; When dancing, wha, sha seeamed ti glahd; A chap sha wad ’ev byv her sahd, Wad t’ lass fra Lunnon. Her waist war nobbut bud a span; Sha c’u’d ommaist cum roond onny man, Bud sha wadn’t cleean a pot or pan, That lass fra Lunnon.

Sha c’u’d plaay t’ pianner, sing an’ all; Sha’d read all t’ luv taals gert an’ small; Sha war sharp eneeaf foor yan an’ all, War t’ lass fra Lunnon. A leet daay’s wark sha wadn’t start, Ti muck hersen sha ’edn’t heart, An’ sha c’u’dn’t bake a leeaf or tart, That lass fra Lunnon.

Sha’d lig back iv a basket cheear, An’ fairly cap yan wiv her hair— Ah’ve seen mah missus stan’ an’ stare At t’ lass fra Lunnon. Sha wad laak at crickets leyke a lad, An’ carry on leyke yan ’at’s mad, Bud sha wadn’t mend a thing sha ’ed, That lass fra Lunnon.

Ah’ve seean her smeeak a larl cigar, An’ sha didn’t seeam a bit the war, Bud then sha war a mo’tal star, War t’ lass fra Lunnon. Her shoon war oppen doon ti t’ teeas, Her hat stuck on all macks o’ waays, Bud sha wadn’t wesh her mucky cleeas, That lass fra Lunnon.

Sha’d row on t’ pond just leyke a chap, An’ iv a net sha’d tak a nap— Sha didn’t seeam ti mahnd a rap, That lass fra Lunnon. Foor fun an’ gam sha seeam’d fair rife, Bud wark sha wadn’t thruff her leyfe— Sha’d nivver mak a poor man’s weyfe, Wad t’ lass fra Lunnon.

B——.

THA‘RE KITTLISH THINGS TI DEEA.

Deean’t aim ti stop a bull by t’ e’e, Deean’t gan far up a rotten stee, Deean’t ho’d i’ t’ han’ a bumm’l bee— Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.

Deean’t tak a straange dog byv its taal, Deean’t mak yer naabor’s pigs ti squeeal, Deean’t call yer maaster’s lad a feeal— Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.

Deean’t aim ti alter wimmin’s waays, Deean’t conterdict what t’ maaster saays, Deean’t hark him back tiv uther daays— Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.

Deean’t saay ti t’ muther t’ babby’s plaan, Deean’t tell a chap his lass is t’ saam, An’ nivver saay ’at t’ weyfe’s ti blaam— Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.

Deean’t drahve a lent hoss ower fast, An’ when ya’ve wo’ds, deean’t try foor t’ last Wi t’ weyfe, or else sha’ll ommaist brast— Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.

Deean’t gicken when yer betters slip, Deean’t be ti pawky wi’ yer lip, An’ frev anuther’s glass deean’t sip— Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.

B——.

SONG.

A BLIGHTED YOUNG MAN.

Noo stan’s afoor ya a blighted young man Wheeas leyfe is fast slithering awaay; Ah’s dowly an’ dwining, an’, deea what Ah mud, Ah caan’t lig mah troubles awaay.

_Chorus._

Yance Ah war happy, leetsome, an’ gaay; Bud Ah gat wed, an’, varra sad ti saay, Ah seean fan t’ mistak oot, an’ noo ivvery daay Ah wish Ah war a sing’l young man.

Ah offens calls ti mahnd noo when Ah war a lad T’ fussack Ah rade on ti skeeal; Ah nivver thowt i’ them daays ’at woman sae coy C’u’d ivver mak a man sike a feeal.

_Chorus._

Aa, bud Ah’s dowly an’ stalled o’ mah leyfe, Ther’s nowt noo bud waiting for t’ end, Ah ’livvers up my wages Ah arns ivvery week, An’ fow’pence sha gi’es me ti spend.

_Chorus._

Ah weshes all t’ taters, Ah maks all wer beds, Ah fetches all t’ coals in, an’ t’ hearth Ah cleans up; Ah peeals ivvery onion, an’ monny a tear Ah sheds Ez Ah sups fra leyfe’s bitter cup.

_Chorus._

Ah diz all t’ possing, Ah hings oot all t’ cleeas, Ah hugs in all t’ watter, an’, ez ya maay suppose, Ah meng’ls, Ah irons, Ah diz all ’at Ah can, Bud Ah’s nowt na mair ner a poor wedded man.

_Chorus._

When Ah went a-courting, sha seeam’d ti be Ez meek an’ ez mild ez meek an’ mild can be; Bud ther’s tweea sahds tiv a woman—deea what ya can, T’ Missus will be t’ maastther of a poor married man.

B——.

NOWT BUD LUV COULD BE.

T’ meean war leeaking doon on t’ yeth Leyke a silver ball yah neet, An’ stars war twinkling ivver seea, Whahl t’ sky war all aleet Wi’ t’ gems ov Heaven up aboon. Seea gran’ tha leak’d ti t’ e’e, Yan felt fair capp’d ti think doon there ‘At owt bud luv c’u’d be; Foor t’ beetles hum’d ez round tha swirl’d, An’ t’ crake call’d foor its maate, An’ t’ bleeat o’ monny lambs yan heeard, An’ t’ moths can oot ti late Ther suppers fra some neetly bloom, An’ t’ wo’lld war fair ti see, Whahl sumhoo yan felt bet ti knaw Hoo owt bud luv c’u’d be. A twittering noos an’ thens yan heeard Fra t’ larl bo’ds i’ ther nist, Ez croodled under t’ muther wing Tha teeak ther neetly rist. T’ noisy creeaks ’ed geean ti reeast, Ther war nowt yan c’u’d see Ti mak it hard upon this yeth Foor owt bud luv ti be. Bud whahl yan tried ti mak it oot, A flittermoose fligg’d by, An’ t’ ullot’s shadow darken’d t’ grund, An t’ neet-jar gav its cry, An t’ fox yapp’d wiv its neease ti t’ grund, Whahl t’ rezzel slank alang, An’ t’ rabbit’s squeeal tell’d plaan eneeaf O’ parlous deed amang T’ weeak critters, whahl yan ’s forced ti awn It’s seeam amang wersels— I’ t’ heart, wheer nowt bud luv s’u’d be, Unkindness offen dwells.

B——.

* * * * *

Yan better wed when t’ glamour’s on Ez wait whahl t’ heart graws cau’d; It’s better deean i’ t’ spring o’ leyfe Ez when yan’s grawing au’d. Yan better wed foor luv ez brass, Just when oor een is breet; Yan better wed when toilsome wark Upon yan’s rig ligs leet. Yan better fetch wer baans all up, Whahl ivvery gam tha plaay; Baith them an’ uz can laak ti t’ end— It’s better mich that waay. Yan owt ti be just gahin’ doon t’ hill Ez tha tak frev uz t’ pleeaf, An’ if thruff leyfe yan’s deean yan’s best, Yan’s awlus deean eneeaf.

B——.

* * * * *

Nivver belder at yer bairns, Whisht wo’ds is awlus t’ best; An’ nivver let a tear-drop damp Ther een when gahin ti rist. Deean’t let ’em doot yer larlest wo’d, Bud let ’em ho’d ti be Nowt else bud t’ trewth iv all ya saay, An’ let ’em awlus see ‘At ivverything ya daily deea Thersels mud pattern tak— I’ deeaing this, ya’re deeaing mich Bonny bairns ti mak.

B——.

THE BALLOON.

_From the Author’s series of Yorkshire Sketches._

‘What is ’t, mun?’

‘It’s t’ b’loon.’

‘Is ’t t’ thing ’at tha gan up inti t’ sky wiv?’

‘Aye.’

‘Hoo deea tha mannish ’t?’

‘Naay, that licks ma; bud it gans up leyke all that.’

‘What’s ho’ding ’t up noo?’

‘Ah deean’t reetlings knaw. Ah ax’d t’ chap ’at awns ’t, an’ he tell’d ma ’at it war thrussen up wi’ gas.’

‘Aye, an’ what did thoo saay ti that?’

‘Whya, Ah tell’d him ’at Ah’d cutten my back teeth.’

‘An’ what did he saay then?’

‘Nowt; he nobbut ax’d ma if Ah’d leyke ti gan up wiv him, an’ Ah tell’d him ’at he wadn’t catch me sailing thruff t’ cloods sitting on t’ top ov a gert blether, an’ he did nowt bud laugh at ma.’

‘Ah didn’t knaw ’at tha sat on t’ top; Ah awlus thowt ’at tha gat insahd t’ b’loon. Bud Ah deean’t see hoo tha’d git inteea ’t. Ah’s t’ maist capped ti knaw what ho’ds ’t up.’

‘Aye, bud what diz ta mak on ’t gahin up byv itsen, when tha let it off?’

‘Ah deean’t knaw, that’s a capper. An’ thoo sez ’at it gans up leyke all that?’

‘Seea fau’k saay. Think on, Ah’ve nivver seen yan git awaay wiv itsen.’

‘Ah saay, efter tha’ve gitten ’t up, hoo deea tha mannish ti fetch ’t doon agaan?’

‘Ah nivver thowt o’ that. Ah wunner hoo tha deea deea ’t. Bud Ah s’u’d think ’at tha mebbe fling a roap oot an’ swarm doon ’t.’

‘Mebbe, bud Ah’s leathered ti knaw what ho’ds ’t up.’

‘Whya, Ah s’u’d think ’at ther’s mebbe a chap insahd ho’ding it up wiv a powl’ (pole).

‘Aye, mebbe seea; Ah nivver thowt o’ that. What’s that thing; is ’t a bee-skep?’

‘It leeaks despert leyke yan.’

‘It’s a varra gert un. Mah wo’d, what a swarm it wad ho’d.’

‘Sitha, mun! if tha ar’n’t tying t’ bee-skep ti t’ b’loon; an’ ther’s a lass gitting insahd.’

‘Ther is, hooivver. Ah nivver seed sike a thing i’ mah leyfe; it waggles aboot sairly.’

‘Leeaks, ta! Ther’s a chap gitting in noo; depend on ’t, tha’re foor off.’

‘Tha’re larl better ’an tweea feeals. Ah wadn’t leeave t’ grund tied tiv a thing leyke that; neea, nut foor a ransom.’

‘Whativver are tha efter noo?’

‘Ah caan’t mak oot.’

‘Bless mah leyfe, tha’re lowsing t’ thing.’

‘Tha are, hooivver. Tha’re gahin’ ti let it off.’

‘Ther’s na doot aboot it.’

‘Well, ov all t’ crack-brained undertakkings ’at ivver Ah’ve clap’d mah een on, this carrying on licks au’d Mother Shipton.’

‘T’ Queen owtn’t ti ’low this.’

‘Sitha, tha’re gahin’ up.’

‘Sha owtn’t. It’s nut reet, a-gahin’ on leyke this; neeabody ’ez onny reet ti start foor heaven, owther insahd or ootsahd a b’loon, wivoot tha’ve deed fo’st. It’s warse ’an t’ tooer o’ Babel.’

‘It seeams ti gan stiddy, Ah will saay that.’

‘That’s nowt; tha’re nut i’ t’ reet on ’t.’

‘Tha’ll ’ev a gran view, onny road.’

‘Thoo dizn’t meean ti saay, John, ’at thoo’d leyke ti gan, diz ta?’

‘Whya, mebbe Ah wad! sha’s a neycish leeaking lass.’

‘Whya, then, Ah’ll tell tha what, if ivver Ah catch thee gahin’ inti t’ cloods, dengling belaw a b’loon iv a bee-skep wiv a straange lass, thoo’d better stop up wiv her altigither, foor thoo’ll ’a’e larl peace if thoo ivver darr’s ti cum doon agaan. Beear i’ mahnd, noo, when thoo leeaves ma for t’ cloods, it’ll ’a’e ti be ez an angel, or thoo’ll rue ’t.’

_Mrs. Waddleton travels by train for the first time to see her daughter, residing at Whitby, to whom she gives a full description of her journey._

Whya, noo, Ah’ll tell tha all aboot it reet away fra t’ starting. Thoo knaws Ah went ti what they call t’ station, an’ Ah seed a young chap stannin’ at t’ back ov a thing leyke a ratten trap, an’ Ah sez tiv him, ‘Noo, then, what’s thoo been efter ti git thisen stuckken theer foor?’ An’ he sez, ‘Naay, nowt; Ah’s nobbut here ti sell t’ tickets, that’s all.’ ‘Oh, whya,’ sez Ah, ‘if that’s all, let’s be ’evving ho’d o’ yan.’ An’ he sez ti me, ‘All reet, wheear are ya gahin’?’ ‘Stop a bit,’ sez Ah; ’that’s neea business o’ thahn.’ ‘Whya,’ sez he, ‘Ah caan’t gi’e ya a ticket if ya deean’t tell uz wheear ya gahin’ tul.’ ‘Well,’ sez Ah, ‘Ah s’all deea nowt o’ t’ sort; an’ if Ah’ve onny mair o’ thi impidence, Ah’ll tak tha byv t’ hair o’ thi heead an’ Ah’ll pull tha thruff t’ larl hoal—that’s what Ah’ll deea.’ An’ then a young lady cam up, an’ sha sez, ‘If Ah war yow, Ah’d tell t’ young chap wheear ya’re gahin’ tul, an’ it’ll mense things up a bit, an’ ya’ll git yer ticket an’ git awaay neycely.’ ‘All reet,’ sez Ah. ‘Noo, then, cu’ thi waays back, impidence; Ah’s gahin’ ti Whidby ti see my dowter. Sha lives on t’ cliff, an’ sha’s gitten a pianner, an’ bowt a pig, an’—— ’ ‘Naay, what!’ sez he; ‘Ah deean’t want ti knaw all t’ family history, hooivver.’ ‘Well,’ sez Ah, ’thoo seeam’d that ’quisitive aboot it, ’at Ah thowt Ah’d best tell tha t’ lot whahl Ah war at it.’ ‘Whya, noo then,’ sez he, ’theear’s yer ticket, an’ it’s yan an’ fow’pence.’ ‘Whya,’ sez Ah, ’thoo needn’t be seea chuff aboot it; theer’s thi yan an’ fow’pence.’ ‘That’s reet,’ sez he; ‘an’ ya mun tak care on ’t.’ ‘Thoo gert dunder-nowle!’ sez Ah; ‘Ah’s nut gahin’ ti fling ’t awaay when Ah git ootsahd. Ah s’all tak care on ’t ti t’ end o’ mah daays.’ ‘Naay,’ sez he, ‘bud ya weean’t.’ ‘What foor?’ sez Ah. ‘‘Coz theer’s a chap ’at t’ tother end ’ll want it.’ ‘Oh, is theer?’ sez Ah; ‘whya, then, he weean’t git it.’ ‘He’ll tak it fra ya,’ sez he. ‘Nut if he’s leyke what thoo is,’ sez Ah, ‘or hauf a dozen on ’em.’ An’ then Ah went ootsahd, on ti what tha call t’ platform. ‘Noo, then,’ sez Ah, ‘is this t’ traan thing?’ An’ a porter chap sez, ‘Aye, that’s it.’ ‘Oh! an’ wheer’s t’ hoss?’ sez Ah. ‘What hoss?’ sez he. ‘Whya, t’ hoss ’at’s gahin’ ti drag t’ thing ti Whidby?’ ‘Bud,’ sez he, ‘it dizn’t gan wiv a hoss.’ ‘Then what diz it gan wiv?’ sez Ah. ‘Whya, that thing ’at’s at t’ front end on ’t.’ ‘Hoo can a thing leyke yon knaw t’ road ti Whidby? Ger away wi’ tha.’ ‘Oh,’ sez he, ‘ya’re gahin’ ti Whidby, are ya?’ ‘Ah is,’ sez Ah; an’ wi’ that he gat at t’ back o’ mah, an’ afore Ah knew wheer Ah war, Ah war hauf lifted an’ hauf thrussen inti ti carridge. An’ ther war nowt bud a young chap sitting up i’ t’ far corner; an’ Ah sez tiv him, ‘Ah, saay, ’ev yow ivver been iv a train afoor?’ ‘Aye, monny a tahm,’ sez he. ‘Is this all reet?’ sez Ah. ‘Aye, it’s reet eneeaf,’ sez he. An’ seea Ah sat ma doon. Ah thowt it ’ud be seea neyce ti leeak oot o’ t’ winder an’ see Tom Robison’s coddy fooals an’ John Williams’s pigs, bud it’s ez trew ez Ah’s sitting byv thi fire-sahd, t’ fo’st thing ’at Ah seed war a chetch run reet across a field, an’ t’ next minit ther war tweea coos, three pigs, a man, an’ a haystack flew past that quick, whahl ya c’u’dn’t keep yer e’es on ’em at all, an’ then ivverything went ez pick dark ez neet. ‘Noo, then,’ Ah shooted, ‘what’s up noo?’ ‘Naay, nowt,’ sez he; ‘wa’ve nobbut gane insahd ov a funnel, that’s all.’ ‘Insahd ov a funnel!’ sez Ah; ’then s’all wa be dragged oot o’ t’ narrer end on ’t?’ ‘Noo, it’s all reet,’ sez he. ‘Ah deean’t knaw sae mich aboot its being all reet,’ sez Ah. ‘Ah’ve neea reet ti be locked up i’ t’ dark wiv a young chap ’at Ah’ve nivver seen afoor.’ ‘Whya, noo, sit ya still,’ sez he; ‘Ah isn’t gahin’ ti mell on ya.’ ‘Thoo’d better nut,’ sez Ah, ‘or else tho’ll git thi hair combed foor nowt.’ An’ then wa flew inti dayleet, afoor Ah knew wheer Ah war. Efter a bit wa began ti slack up a piece. ‘Noo, then,’ sez Ah, ‘what’s up noo?’ ‘Nowt,’ sez he; ‘wa’ve nobbut gitten ti Whidby, that’s all.’ ‘Oh! well,’ sez Ah, ‘if that’s all, that’s wheear Ah want ti be.’ An’ Ah oppen’d t’ deear an’ stepped oot, an’ afoor Ah knew wheer Ah war, Ah war laid flat o’ mah back on t’ platform. When Ah’d gitten mysen upended agaan, Ah seed a chap at t’ far end o’ t’ station clicking ther tickets frev ’em leyke all that, an’ Ah thowt ti mysen, ‘Thoo’ll finnd thisen wrang when Ah cum up.’ Hooivver, he nobbut tried ti git hauf o’ mahn, an’ seea it didn’t matter; bud Ah’ve ta’en ’em in, foor all that. Ah wadn’t ’a’e deean ’t if they’d nobbut behaved thersens, bud tha didn’t, chucking yan in an’ potching yan oot. What diz ta saay, thoo wants ti knaw hoo Ah’ve mannished ti tak ’em in? Whya, noo, Ah’ll tell tha—Ah’ve bowt a return ticket, an’ Ah isn’t gahin’ back. Tha caan’t git t’ best o’ me.

WENSLEYDALE NICKNAMES.

Ov all the straange plaaces ’at ivver wur knawn, Wensleydale bangs ’em all, ez noo s’all be shown, Fur naams ’a’e been gi’en ti women an’ men— Yow’d wunner hooivver tha gat ’em, an’ when.

‘Drummer Tom’ is t’ naame ’at’s sattled o’ yan, An’ ‘Sheggy’ is t’ naame o’ ‘Mary Toms’’ son; Ther’s ‘Bell Taylor Johnny’ ‘at lives up at Gayle, An’ ‘Brissy’ ‘s a man bred an’ born iv oor dale.

‘Cobbler Jack’ drahves a bus fra Leyburn ti Hawes, An’ ‘Wingy’ uz sartinly been i’ the wars; Ah caan’t tell hoo ‘Hiapath’ cam byv his naame, An’ ti call a man ‘Shinnock’ is sewerly a shaame.

‘Ball Joan’ is a chap ya’d awn ti be tall; His weyfe, ‘Lile Bella,’ is sartinly small; Her brother-i’-law is called ‘Peggy Tom,’ An’ ‘Pop’ ‘s a chap Ah knaw nut wheer from.

‘Tom Kiss’ is a tailor, a scheealmaister ‘Paul,’ Whahl ‘Jeff Boat,’ a cobbler, wurks hard wiv his awl; ‘Jim Nip’ is a good un wi’ pickaxe or speead, An’ ‘Shetty’ maks brass i’ t’ grossery traade.

‘Spinner Niddy’ an’ ‘Chapir’ wurk up at t’ au’d mill, ‘Arry Ann’ uz a doctor is faam’d fur her skill, ‘Sailor Jack’ Ah wad sweear nivver hann’l’d an oar, Bud ‘Planks,’ the young joiner, ’ll mak ya a doour.

‘Dicky Flesk’ is a grosser, an’ ‘One Boy’ maks shoes, An’ ‘Snegram’ ‘s a naame ’at Ah wadn’t choose; ‘Sophy John’ keeps a lodging-hoos noo at t’ Toon foot, An’ tweea uther chaps are called ‘Puin’ an’ ‘Put.’ My frien’s ’at are left Ah’ll clap iv a lump, Fur wa’ve ‘Gaggon’ an’ ‘Crackon’ an’ ‘Bridney’ an’ ‘Stump.’

The above would be written about twenty-five years ago. The verses were given to me by my old schoolfellow, T. Fairbank King, Esq., West Witton. The two following verses are the sole remains of a much older rhyme, probably about 1800, and may have suggested the idea to the author of the above, whose name is unknown.

Ther’s ‘Jack’s lass wi’ cauves’ an’ ‘Sally wi’ Shanks’; Ther’s ‘Miss Nancy Prim,’ an’ young ‘Tommy Pranks,’ An’ ‘Mucky stee Tom,’ an’ ‘Hopplin’ Bill’; Ther’s ‘Mary wi’ t’ scar’ an’ ‘Au’d Muther Dill’;

Ther’s ‘Tommy wi’ t’ warts,’ an’ ‘Sticker Bull Coo,’ An’ ‘Sniftering Tom lass,’ an’ ‘Ugger-a-boo’; Ther’s ‘Snouty’ an’ ‘Corker,’ an’ ‘Annie fra Gayle,’ Wheeas legs caan’t be matched iv all Wensleydale.

The symmetry of Annie’s legs must have been quite phenomenal, as my informant gravely told me that ‘A chap cam all t’ waay fra Lunnon ti tak t’ pattern on ’em fer a statta’ (i.e. statue) ‘he war makking fur sumbody.’

* * * * *

Nicknames are quite common in Yorkshire. Take the following (some I do not know the surnames of, though well knowing the persons):—Jamma, Mucaduck, Midge, Boxer, T’ au’d bo’d, Blash, Tarra, Au’d Willie, Bunks Canary, Black Jack, Coy Duck, Calcraft, Fishy, Tankard, Trucky, Radden, Shut, Moudy, Tramp, Slackbags, Jump a Bush, Dog Tom, &c.

A COMPARISON OF TWO LANGUAGES AS SPOKEN AT THE PRESENT DAY.

Ther war a chap fra Lunnon cam— Fau’k said he war a swell. He mebbe war; yah thing Ah knaw, He did his varra best ti draw T’ soft oot o’ yan.

He cam ti me yah daay an’ sez, ‘Oi sai, old chep, look h’yar, Oi’ve lorst my bally self, yew kneow, End jest which wai I orter gou To me aint cleah.

‘Deoun’t cher kneow, ’pon my word! A fellah feels a fool; Oi sai, look h’yar, I want to kneow, Old cheppy, the best wai to gou To—er—the hall?

‘Oi kneow yew Johnnies kneow a lot, Beout land end worms end grubs; Yew’re beastly clevvah, deoun’t cher kneow? But deoun’t yew find it bally sleow, This sort of life?’

‘Noo, then,’ Ah sez, ‘ho’d on a bit, Deean’t ramm’l on seea fast; Thoo sez thoo’s lost, an’ wants ti knaw T’ gainest road foor thoo ti goa Ti git ti t’ hall.

‘Noo, if thoo aims that road ti gan, Just to’n thisen aboot, Thruff t’ staggarth tak an’ to’n ti t’ reet, Mak foor t’ larl yat thoo’ll finnd i’ seet, Nigh hand t’ faud-yard.

‘Thoo maun’t gan thruff ’t, bud to’n agaan, Keep t’ muckheap weel ti t’ reet, Tak t’ pastur path, deean’t laak wi’ t’ steg, Foor he’s neean ower neyce wheea’s awe t’ leg— He’d neb thi breeaks.

‘Ah mak na doot aboot this tahm Thoo’ll sairly daffled be, Bud theer ’s a lad theer flaying creeaks; Thoo’d best ass him, an’ when thoo speeaks, Talk plaan.’

‘Thenks, awf’ly, but deoun’t cher kneow, Deah cheppie, ’pon my word, Oi deoun’t quite ketch what yew do sai, The fect is, Oi hev lorst my wai— Yew understend?’

‘Ah understand tha hard eneeaf, Bud leeaks ta, mun, Ah s’u’dn’t, Bud a frien’ o’ mahn fra Lunnon cums, An’ just leyke thee, he ’aws an’ ‘ums, Whahl Ah caan’t bahd.

‘Noo, if thoo aims Ah ’s gahin’ ti try Ti scrape mah tongue, thoo’s wrang; Thoo cums an’ slaps yan on yan’s back, An’ eggs yan on ti talk, ti mak Nowt else bud gam.

‘Ah’ve tell’d tha t’ road ez plaan ez nowt, An’ Ah’ll tell tha summat else— Deean’t aim at t’ reeaks an’ shut a craw, Deean’t slavver fau’k thoo dizn’t know; Noo off thoo gans.’ B——.

THE SELL IN THE CELLAR.

Being fond o’ sweets ov ivvery kahnd, Nut lang sen, mun, Ah ’ed a mahnd Ti help mysen tiv a lahtle teeaste O’ summat neyce i’ puffy peeaste. Thieves, thoff, awlus ’ev a fear, Seea Ah lissen’d, an’ Ah fan t’ road clear; Seea being a sharpish soart o’ feller, Ah teeak mysen reet doon i’ t’ celler, An’ theear on shelves afoor my een War pies an’ tarts fit foor a queen. Ho’d on a bit! what’s this Ah see? A pankin full o’ rich jelly. Ah war fairly capp’d at fo’st ti see Seea gert a bowl full ov jelly; But theear it war, ez plaan ez daay, An’ tempting teea. Ah’ve heeard fau’k saay When t’ divil maks ya try yer luck, He awlus leeaves ya stuck i’ t’ muck. He ’ez a waay, he ’ez, by gock! O’ makking plother leeak leyke rock. Whether ’t be wenches, drink, or money, T’ divil daubs ’em all wi’ honey, Or summat else ’at catches t’ e’e. Noo Ah war ’ticed wi’ that jelly, Seea wi’ mah whittle a shive o’ keeak ‘At ’ed been cutten, Ah did teeak. Theer’s a saying, mun, which rhymes wi’ rhahm, It’s ’yah good thing tak at a tahm’; Bud t’ lump o’ keeak Ah felt wad be Nowt mich bidoot Ah ’ed t’ jelly. Seea Ah laid a lump on t’ top o’ t’ keeak, An’ sed, by gum! hoo neyce ya leeak! Mah mooth war wattering foor a teeast, An’ Ah just war gahin’ ti start mah feeast, When Ah thowt Ah heeard sumbody cumin’— Mah fo’st thowt war ov up an’ runnin’. Inti mah gob Ah cramm’d all t’ lot, Then nut a minit did Ah stop; Up t’ cellar steps Ah quickly flang, Thruff t’ kitchen deear went wiv a bang, Whahl t’ garden roond Ah madly rushed, An’ plants an’ shrubs Ah sairly crushed Wi’ baith mah stamping feet; Foor t’ stuff ’at Ah’d thowt foor ti eat, Oha! war nut it a sell! Tak mah wo’d for ’t, Ah scarce da’st tell. Ti think o’ t’ trouble ’at Ah teeak Ti git that jelly an’ that keeak, An’ efter all mah langing hoap, Ti finnd Ah’d gitten nowt bud soap. Ya tumm’l teea ’t; Ah needn’t saay, Sum stuff they’d made foor t’ weshing daay. B——.

A SPECIMEN OF YORKSHIRE FOLK-SPEECH, AS SPOKEN IN THE NORTH RIDING.

A SKETCH. ONE OF THE ‘WADDLETON’ SERIES, BY THE AUTHOR.

_Mrs. Waddleton goes to Stockton Races, and her friend Mrs. Bubbles is told all about it._

Sit tha doon, Mary, an’ Ah’ll tell tha all aboot it reet awaay fra t’ starting. It war leyke this, thoo knaws. Ah sed tiv oor John yah daay when he cam in; Ah sez tiv him, ‘Noo, then!’ an’ he sez ti ma, ‘Noo, then!’ An’ Ah sed, ‘Whya, noo, Ah’ll tell tha what; what diz ta think if wa gan ti Stockton Races?’ An’ he sez, ‘Wha, Ah s’u’d think ’at wa war daft—that’s what Ah s’u’d think.’ Ah seed ’at he war t’ wrang sahd oot, an’ seea Ah sed nowt neea mair just then. Bud bliss yer leyfe, Ah ’evn’t been wed tiv a man fahve an’ twenty year nut ti knaw t’ reet end o’ yan, ez a body might saay; seea Ah let things bahd whahl he cam intiv his supper, an’ Ah’ gat him a neyce bit o’ liver an’ bacon riddy. Ah seed him soffen t’ minit ’at he clapp’d his een on ’t. Bud, what! ya can ommaist awlus tattle onny man thruff his stomach. Ah waited a larl bit, whahl he’d gitten a mouth or tweea full, an’ then Ah sat ma doon on t’ cheer-airm, an’ started ti git ower him wi’ mah au’d cunnin’ waays, leyke what Ah used ti deea i’ daays geean by. Ah put mah airm roond his neck, an’ sed, ‘Noo, that’s a bit o’ neyce, isn’t it?’ An’ he sez, ‘Aye, lass.’ An’ Ah sed, ‘Aye, it is; ther’s neeabody else wad ’a’e bothered to ’a’e gitten tha sike a neyce bit o’ supper riddy.’ An’ then Ah ran mah fingers thruff his hair. ‘Neea,’ sez he, ’ther’s nut.’ An’ then efter a bit, he sez, ‘Ah’ll tell tha what, lass; if thoo wants ti gan ti t’ races, whya, what, Ah s’all ’a’e ti tak tha.’ ‘Nut if ya doan’t want ti go, mah luv,’ sez Ah. Bud Ah maad up mah mahnd ’at he s’u’dn’t back oot on ’t then. ‘Bud Ah’ll tell tha what,’ sez Ah, ‘if thoo wants ti gan, Ah’ll gan wi’ tha.’ Thoo knaws it’s best foor t’ men ti deea ez t’ weyfe wants ’em at t’ fo’st, acoz thoo knaws wa awlus deea git wer awn way owther thruff t’ yat or ower t’ hedge. Bud ez he’d sattled ti gan, theer war nowt neea mair ti saay aboot it. An’ seea when t’ morning cam, wa gat up a bit seeaner, an’ set off foor Guisborough Station—ma, Sairy Jane, an’ Jimmey, an’ oor John, wi’ t’ ten pund ’at mah aunt Martha ’ed left uz ti buy a bit o’ betterly furniter wi’.

Weel, thoo knaws, when wa gat ti t’ station, oho—oo! Ah think ’at Ah nivver war i’ sike a hubbleshoe i’ all mah leyfe. Ah sed ti Sairy Jane, ‘Noo, thoo mun tak ho’d, an’ keep ho’d o’ thi feyther’s coat-taal; an’ thoo, Jimmey, lig ho’d o’ mah sket, an’ see ’at nowther on ya leeaves go whahl wa’re all safely inti t’ carridge.’ Wa ’ed nobbut been studden that waay hauf a minit, when oor Sairy Jane let oot t’ gertest skrike ’at Ah’ve ivver heeard; an’ when Ah leeaked roond, if sha warn’t i’ the cruel clutch ov a bobby. ‘Noo, then,’ sez Ah, ‘what’s up wi’ t’ lass?’

‘Ah’ve catched her i’ t’ act,’ sez he.

‘I’ t’ act o’ what?’ sez Ah.

‘O’ picking this chap’s pocket,’ sez he.

‘Thoo gert dunderknowle!’ sez Ah. ‘Thoo’s deean nowt o’ t’ sooart; that’s her feyther, an’ sha’s nobbut ho’ding on tiv his coaat-taals, seea ez sha dizn’t git hersen lost amang all this thrang. Leeave lowse, an’ let her gan, an’ mak a shift ti leet o’ sumbody ’at’s up ti neea good; or else thoo’ll finnd thysen i’ t’ wrang box, Ah can tell tha.’ An’ wi’ that, Ah marched all t’ three on ’em inti t’ traan, which ’ed just puff’d itsen inti t’ station. Sitting reet i’ t’ front o’ ma, war a young chap wiv a rug ower his knees, potching three cards aboot maist miracklous leyke.

‘What are ya trying foor ti deea?’ sez Ah.

‘Whya, it’s a trick,’ sez he.

‘Whya,’ sez Ah, ‘Ah deean’t see mich ov a trick i’ owt ’at ya’ve deean up ti noo; onny bit baan could hann’l three cards i’ that road. What is ’t ya’re efter?’

‘Whya,’ sez he, ‘it’s a trick ’at Ah seed a chap deeaing yesterdaa, bud Ah’s nut weel up in ’t yet. Ah’s trying ti thraw ’em doon seea ez ya weean’t ken wheer t’ pictur-card tumm’ls.’

‘Oha, that’s it, is’t?’ sez Ah. An’ then Ah sez, ‘Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo’ll ’a’e ti lig ’em doon vastly different ti what thoo ’ez deean up ti noo, afoor thoo’ll mannish ti deea ’t, foor Ah’ve seen wheer it’s tumm’l’d ivvery tahm.’

‘Maist leykely,’ sez he; ‘bud ya knaw it’s ez Ah sed—Ah’s nut t’ maaster on’t yet.’

‘Neea,’ sez Ah, ‘Ah seear thoo isn’t.’

‘Whya, noo,’ sez he, chucking ’em doon agaan, ‘which on ’em’s t’ pictur-card this tahm?’

‘T’ far ended!’ sez Ah. An’ Ah lifted it up, an’ o’ course it war, ’coz Ah’d seen it tumm’l theer.

‘Aye, ya’ve mannished it this tahm,’ sez he.

‘Aye, an’ ivvery uther tahm!’ sez Ah, ‘if ta caan’t deea ’t neea better ’an that!’

‘Whya, noo then,’ sez he, chucking ’em doon agaan. ‘Deean’t touch ’em, bud tell uz which on ’em is ’t this tahm?’

‘T’ middle yan!’ sez Ah, ez bou’d ez brass.

‘Whya!’ sez he, ‘mebbe it is. Ah deean’t knaw neea mair ’an what ya deea, but Ah’s yan o’ them ’at backs mah fancy, an’ Ah’ll bet yer a suverin ’at it’s nut it.’

‘Young man!’ sez Ah, solembly, ‘diz yowr muther knaw ’at ya cum’d awaay wiv a suverin, foor ya’re gahin’ on iv a straange leykely way foor lossing on ’t.’

‘Nivver ya mahnd,’ sez he; ‘Ah’ll bet a suverin ’at it’s nut it. Ah’ve gitten mah idea, an’ ya’ve gitten yowrs—will ya bet?’

‘Well!’ sez Ah, ‘Ah deean’t ho’d wi’ betting, an’ Ah nivver at neea tahm did; bud if so be ez hoo an au’d boddy leyke mysen can larn ya hoo easy a suverin can be slithered awaay by backing up sike consate ez ’ez gitten ho’d o’ ya, whya, here gans.’ An’ Ah pulled mah pess[83] oot, teeak t’ on’y suverin ’at Ah ’ed, and handed it tiv a chap ez war sitting byv his sahd; t’ young chap handed him yan an’ all, an’ then Ah lifted t’ card up, an’—oho—— o! Ah nivver war seea capped iv all mah leyfe—it warn’t it. Ah trimm’l’d an’ dithered fra t’ top ti t’ boddum o’ ma; Ah felt just ez if mah back war stuffed wiv aspen leeaves.

‘John!’ Ah gasped, ‘it’s a swinn’l, it’s a swinn’l; keep thi han’ i’ thi pocket, or thoo’ll be lossing t’ ten pund ’at mah aunt Martha left uz ti buy a bit o’ betterly furniter wi’. An’ deean’t let on ’at thoo ’ez ten pund aboot tha,’ sez Ah, foorgitting ’at Ah war letting ivvery yan on ’em i’ t’ carridge knaw ’at he’d gitten seea mich on him. Hooivver, Ah hedn’t neea tahm ti saay owt else, foor just then wa gat ti Stockton, an’ Ah think ther war a warse hubbleshoe on i’ Stockton Station ’an what ther war i’ Guisborough. ‘Noo, then!’ sez Ah tiv a gert fat woman ’at cam thrussin’ up agaan ma, ‘deean’t ya cum shuvvin’ ma aboot i’ that road.’ ‘Noo, then, Victoria!’ sez sha, ‘what’s t’ matter wi’ thoo?’ ‘Ah’s nut Victoria!’ sez Ah; an’ leeak ya, Ah deean’t think sha thowt ’at Ah war. Just ez Ah sed that, ther war anuther woman stood hersen reet on t’ top o’ mah pet bunion. ‘Oh deeary ma, missus!’ Ah skriked oot, ‘Ah cannut bahd this, hooivver, ya’re laaming ma sadly; deea tak yer foot off.’ ‘Noo, then,’ sez she, ’t’ station isn’t yowrs!’ ‘Neea,’ sez Ah, ‘bud t’ bunion is.’ An’ wi’ that Ah tell’d John an’ t’ childer ti follow cleease at t’ back o’ ma, an’ Ah boudly pushed mah waay oot o’ t’ station. Neea seeaner ’ed wa gitten ootsahd, ’an Ah seed clagg’d on a wall a gert big bill, wi’ theease we’ds printed on ’t, ‘BEWARE O’ PICKPOCKETS.’ An’ what d’ye think? Ah felt i’ mah pocket, an’ mah pess, eight-an’-six, an’ mah railway ticket ’ed all geean, geean ez cleean ez a whistle. Ah didn’t tell John; Ah just sed, ‘Thoo mun keep thi han’ i’ thi pocket, or else sumbody ’ll be takking t’ ten pund fra tha, if thoo dizn’t mahnd.’ He sez ti ma, ‘Tha weean’t git nowt oot o’ mah pockets, if tha deea shuv ther han’s in.’ Ah sez, ‘Thoo dizn’t meean ti saay ’at tha’ve gitten ’t fra tha alriddy, diz ta?’ ‘Neea,’ sez he, ‘Ah ’evn’t gitten t’ brass i’ mah pocket—Ah’ve putten ’t i’ mah hat.’ An’ then Ah notished ’at he ’ed his hancutcher tied ower his hat an’ unner his chin, leeaking foor all t’ wo’lld leyke yan ’at war iv an extremity wi’ t’ teeth wark; bud Ah thowt it war t’ capitalist idea ’at onnyboddy could ’a’e thowt on. Ah didn’t saay seea tiv him, acoz if yer praise t’ men tha seean git past thersens—bud ya knaw that bidoot ma telling ya. Hooivver, Ah did wish ’at Ah’d putten mah pess i’ mah bonnet, an’ then Ah s’u’dn’t ’a’e lost it an’ all ’at war iv it. ‘It’ll be t’ best,’ Ah sez, ‘foor uz ti finnd wa waays ti t’ course, git summat ti eat, see a race, buy t’ furniter, an’ gan yam ageean.’ Noo, hoo can Ah picter ti tha a race-course? If yer can ’magine all t’ rackapelts an’ raggamuffins gedered tigither i’ yah crood, shooting men an’ screeaming women, wi’ rows o’ carridges filled wi’ lords an’ ladies stuffing thersens wi’ pies an’ pop, ya can ’ev summat ov a idea what a race-course is leyke. Whahl wa war stannin’ fair capped wi’ t’ carryings on, whau s’u’d cum up bud t’ varra seeam young chap ’at Ah’d lost t’ pund teea i’ t’ carridge. ‘Ah’s glad ’at Ah’ve tumm’l’d across ya ageean,’ sez he. ‘Mebbe ya may be,’ sez Ah. ‘Ya see, ya wan t’ pund an’ Ah lost it, an’ that maks all t’ difference i’ being glad ti see onnybody.’ ‘Aye, bud that’s nut it; Ah’ve gitten a gert frien’ o’ yer muther’s wi’ ma,’ sez he. ‘Oh, indeed,’ sez Ah. ‘An’ whau may that be?’ ‘This is the gentleman,’ sez he; ‘let ma mak him knawn ti ya. This is Lord Swin’lton, whau knew yer muther varra weel.’ ‘Ah didn’t knaw ’at mah muther ivver war acquainted wiv a lord,’ sez Ah, leeaking t’ chap ower; bud ther war neea doot aboot his being a lord—Ah seed that t’ minit Ah clapped mah een on him. Oh yes, he war all there—ulster, eye-glass, di’mon’ pin, an’ ivverything. Ther’s no mistakking a lord when ya see yan, tha’re good eneeaf ti challenge. ‘This is yer husband?’ sez his lordship, leeaking at John. ‘Got t’ feeace-ache?’ sez he. ‘Noa, mah lord,’ sez Ah, ‘it’s nut t’ feeace-ache ’at he’s suffering fra. It’s leyke this, doan’t yer see, mah lord: mah aunt Martha left us ten pund ti buy a bit o’ betterly furniter wi’, an’ seea ez neeabody ’ll finnd oot wheer it is, he’s tied it up iv his hat, foor safety leyke, ez a body might saay, ez ya may term it so ti speeak.’

‘An’ a varra good plan an’ all,’ sez he.

Just at that minit t’ young chap whau Ah’d lost t’ pund teea teeak a fit, an’ fell wiv his han’s roond oor John’s neck, an’ doon tha baith went tigither, an’ ez tha tumm’l’d on ti t’ grand, Lord Swin’lton swiped oor John’s hat off wiv his stick, an’ next minit Sairey Jane beald oot, ‘Oha, muther! Lord Swin’lton’s off wi’ mah feyther’s hat, an’ it’s gitten t’ ten pund in ’t.’ Ah didn’t stop ti think, thoo knaws, bud just off efter him ez hard ez ivver Ah could gan. Ah heard a man saay ’at he’d nivver seen a woman leg it leyke what Ah did. Ah s’u’d ’a’e catch’d him an’ all, bud just when Ah war gahin’ ti click ho’d ov his coat taals, Ah catched mah foot iv a tent-roap, an’ afoor Ah knew wheer Ah war, Ah war laid wi’ mah heead iv a box o’ cokernuts. ‘Noo, then,’ shooted t’ man ’at awn’d ’em, ‘cum oot o’ that. Deean’t ya cum cracking mah cokernuts, an’ sucking t’ milk oot; ther’s neea free sucks here.’ Ah gat up, an’ Ah let that man ’ev t’ length o’ mah tunge—Lord Swin’lton ’ed ta’en hissel off by that tahm. Ther war nowt else for ’t bud ti git wersens heeam ez best wa could. An’ when Ah’d putten Sairey Jane an’ Jimmy ti bed, Ah sed tiv oor John, Ah sez, ‘Noo, John, Ah deean’t want ti upbraad tha—it’s been a sad daay foor uz—bud efter all’s sed an’ deean, thoo owt ti be asham’d o’ thisel foor ivver letting a woman ’tice tha inti takking her ti sikan a blackguardy pleeace ez Stockton Races.

NOTE.—Wensleydale and Swaledale readers will find it both interesting and instructive to compare the above sketch, which is given in the Clevelandic speech, with the folk-speech as spoken in their own dale, which to a slight degree in pronunciation tends toward that of Lancashire in one direction and to that of Cumberland and Westmoreland in the other. The two latter, however, on all counts, bear a closer relationship to our North Riding speech than either that of the West Riding or South Lancashire.

It must always be borne in mind that the dialect along the north-east coast of Yorkshire approaches nearer to its original source than that of any other, and especially so may this be said of Cleveland.

A HUNDERD YEARS HENCE. [_Date about 1800._]

A hunderd years hence What a chaange ’ll be maade I’ politics, morals, religion an’ traade. I’ statesmen whau wrang’l Or rahd upo’ t’ fence Maist things ’ll be diff’rent A hunderd years hence.

T’ heeads ov oor lasses Sike changes ’ll show; It’s nut ov ther mahnds ‘At wa aim ti speeak noo, Bud ov three-bishel bonnets, Ther gypsies an’ flats, Ther scoops, navarinoes, Ti snug lahtle hats

Wi’ furs an’ wi’ ribbons, Wi’ feathers an’ flooers, Sum feshioned byv artists An’ sum plucked fra t’ booers. Bud heeads ’ll be chaang’d teea, Far larnt an’ i’ sense, Afoor wa’ ‘ev coonted A hunderd years hence.

Oor laws ’ll be then Nivver maade, mun, by feeals, An’ prisons Ah aim ‘Ll be to’n’d inti skeeals; Foor t’ pleasurs o’ vice Are a feealish pretence, Bud Ah doot if tha’ll awn it A hunderd years hence.

Noo vice ’ll be kenn’d, When at last fau’k awakken, Ti be t’ warst kind o’ daftness, Or else Ah ’s mistakken. T’ lawyers an’ t’ doctors And t’ parsons wi’ sense Will ’ev altered ther waays A hunderd years hence.

An’ you an’ me, reader, Wheer s’all wa be fund?— It’s wer souls ’at Ah meean, Nut wer bodies i’ t’ grund. S’all wa be wheer it’s joy, Or i’ sorrow intense? Wa s’all all on uz knaw A hunderd years hence. _Anon._

THE SWEEPER AN’ THIEVES.

BY D. LEWIS. [_Date about 1800-15. Published at Bedale._]

A sweeper’s lad war late o’ t’ neet, His slaape-shod shoon ’ed leeam’d his feet; He call’d ti see a good au’d deeam ‘At monny a tahm ’ed trigg’d his wame[84] (Foor he war then fahve mile fra yam). He ax’d i’ t’ lair[85] ti let him sleep, An’ he’d t’ next daay the’r chim’lies sweep. Tha supper’d him weel wi’ country fare, Then show’d him tul his hoal i’ t’ lair. He crept intul his streahy[86] bed, His pooak o’ seeat[87] beneath his heead; He war content, ner cared a pin, An’ his good frien’ then lock’d him in. T’ lair fra t’ hoos a larl piece stood, Atween ’em grew a lahtle wood. Aboot midneet, ur nigher morn, Tweea rogues brak in ti steeal ther corn. ‘Eving a leet i’ lantern dark, Tha seean ti winder fell ti wark; An’ wishing tha’d a lad ti fill, Young brush (wheea yet ’ed ligg’d quite still), Thinkin’ ‘at t’ men belang’d ti t’ hoos, An’ that he noo mud be ov ewse, Jump’d doon directly on ti t’ fleear, An’ t’ thieves then baith ran oot o’ t’ deear, An’ stopp’d at nowther thin na thick— Fully tha aim’d it war Au’d Nick. T’ sweeper lad then ran reet seean Ti t’ hoos, an’ tell’d ’em what war deean. Maister an’ men then quickly raase, An’ ran ti t’ lair wi’ hauf ther clais[88]; Tweea hosses, secks, an’ leet tha fand, Which ’ed been left by t’ thievish band. Theease all roond t’ countrysahd tha cry’d, Bud nut an awner e’er apply’d, Foor neean dast t’ hosses awn na t’ secks, Tha war seea freeten’d o’ ther necks. Yah hoss an’ seck war judged ez t’ sweeper’s share, Acoz he’d kept baith t’ farmer’s corn an’ lair.

The following note is appended to the original:—‘This tale is founded on fact, and happened at Leeming Lane a few years ago.’

The student will find the above and four following pieces interesting, as showing the alteration in the pronunciation of certain words which has locally taken place during the last eighty years in the Bedale district.

DARBY AN’ JOAN AN’ THEIR DAUGHTER NELL.

A DIALOGUE BY W. HIRD. [_Date 1800-15. Published at Bedale._]

_Darby._

Joan! Ah noo ’ev thowt seea mich about it, Ah seearly nivver mair s’all doot it; At moorn an’ neet, an’ neet an’ moorn, Ah sumtahms wish Ah’d ne’er been born.

_Joan._

Whya, Darby, prethee, let ma see, Ah whoap it’s nowt ’at’s bad o’ me.

_Darby._

Thee, Joan! neea, marry, neea sike thing. Think bad o’ thee! ’twad be a sin. Ah think, indeed, Ah war a feeal Ti send oor Nell ti t’ Boordin’-skeeal. Sike mauky feeals ez them, Ah think, ‘Ev filled her heead wi’ prahd an’ stink, Foor, sin’ sha went, sha’s grown seea fine, Sha caan’t deea nowt wi’oot her wine, When t’ dinner’s owered, an’ sha’s seea neyce, Sha weean’t eat puddin’ meead o’ rice, Thoff when at skeeal an’ put ti t’ pinch, Fra sike good stuff sha’d nivver flinch. An’ all her notions are seea raased, It’s fit ti to’n her feyther crazed, Fer leyke a toon wench, Ah declare, Sha walks abroad wi’ breasts all bare— To show her shoon, an’ hosen clocked, Sha lifts her sket whahl Ah’s fair shocked; Nut ’at Ah care aboot t’ fond lass, Neea mair ’an this—it taks mah brass, An’ wiv her fine lang labbering tail, Sha’ll git her fathther inti jail.

_Joan._

Whya, Darby, bud thoo knaws ther ’s t’ Squire, An’ he, mayhap, will Nell admire, An’ efter all ther noise an’ strife, Thoo knaws t’ young Squire he wants a weyfe. Then let ’s be seear ti mak her smairt, An’ teeach her hoo ti plaay her pairt; Sha seean ’ll mak him towards her leean, An’ then thoo knaws ’at t’ wark is deean. Ez fer her breasts an’ bare at t’ airms, It’s feshion noo ti show yan’s chairms. Men leyke ti knaw, Ah’ve heeard it sed, What’s real an’ fause afoor they wed; Hoose’er, Ah’ll try an’ deea mah best, An’ leeave ti thee ti mannish t’ rest.

_Darby._

Bud, then, suppooase oor plot s’u’d fail, An’ me foor debt be sent ti jail, Poor Nell wad nivver be a weyfe, An’ ‘ev ti laabur all her leyfe; Foor efter sha’s seea browten up, Hoo can sha ivver bahd ti stoop Ti gan ti sarvice, ur ti spin, Or ivver ti deea onnything?

_Joan._

Whya, Darby, leeave it all ti me, Ah’ll mannish ’t weel, an’ that thoo’ll see; Ah’ll be her pilot all mah leyfe, An’ mak her sum rich farmer’s weyfe. Then ez tha gan ti chetch, doon t’ toon, Ah’s seear thoo’ll saay, ‘Weel deean, oor Joan.’

T’ DEEATH OV AWD DEEASY.

AN ECLOGUE.

GEOORGY AND ROBIN. [_Date about 1800._]

_Geoorgy._

Weel met, good Robin. Seed ya my au’d meer? Ah’ve laated her an hoor i’ t’ looaning here, Bud hoosumivver, spite ov all mah care, Ah caan’t spy her, nowther heead na hair.

_Robin._

Whah, Geoorgy, Ah’ve ti tell ya dowly news, Sike ez varra leyke ’ll mak ya muse. Ah just this minit left yer poor au’d tike, Deead ez a steean, i’ Johnny Dobson’s dyke.

_Geoorgy._

Wheer! What’s that, Robin? Tell uz ower agaan. Thoo’s jokin’—ur ya’ve mebbe been mistaan.

_Robin._

Neea, marry, Geoorgy; Ah’s seear Ah caan’t be wrang. Ya knaw Ah’ve kenn’d au’d Deeasy noo seea lang. Her breead-ratch’d feeace, an’ tweea white hinder legs Preeav’d it war her, as seear ez eggs is eggs.

_Geoorgy._

Poor thing! What, deead then? ’ed sha ligg’d theer lang? Wheeraboot is sha? Robin, will ta gan?

_Robin._

Ah care nut, Geoorgy; Ah ’a’en’t mich ti deea— A good hoor’s laabor, or mayhappen tweea; Bud ez Ah nivver leyke ti hing behinnd When Ah[89] can deea a kahndness tiv a frinnd, An Ah[89] can help ya wi’ mah hand or teeam Ah’ll help ti skin her, ur t’ fetch her heeam.

_Geoorgy._

Thank ya, good Robin. Ah caan’t think, belike, Hoo t’ poor au’d creature tumm’l’d inti t’ dyke.

_Robin._

Ya mahnd, sha’d fun hersel just boon ti dee, An’ seea laid doon byv t’ sahd (ez ’t seeams ti me), An’ when sha felt, mun, t’ paans o’ deeath wi’in, Sha stakker’d, tumm’l’d, fick’d, then toupled in.

_Geoorgy._

Maist leykly—bud—what, war sha deead ootreet When fo’st thoo fand her, when ta gat t’ fo’st seet?

_Robin._

Ya s’ hear, ez Ah war gahin doon t’ looan, Ah spy’d A scoore or mair o’ creeaks byv t’ gutter sahd, All seea thrang, hoppin’ in an’ hoppin’ oot, Ah wunder’d what i’ t’ wo’lld tha war aboot. Ah leeaks, an’ then Ah sees t’ au’d yode[90] leead, Gaspin’ an’ pantin’ sair, an’ ommaist deead. An’ ez tha pick’d it een, an’ pick’d ageean, It just could lift it leg, an’ give a greean; Bud when Ah fand au’d Deeasy war ther prey, Ah wav’d mah hat, an’ shoo’d ’em all awaay. Poor Deeas’! Ya mahnd, sha ’s noo worn fairly oot, Sha’s lang been quite hardset ti traail aboot— Bud yonder, Geoorgy, leeak ya, wheer sha’s leead, An’ tweea ’r three nanpies chatt’rin’ ower her heead.

_Geoorgy._

Hey, marry! This Ah nivver wished ti see; Sha’s been seea good—seea trew a frinnd ti me. An’ ‘ez ta cum’d ti this, mah poor au’d meer? Thoo’s been a trusty sarvant monny a yeear; An’ better treeatment thoo ’s desarv’d fra me, ‘An thus neglected iv a dyke ti dee. Monny a good day’s wark wa’ve wrowt tigither, An’ bodden monny a blast o’ wind an’ weather; Monny a lang dree mahle, ower moss an’ moor, An’ monny a hill an’ deeal wa’ve toddled ower. Bud noo, wae’st[91] me! thoo’ll nivver trot neea mair, Ti nowther kirk, na market, spoort, na fair; An’ noo foor t’ futur’, thoff Ah’s au’d an’ leeam, Ah s’all be forced ti walk, ur stay at heeam. Neea mair thoo’ll bring ma cooals fra Blakey-Broo, Ur sticks fra t’ wood—Ah s’ ‘a’e ti drag ’em noo. Ma poor au’d Deeas’! afoor Ah dig thi greeave, Thi weel-worn shoon Ah will foor keepseeaks seeave; Thi hide, poor lass! Ah’ll ’ev it tann’d wi care, ‘T’ll mak a cover ti mah au’d airm-cheer, An’ pairt an appron foor mah weyfe ti weear When cardin’ woul ur weshin’ t’ parlour fleear. Deep i’ t’ cau’d yeth Ah will thi carcase pleeace, ‘At thi poor beeans maay lig an’ rist i’ peeace; Deep i’ t’ cau’d yeth, ’at t’ dogs mayn’t scrat tha oot, An’ rahve thi flesh an’ trail thi beeans aboot. Thoo ’s been seea faithful foor seea lang ti me, Thoo s’annot at thi deeath neglected be. Seldom a Christian ’at yan noo can finnd, Wad be mair trusty ur mair trew a frinnd. _Anon._

THE INVASION.

AN ECLOGUE. [_Date_ 1810.]

A wanton wether had disclaimed its bonds ‘At kept him cleease wivin Au’d Willie’s grunds, Brakt thruff t’ hedge an’ wander’d far astraay, He kenn’d nut whither, alang t’ au’d to’npik waay. Ez Willie wrowt wi’ neea larl care T’ fence wi’ stake an’ thorns t’ gap ti repair, His neighbour Roger, heeam fra t’ fair reto’n’d, Then cam i’ seet, i’ rahding graith[92] weel don’d[93], Wheea seean ez Willy, fast drawing nigh he spies, Thus tiv his frinnd fra t’ back o’ t’ hedge he cries.

_Willy._

Noo, then; what, Roger! ‘ ya been ti t’ fair? Hoo gans things? Maad ya onny bargaans theer?

_Roger._

Ah knaw nut, Willy, things deean’t leeak ower weel; Coorn sattles fast, thoff beeas ’ll fetch a deeal. Ti sell t’ au’d intak barley, Ah desaund[94], Bud c’u’dn’t git a bid ti suit mah mahnd[95]. What wi’ rack rents, an’ sike a want o’ traad, Ah knawn’t hoo yan’s ti git yan’s landloord paad; Mairower an’ that, tha saay i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year T’ Franch is intarmin’d[96] ti ’tack uz here.

_Willy._

Yea, mun! What are tha cummin’ hither foor? Depend on ’t, they’d far better nivver stor.

_Roger._

True, Willy—nobbut Inglishmen ’ll stand By yan anuther; o’ ther awn good land Tha’ll nivver suffer, Ah s’ be bun ti saay, T’ Franchmen ti tak a sing’l sheep awaay; Feightin’ foor heeam upo’ ther awn fair field, All t’ poo’r o’ France c’u’d nivver mak ’em yield.

_Willy._

Whya, seear yan cannot think, when put ti t’ pinch, ‘At onny Inglishmen ’ll iwer flinch. If t’ Franch deea cum, wha, Roger, Ah’ll be hang’d, An tha deean’t git thersens reet soondly bang’d, Ah can’t bud think—thoff Ah may be misteean— Nut monny on ’em ’ll git back ageean.

_Roger._

Ah think nut, Willy; bud sum fau’k ’ll say Oor Inglish fleet let t’ Franch ships git awaay When tha war laid—thoo knaws—i’ Bantry Bay, ‘At tha c’u’d nivver all ’a’e gi’en ’em t’ slip, Bud t’ Inglish wanted nut ti tak a ship.

_Willy._

Eah! that ’s all lees!

_Roger._

Ah dunnot saay it’s trew, It’s all unknawn ti sike ez me an’ yow. Hoo deea wa knaw when t’ fleets deea reet ur wrang? Ah whooap it ’s all on ’t fause[97]—bud seea talks gan. Hoosivver, this Ah knaw, ’at when tha pleease, Oor sailors allus beeat ’em upo’ t’ seeas, An’ if tha nobbut sharply leeak aboot, Tha needn’t let a sing’l ship cum oot; At leeast, tha’ll drub ’em weel, I dunnot fear, An’ keep ’em fairly off fra landing here.

_Willy._

Ah whooap seea, Roger; bud an’ if tha deea Cum ower, Ah then s’all sharpen mah au’d leea[98]. What thoff Ah can bud ov a lahtle boast, Ya knaw yan wadn’t ’a’e that lahtle lost. Ah s’ send oor Molly an’ all t’ bairns awaay, An’ Ah mysen ’ll byv t’ au’d yamsteead staay. Ah’ll feight, if need; an’ if Ah fall, wha, then Ah s’ suffer all t’ warst mishap mysen. War Ah bud seear my weyfe an’ bairns war seeaf, Ah then s’u’d be ti dee content eneeaf.

_Roger._

Reet, Willy, mun! What an tha put uz teea ’t, Ah will mysen put forrad mah best feeat; What thoff Ah ’s au’d, Ah ’s nut seea easily scar’d— On his awn middin, an au’d cock feights hard. Tha saay a Franchman ’s to’n’d a different man, A braver, better sojer ten ti yan; Bud let t’ Franch be to’n’d ti what he will, Tha’ll finnd ’at Inglishmen are Inglish still— O’ ther awn grund tha’ll nowther flinch na flee, Tha’ll owther conger, or tha’ll bravely dee. _Anon._

COMIC SONG.

A BEAUTIFUL BOY. [_Date about 1750._]

‘Twar yance on a tahm, aboot six i’ t’ morn, When fo’st Ah saw leet—Ah meean, Ah war born. Ther war t’ doctor an’ t’ nuss, an’ a gert monny mair, Bud neean on ’em ’ed seen sike a babby afoor. Ah’d t’ neease o’ mah dad, an’ t’ een o’ mah mam, Seea wi’ sleet alterations Ah varra seean cam Wivoot onny doot or the sleetest o’ sham Ti be a maist beautiful boy.

Ti mak ma a beauty, skriked oot Mrs. Sneer, ‘He’ll be t’ taal end o’ nowt, bidoot a sweet leer.’ Seea ti gi’e ma this leer, yan on ’em shoots oot, ‘When he’s tumm’l’d asleep, lig a weight on his snoot.’ Which maad ma ti wink an’ ti blink O! Whahl t’ ladies kenn’d nut what ti think O! Bud tha mannish’d ti gi’e ma a squint O! An’ maad ma a beautiful boy.

Ti finish ma off, Ah needed yah thing. My gob ower-straight war—Ah meean for ti sing— Seea ti lug it an’ tug it all t’ lot on ’em tried, Whahl they stritched mah poor gob ommaist hauf a yard wide, Shooting, ‘Pull awaay, noo, Mrs. Ryder, It’s stritching a lahtle bit wider,’ An’ Dolly, wheea stood just ashad her, Sed, ‘Oh! what a beautiful boy!’

When they’d finish’d ma off, tha sent ma ti skeeal. T’ lads an’ t’ lasses all gen’d ez Ah sat o’ mah steeal, An’ when they went yam tha sed ’at tha’d seen T’ fresh lad at skeeal wi’ sike beautiful een. ‘He can leeak onny road, an’ that’s handy, His gob ’s reetly shapp’d ti suck candy, Whahl his legs are what tha call bandy— Gocks! bud he’s a beautiful boy!’

T’ uther daay Ah war ax’d i’ t’ city ti dine, When t’ lasses i’ rapters all thowt ma divine; An’ t’ lot, whahl admiring mah elegant grace, Let ther dinners aleean ti gaze i’ mah feeace, Then sigh’d, ‘Ah s’all swound wi’ surprise O! T’ sunleet caan’t match his dear eyes O! He’s sike a neyce mooth foor mince-pies O! Oh! kiss uz, you beautiful boy!’

Ah sed, ‘Lasses, beware o’ love’s piercing darts, Foor feearful Ah be Ah s’all steeal all yer hearts; An’ then, mah deear lasses, ya’ll sob an’ ya’ll sigh, When you think o’ mah charms, whahl ya’ll langwish an’ dee. Ah can kiss, bud Ah caan’t wed ya all, Bud Ah wad if Ah mud, gert an’ small; Ah lang for ti cuddle ya all, For, ya ken, Ah’s a beautiful boy.’

Mr. Fossick, of Carthorpe, kindly gave me the above (and several others). He tells me it was sung when his grandfather was a boy. As Mr. Fossick was born in the early years of this century, I am not in the least antedating it. Though turned eighty, the last time I saw Mr. Fossick, for two hours he recited poetry without having to halt for a single word. It is in a great measure owing to the wonderful memories possessed by our old people that I have been able to collect the matter for this work.