Sidney Gilpin.

The songs and ballads of Cumberland, to which are added dialect and other poems; with biographical sketches, notes, and glossary online

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Online LibrarySidney GilpinThe songs and ballads of Cumberland, to which are added dialect and other poems; with biographical sketches, notes, and glossary → online text (page 16 of 26)
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But manhood has chang'd what youth fondly
pourtray'd.



322 Robert A nderson,

THIS LUIVE SAE BREKS A BODY'S REST,

AIR: "Ettrick Banks."

The muin shone breet at nine last neet,

When Jemmy Sharp com owre the muir :
Weel did I ken a lover's fit,

And heard him softly tap the duir ;
My fadder started i' the nuik,

" Rin, Jenny, see what's that," he said :
I whisper'd, " Jemmy, come to-mworn,"

And then a leame excuse suin meade.

I went to bed, but cudn't sleep,

This luive sae breks a body's rest:;
The mwornin dawn'd, then up I gat,

And seegh'd and aye luik'd tow'rds the west;
But when far off I saw the wood,

Where he unlock'd his heart to me,
I thought o' monie a happy hour,

And then a tear gushed frae my e'e.

'To-neet my fadder's far frae heame,

And wunnet come these three hours yet;
But, O ! it pours, and I'd be leath

That Jemmy sud for me get wet !
Yet, if he dis, guid heame-brew'd yell

Will warm his cheerfu' honest heart;
Wi' him, my varra life o' life !

I's fain to meet, but leath to part.



the Cumberland Bard. 323



AULD MARGET.

Auld Marget in the fauld she sits,

And spins, and sings, and .smuiks by fits,

And cries as she had lost her wits

" O this weary, weary warl !"

Yence Marget was as lish a lass
As e'er in summer trod the grass ;
But fearfu' changes come to pass

In this weary, weary warl !

Then, at a murry-neet or fair,

Her beauty meade the young fwok stare ;

Now wrinkl'd is that feace wi' care

O this weary, weary warl !

Yence Marget she had dowters twee,
And bonnier lasses cudna be ;
But nowther kith nor kin has she

O this weary, weary warl !

The eldest wi' a soldier gay,

Ran frae her heame, ae luckless day,

And e'en lies buried far away

O this weary, weary warl !

The youngest she did nought but whine,
And forlthe lads wad fret and pine,
Till hurried off by a decline

O this weary, weary warl !



324 Robert A nderson,

Auld Andrew toil'd reet sair for bread
Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead,
Nae wonder that turn'd Marget's head

O this weary, weary warl !

Peer Marget ! oft I pity thee,

Wi' care-worn cheek and hollow e'e,

Bowed down by age and poverty

O this weary, weary warl !



FIRST LUIVE.

AIR : "Cold and Raw."

It's just three weeks sin Carel fair,

This sixteenth o' September ;
There the furst loff of a sweetheart I gat,

Sae that day I'll remember.
This luive meks yen stupid ever sin seyne

I's thinkin and thinkin o' Wully ;
I dung owre the knop, and scawder'd my fit,

And cut aw my thum wi' the gully.

O, how he danc'd ! and, O, how he talk'd !

For my life I cannot forget him :
He wad hev a kiss I gev him a slap

But if he were here I'd let him.
Says he, " Mally Maudlin, my heart is thine ! "

And he brong sec a seegh, I believ'd him :
Thought I, Wully Wintrep, thou's welcome to mine,

But my head I hung down to deceive him.



the Cumberland Bard. 325

Twea yards o' reed ribbon to wear for his seake,

Forby leather mittens, he bought me ;
But when we were thinking o' nought but luive,

My titty, deil bin ! com and sought me :
The deuce tek aw clashes ! off she ran heame,

And e'en telt my tarn'd auld mudder ;
There's sec a te-dui but let them fratch on

Miss him, I'll ne'er get sec anudder !

Neist Sunday, God wullin ! we promised to meet,

I'll get frae our tweasome a baitin ;
But a lee mun patch up, be't rang or be't reet,

For Wully he sha'not stan waitin :
The days they seem lang, and lang are the neets,

And, waes me ! this is but Monday !
I'seegh, and I think, and I say to mysel,

O that to-morrow were Sunday !



LAL STEPHEN.

AIR: "Hallow Fair."

Lai Stephen was bworn at Kurkbanton,

Just five feet three inches was he;
But at ploughing, or mowing, or shearing,

His match you but seldom could see ;
Then at dancin, O he was a capper !

He'd shuffle and loup till he sweat ;
And for singin he ne'er hed a marrow,

I just think I hear his voice yet.



326 Robert A nderson,

And then wid a sleate and a pencil,

He capp'd aw our larned young lairds ;
And played on twea jew-trumps together,

And aye com off winner at cards :
At huntin a brock or an otter,

At trackin a foumert or hare,
At pittin a cock or at shootin,

Nae lad cou'd wi' Stephen compare.

And then he wad feight like a fury,

And count fast as hops aw the stars,
And read aw the news i' the paper,

And talk about weddins and wars ;
And then he wad drink like a Briton,

And spend the last penny he had,
And aw the peer lasses about him,

For Stephen were runnin stark mad.

Our Jenny she writ him a letter,

And monie a feyne thing she said
But my fadder he just gat a gliif on't,

And faith a rare durdem he meade ;
Then Debby, that leev'd at Drumleenin,

She wad hev him aw till hersel,
For ae neet when he stuil owre to see her,

Wi' sugar she sweeten'd his keale.

Then Judy she darn'd aw his stockings,
And Sally she meade him a sark,

And Lizzy, the laird's youngest dowter,
Kens weel whea she met efter dark ;



the Ciimberland Bard. 327

Aunt Ann, o' the wrang seyde o' fifty,

E'en thought him the flower o' the flock

Nay, to count yen by yen, aw his sweethearts,
Wad tek a full hour by the clock.

O ! but I was vext to hear tell on't,

When Nichol the tidings he brought,
That Stephen was geane for a soldier

Our Jenny she gowl'd, ay, like ought :
Sin' that we've nae spwort efter supper,

We nowther get sang or a crack ;
Our lasses sit beytin their fingers,

Aw wishin for Stephen seafe back.



THE BASHFU' WOOER.

AIR : " Daintie Davie."

Whene'er ye come to woo me, Tom,
Dunnet at the window tap,
Or cough, or hem, or gie a clap,
To let my fadder hear, man ;
He's auld and feal'd, and wants his sleep,
Sae by the hallan softly creep,
Ye need nae watch, and glowre, and peep,
I'll meet ye, niver fear, man :
If a lassie ye wad win,

Be cheerfu' iver, bashfu' niver;
Ilka Jock may get a Jen,
If he hes sense to try, man.



328 Robert A nderson,

Whene'er we at the market meet,

Dunnet luik like yen hawf daft,

Or talk about the cauld and heat,

As ye were weather wise, man \
Haud up your head, and bauldly speak,
And keep the blushes frae your cheek,
For he whea hes his teale to seek,
We lasses aw despise, man :

If a lassie, &c.



I met ye leately, aw yer leane,

Ye seemed like yen stown frae the dead,
Yer teeth e'en chatter'd i' yer head,

But ne'er a word o' luive, man ;
I spak, ye luik'd anudder way,
Then trimmerd as ye'd got a flay,
And owre yer shou'der cried, " Guid day,"
Nor yence to win me struive, man :

If a lassie, &c.

My aunty left me threescwore pun,
But deil a yen of aw the men,
Till then, did bare-legg'd Elcy ken,

Or care a strae for me, man ;
Now, tiggin at me suin and late,
They're cleekin but the yellow bait ;
Yet, mind me, Tom, I needn't wait,
When I hae choice o' three, man :

If a lassie, &c.






the Cumberland Bard. 329

There lives a lad owre yonder muir,
He hes nae faut but yen he's puir;
Whene'er we meet, wi' kisses sweet,

He's like to be my death, man;
And there's a lad ahint yon trees,
Wad weade for me abuin the knees ;
Sae tell yer mind, or, if ye please,
Nae langer fash us baith, man :

If a lassie, &c.

January, 1803.



THE AUNTY.

We've roughness amang hands, we've kye i' the byre,

Come live wi' us, lassie, it's aw I desire ;

I'll lig i' the loft, and gie my bed to thee,

Nor sal ought else be wantin that guidness can gie :

Sin' the last o' thy kin, thy peer aunty we've lost,

Thou frets aw the day, and e'en luiks like a ghost.

I mind, when she sat i' the nuik at her wheel,
How she'd tweyne the slow thread, and aye counsel

us weel,

Then oft whisper me, " Thou wad mek a top wife;
And pray God to see thee weel settl'd in life;'''
Then what brave funny teales she could tell the neet

through,
And wad bless the peer fwok,if the stormy win' blew.



330 Robert Anderson,

That time when we saunter' d owre leate at the town,,
'Twas the day, I weel mind, when tou got thy chintz

gown,

For the watters were up, and pick dark was the neet,
And she lissen'd and cry'd, and thought aw wasn't

reet;

But, oh ! when you met, what a luik did she give !
I can niver forget her as lang as I live.

How I like thee, dear lassie, thou's oft heard me tell;
Nay, I like thee far better than I like mysel ;
And when sorrow forsakes thee, to kurk we'll e'en

gang,

But tou munnet sit pinin' thy leane aw day lang;
Come owre the geate, lassie, my titty sal be
A companion to her that's aye dearest to me.



CROGLIN WATTY.

[AlR : "The lads o' Dunse." In Cumberland, servants
who are employed in husbandly are seldom engaged for a
longer term than half a year. On the customary days of
hiring, they proceed to the nearest town, and that their
intentions might be known, stand in the market-place with a
sprig or straw in their mouths. SANDERSON.]

If you ax where I come frae, I say the fell-seyde,
Where fadder and mudder, and honest fwok beyde ;
And my sweetheart, O bless her ! she thought nin

like me,
For when we shuik hans, the tears gush'd frae her e'e :



the Cumberland Bard. 331

Says I, " I mun e'en git a spot if I can,

But, whatever beteyde me, I'll think o' thee, Nan !"

Nan was a parfet beauty, wi' twea cheeks like codlin
blossoms ; the varra seet on her meade my mouth aw watter.
" Fares-te-weel, Watty !" says she ; "tou's a wag amang t'
lasses, and I'll see thee nae mair !" - "Nay, dunnet gowl,
Nan !" says I,

" For, mappen, ere lang, I's be maister mysel ;"
Sae we buss'd and I tuik a last luik at the fell

On I whussel'd and wonder'd ; my bundle I flung

Owre my shou'der, when Cwoley he efter me sprung,

And howled, silly fellow ! and fawned at my fit,

As if to say Watty, we munnet part yet !

At Carel I stuid wi' a strea i' my mouth,

And they tuik me, nae doubt, for a promisin youth.

The weyves com roun me in clusters : "What weage dus
te ax, canny lad ?" says yen. " Wey, three pun and a crown ;
wunnet beate a hair o' my beard." "What can te dui?"
says anudder. "Dui ! wey I can plough, sow, mow, shear,
thresh, deyke, milk, kurn, muck a byre, sing a psalm, mend
car-gear, dance a whornpeype, nick a naig's tail, hunt a brock,
or feight iver a yen o' my weight in aw Croglin parish."

An auld bearded hussy suin caw'd me her man
But that day, I may say't, aw my sorrows began.

Furst, Cwoley, peer fellow ! they hang'd i' the street,
And skinn'd, God forgie them ! for shoon to their

feet !

I cry'd, and they caw'd me peer hawf-witted clown,
And banter'd and follow'd me aw up and down :
22



332 Robert A nderson,

Neist my deame she e'en starv'd me, that niver

leev'd weel,
Her hard words and luiks wad hae freeten'd the deil.

She hed a lang beard, for aw t' warl leyke a billy gwoat,
wi' a kill-dried frosty feace ; and then the smawest leg o'
mutton in aw Carel market sarrat the cat, me, and her, for a
week. The bairns meade sec game on us, and thunder'd at
the rapper, as if to waken a corp ; when I open'd the duir,
they threw stour i' my een, and caw'd me daft Watty :

Sae I pack'd up my duds when my quarter was out,
And, wi' weage i' my pocket, I saunter'd about.

Suin my reet-hand breek pocket they pick'd in a fray,
And wi' fifteen wheyte shillings they slipt clean away,
Forby my twea letters frae mudder and Nan,
Where they said Carel lasses wad Watty trepan :
But 'twad tek a lang day just to tell what I saw
How I skeap'd frae the gallows, the sowdgers and aw.

Ay ! there were some forgery chaps bad me just sign my
neame. "Nay," says I, "you've gotten a wrang pig by the
lug, for I canno write !" Then a fellow like a lobster, aw
leac'd and feather'd, ax'd me, "Watty, wull te list? thou's
owther be a general or a gomoral." "Nay, I wunnet
that's plain : I's content wi' a cwoat o' mudder' s spinnin."

Now, wi' twea groats and tuppence, I'll e'en toddle

heame,
But ne'er be a sowdger wheyle Watty's my neame.

How my mudder '11 gowl, and my fadder '11 stare,
When I tell them peer Cwoley they'll never see main
Then they'll bring me a stuil ; as for Nan, she'll be

fain,
When I kiss her, God bless her, agean and agean !



the Cumberland Bard. 333

The barn and the byre, and the auld hollow tree,
Will just seem like cronies yen's ridging to see.

The sheep '11 nit ken Watty's voice now. The peat-stack
we used to lake roun '11 be burnt ere this ! As for Nan,
she'll be owther married or broken-hearted ; but sud aw be
weel at Croglin, we'll hae feastin, fiddlin, dancin, drinkin,
singin, and smuikin, aye, till aw's blue about us :

Amang aw our neybors sec wonders I'll tell,
But niver mair leave my auld friends or the fell.



JENNY'S COMPLAINT.

AIR : " Nancy's to the greenwood gane."

O, Lass ! I've fearfu' news 'to tell !

What thinks te's come owre Jemmy 1
The sowdgers hev e'en pick'd him up,

And sent him far, far frae me :
To Carel he set off wi' wheat ;

Them ill reed-cwoated fellows
Suin wiFd him in then meade him drunk :

He'd better geane to th' gallows.

The varra seet o' his cockade

It set us aw a crying ;
For me, I fairly fainted tweyce,

Tou may think that was tryin ;
My fadder wad hae paid the smart,

And show'd a gowden guinea,
But, lack-a-day ! he'd kiss'd the buik,

And that '11 e'en kill Jenny.



334 Robert A nderson,

When Nichol tells about the wars,

It's waur than death to hear him ;
I oft steal out, to hide my tears,

And cannot, cannot bear him ;
For aye he jeybes, and cracks his jwokes,

And bids me nit forseake him ;
A brigadier, or grenadier,

He says they're sure to meake him.

If owre]the stibble fields I gang,

I think I see him ploughin,
And ev'ry bit o' bread I eat,

It seems o' Jemmy's sowing :
He led the varra cwoals we burn,

And when the fire I's leetin,
To think the peats were in his hands,

It sets my heart a beatin.

What can I de ? I nought can de,

But whinge and think about him :
For three lang years he folio w'd me,

Now I mun live widout him !
Brek heart, at yence, and then it's owre !

Life's nought widout yen's dearie,
I'll suin lig in my cauld, cauld grave,

For, oh ! of life I'm weary !



the Cumberland Bard. 335



MATTHEW MACREE.

[AlR : "The wee pickle tow." Anderson composed this
song on a fine summer day in 1803, whilst seated under an
apple-tree in the Springfield bowling green, Carlisle.]

Sin I furst work'd a sampleth at Biddy Forsyth's,
I ne'er saw the marrow o' Matthew Macree ;

For down his braid back hing his lang yellow locks,
And he hes a cast wi' his bonny grey e'e :

Then he meks us aw laugh, on the stuil when he
stands,

And acts like the players, and gangs wi' his hands,

And talks sec hard words as nit yen understands
O, what a top scholar is Matthew Macree !

'Twas'nobbet last Easter his cock wan the main,

I stuid i' the ring rejoicin to see ;
The bairns they aw shouted, the lasses were fain,

And the lads o' their shoulders bore Matthew

Macree :

Then at lowpin he'll gang a full yard owre them aw,
And at rustlin, whilk o' them dare try him a faw 1
And whee is't that aye carries off the foot-baw ]

But the king of aw Cumberland, Matthew Macree.

That time when he fought full two hours- at the fair,
And lang Jemmy Smith gat a famish black e'e ;

Peer Jemmy I yence thought wad niver paw mair,
And I was reet s worry for Matthew Macree :



336 Robert A nderson,

Then he wad shek the bull-ring, and brag the heale

town,

And to feight, rin, or russle, he put down a crown ;
Saint Gworge, the girt champion, o' fame and renown,
Was nobbet a waffler to Matthew Macree.

On Sundays, in bonny wheyte weastcwoat when
dress'd,

He sings i' the kurk, what a topper is he !
I hear his strang voice far abuin aw the rest,

And my heart still beats time to Matthew Macree.
Then his feyne eight-page ditties, and garlands sae

sweet,

They mek us aw merry the lang winter neet,
But, when he's nit amang us, we niver seem reet,

Sae fond are the lasses o' Matthew Macree.

My fadder he left me a house on the hill,
And I's get a bit Ian sud my aunty dee,
Then I'll wed bonny Matthew whenever he will,
For gear is but trash widout Matthew Macree :
We'll try to show girt fwok content in a cot,
And when in our last heame together we've got,
May our bairns and their neybors oft point to the

spot
Where lig honest Matthew and Jenny Macree.



the Cumberland Bard. 337



FECKLESS WULLY.

Wee Wully wuns on yonder brow,

And Wully he hes dowters twee ;
But nought cou'd feckless Wully dui,

To get them sweethearts weel to see.

For Meg she luik'd beath reet and left,
Her e'en they bwor'd a body thro' ;

And Jen was deef, and dum, and daft,
And deil a yen com there to woo.

The neybors wink'd, the neybors jeer'd,
The neybors flyr'd at them in scworn,

And monie a wicked trick they play'd

Peer Meg and Jen, beath neet and mworn.

As Wully went ae day to wark,
He kick'd a summet wid his shoe;

And Wully glower'd and Wully girn'd,

" Guide us ! " quoth he, "what hae we now?"

And Wully cunn'd owre six scwore pun,
And back he ran wi' nimmle heel,

And aye he owre his shou'der glym'd,
And thought he'd dealings wi' the deil.

And Wully's bought a reet snug house,

And Wully's bought a bit o' Ian ;
And Meg and Jen are trig and crouse,

Sin' he the yellow pwokie fan.



338 Robert A nderson,

Nae mair the neybors wink and jeer,
But aw shek bans wi' them, I trow ;

And ilk yen talks o' William's gear,
For Wully's changed to William now.

And some come east, and some come west,
And some come monie a mile to woo ;

And Meg luiks straight, and Jen has sense,
And we aw see what gear '11 dui.

Ye rich fwok aw, ye'll aye dui reet ;

Ye peer fwok aw, ye'll aye dui wrang:
Let wise men aw say what they will,

It's money meks the meer to gang.



THE BLECKELL MURRY-NEET.

[A Cumbrian MERRY-NIGHT is, as its name imports, a
night appropriated to mirth and festivity. It takes place at
some country ale-house, during the holidays of Christmas, a
season in which every Cumbrian peasant refuses to be
governed by the cold and niggardly maxims of economy
and thrift. SANDERSON.]

Ay, lad ! sec a murry-neet we've hed at Bleckell,

The sound o' the fiddle yet rings i' my ear ;
Aw reet dipt and heel'd were the lads and the lasses,

And monie a clever lish hizzy was there :
The bettermer swort sat snug i' the parlour,

I' th' pantry the sweethearters cutter'd sae soft ;
The dancers they kick'd up a stour i' the kitchen ;

At lanter the caird-lakers sat in the loft.



the Cumberland Bard. 339

The clogger o' Dawston's a famish top hero,

And bangs aw the player-fwok twenty to yen ;
He stamp'd wid his fit, and he shouted and royster'd,

Till the sweat it ran off at his varra chin en' :
Then he held up ae han like the spout of a tea-pot,

And danc'd " Cross the buckle " and " Leather-

te-patch ; "

When they cry'd " bonny Bell!" he lap up to the
ceilin,

And aye crack' d his thoums for a bit of a fratch.



The Hiverby lads at fair drinkin are seypers ;

At cockin the Dawstoners niver were bet ;
The Buckabank chaps are reet famish sweethearters,

Their kisses just sound like the sneck of a yett ;
The lasses o' Bleckell are sae monie angels ;

The Cummersdale beauties aye glory in fun
God help the peer fellow that gleymes at themdancin,

He'll steal away heartless as sure as a gun !

The 'bacco was strang, and the yell it was lythey,

And monie a yen bottom'd a quart leyke a kurn;
Daft Fred, i' the nuik, leyke a hawf-rwoasted deevil,

Telt sly smutty stwories, and meade them aw gurn,
Then yen sung " Tom Linton," anudder " Dick
Watters,"

The auld farmers bragg'd o' their fillies and fwoals,
Wi' jeybin and jwokin, and hotchin and laughin,

Till some thought it time to set off to the cwoals.



340 Robert Anderson,

But, hod ! I forgat when the clock strack eleven,
The dubbler was brong in, wi' wheyte bread and

brown ;

The gully was sharp, the girt cheese was a topper,
And lumps big as lapsteans our lads gobbl'd

down :
Aye the douse dapper lanlady cried, " Eat and

welcome, :

I' God's neame step forret; nay, dunnet be bleate !"
Our guts aw weel pang'd, we buck'd up for blin

Jenny,
And neist paid the shot on a girt pewder plate.

Now full to the thropple, wi' head-warks and heart-
aches,

Some crap to the clock-kease instead o' the duir;
Then sleepin and snworintuik pleaceo' their rwoarin;

And teane abuin tudder they laid on the fluir.
The last o' December, lang, lang we'll remember,

At five i' the mworn, eighteen hundred and twee :
Here's health and success to the brave Jwohny
Dawston,

And monie sec meetings may we leeve to see !



the Cumberland Bard. 341



THE THUIRSBY WITCH.

AIR : *'O'er Bogie."

There's Harraby and Tarraby,

And Wigganby beside ;
There's Oughterby and Soughterby,*

And bys beath far and wide ;
Of strappin, sonsy, rwosy queens,

They aw may brag a few ;
But Thuirsby for a bonny lass,

Can cap them aw, I trow.

Her mudder sells a swope o' drink,

It is beath stout and brown,
And Etty is the hinny fowt

Of aw the country roun ;
Frae east and west, beath rich and peer,

A-horse, a-fit, caw in
For whea can pass sae rare a lass,

He's owther daft or blin.

Her een are like twea Cursmas sleas,

But twice as breet and clear;
Nae rwose cou'd iver match her feace,

That yet grew on a brier ;
At town, kurk, market, dance or fair,

She meks their hearts aw stoun,
And conquers mair than Bonyparte,

Whene'er she keeks aroun.



* Names of Cumberland Villages,



342 Robert Anderson,

Oft graith'd in aw their kurk-gawn gear,

Like noble Iwords at court,
Our lads slink in, and gaze and grin,

Nor heed their Sunday spwort ;
If stranger leets, her een he meets,

And fins he can't tell how ;
To touch the glass her hand has touch'd

It sets him in a lowe.

Yence Thuirsby lads were whea but we,

And cou'd hae bang'd the lave,
But now they hing their lugs and luik

Like fwok stown frae the grave ;
And what they ail in head or heart

Nae potticary knows
The little glancin Thuirsby Witch,

She is the varra cause.

Of " Black-ey'd Susan," " Mary Scott,"

" The lass o' Patie's Mill,"
Of " Barbara Allan," " Sally Gray,"

" The Lass o' Richmond-hill,"
Of " Nancy Dawson," " Molly Mog,"

Though thousands sing wi' glee,
This village beauty, out and out,

She bangs them aw to see.



the Cumberland Bard. 343



THE PECK O' PUNCH.

[The party here alluded to were our author and a few jovial
friends. Archy, to whose comfortable cabin they were invited,
is a well-known, industrious, and respectable tradesman the
scourge of pretenders, but the friend of humble merit. He
is one of the few who can put Care to the rout, make his
friends happy, and keep the table in a roar. ANDERSON.]

'Twas Rob and Jock, and Hal and Jack,

And Tom and Ned forby,
Wi' Archy drank a peck o' punch,

Ae neet when they were dry ;
And aye theyjwok'd, andlaugh'd, and smuik'd,

And sang wi' heartfelt glee,
" To-night we're yen, to-morrow geane,

Syne let us merry be ! "

Saint Mary's muckle clock bumm'd eight,

When each popp'd in his head ;
But ere they rose, they'd fairly drank

The sheame-feac'd muin to bed ;

And aye they jwok'd, &c.

To monie a bonnie Carel lass,

The fairest o' the town,
And monie a manly British chiel,

The noggin glass went roun ;

And aye they jwok'd, &c.

A neybor's fauts they ne'er turn'd owre,

Nor yence conceal'd their ain
Had Care keek'd in, wi' wae-worn feace,

They'd kick'd him out again ;

For aye they jwok'd, &c.



344 Robert Anderson,

The daily toil, the hunter's spoil,

The faithless foreign pow'rs,
The Consul's fate, his o'ergrown state,

By turns beguil'd the hours ;

And aye they laugh'd, &c.

Let others cringe, and bow the head,

A purse-proud sumph to please ;
Fate, grant to me aye liberty

To mix with souls like these ;
Then oft we'll jwoke, and laugh, and smuik,

And sing wi 3 heartfelt glee,
" To-night we're yen, to-morrow geane,

Syne let us merry be ! "



THE VILLAGE GANG.

AIR : "Jenny dang the weaver."
There's sec a gang in our town,

The deevil cannot wrang them,
And cou'd yen get tern put in prent,

Aw England cuddent bang them ;
Our dogs e'en bite aw decent fwok,

Our varra naigs they kick them,
And if they nobbet ax their way,

Our lads set on and lick them.

Furst wi' Dick Wiggem we'll begin,
The teyney, greasy wobster ;

He's got a gob frae lug to lug,
And neb like onie lobster;



the Cumberland Bard. 345

Dick's wife, they say, was Branton bred,

Her mudder was a howdey,
And when peer Dick's thrang on the luim,

She's off to Jwohnie Gowdy.

But as for Jwohnie, silly man,

He threeps about the nation,
And talks o' stocks and Charley Fox,


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Online LibrarySidney GilpinThe songs and ballads of Cumberland, to which are added dialect and other poems; with biographical sketches, notes, and glossary → online text (page 16 of 26)