Chapter II: Preface (2)

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

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

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

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

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

BILLY WATSON’ LONNING.

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

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

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

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

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

LONE AND WEARY.

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

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

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

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

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

T’ CLEAN NED O’ KES’ICK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

BEN WELLS.

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

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

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

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

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

NOTE.

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

SANNTER, BELLA!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BRANTHET NEUK BOGGLE.

(A TEAL FOR A WINTER NEEGHT.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARY RAY AN’ ME.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BANNASYDE “CAIRNS.”

(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BETTY YEWDALE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

THE SKULLS OF CALGARTH.

_A Reminiscence of Windermere._

(CHIEFLY IN THE DIALECT OF WESTMORLAND.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

MAP’MENT.

(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)

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

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

Let’s feeace, Martha, feeace it,
Whativer cūms behint!
God niver sends a mowth wi’owt
A sūm’at ut put in’t.
We s’, happen, hev a mowth or two
Ut feed besides owr ā’n,
What matter—they s’ be welcome o’
Ut share whativer’s gā’n!

We s’ ol’a’s hing togidder weel,
An’ beeath du what we can—
A borden ’s leeter shared by two,
Nor when it’s borne by yan.
But if we’s plagued wi’ trūbble,
(An’ whā’s fray trūbble free?)
I’ s’ try ut lig thy share tull mine,
An’ kep it oa’ fray thee.

An’ if we’s pooer, we s’ sham’ nin,
For rich fooak’s no’but fooak;
An’ whā can tell, we s’ happen drā
Sūm’ prize fray fortun’s pooak.
But wrowte-for punds gā’s farder far
Nor hundreds ’s gi’en or fūnd;
An’ sūm’ may be to t’ fooer for t’ barnes
When we gā ūnder t’ grūnd.

Cūm let’s hev neā meear māp’ment,
But gradely feeace owr chance;
I ’s off ut put owr exin’s in,
An’ git it deeun at yance.
Cūm! gi’ ’s a kiss o’ t’ heead on ’t,
An’ meeak na meear ut du;
My hand ’s here, wi’ my heart in ’t,
Tak’ them beeath—thou s’ niver rue!

OXENFELL DOBBY.

_A Reminiscence of Langdale._

Accompanied by the holder of a small farm in the dales, I was once riding up Yewdale sometime beyond the middle of a winter night. The fields on our right and the slopes and ledges of the screes and fells to the left and in front were shrouded in a vestment of frozen snow, which glared under the starlight with a brilliancy of reflection that rendered the absence of the moon unnoticed and uncared for. But the scattered groves and coppices to the eastern side, and the perpendicular craggs elsewhere, on neither of which the snow could rest as it fell, stood out black and dismal—blotches sable on a field argent—(queer heraldry this, but fair description) —with an intensity of gloom, a weird dreariness of aspect, which may hardly be realized by those who have looked upon Yewdale only when arrayed in the light verdure of spring, the matured leafiness of summer, or the marvellous variegation of autumn, under any one of which conditions that fair vale may fairly claim pre-eminence in beauty over all other minor dales of the Lake country.

On the occasion I tell of, the solemn desolation of the scenery, and the oppressive silence, broken only by the quick tramp of our ponies’ feet on the crisp snow, combined to discourage all thought of conversation or remark; and we traversed the whole length of the vale without the interchange of sentence or word. When, however, we had reached the point where the road to Tilberthwaite and Langdale Head diverges from that to Skelwith, and I was about to follow the latter, my companion laid his hand upon my rein, and said, in a rather peremptory tone, “We s’ teeak t’ tudder rooad, if yee pleease;” and on my objecting to quit the smoother and shorter road for the longer and rougher, he persisted—“It may bee as yee say, beeath t’ better an’ t’ bainer, bit nowte wad hire me to teeak t’ rooad ooer Oxenfell at this hour o’ t’ neet, an’ that’s o’ about it.” “But why?” I remonstrated, disinclined to yield in a matter of such importance to reasoning like this. “I s’ tell yee why,” he replied, “when we’s seeaf at my awn fireside, if ye sud ha’e time ut lissen.” “Is it a story?” I asked with some interest. “It’s nowte mitch of a stooary,” said he, “bit what ther’s on’t ’s true, an’ that’s meear ner can be said for many a better stooary. Bit cūm on, an’ ye s’ happen hear.” I resisted no longer, and we pursued our journey through Tilberthwaite, where the piebald dreariness of the scenery was even more marked and more depressing than in Yewdale. We reached our destination without disaster, but not without danger. The broad, deep ford in the stream, which there divides the two counties, and which we had to cross, was edged on either bank by a high, abrupt shelf of strong ice, very dangerous to slidder off and very difficult to scramble up on. Indeed, my fellow traveller, with his rough, clumsy little steed, more accustomed to the _stangs_ of muck-cart or peat sledge than to saddle work, had a roll on the farther side—luckily rolling towards the land, and not into the water. But my sagacious old “Targus,” who, as I was wont in those days to boast, could carry me over any ground on which a mountain goat or a Herdwick sheep could find a foot-hold, after testing the strength of each slippery ledge by a heavy paw or two, traversed the dangerous passage with the same steadiness with which I had known him pace over others where a slip or a stumble would have had much more serious results.

Seated comfortably at the grateless peat fire of my travelling companion, now my host, and assured of the probability of leisure to hear his story out, I reminded him of the condition under which he had induced me to take the longer and less practicable way to his fell-girt house; and after some coy deprecation, which sat awkwardly enough upon his homely features and dale nurtured manner, he began.