Chapter III: Preface (3)

“Jūst about ten year syne, of jūst sec anudder neet as t’is, only t’ snā’ wasn’t frozzen, I was out efter t’ yārs.” “Poaching?” I interpolated. “Co’t as yè like,” said he, in a tone of indifference. “I was out efter t’ yārs. I’d gitten a yār or two ooer about Holme grūnd way, an’ I was meeakin’ heeam alang t’ rooad atween Hodge Clooas an’ Oxenfell, when I thowte I was gā’n ut meet sūm fellows I cud heear toakin’, bit cudn’t see. Ye knā’, t’ rooad’s o’ heets an’ hooals theear about, an’, for that reeason, I dudn’t think mitch o’ nit seein’ ’em; bit whoaiver they med be, I dudn’t want them ut see _me_. Sooa I gat ooer t’ steean fence wi’ t’ gun an’ t’ yārs, an’ croodel’t doon aback on’t ut let ’em git whyetly by. Well, they com on, an’, as I cūd hear, they wor fratchin cruelly o’ t’ way as t’ey com. Ther’ was two on ’em, plain aneeuf, for sùm’times yan spak’, an’ sùm’times anudder, an’, gaily oft, they beeath spak’ at yance. As they co’ narder till whār I was hidin, t’ fratch gat feurcer an’ louder ner iver, an’ they shoutit, t’ yan ooer t’ tudder, whedder ut shout t’ harder; bit for o’ that, I cudn’t meeak out a wūrd ’at they said. When they gat ebben fornenst me, yan o’ them let out a meeast terrable skrike, an’ I lowpt back ooer t’ wo’ ut seeav life. _Ther’ was neàbody theear!_ They wor rooarin’ an’ screeamin’ wi’in six yirds o’ mè, as I streetent mysel’ up ut lowp t’ wo’, an’ when I gat to me feet o’ t’ tudder side ther’ was nowte! An’ meear ner that, ther’ wasn’t a feeut-mark i’ t’ snā’ bit my awn, an’ they co’ t’ tudder way. How I gat heeam wi’ my gun an’ my yārs I knà’n’t, an’ I niver mun knā’—bit when I wācken’t i’ t’ mooernin’ theear was t’ gun an’ yārs atop o’ t’ teeable, an’ theear was I i’ my bed.

“An’ now I’ve telt yé t’ reeason ’at I wodn’t cū’ heeam by Oxenfell Cross. I niver hev been, ’cept i’ dayleet, on t’ rooad whār them fellows woaks, an’ I niver will, sa lang as I can git anudder ’at’s less nor a scooer o’ miles about.”

“Then is that road said to be haunted?” I enquired. “_Said_ to be hā’ntit!” he exclaimed, in a tone of wonder and contempt. “Whār ha’e yee been o’ yer life, if yé hevn’t hard o’ Oxenfell Dobby?” “Has it been seen by any one besides you?” “Ey,” replied he, “by hunderts o’ fooak! Why, bliss yé! āld Ben Grave gat seckan a torn as he was cūmin’ heeam yance leeat frae Hāks’ed fair, ’at he dūd na meear gūd. He niver wod tell what it was, bit ivery body was suer ’at it was flayin’ o’ sūm mak’, an’ a varry sairious mak’ tue, for, as I said, āld Ben niver dūd no meear gūd efter that neet—bit dwinet away an’ deet.”

“Is it known,” I asked, “how the place came to be haunted?” “Why! It _is_—partly. It’s knā’n an’ it isn’t knā’n as a body may say—bit I can tell yé o’ ’at’s knā’n about it, if yé like ut hear.” “Tell away then,” said I, “I like to hear.” “Well!” he again began, “Ya Kersmas, afooer I can mind, ther’ was a hake about Clappersgeeat, an’ ther’ was a stranger at it ’at varry few knà’t owte about—bit it seeun gat out ’at he was a new Scotch gardener ’at hed just cūm’t tull Rydal Ho’. As t’ neet went ooer fooak nooatisht ’at he was girtly teean up wi’ lile Betty Briggs—a lively, rooesy-cheek’t bit of a winch ’at com’ frae Tilberthet. Betty hed an’ āld sweetheart theear ’at they co’t Jack Slipe; bit she was sa pleeas’t wi’ t’ new an’ ’at she wodn’t hev owte ut say tull Jack. It was plain aneeuf tull o’ theear ’at he dudn’t hoaf like’t; an when t’ Scotchman kiss’t Betty i’ t’ cushion dance, t’ fooak aside o’ Jack cūd hear his teeth crack as he grūnd ’em togidder.

“When t’ dance brak’ ūp t’ gardener wod see Betty heeam, an’ as Betty bed nowte ut say ageean it, they set off togidder up t’ rooad alang t’ Brathay—an’ Jack Slipe follow’t by his-sel’ a gay bit behint ’em.

“T’ Scotch gardener niver co’ back tull Rydal Ho’. He was niver seen ageean wi’ neàbody. He partit wi’ Betty at her fadder duer i’ Tilberthet—she said—an’ that was t’ last on him!” “And was nothing ever heard of him?” I enquired. “Why! nowte ’at was owte. Theear was a hoaf silly lass about Chapel-Steel ’at said she’d hed t’ Scotchman’ heead iv her brat ya meeunleet neet—bit when she was teean up an’ quees’t about it, they cūd meeak nowte out on her, an’ they let her lowce. It _was_ said ’at Jooahn Tūrner, ’at hed t’ Oxenfell farm afooar Grave fooak, fund t’ beeans of a Christian yance when he was cūttin’ a drain iv his pastur’, bit it was niver leuk’t intull, an’ Jooahn said lile about it.”

“And what about Jack Slipe?” “Well! queerly aneeuf, he weddit t’ lass ’at dūd o’ t’ mischief, ān’ dee’t afooar he was an āld man, leeavin’ Betty wi’ a yūng family. He was niver knà’n ut smile or teeak part iv any spooart. He ol’a’s hed a wild scār’tly leeuk: as he woak’t alang a rooad he keept glimin’ fūrst ooer t’ ya shou’der an’ than ooer t’ tudder, an’ he niver durst bide by his-sel’ efter t’ darkenin’. He leev’t sarvant for a while wi’ āld Jooasep Tyson of Yakrow, an’ wheniver āld Joo’ep seed any o’ them signs of a bad conscience, he wod say, ‘Cūm! Dyne the’, Jack, thou med as gūd confess. Thou knā’s thou dud it!’ Bit whedder Jack dud it or nit neàbody can tell for suer. An’ that’s t’ way it mun rist!”

MEENIE BELL.

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye tryste yince mair wi’ me?
Where the sauchs half hide the burnie as it wimples on its way?
When the sinking sun comes glentin’ through the feathery birken tree,
Till ye’d trow a thousand fairy fires wer’ flichterin’ on the brae.

Wull ye meet me, Meenie Bell? Wull ye say ye’ll meet me there?
An’ come afore the gloamin’ fa’s to hear what I’ve to tell?
For I’m gaun away the morn, an’ I’ll weary lang an’ sair
’Or I see ye’re bonnie face again—sae meet me, Meenie Bell!

I’ll be far away frae Middlebie for monie an’ monie a day;
An’ I want ae curl o’ gowden hair to treasure evermore.
I’ve a keepsake braw for you, an’ I’ve something mair to say—
Aye! a hantle mair to tell ye than I’ve ever tell’t afore.

Thus I fleech’t wee Meenie Bell till her heart grew soft and kin’
An’ she met me near the burnie as the simmer gloamin fell;
We pairtit or ’twas day, an’ o’ a’ the nichts I min’
The brichtest in my mem’ry is that nicht wi’ Meenie Bell.

I thocht her heart was troth-fast, but my image faded oot,
An’ a stranger took the place in’t that she said she’d keep for me;
For time gaed creeping on, an’ her hopes changed into doobt
An’ doobt to caul’ mistrustin’, while I toilt ayont the sea.

I’ve warselt wi’ the worl’ weel—I’ve run a wunnin’ race,
But, aih! I’m of’en wushin’ when I maunder by mysel’,
An’ a’ my weary strivin’s through lang lanesome years I trace,
I had bidden puir i’ Middlebie and mairiet Meenie Bell.

“A LOCKERBYE LYCKE.”[11]

(MODERN ANTIQUE.)

Ye’ve aiblins heard o’ Wullye Smyth,
Ane hosteler wychte was he;
Quha wonn’t at the sygne o’ the bonnie Black Bull,
I’ the toon o’ Lockerbye.

For Wullye, he drawyt the best o’ wyne,
An’ brewyt the best o’ yelle,
An’ mixyt the best o’ brandye punch,
As neebour Lairds coulde telle.

For aft the neebour Lairds conveent
At Wullye’s to drynke theyre wyne,
An’ hech! quhan they yokyt the brandye punch,
They raysyt ane unco schyne.

An’ ance, on the nychte o’ a huntan’ tryste,
A blythesome companye
There lychtyt doon i’ the Black Bull closse,
Wychte Wullye’s wyne to pree.

An’ there war Johnstones an’ Jardines routh
Amang that rattlan’ crewe,
Wi’ Herbert Herryes o’ fayre Ha’ Dykes,[12]
An’ his buirdlye byllye Hughe;

An’ gallaunte Wullye o’ Becks was there,
Wi’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone:[13]
Sae they byrl’t awaye at the reid, reid wyne,
As the toasts gaed roun’ an’ roun’.

Whyle up an’ spak wylde Wullye o’ Becks,
An’ there fusionless toasts he curst,
“We’ll toom a glasse tylle ilk man’s lasse,
An’ Ha’ Dykes maun name his first!”

Than up gatte the Laird o’ bonnie Ha’ Dykes—
“Weel! rayther nor marre fayre myrthe,
Here’s wynsome Jean o’ the Wylye Hole,
The flower o’ Tundergayrthe;

“An’ he quha wunna drynke fayre to thatte
Maun quytte thysse companye;
An’ he quha lychtlyes thatte sweet lasse,
Maun answer it weel tylle me.”

Than up spak’ Wullye o’ Kyrtletoone,
(A sleekye deevil I trowe,)
“Folke say, up the Water o’ Mylke, that she lykes
Ye’re byllye farre better nor yowe!”

The reid marke brunt on the Herryes his bree,
An’ wow but he lookyt grymme:
“Can ye thynke that the flower o’ the Mylke suld bloom
For a beggarlye loon lyke hymme?

“Can ye thynke that ane haughtye dame lyke her
Coulde looke wi’ a kyndlye e’e
On ane quha for everye placke that he spens,
Or wastes, maun sorn on me?”

“An’ div ye thynke,” cryet the wrathfu’ Hughe,
“It’s noo my turne to speer—
That ever a leal heartyt lassie could lo’e
A sumph for the sake o’ his gear?

“An’ div ye thynke”—mayre scornfu’ wordes
Younge Hughe essayet to speake,
But his brither’s rychte han’ rase high in wrathe,
An’ fell on his lowan’ cheeke.

Than doon at that wanbritherly strayke
Dyd Hughe the Herryes fa’,
An’ for to redde this fearsome fraye,
Uppe lappe the gentles a’:

An’ auld Wullye Smyth cam toytlan’ benne—
“Quhat’s wrang amang ye noo?
It’s a wonnerfu’ thynge that ’sponsible menne
Maun fechte or they weel be fou.”

Fu’ slawlye did Hughe Herryes ryse,
An’ the never a worde he sayde,
But he gloom’t an’ he tore his gluve wi’ his teeth,
As furthe frae the room he gaed.

He muntyt his gude grey meare i’ the closse,
An’ he gallopyt aff lyke wudde.
“Eh, sirs!” quo auld Wullye Smyth, “Eh, sirs!
This never maun come tille gude;
For quhan ever a Herryes he chows his gluve,
It’s ane earnest o’ deidlye feud!”

* * * * *

That myrthsome band they tynte theyre myrthe,
The gude wyne tynte its power,
An’ ilke man glower’t at his neebour’s face
Wi’ a glum an’ eerye glower.

The Herryes he lootyt his heid to the board,
I’ sorrowe but an’ shame;
The lawin’ was ca’t—ilk took tille his horse,
An’ sochte his ain gate hame.

Kynde Wullye o’ Becks sayde lowne tille his frien’,
We maun ryde Ha’ Dykes his way;
But the Herryes owreheard, an’ shook his heid,
An’ doolfu’ did he saye—

“Alane! alane! I maun dree my weirde
For the deede this nychte saw dune;
But O that the palsye had wuther’t my han’,
Or it strooke my fayther’s sonne!”

* * * * *

Atweest Ha’ Dykes an’ the Water o’ Mylke
Rosebanke lies half-waye doone,
An’ Chayrlye Herryes laye there that nychte,
An’ he was sleepyn’ soune.

Quhyle he was rousyt i’ the howe o’ the nychte
Wi’ a dynne at his wundow board,
For his youngest bryther was dunneran there
Wi’ the hylte o’ a sheenless sworde.

Sayan’, “Chayrlye, I’ve mayde ye a Laird the nychte,
An’ I maunna be here the morne,
My blade is barken’t wi’ Herbert’s blude,
An’ he lyes at Hurkelle Burne.”

He muntyt his meare i’ the fayre muinlychte,
An’ he pryckyt out owre the greene,
But never agayne in Annandale
Was blythe Hughe Herryes seene.

Na! never agayne i’ Dry’s’al’ Kyrke,
Norre ever atte Lockerbye fayre,
The lasses quha lo’ed the blynke o’ his e’e,
Saw that blythe e’e-blynke mayre.

There was some folke sayde that his wynsome corse
I’ the fathomless sea was sunke;
Some sayde he was slayne i’ the German wars—
An’ some that he deet a monke.

* * * * *

Quhanne Chayrlye Herryes had ca’t his menne,
I’ dool but an’ i’ frychte;
He boun’t him awaye to Hurkelle Burne,
An’ saw ane awfu’ sychte.

For there the chief o’ his aunciente house
I’ waesome plychte did lye,
Wi’ his heid on the banke, his feet i’ the burne,
An’ his face to the sternye skye.

Ane hastye batte wrochte unco chaynge;
Younge Chayrlye noo was Lairde,
An’ Herbert layde i’ the Herryeses aysle,
I’ Dry’s’al’ auld Kirk-yayrde.

But fearfu’ sychtes hae beene seene sinsyne,
An’ monye a late-gaune wychte
Quhan stayveran’ hame by Hurkelle Burne,
Hes gotten a lyfe-lang frychte.

A voyce ilke year as that nychte comes roun’,
Yells a’ the plantyns throo—
“_There never was Herryes that dreet a strayke,
But he garr’t the smyter rue_.”

An’ what has been seen I downa telle,
But this I ken fu’ weel
That rayther nor cross that burne at e’en,
There’s monye wad face the deil.

An’ ance quhan I was a smayke at the schule,
I was late on Lockerbye Hylle,
An’ sure o’ a flyte quhan I ance wan hame,
I gaed wi’ lyttle gude wylle;

But thynkinge on monye a fayre excuse,
Juste aung-er awaye to turne,
I’d got a rychte feasible storye framyt,
As I loupit owre Hurkelle Burn.

Quhan somethynge rase wi’ ane eldrytche skrayche,
An’ a deevylyshe dynne it mayde,
As doon the burn whyrre! whyrre! whyrroo!
Lyke a flaughte o’ fyre it gaede.

My hayre lyftit up my cap frae my heide,
Cauld sweite ran owre my bree,
The strengthe was reft frae my trummelan’ lymbs,
An’ I cower’t upo’ my knee.
’Twas ane horryble thochte to forgayther wi’ ghaysts,
Quhan I’d just been coynan’ a lee.

But awaye belyve like a troute frae a gedde,
Or a maukyn frae yammeran’ tykes,
I fledde nor styntyt to breathe or looke backe,
Quhyle I wan to the bonnie Ha’ Dykes.

My tale was tauld. They leuche, an’ quo’ they,
“A frychtyt pheasaunte spryngs
Wi’ a skraich an’ a whyrre;”—but I threepyt them doone,
That I kenn’t it was nae sic thyngs,
For quhatte could pit me i’ sic mortal dreide
That flees upo’ mortal wyngs?

The gyrse growes greene about bonnie Ha’ Dykes,
On meadowe, brae an’ lea;
The corn waves wyde on its weel wrochte rygges,
An’ its wuddes are fayre to see.

Its auld Ha’ house ’mang the chestnut trees
In statelye beautye stan’s;
But I wadna gaen backe by the burne that nychte
For Ha’ Dykes an’ a’ its lan’s.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This phrase is generally applied to a heavy back-handed blow. It is said to have originated at the battle of Dryfe-sands, which was fought near to Lockerbie in 1593, between the Nithsdale and the Annandale clans, the former being defeated with terrible slaughter. It was found after the battle that many of the slain had been killed by a slashing sword cut across the face, from a blow peculiar to the Johnstones, and hence called the “Lockerbye lycke.”

[12] Halldykes, in the parish of Dryfesdale, Dumfriesshire, where the writer passed some years of his boyhood, was formerly the seat of a branch of the Herries family; and, with three or four adjacent farms, formed almost the last remnant of their large border estates held by the descendants of that anciently powerful and noble house; one member of which is immortalized as the builder of the Tower of Repentance, and another as Queen Mary’s “loyal and brave Lord Herries!” Sir Robert Herries, founder of the great London banking house of Herries, Farquhar, and Co., and the Right Hon. J. C. Herries, once Chancellor of the Exchequer, were both scions of the old stock of Halldykes. Like most old family seats in the same district, Halldykes possesses, numerically speaking, a highly respectable corps of bogles (as the writer knew to his great and frequent tribulation); the origin and mode of developement of one of the most prominent of which is related pretty faithfully, according to local tradition, in the preceding rhyme.

[13] Friends of the author introduced anachronically, as also is Wullie Smyth, who flourished at Lockerbie during the author’s “school-day time.”

“THE FARMERS’ WIVES O’ ANNANDALE.”

Being shown, at Lockerbie, a printed programme of after-dinner proceedings at the celebration there of Mr. R. Jardine’s marriage, the writer noticed in the list the sentence that heads this page, and enquired if it were a toast or a song. When told it was the former, he said it deserved to be a song; and, acting on his own hint, crooned out the following verses on his homeward journey by rail.

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale!
Gude haud them bein an’ braw;
Ilk rules within her foothy hame,
Like leddy in her ha’.
Ilk yearns to guide her ain gudeman
Wi’ love that downa fail;—
They irr the wale o’ woman-kind—
The wives o’ Annandale!

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale!
I’ve kent their gates fu’ lang;
They’re worthy weel the wine cup’s grace—
Weel worthy o’ a sang.
But ne’er to read their worth aricht,
May toast or sang avail;
They far transcend a’ rhymin’ skill—
The wives o’ Annandale!

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale
Shew fine at kirk an’ fair;
But see them at their ain firesides—
They shine the brichtest there.
Wi’ gracious smiles an’ winsome words
The stranger guest they hail;—
They’re angels in a hamely sphere—
The wives o’ Annandale!

The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale!
They strive frae morn till nicht,
Without, within, through but an’ ben,
To hand a’ rowin’ richt;
To keep contentit their gudemen,
Their bairnies feal an’ hale,
Till baith rise up an’ ca’ them blest—
The wives o’ Annandale.

The chiel’ that hes in Annandale
A weel-waled farm an’ wife,
Has drawn twae glorious prizes frae
The lucky-bag o’ life.
An’ may they prosper, stock an’ store,
In ever hichtinin’ scale,
Whae treasure in their hames an’ hearts
The wives o’ Annandale.

A REMINISCENCE OF CORRIE.

Of a’ the streams o’ Annandale
Wi’ names embalm’t i’ sang or story,
Gin Mylke, for beauty, beer the bell,
I think I’d gi’e the mell to Corrie.

It’s “up by Corrie—doon by Dryfe,”
(Gin a coortin’ ye wad toddle)
“That’s the gate to seek a wife”—
(Hoo daft aul’ rhymes bide in yin’s noddle!)

But sud ye take ye’re way by Corrie,
Till ye come gey near to Borelan’,
Ye’ll aye see muir an’ bent afore ye—
Scarce ochte a’ roon’ but bent an’ muirlan’.

“There’s Corrie Lea an’ Corrie Law—
Corrie Mains—an’ mowdies hork” there—
“Corrie Hill an’ Corrie Ha’—
Corrie Common, Corrie Kirk” there.

But Corrie Kirk’s nae kirk ava—
Corrie Hill’s nae hill to roam on—
Snell’s the blast on Corrie Law—
Scant the gerse on Corrie Common.

They tell me Corrie’s alter’t now;
It’s drain’t, they say, an’ fenced an’ plantit;
But as I min’ ’t, lang syne, I trow,
Drain, fence, an’ biel war sairly wantit.

Than what is’t gars me ply my pen
I’ scribblin’ doon this rhymin’ clatter?
An’ what is’t mak’s me aye sae fain
To hear or read o’ Corrie water?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

REMINISCENCES OF LOCKERBIE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

YAN O’ T’ ELECT.

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

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

NOTE.

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

KEATY CURBISON’S CAT.

AN OALD, OALD STWORY.

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

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

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

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

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

NOTE.

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

JOSEPH THOMPSON’S THUMB.

AN OLD HARRINGTON STORY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An’ it keept on sa bad, he tūrn’t maffelt an’ maiz’t,
An’ sa wankle an’ wake ’at he to’k tull his bed,
Whoar, liggin’ hoaf deid, ey, an’ mair nor hoaf craiz’t,
He cūd think aboot nowte but what t’ doctor hed said.

He triet nūt to speak on’t—He knew ’twasn’t reet,
But it ola’s beàd by him—his uppermor’ thowte;
An’ he yammer’t at t’ wife tull she went back at neet
To dig ūp t’ oald thūmb, an’ brong’t heàm iv a cloot.

They laid it i’ t’ gardin, an’ hoo ’t com’ aboot
Nowder t’ mistress nor t’ parson cūd under-cum-stand,
But sarten it was, fray that varra time oot,
Sairy Jwosep’ was bodder’t na mair wid his hand.

But Jwosep’ was niver ageàn his oald sel’.
An’ a questi’n com’ ūp still whativer he tried,
“If a thùmb i’ t’ churchyard was sa bad, whoa cūd tell
What a corp’ pùtten in’t o’togidder mūd bide!”

This he maddel’t aboot ebben endways away—
As lang as he breath’t it was ola’s his drone;
An’ t’ wife hed na peace till he gat her to say
He sud lig by his-sel’ iv a field o’ the’r oan.

An’ Joe tiet her up till her wūrd iv his will,
For theear suer aneuf when he dee’t it was fūnd
’At he’d left o’ tull hūr, no’but if she’d fulfil
His craze ageàn liggin’ i’ consecrate grūnd.

An’ Joe hed his way, for a square roughish steàn[21]
By t’ dike, i’ t’ Sco’-lonnin’, at this varra day,
Tell’s whoar Jwosep’ Thompson ligs whyet an’ leàn—
Keep us weel fray sec doctors as Jwosep’s, I pray!

An’ keep us, I pray, fray o’ wild wicket toak,
Bringan’ bodder an’ fashment tull oald an’ tull yūng.
Jwosep’ Thompson wad ristit wid Christian fwoke,
If t’ doctor he went tull hed hodden his tūng!

[17] Harrington Town, the ancient village about half a mile inland, is so called in distinction from Harrington Harbour, the small sea-port, which is modern. The heiress of the family which took its name and title from Harrington was mother of the Lord Bonville and Harrington, brother-in-law to the king-making Earl of Warwick. The manor was forfeited by the attainder of Henry Grey, Duke of Suffolk, great-grandson of the said Lord Bonville, and father of Lady Jane Grey, and given by the Queen (Mary), to the Curwens of Workington, who still hold it.

[18] Should this compendium of topical applications seem at all overcharged, I would state that it consists of well known popular remedies, mostly of _some_ use, and falls far short, whether in variety, extravagance, or repulsiveness of the multifarious nostra recommended by amateurs of the healing art in Cumberland and the adjacent counties. The “poultice of o’ maks” is not, as its name seems to imply, a compound, but a simple substance, which it is unnecessary to indicate more distinctly than to mention that it was generally turned to when pleasanter applications had failed. I have frequently heard old people extol its virtues as a promoter of suppuration, but I trust its use may now be classed with the “many precious rites and customs of our rural forefathers,” which, as Wordsworth has said, “are gone or stealing from us.“

[19] This alludes to the popular belief, not altogether unfounded, that readiness in healing is connected with an easy disposition.

[20] A delusion common enough after amputation.

[21] The stone stood—I believe stands—behind the hedge which on the western side fences the lane called Scaw-lonning, near High Harrington. When I last saw it—many years ago—the subjoined inscription was quite distinct upon it—plainer, indeed, than any of similar date in the churchyard:—

”JOSEPH THOMPSON may here be found
Who would not lie in consecrated ground
Died May 13th 1745
Aged 63 when he was alive”

With the traditional account of the circumstances that caused this fancy of Joseph Thompson’s, the details given in the rhyme coincide as closely as my recollection of a tale heard in boyhood enables me to make them.

Since the first appearance of this, however, another version of the matter has been reported to me by old friends near the spot—but inasmuch as it does not account so perfectly as the old story for Joseph’s objection to ALL consecrated ground, I feel bound to abide by my first choice. The, to me, new story tells that Joseph Thompson annoyed the clerk in the church so seriously by repeating the responses in a voice that quite drowned his, that at length the said functionary exclaimed during service—“Is thoo t’ clark, or is I t’ clark? If thoo’s t’ clark, cūm up hèar, an’ I’ll cūm doon thèar!“—and, on Joseph’s paying no attention to his appeal, supplemented it by assaulting him. The clergyman taking his clerk’s side in the quarrel, Joseph Thompson declared he would never come near the church again, dead or alive, and kept his word.

I take leave to think that my version is the better, whichever may be the truer tale. I have further been told that the stone formerly stood in the centre of the field—and on the land coming into the possession of Mr. John Christian Curwen, the farmer waited upon that distinguished agriculturist to obtain permission to remove it to the hedge-side, and to plough the field. When he was told the history of the monument, and its inscription was recited to him, Mr. Curwen exclaimed, _more suo_, ”_Would not lie in consecrated ground!_ Then, plough him up! D—— him, plough him up!”

CURSTY BENN.

Cūrsty Benn of Under-Skiddaw
Leev’t on t’ land whoar he was bworn;
Eight-ty yacre, lea and meedow—
Forty, green-crop, seeds an’ cworn.
Cūrsty’ wife, a fewsome body,
Brong him barnes, some nine or ten,
Menseful, meat-heàl, fat an’ ruddy;—
“Whoar’s their like?” said Cūrsty Benn.

Cūrsty hed ya mortal failin’—
Whoa may say they’ve less nor that?—
Rayder fond was he o’ trailin’
Off frae heàm an’ bidin’ leàt.
Fray Kes’ick Kit was ola’s leàtish;
Hoo that com’ t’ wife gat to ken,
When i’ t’ market neets she’d nwotish
Signs o’ drink i’ Cūrsty Benn.

Cūrsty’ wife was kind an’ canny,
Nowder gi’en to flyte nor fret;
“Weel aneùf,” she said, “I ken he
Mayn’t be cured by sulks an’ pet;
But I moon’t sit by an’ see him,
Gear an’ grun’ spang-hew an’ spen’,
I mūn gang till Kes’ick wi’ him!”
Nowte ageàn’t said Cursty Benn.

When they dadg’t away togidder,
O’ row’t reet a canny bit;
Cūrsty, pleas’t to market wid her,
Tiped his pints, but dūdn’t sit.
No’but for a bit it lastit—
Sooa ’t’s been afoor an’ sen!
When fwoke thowte she’d wiled him past it,
Tull’t ageàn went Cūrsty Benn.—

Tull’t ageàn i’ t’ public-hooses,
Whilk an’ Cūrsty dūdn’t care;
Adam Gill’s, or Mistress Boose’s,
T’ Yak, t’ Queen’s Heed, or t’ Hoonds an’ Hare.
Through them o’ t’ wife whiles went laitin’—
Whiles, for hours an’ hours an’ en’,
In their shandry sat she waitin’,
Coald on t’ street, for Cūrsty Benn.

Ya’ fine neet when leàt she gat him—
Fairly forced to flyte, t’ poor deàm
Lowsed her tongue reet freely at him,
While t’ oald yoad went stammerin’ heàm.
Whietly Kit bore her clatter,
Nea back-wūrd he’d gi’en her, when
T’ mèar pu’t up aside some watter;—
“Drink, gūd lass!” says Cūrsty Benn.

Lang she dronk, an’ lood she grūntit,
Till a gay gud drain she’d hed;
Than as t’ rwoad yance mair she frūntit,
Cūrsty’ wife tūll Cūrsty said—
“Sees t’e, min! that pooar oald mèar,
When she’s full, she’s t’ sense to ken;
Can’t thoo tak’ a pattren bee her—
_Drink an deùn wi’t_, Cūrsty Benn?”

“Whey!” says Kit, “but tūrn that watter
Intill yāll, wid udder yoads
Sittin’ roond it—hoddin’ at her—
Tellin’ her t’ time mak’s na odds—
Shootin’ oot, ‘Here’s te the’, Cūrsty!—
(Mèars is mèars—men’s nowte but men!)—
But I dūrst lay a pūnd ’at dūrst Ee,
_She_’d sit on—like Cūrsty Benn!”

NOTE.

Of this anecdote different versions are current, and various localities are assigned to it—Scotch as well as English. I take leave to think however that the Cumberland version, as given here, is the best of all that have been given.

TOM RAILTON’S WHITE SPATS.

“Spats!” said Tom, “Nay! I niver hed a par o’ spats i’ my life; but yance I’d as nār as a toucher gitten two par; an’ I’s tell ye hoo it com’ aboot ’at I dudn’t.