Chapter IV: Preface (4)

“Nūt varra lang efter we wer’ weddit, an oald uncle o’ t’ wife’s com’ ower t’ fell frae Ireby to see us an’ stop wid us a bit. Ya ebenin’ when we wer’ sittin’ crackin’ away roond t’ fire, some way or udder, oor toak happen’t to tūrn on men-fwoke’s driss, t’ change o’ fashions, an’ sec like; an’ oald uncle Geordie begon to brag ’at they used to driss far better when he was yūng nor they dūd than; an’ by way o’ clinchin’ his teàl, he says, ‘Can ye finnd me a smo’ steàtsman’s sūn noo-a-days ’at ’ll worder six par o’ white corduroy knee britches o’ at yance!’ ‘Six par o’ corduroy britches?’ says I. ‘Ey,’ says he, ‘corduroy britches, as white as drip!’ ‘Whey, no!’ says I, ‘I wadn’t ken whoar to leuk for a fellow ’at wad git six par o’ britches of any mak’ o’ at yance?’ ‘Well than,’ says he, ‘jūst rūb yer een clear, an’ leùk hard to this side o’ yer oan fire,’ says he, an’ ye’ll see a fellow ’at beath wad an’ dud git them! When I furst begon to ride efter t’ hoonds,’ says he, ‘I gat six par o’ white cword britches, an’ two par o’ top beùts. T’ beùts was worn oot many a year sen, but I’ve t’ six par o’ britches yit, laid bye, an’ for owte I know, they’re as white as iver.’ Wid that our wife spak up—she thowte a vast mair aboot my leùks than nor she does noo—an’ she says, ‘Uncle George,’ says she, ‘will ye iver weear yer white britches agean?’ ‘Nay, my lass,’ says he, ‘I think my white britches days is gaily weel ower, but what o’ that?’ ‘O, nowte,’ says she, ‘but I’ve a nwotion ’at Tom here wadn’t misbecome white britches an’ top beùts, when he’s ridin’ aboot, an’ as they’re o’ nea use till yersel’ noo, ye’d better send them ower till him.’ ‘Whe—e—ey!’ says he, iv a dronin’ soort of a way, ‘Whey! Whey! but m’appen they willn’t gang on him,’ says he. ‘O!’ says she, ‘but ye know we med mebbe let them oot a bit, an’ mak’ them gang on him.’ ‘Well, well,’ says her uncle, ‘I’ll send him ya par on them to try, an’ if they fit, an’ he likes them, he may hev mair efter.’ An’ sure aneuf, when he went back heam ageàn, he sent a par on them ower, as he said, as white as drip; an’ we beàth thowte he mud ha’ been a parlish oald buck if he hed o’ udder things to match when he gat sec a stock o’ white britches. Nowte wad sarra t’ wife, when we’d leukt at them, but I mud try them on theear an’ than, an’ see hoo they fittit. We gat a terrible begonk when we fund ’at they wadn’t gang on at o’. He was rayder a wizzent oald fellow than, an’ he’d been a wizzent fellow when he’d geàn sproguein’ aboot iv his white corduroys mebbe thurty year afoor, for t’ knees on them, wid o’ t’ buttons lowse, wadn’t come ower t’ bo’s o’ my legs, an’, what was warse nor o’ t’ tudder, ther was nowte left o’ t’ seam to let them oot wid. Sooa they wer laid bye be theirsel’s at oor hoose, just as t’ tudder five par on them wer liggin’ laid bye togidder at Ireby.

A gay while efter that, when I’d forgitten o’ aboot t’ white britches, an oald crony o’ mine chanced to be iv oor part, an’ co’t to see us, an’ stopt o’ neet. We nwotish’t ’at he hed shoes on, an’ t’ bonniest spats we’d ever owder on us seen; for they fittit roond his ancles an’ ower his shoe tops widoot ayder a lirk or a lowse spot, an’ I said, ‘Charley,’ says I, ‘whoariver did tè manish to git sec fitters as them?’ ‘O!’ says he, ‘I hed t’ pattren on them frae Scotland, an’ my sister maks them for me as I want them.’ ‘Thy sister maks them!’ says I, ‘Whey, I wad ha’ sworn thoo’d been to t’ varra heid tailior i’ Whitehebben for them!’ ‘Well,’ says he, ‘t’ pattren’s sa plain an’ simple ’at she cuts them oot by it, an’ mak’s them quite easy; an’, as ye say, they fit as weel as if t’ best tailior i’ t’ land hed been at t’ makin’ on them. But if ye like, I’ll send ye t’ pattren by post, an’ Mistress Railton may try her hand at them for thee.’

“Well, t’ pattren o’ t’ spats com, as Charley promish’t it sud, an’ efter she’ leùk’t it weel ower, an’ fittit it on my feùt, t’ wife clap’t her hands an’ shootit, ‘I can dee’t, Tom! I can dee’t! an’ thoo sall hev a par of _white_ spats. There’s nowte maks a man leùk sa like a gentleman as clean white spats! Did t’e iver see Dr. Dick Ringer o’ Cockermouth? Well, what was’t ’at meàd him ola’s leùk cleaner, an’ breeter, an’ fresher, an’ better-like nor anybody theear? Whey, nowte at o’ else but t’ white spats ’at he used to weear ivery day! I’ll mak thee a par o’ spats oot o’ pooar oald uncle Geordie’s corduroys ’at wadn’t gang on the’, an’ I’ll mak them i’ time for the’ to put on when thoo gangs to Peerith nixt market day!’ I so’ it was nea use sayin’ she sudn’t, if I’d been that way inclined, an’ I wasn’t; sooa she set to wark off hand, an’ ripp’t doon t’ white breeks, an’ pin’t Charley’s pattren on t’ cleàth, an’ cot it up by ’t; an’ as her heart was set on t’ job, she hed t’ spats finish’t lang afoor t’ time she said. When we com to try them on, yan on them was a varra decent fit, but t’ tudder wasn’t: it seem’t to stand off whoar it sud sit clwose, an’ to sit clwose whoar it sudn’t, an’ it was a gay while afooar we fund oot t’ reason on’t. But I happn’t, at last, to glime up at hūr, an’ ther was mair trūbble iv her feàce ner I’d iver seen afooar. ‘Bliss thy heart, Mary!’ says I, ‘whativer’s t’ matter wid the’? Thoo leuks as if thy poddish was welsh!’ ‘Doesn’t thoo see?’ she says. ‘Can tè nūt see ’at I’ve meàd them beàth for t’ seàm feùt? Whoar’s thy eyes, thoo mafflin?’ says she, tackin’ it oot o’ me acoase she was mad at hersel’, ‘Whoar’s t’ een on the’, I wūnder, ’at thoo doesn’t see t’ buttons is at t’ inside o’ t’ ya feùt, an’ t’ ootside o’ t’ tudder?’ ‘By jing,’ says I, ‘an’ seea they urr! Thoo _hes_ meàd a fist on’t! Thoo _hes_ tailior’t till a bonnie end! If this be thy tailiorin’, I think thoo’d better stick till thy hoose-keepin’ wark for t’ rist o’ thy life!’ But I so’ t’ watter gedderin’ iv her eyes, an’ I so’ ’at it no’but wantit anudder wūrd or two to mak’ her blurt reet oot, an’ seea I said nea mair. O’ at yance she breeten’t up ageàn, an’ pot her arm roond my neck an’ ga’e me a kiss, an’ said, ‘Niver fret aboot it, Tom lad,’ says she, ‘ther’s aneùf left o’ t’ oald britches to mak anudder par o’ spats. Thoo’s gitten two for t’ reet feùt, an’ thoo sall hev two for t’ left, an’ than thoo need niver gang frae heàm adoot white spats to thy feet, for t’ ya par ’ill wesh t’ tudder thoo sees!’

“I thowte I _was_ gā’n to be set up wi’ spats for sure, for she went at t’ oald corduroy ageàn feùrcer nor iver, an’ hed two mair meàd afoor I ken’t whoar I was. She hed them o’ wesh’t an’ iron’t, an’ straps putten on them, ruddy for gā’n to chūrch o’ t’ Sunday mwornin’; but loavin’ bliss us o’ weel! if she hedn’t geàn an’ meàd o’ t’ fower for t’ reet feùt, an’ left me just as far off hevin’ spats to my feet as iver. Mad as we war, we beàth brast oot laughin’, an’ laugh’t tull hūr laugh hed rayder less of a cry in’t nor it hed at t’ fūrst, an’ than says I, ‘What’s to be deùn noo, Mally?’ I says, ‘Urr we to send till Ireby for anudder par o’ t’ drip white corduroys, an’ hev fower par o’ spats? I is gā’n to be weel spattit i’ t’ lang run!’ ‘Nay,’ says she, ‘I’ll spat the’ na mair spats; I’ll lig thur i’ my oan top-dro’er, an’ wheniver I see them they’ll be a warnin’ to me nūt to mell wi’ wark at I hevn’t been browte up till. Fwoke says it taks nine tailiors to mak’ a man, but I divn’t think anybody hes tell’t us hoo many women it may tak’ to mak’ a tailior; but whedder it tak’s many or few, thoo may mak’ thysel’ seàf an’ suer ’at thy wife willn’t be yan o’ them.’ An’ that was t’ way I was deùn oot o’ my chance o’ gittin’ two par o’ spats.”

A SNECK POSSET.

Niver ageàn, Eddy! Niver ageàn!
If I moo’n’t hev a lad ’at ’ill coort me my leàn,
’At ’ill hod by ya sweetheart, an’ me be that yan,
I mūn bide as I is till I dee.
Thū’s coddel’t Keàt Crosstet, Ann Atchin, Jane Blair,
’Becca Rudd, Mary Mo’son, Ruth Lytle, an’ mair;
Thoo says it’s o’ fūn, an’ sec fūn ma’ be fair,
But it doesn’t seem jannic to me.

I favour’t the’, ey! abeùn o’ t’ lads aboot;
I thowte, like a feùl, ’at thū’d sing-elt me oot
Frae t’ tūdders, an’ I’ve been reet sarra’t, na doobt,
To trust sec a taistrel as thee.
Reet sarra’t? Ey, mess! I was warn’t gaily weel,—
I was tel’t hoo thū’d feùl’t an’ than left Greàcy Peile;
An’ what reet hed I to believe thoo wad deal
Ayder fairer or fonter wi’ me?

Fwoke tel’t mé thoo com of a slape, sneeky breed;—
’At a tungue sec as thine seldom hung iv a heid;—
’At twice i’ three times when thoo said owte, thoo leed;
But I fanciet that hardly cūd be.
For ’Speàtry, I kent, was a hard-spocken pleàce,
An’ I thowte ’at, may-hap, thū’d been wrang’t aboot Greàce;—
God help mé!—I thowte I read t’ truth i’ thy feàce,
When thoo swore thoo cared only for me.

We’re silly, us lasses—We’re maizlins, I know!—
We’re t’ meàst teàn wi’ them ’at oor frinds meàst misco’;
An’ when we’re teàn in, we’ve to shear what we sow,
An’ to rue sec mistaks till we dee.
But leet com’ i’ time, an’ it o’ com’ at yance,
I so’t fair aneùf, but, to give thee ya chance,
I went by mysel’ to Jane Loncaster’s dance,
Just to see if thoo dūd care for me.

Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk,
An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùk
Dūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk,
An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee.
Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr;
An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;—
When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur,
An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.

But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack;
An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back;
But if _thū’s_ fūnd oot _thine_, I’ve fūnd oot _my_ mistak’,
An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free.
Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n;
Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yan
Ma’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn,
But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.

REMARKS ON THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT.

The dialect of Cumberland, spoken in its purity only in the central parts of the county, may be admitted to be deficient in rhythm; and remarkable as it is for force and expression, its harshness of cadence renders it scarcely available for any poetry except the humorous or descriptive. By those unaccustomed or unattached to it, it may probably be considered hard and coarse even in prose compositions.

Its principal peculiarity is to be found in its vowel and diphthongal sounds, which, for the most part, are made either broader or deeper than in ordinary pronunciation; and this may be indicated with sufficient ease and distinctness, by means of phonetic spelling, when written or printed, to enable any reader with a little practice and care to pronounce broad Cumbrian with tolerable correctness.

The most important instance of this vowel peculiarity exists in the pronunciation of the long A and the short U, the former of which is sounded generally _yah_ and the latter _uh_; thus to secure the Cumbrian pronunciation—ale must be spelled _yahl_ and ace, _yahss_, lame is made _lyahm_, name _nyahm_, etc., etc., all monosyllabic, or, to prevent the accent being laid upon the Y, and so making two syllables, these words might be written _leahm_, _neahm_. As regards the U, the first syllable of cunning is in Cumberland lengthened out exactly to the sound of the German _kuhn_, and come is made _kuhm_. These sounds can only be conveyed by the interposition of the H. When I first scribbled in the folk-speech of Cumberland I wrote it after this fashion, and the efficacy of the method was proved by the fact that intelligent or painstaking readers, knowing nothing of the dialect as spoken, were able to repeat the verses called “Branthet Neuk Boggle” in a style that might have satisfied even an exigeant professor of our Cumbrian philology.

The Cumberland dialect so written, however, had a remarkably ugly and uncouth appearance when printed, and the remonstrances of my present provincial publisher induced me to abandon the H orthography, and endeavour to secure the proper pronunciations by means of accent marks, spelling the words instanced above _leàm_, _neàm_, _cūnning_, _cūm_, et similia similiter.

The broad O and Oa are in our Cumberland speech altered into _eà_, with the sound of _yah_, home becoming _heàm_, broad _breàd_, etc. There are exceptions to this as to most other rules, for lane is rendered as _lwoan_ or _lonnin’_, choke as _chowk_, croak as _crowk_, road as _rwoad_, and more as _mair_, while shore has its ordinary sound. Almost in reversal of these changes the broad A as in ball, a dance, Al, as in walk, Aw, as in awful, are sounded like the broad O or Oa, thus _boall_, _woak_, _oaful_, etc.; but the L is preserved in _oala’s_, for always, scalp is pronounced _scowpe_, and ball, a plaything, is _bo’_, all, _oa’_, call, _co’_, hall, _ho’_, etc., etc.

Ea gets the pronunciation properly given to it in veal and mead; so that bread is _breed_, head, _heed_, dead, _deed_, etc., etc.; but when this diphthong precedes R, as in bear, wear, etc., it becomes dissyllabic like fear, as commonly pronounced, and mare too becomes _mee-ar_.

Ei becomes _ay_, either and neither becoming _ayder_ and _nayder_, sometimes _owder_ and _nowder_.

The broad I in bite, write, etc., the Cumbrians deepen almost as is done by well educated people in the southern counties, with notable exceptions however, the first personal pronoun being made Ah; Igh, shortened and gutturalized by the Scotch, being sounded like _Ee_, night being _neet_, light, _leet_, etc., and find and bind pronounced like wind, viz.—_finnd_, _binnd_.

The double O is generally pronounced _eù_, or more exactly _yuh_ shortly, fool being _feùl_, school, _scheùl_, etc., in one short syllable. Do and too are often pronounced according to this rule, but almost equally often are made into _dee_ and _tee_, while the preposition to is for the most part changed into _till_ or _tull_.

With Ou and Ow Cumberland speakers are somewhat capricious, round being made _roond_, town, _toon_, etc., but found and bound become _fūnd_ and _būnd_, ought, _owte_, nought, _nowte_, etc.

O with the sound of the short U is treated in a very arbitrary manner—one being called _yan_, none, _nin_, and oven, _yubben_.

Qu is generally softened into _wh_, aspirated distinctly—quick being pronounced w_hick_, and quite, _white_, and Quaker, with old people, is _Whaker_.

Y is sometimes converted into G, as in _garth_ for yard, _garn_ for yarn; and again that habit is sometimes reversed, as in _yatt_ for gate.

The corruptions or variations of consonants are not so marked as those of vowels. The most notable are the hardening of Th into Dd, making father, _fadder_, mother, _mūdder_, etc.; and the dropping of the two last of the three letters in the definite article, well illustrated by the Whitehaven boy’s reply to an enquiry as to what ships had come in:—“_T’_ ’Enry, an’ _t’_ ’Ebe, an’ _t’_ Ant, an’ _t’_ Atlas, an’ _t’_ Aurora;” i.e. the Henry, the Hebe, the Ant, the Atlas, and the Aurora. Then we may notice the discarding of the final letter from all words ending in ing, and changing that syllable in all present participles to _an_, the participle of pass being in Cumberland more like the French pass_ant_ than the English pass_ing_; also the final age being made _ish_, as in _cabbish_ for cabbage, _manish_ for manage, etc.; the final ous too undergoing the same change, as in _faymish_ for famous, _parlish_ for parlous, etc.; also idge as in _poddish_ for porridge, or primarily, potage.

V is often converted into B or Bb—evening, eleven, Whitehaven being called _ebenin’_, _elebben_, _Whitehebben_, etc.

These corruptions and deviations comprise nearly all the points wherein the dialect of Cumberland differs in sound and pronunciation from ordinary English speech; and set forth roughly, as they are, (abbreviations explaining themselves, and archaic words being given in a concise glossary) they may, with a little attention, enable the uninitiated reader to understand all the Cumbrian pieces contained in this volume.

Some irregular verbs, as well as some not commonly classed as irregular, are curiously varied in Cumbrian conjugations. I give a few of these, written down as they rise in recollection, and arranged a la Lindley Murray.

_Present._ _Past._ _Past Participle._
Break Brack Brocken
Bring Brong, and Brang Browte
Brust (burst) Brast Brossen
Cleed (clothe) Cleàd Cled
Clim’ Clam Clim’t and Clum
Cūm (come) Com Cum’t
Cut Cot and Cuttit Cutten
Drink Drunk Drucken and Drocken
Drive Dreàv Druvven
Fling Flang Flung
Git (get) Gat Gitten
Gi’e (give) Gev Gi’en
Ga and Gang (go) Went Geàn
Greet (weep) Grat Grūtten
Hit Hat and Hot Hitten
Ho’d (hold) Hodit Hodden
Let Let Letten
Kest (cast) Kest Kessen
Knead Knod Knodden
May May’d or Med
Mun (must) Mūd
Put Pot Putten
Rive Reàv Ruvven
Run Ron Run
Rise Reùz Ruzzen
Stick Stack Stuck and Stucken
Set Set Setten
Tak Tok and Teùk Tocken
Thrust Thrustit Throssen

Minced or modified oaths are remarkably numerous in Cumberland, and in very common use. Most of them have descended from the old Roman Catholic times when, as Dr. Newman in speaking of Roman Catholic populations of the present day, avers, habitual swearing indicated piety and reverence for things sacred, and not profaneness. As heard now in Cumberland, these ancient expletives are as void of piety as of profanity, being used without any knowledge of their original signification, and merely to add force to asseveration, and to express, as varied in tone, surprise, disgust, pleasure, or indeed almost any feeling or emotion whatever. I append a few of these with their probable, often obvious, etyma:—

’Scush or Skerse God’s curse
Goy, and Goy Sonn God, and God’s Son
Gock, and Gock Sonn Ibid. Ibid.
’Od’s wuns an’ deeth God’s wounds and death
Loavin’ days Loving Jesus
’Od’s wintry wuns God’s sundry, or wondrous, wounds
’Od’s wyte leet on thee God’s blame fall on you
’Od rot, ’Od sink, etc., etc. See _Dickinson’s_ Glossary
’ Marry By Mary
’ Mess By the Mass
Dār, Dy, and Dyne Damn
Faix, and Faikins Faith
Cock’s wunters God’s wonders
Loze Lord
My song My soul
Deil bin Devil be in

The peculiarities of the Scottish dialect have been explained by many writers, much more ably, as well as more at length, than may be done by me. Therefore the only assistance towards the understanding my Scots rhymes that I offer the reader is to intermingle, in the glossary appended, such Scottish words as I have used, with those proper to Cumberland and those common to both sides the Border.

The brief glossary here given consists, then, only of the words used in Scotland or Cumberland, or both, which appear in the foregoing _Tales and Rhymes_; corruptions and abbreviations being omitted. The significations I alone am answerable for, having, in nearly all instances, adopted the sense I can recollect the words being used in by the people speaking them in their daily talk. The quotations are intended to make these significations more intelligible, and also, by showing the manner in which the words so illustrated are used by others, to prove that the meanings I have so adopted are generally correct.

A GLOSSARY

OF

SCOTCH AND CUMBRIAN WORDS

OCCURRING IN THE RHYMES AND TALES CONTAINED IN THIS VOLUME.

C signifies that the word it follows is Cumbrian. S that it is Scotch. S and C that it is common to both dialects.

A.

Addle, or Eddle, C, earn.

“What, I mun tak’ my flale wimma, antres I git a job er two a threyshin, Ise _addle_ summat be’t.” _Rev. T. Clarke._ Johnny Shippard.

Aiblins, S, perhaps.

“But _aiblins_ neighbour ye have not the heart,
An’ downa eithly wi’ the cunzie part.”
_Ramsay._ The Gentle Shepherd.

Aneuf, C, enough in quantity.

Anew, C, enough in number.

“We’ve _anew_ o’ sec as thee, an’ _aneuf_ o’ what thou brings wid thee.”—Said to a Hawker.

Aslew, C, amiss, out of course.

“There’s nowte sa far _aslew_ but gud manishment med set it streight.”—Proverb.

Atweel, S, I wot well. Used to strengthen either affirmation or denial.

“Are they a’ Johnie’s?
Eh! _atweel_ na;
Twa o’ them were born
When Johnie was awa.”
Song—We’re a’ Noddin’.

B.

Back-end, C, late autumn.

“T’ _back-end’s_ ola’s t’ bare-end.”—Proverb.

Bain, C, near, convenient. Used in most of the northern counties.

“I swin’d my ways t’ _bainest_ geeat ower t’ fell into Sleddle.”
_Rev. T. Clarke._ Johnny Shippard.

Bairn, S, a child; Barne, C.

“Maidens’ _bairns_ are aye weel bred.”—Proverb.

“They hed _barnes_ an’ bits o’ flesh persirv’d i’ bottles as fwok does berries.”—_Ritson._ The Borrowdale Letter.

Barken’t, S and C, encrusted.

“For God-seak put that barne in t’ dolly-tūb an’ scrūb’t: it’s fairly _barken’t_ ower wid mūck.”—Said of a rarely washed infant.

Barrow-back’t, C, bent by heavy work, such as wheeling loaded _barrows_.

“He’s gitten bow’t an’ _barrow-back’t_, an’ wizzent sair o’ t’ feàce.”—Heard at Ullock.

Batt, S and C,

“At ya _batt_ he fell’t me flat,
’Od dye! he’ll be a darter.”
_Mark Lonsdale._ The Upshot.

Baul’, S, bold, fierce.

“The first fuff o’ a fat haggis is aye the _baul’est_.”—Proverb.

Beàdless, C. This adjective is used to signify intolerable in suffering, and also impatient of pain—thus

“He says t’ pain’s _beàdless_, but than he’s a _beàdless_ body.”
Said to a Doctor.

Beck, C, a rivulet.

“Change is leetsome, if it’s no’but oot o’ bed intil t’ _beck_.”
Proverb.

Beel, C, to bellow like a bull.

“Summet tha caw’t roworgins began a _beelin’_ like a hundred mad bulls, an’ as many lal lads i’ ther sarks began a screamin’ murder, I think, for ivery _beel_ was like thunner.” _Ritson._ The Borrowdale Letter.

Begonk, Old S and C, a disappointment, “a sell.”

“Now Cromwell’s gane to Nick; an’ ane ca’d Monk
Has played the Rumple a richt slee _begunk_.”
_Ramsay._ The Gentle Shepherd.

Begood, S, began.

“The baronne he _begood_ to bob,
No longer colde he stande.”
_Hogg._ Lyttil Pynkie.

Beild, S and C, shelter.

“Better a wee buss than nae _beild_.”—Proverb. _Burns’_ Motto.

“Weal _beealt_ frae t’ fell wind by some heeh crags.”
_Rev. T Clarke._ T’ Reysh-bearin’.

Bein, S, snug, comfortable.

“Were your _bein_ rooms as thinly stocked as mine,
Less ye wad lose, and less wad ye repine.”
_Ramsay._ The Gentle Shepherd.

Belyve, S and C, by and bye.

“_Belyve_, the elder bairns come drapping in.”
_Burns._ Cotter’s Saturday Night.

Ben, S, the inner part of a house.

“It’s ill bringing but what’s no _ben_.”—Proverb.

Bent, S, a coarse hard grass; applied also to the sterile land where bent grows.

“Gin ye’ll consent to scour the _bent_
Wi’ me, a rantin’ Hielandman.”
_Hamilton._ Song.

Billie, S, brother.

“Be of gude cheir, now, Archie lad!
Be of gude cheir, now, dear _billie_.”
Ballad—Archie o’ Ca’field.

Bink, S, a bench for sitting upon.

“For faut o’ wise fouk feuls sit on _binks_.”—Proverb.

Birl, S, to drink in conviviality; also to spend money in drinking.

“When they were at the supper set
An’ _birlin’_ at the wine.”
Ballad—Young Huntin.
“She took me in, she set me doon,
An’ hecht to keep me lawin’ free;
But, cunning carlin’ that she was,
She gar’t me _birl_ my bawbee.”
Song—Andro’ wi’ his cutty gun.

In the Lake Country the attendants who serve the drink round at sheep-shearings, etc., are called _burlers_.

Birkie, S, a brisk forward fellow.

“See yon _birkie_ ca’d a lord.”
_Burns._ For a’ that.

Black-kites, C, bramble berries; in some parts called brummel-kites, in others black-bums.

“I wantit grog—she brong mé _black-kite_ wine.”
Heard at Harrington.

Blate, S and C, bashful.

“A _blate_ cat maks a proud mouse.”—Proverb.

“I’ve wonder’t oft o’ leàte
What made thee leùk sea skar an’ seem sea _bleàte_.”
_Graham._ Gwordie and Will.

Bleeze, S and C, flame.

“In winter when he toils through wind and rain,
A _bleezin’_ ingle and a clean hearth-stane.”
_Ramsay._ The Gentle Shepherd.

Blether, S and C, noisy silly talk, loquacity.

“A lawyer neist, wi’ _bletherin’_ gab,
Wha speeches wove like onie wab.”
Old Song—Jenny’s Bawbee.
“Chaps like these, like butterflees,
Win owte wi’ pride an’ _blether_.”
_Anderson._ Laird Johnie.

Blink, S, glance.

“The evening sun was ne’er sae sweet
As was the _blink_ o’ Phemie’s e’e.”
_Burns._ Blythe was she.

Blurt, C; Blirt, S, sudden burst of weeping, etc.

“The lassie lost her silken snood,
Whilk cost her monie a _blirt_ an’ bleer e’e.”
Song.

Blythe, S, cheerful, happy.

“A _blythe_ heart mak’s a blooming look.”—Proverb.

Bood, S, behoved to.

“Weel leese me o’ you, Souter Jock,
For tricks ye _bood_ be tryin’.”
_Ferguson._ The Election.

Boune, Old S, to journey or go.

“Win up! win up, now, Hynde Etin,
Win up, an’ _boune_ wi’ me.”
Ballad—Hynde Etin.

Bowk, S and C, to retch.

“For aye ye sup the brose at e’en
Ye _bowk_ at in the morn, lassie.”
Song—Ye ha’e lain wrang, lassie.

Brae, S, bank of a stream, brow.

“’Neath the brae the burnie jooks.”
_Tannahill._ Gloomy Winter.

Brackin’, C; Breckan, S, the common fern (_Pteris Aquilina_).

A lady near Hawkshead having bought a small fern plant at a flower show, a neighbour exclaimed, “Three and sixpence for a lile _brackin_! I’d ha’ browte her a leeàd o’ them for’t!”

“Round the sylvan fairy nooks
Feathery _breckans_ fringe the rocks.”
_Tannahill._ Gloomy Winter.

Brant, C, steep.

“Old Man! Old Man! your sides are _brant_.”
The Old Man.

Brat, S and C, apron; (used frequently for clothing in general.)

“To get them _brats_, then, ye maun toil an’ spin.”
_Ramsay._ The Gentle Shepherd.
“To see her whol’d stockings, her _brat_, an’ her gown.”
_Anderson._ Our Sukey.

Braw, S, fine, handsomely attired.

“Upon the banks o’ flowing Clyde
The lasses busk them _braw_.”
_Burns._ Of a’ the Airts.

Break, C, a joke, a bit of fun.

“Joe Tyson teem’t a pint o’ yall doon Danny Towson’ back. Wasn’t that a _break_?”—Heard at Dean.

Buirdly, S, stout, strongly made.

“They say ill ale has been the deid
O’ monie a _buirdly_ loon.”
_Ferguson._ Leith Races.

Burn, S, a brook.

“Beside that brig, out owre that _burn_,
Where water bickereth bright and sheen.”
Ballad—Thomas the Rhymer.

Burnewin, S, a blacksmith (burn the wind).

“An’ _burnewin_ comes on like death
At every chaup.”
_Burns._ Scotch Drink.

But, S, the outer apartment of a house.

“The auld wife cried _but_ the house, ‘Jenny, come ben!’”
Song—The Yellow Hair’d Laddie.

But, S, without (probably from _be out_).

“Beauty _but_ bounty’s but bauch.”—Proverb.

But and, Old S, also, likewise.

“Adieu madame, my mother dear,
_But and_ my sisters three.”
Ballad—Lord Maxwell’s Good Night.

Byspel, C, a mischievous person.

“It’s a fair _byspel_ ’at is’t. It breaks o’ ’at cūms iv it geàt.”