Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

CUMBERLAND BALLADS
A feyne pink sash my uncle sent
Frae Lunnon yence; about my waist
I wore’t and wore’t, but de’il a lad
At me or sash a luke e’er cast:
My yellow gown I thought was sure
To catch some yen at Carel Fair,
But, oh ! fareweel to gown and sash,
I’ll niver, niver wear them mair !
The throssle, when cauld winter’s geane,
Aye in our worchet welcomes spring,—
It mun be luive, did we but ken,
Gars him aroun his partner sing;—
The cock and hen, the duck and drake,
Nay, e’en the smawest birds that flee,
Ilk thing that lives can get a mate,
Except sec sworry things as me.
I often think how married fwok
Mun lead a sweet and happy life:
The prattlin bairns rin toddlin roun,
And tie the husband to the wife:
Then, oh! what joy when neet draws on!
She meets him gangen frae his wark;
But nin can tell what cheerfu’ cracks
The tweesome ha’e lang efter dark.
The wise man lives nit far frae this,
I’ll hunt him oot suin as I can;
He telt Nan Dobson whee she’d wed,
And I’m as likely, sure, as Nan;
But still, still moilin by mysel,
Life’s just a bitter widout sweets:
The summer brings nee pleasant days,
And winter tires wi’ lang, lang neets!
August S, im.