Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

72
CUMBEEIiAND BALLADS.
Of strappin, sonsy, rwosy queens,
They aw may brag a few;
But Thuirsby, for a bonny lass.
Can cap them aw, I trow.
Her mudder sells a swope o’ drink,
It is heath stout and brown,
And Etty is the hinny fowt
Of aw the country roun;
Era east and west, beath rich and peer,
A-horse, a-fit, caw in—
For whee can pass sae rare a lass,
He’s owther daft or blin.
Her een are leyke twee Cursmas sleas.
But tweyce as breet and clear;
Nae rwose cud iver match her feace,
That yet grew on a breer;
At toun, kurk, market, dance, or fair,34
She meks their hearts aw stoun,
And conquers mair than Bonnypart,
Whene’er she keeks aroun.
Oft graith'd in aw their kurk-gawn gear,
Leyke nwoble Iwords at cwort,
Our lads slink in, and gaze and grin,
Nor heed their Sunday spwort;
If stranger leets, her een he meets,
And fins he can’t tell how;
To touch the glass her hand has touch’d,
It sets him in a lowe.
Yence Thuirsby lads were—whea but we,
And cud ha’e bang’d the lave,
But now they hing their lugs, and luik
Leyke fwok stown frae the grave;