Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

114
CUMBERLAND BALLADS.
It’s for auld Kit Craftet, our wordy, wise neybor,
God rust him! a better man ne’er wore a head;
He’s nit left his fellow thro’ aw the heale country.
And monie peerfwok are in want,now he’s dead.
I mind when at schuil, a reet top scholar was he,
Of laikin or rampin nae nwotion hed he,
But nar the auld thworn he wad sit and keep
mwosin,
And caw’d it a sin just to kill a peer flee: ,
A penny he niver let rust in his pocket,
But gev’t to the furst beggar body he met;
Then at kurk he cud follow the priest thro’ the
sarvice,
And as for a trible, he niver was bet.
Tho’ he wan seeben belts lang afwore he was
twenty,
And in Scealeby meedow oft tuik off the haw,
Yet he kent aw the Beyble, algebra, Josephus,
And capp’d the priest, maister, exciseman, and
He cud talk about battles, balloons, bumin
mountains,
And wars, till baith young and auld trimmel’d
for fear,
Then he’d tell how they us’d the ‘ ‘ peer West Indie
neegers, ”
And stamp wid his fit, aye, and drop monie atear,
When he red about parliments, pleaces, and
changes,
He flang by the paper, and cried, “ Silly stuff!
The Outs wad be in, and the Ins rob their country,
They’re nit awtogether worth ae pinch o’ snuff!”