Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

126
CUMBEHLASTD BALLADS.
The lily and the deyke-rwose heath,
Were mix’d in Marget’s bonny feace;
Her form mud win the cauldest heart,
And her’s was nature’s modest greace
Her luik drew monie a neybor laird;
Her een luive’s piercin arrows fir’d;
But nae rich laird cud gain the han
Of this fair flow’r, by aw admir’d.
Oh, luckless hour! at town ae day,
Yen in a sowdger’s dress she saw;
He stule her heart—and frae that hour,
May Marget date a leyfe of woe;—
For now she shims aw roun the mill,
Nae longer to her bosom dear;
And faded is her bonny feace,
And dim her e’e wi’ monie a tear.
Peer Marget! yenee a fodder’s preyde,
Is now widout a fadder left;
Deserted, aw day lang she moans,
Luive’s victim, of ilk whope bereft!
Ye lasses aw seducers shun,
And think o’ Marget o’ the Mill;
She, crazy, daunders wid her bairn,
A prey to luive and sorrow still.
MADAM JAYE.
Tune—“ I mil ha’e a wcyfe.”
Money meks us bonny,
Money meks us glad;
Be she auld or ugly,
Money brings a lad.