Poetry > Ballads in the Cumberland dialect

CUMBERLAND BALLADS.
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And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a keyndly weyfe:
But sure the greatest curse hard fate
To onie man can gie,
Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,
That ne’er yence comforts mh;
Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,
Cuckold some caw me;
I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn’t say they lee.
They’re happy that hev teydey weyves,
To keep peer bodies clean;
But meyne’s a freetfu’ lump o’ filth,
Her marra ne’er was seen:
Ilk dud she wears upon her back
Is poison to the e’e;
Her smock’s leyke aul Nick’s nuttin bag,
The de’il a word I lee:
Dour an’ durty—house aw clarty!
See her set at tea,
Her feace defies baith seape and san,
To mek’t just fit to see!
A beyte o’ meat I munnet eat,
Seave what I cuik mysel;
Ae patch or clout she’ll nit stick on,
Sae heame’s just leyke a hell:
By day or neet, if out o’ seet,
Seafe frae this canker’d she,
I pray, and pray wi’ aw my heart,
Deeth, sum tek hur or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!—feight, feightin!
How her luik I dree!
Come, tyrant, rid me o’ this curse,
Dili tek her! I’ll thank thee!