The landlady had told her husband, when he came in from his work, that
their stranger-guest much wished to hear our old drolls and songs; and
to see the remarkable places round about. That was the chief reason why
the master of the house was so desirous that the company might tell
something, of native growth, which a stranger might deem noteworthy.
Having told the fairy-tale, our host, addressing his wife, said “now
Jenny, I’ve told that story to please thee, tell us how Betty Stags was
served by a kindlier sort of spriggans (sprites).”
“When I’ve cleaned up a bit, perhaps I may,” replied she, “and Uncle
Honney (Hanibal) may sing us a song that while ef he will be so good.”
“That I wed, weth all my heart,” said an old man belonging to the
stamps, “ef we had one worth singan; but there’s none known, in these
parts, good for anything. Such cheerful songs and rare old ballads as
we used to sing, to lighten our labour, are all condemned now, and the
singer cried down as ‘carnal-minded.’ In place of them we hear nothan
but revival hymns, and I for one can’t make out any sense in them.”
“You have worked in bals up along as far as Dolcoath, or farther,” said
our host, “and I have surely heard ’e tell a song or an old ballad that
you had heard up that way long ago.”
“But the west es I can’t tell enough of’n to make out the rhymes,”
replied the old man; “I only remember that when I was a youngster
workan on the floors in Dolcoath, about the time that Boney was
expected to invade, and that his troops wed be landed here in the West;
et might be on Market-jew Green, or Gwenvor Sand, in Whitsand Bay, out
westward. Boney had flat-bottomed boats made, to be sent with the
transport ships, and in such boats his troops cud come ashore in
shallow water.”
“I only jest remember that time,” said another old man, “there was much
alarm amongst the farmers; the ‘guides’ were called out, and the cattle
branded on horns and hoofs, that they might be known to their owners,
when all the stock belongan to a neighbourhood, should be herded
together, and drivan away up along, as it was expected they wed, that
the enemy should not come at them.”
“Don’t ’e mind, too,” resumed Uncle Honney, “how notices were put upon
Church doors, and other places, forbiddan any bonfires to be made at
Midsummer, lest they might be mistaken for bickan-fires, [9] and give a
false alarm, like Santusters ded, when they thoft the French had one
night landed on Gwenvor Sand, where the Danes used to come ashore and
pillage the country round. There were trusses of dry furze kept upon
all the bickan-hills, ready for firan; it was the women in Santust
’Chtown who raised the alarm and caused the bickans to blaze from
Chapel Carn Brea to Plymouth; troops were dispatched from garrison, but
they didn’t know where to take to, lost their way west of Falmouth, and
were found down in Gweek, a week after ‘jousters’ and other market-folk
had brought news of this false alarm to Falmouth. About that time it
was when this song was often singed by tinners around Redruth.
“I don’t remember how the words were broft into rhymes mind ’e. Et said
how Englishmen had beaten the French over and over again; taken
countries they once ruled over, had them still, and meant to keep them
too. Ef Boney’s men landed upon Cornish shores, we wed beat them to
bruss. Then it was said how the French were a ‘heap of poor pelyacks’
[10] who, at home, had neither decent meat nor clothes; but were glad
to catch quilkans, [11] bullhorns, [12] and padgy-paws; [13] and to
stampy about in temberan shoes.
“The burden, or running verse, that came in at every four lines was
this:—
‘They shall not eat of our good meat,
Our pelchers and petates.’”
“There was an old Cornish Dialogue in verse, too,” said another old
man, “which gave much the same account.”
“I should dearly like,” said the visitor, “to get copies of that song
and dialogue, or of as much as is known of them.”
“That old piece Uncle Honney spoke of es forgotten among us,” replied
our host, “but I know another, not so old, that’s often told for
Christmas pastime, in place of a Guise-dance of St. George and the
Turkish Knight; we’ll get’n up for ’e now, the same as we do at
Christmastide; ef Jenny will be Mal Treloar, I’ll take the part of
Sandry Kemp.”
“That I will,” said our hostess, “and Uncle Honney can give me the word
when I may forget et, jest as he do to youngsters actan a Christmas
play; he’ll speak for the Cap’n, too, and say other bits requiran a
third speaker.”
The company having placed themselves as the landlady directed, gave the
following Cornish Dialogue:
MAL TRELOARE AND SANDRY KEMP KISS AND BECOME GOOD FRIENDS AGAIN:
OR BACKBITING CRULL OUTWITTED.
’Twas Kendle teenan, when jung Mal Treloare
Trudg’d hum from Bal, a bucken copper ore;
Her clathing hard and ruff, black was her eye,
Her face and arms like stuff from Cairn Kye.
Full butt she mit jung Sandry Kemp, who long
She had been token’d to, come from Ding Dong;
Hes jacket wet, his faace rud like his beard,
And through his squarded hat hes heer appeared.
She said, “Oh Kemp, I thoft of thee well leer,
Thees naw that daay we wor to Bougheehere,
That daay with ale and cakes, at three o’clock,
Thees stuff’d me so, I jist neen crack’d me dock:
Jue said to me, ‘Thee mayst depend thee life
I love thee, Mal, and thee shust be ma wife.’
And to ma semmen, tes good to lem ma naw
Whether the words were aal in jest or no.”
Sandry.—Why, truly, Mal, I like a thing did zay
That I wud have thee next Chewiden daay.
But zence that time I like a thing ded hear
Thees went wi’ some one down, I naw where;
Now es that fitty, Mal? What dost think?
Mal.—Od rat tha body, Sandry, who said so?
Now, faath and traath, I’ll naw afore I go;
Do lem ma naw the Gossenbary dog.
Sandry.—Why, then, Crull said jue wor down to Wheal Bog
With he and Tabban, and ded play some tricks
By dabben clay at jungsters makan bricks;
Aand that from there jue went to Aafe-waye house,
Aand drink’t some lecker. Mal, now there’s down souse.
Aand jue to he, like a think ded zay,
Jue wed have he, and I mait go away.
Mal.—I tell the lubber so! I to Wheal Bog!
I’ll scat hes chacks, the emprent, saucy dog.
Now hire me, Sandry Kemp, now down and full,
Ef thee arten hastes, the shust hire the whole.
Fust jue must naw, tes true as thee art theere,
Aant Blanch and I went to Golsinney feer.
Who overtookt us in the dusty road,
In common hum but Crull, the cloppen toad.
Zes he to Aant, “What cheer? Aant Blanch, what cheer?
Jue makes good coose, suppose jue ben to feer.”
“Why, hiss,” zes Aant, “ben there a pewer spur;
I wedn’t a gone ef nawed ed ben so fur.
I bawft a pair of shods for Sarah’s cheeld.”
By this time, lock! we cum jist to the field.
We went to clember up the temberen style,
(Haw keept his eye upon me all the while.)
Zes haw to Aant, “Then whos es thees braa maide?
Come tha wayst long, dasent be afraid.”
Then mov’d by my side, like a thing,
Aand pull’d my mantle, and jist touch’d my ching.
“How arry, jung woman?” zes haw. “How dost do?”
Zes I, “Jue saucy dog, what’s that to jue?
Keep off, jung lad, else thees have a slap.”
Then haw fooch’d some great big doat figs in me lap,
So I thoft, as haw had ben so kind,
Haw might go by Aant Blanch, ef haw had a mind.
Aand so haw ded, aand tookt Aant Blanch’s arm.
“Areah!” zes haw, “I dedn’t mane no harm.”
So then Aant Blanch and he ded talk and jest
Bout dabbing clay and bricks at Perran feast.
Sandry.—Ahah then, Mal, ’twas there they dabbed the clay?
Mal.—Plaase Faather, Kemp, tes true wot I do saay.
Aand hire me now, pla-sure, haw dedn’t budge
From Aanty’s arm tell jest this side Long Brudge.
Aand then zes he to Aant, “Shall we go in
To Aafe-way house, and have a dram of gin
Aand trickle mixt. Depend ol do es good,
Taake up the sweat and set to rights the blud.”
So Aant ded say, “Such things she dedn’t chuse,”
Aand squeeze my hand, aand loike a thing refuse.
So when we passed along by Wheal Bog moor,
Haw jumpt behind, and pok’t us in the door.
Haw caal’d for gin, aand brandy too, I think.
He clunk’d the brandy, we the gin ded drink.
So when haw wish’d good night as es the caase,
Haw kiss’t Aant Blanch, and jist neen touch’d my faace.
Now, Sandry Kemp, there’s nothing shure in this,
To my moinde, then, that thee shust taake amiss.
Sandry.—No fath, then Mal, ef this es all, aand true,
I had a done the same ef I was jue.
Mal.—Next time in any house I see or hear am,
I’ll down upon the plancheon, rat am, scat am,
Aand I will so poam am,—
Sandry.—Our Kappen’s there, just by thickey bush.
Hush! now Mally, hush!
Aand as hes here, so close upon the way
I wedent wish haw nawed what we ded zay,
Aand jett I dedent care, now fath and soul,
Ef so be our Kappen wor to hire the whole.
How arry Kappen? Where be going so fast?
Jure goin’ hum, suppose, juse in sich haste.
Kappen.—Who’s that than? Sandry, arten thee ashamed
To coosy so again? Thee wust be blamed
Ef thees stay here all night to prate wi’ Mal!
When tes thy cour, thee wusten come to Bal.
Aand thee art a Cobbe, I tell thee so.
I’ll tell the owners ef thee dosent go.
Sandry.—Why, harkee, Kappen, don’t skoal poor I,
Touch pipe a crum, jue’ll naw the reason why.
Coozen Mal aand I ben courtain bout afe a year.
Hould up tha head, Mal; don’t be ashamed, dost hire?
Aand Crull one day made grief ’tween I and she;
But he shall smart for it now, I swear by G——.
Haw told me lies, as round as any cup.
Now Mal and I have mit, we’ve made it up;
So, Kappen, that’s the way I stopt, I vow.
Kappen.—Ahah! I dedent giss the caase jist now.
But what dost think of that last batch of ore?
Sandry.—Why pewer and keenly gossen, Kappen sure;
I bleeve that day, ef Franky’s pair wornt drunk,
We shud had pewer stuff too from the sump.
But there, tes all good time, as people saay,
The flooken now, aint throw’d us far away;
So hope to have bra tummalls soon to grass.
How ded laast batch down to Jandower pass?
Kappen.—Why, hang thy body, Sandry, speed, I saay,
Thees keep thy clacker going till tes day.
Go speak to Mally now, jue foolish toad,
I wish both well, I’ll keep my road.
Sandry.—Good nightie, Kappen, then I wishee well.
Where artee, Mally? Dusten haw hire me, Mal?
Dusent go away, why jue must think of this,
Before we part, shure we must have a kiss.
She wiped her muzzle from the mundic stuff,
And he rubb’d his, a little stain’d with snuff.
Now then, there, good night Mal, there’s good night;
But, stop a crum.
Mally.—Good night.
Kappen.—Good night.
Kendle teenan, candle lighting.
Squarded hat, broken or cracked hat.
Lem ma knaw, let me know, tell me.
Wheal Bog, wheal, or, correctly spelt, huel, is old Cornish, and
signifies a mine or work.
Doat figs, broad figs.
A Cobbe, a simpleton, a bungler.
Bra tummalls, brave heaps, large piles of ore.
The guest, for whose entertainment the old men had furbished up their
memories, said, “that piece is a capital one, and it seems all the
better from the way in which you have told it. Your dialect is pleasant
to hear; it is softer and more musical than that of most other parts of
England.
“Many Cornish drolls remind me of Irish stories, which show similar
traits of character. I have seen a piece by Tregellas, a St. Ann’s man,
I suppose, as he says much about people in that parish and its
neighbourhood.
“There is one story of his which shows how prone Cornish people are to
stretch a point or two, as you call it. I mean that story of a boy
telling his mother there are scores and hundreds of cats caterwauling
upon the roof; his mother reproves him for making such an unreasonable
stretch, and sends him out to see how many are there; he returned, and,
condescending to tell the truth at last, says that he could ‘only see
grammar’s cat and ours.’
“An Irish story, called ‘The Three Geese,’ shows the habit of
augmenting the number of things, and of obstinacy in sticking to the
words said.
“I’ll tell the Irish story, if you’d like to hear it, as it’s told by
my old friend Patrick Kennedy.”
“We should all be delighted to hear et, I’m sure,” said the host.
“Then let us have a good large jug of toddy—half-a-gallon or so—that
all the company may drink together of the same, and make the story seem
less dry,” said the Irish gentleman.
A jorum of hot grog having been brought and served, all the company
wished the guest health, happiness, and a long life; and “may your
shadow never grow less,” added our host.
Then the following Irish story was told in native style.