I stop’t ūnder a tree aside Springbank, an’ Dr. —— com’ ridin’ up
through t’ rain, on his black galloway. “Why, Robert,” says he, “ye
look as if ye’d lost something.” “Nay, doctor,” says I, “here t’ check
an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed—I’ lost nowte—that’s three. Here t’ soat, an’
t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue—that’s sebben—I’ lost nowte,
but I’ forgitten sum’at. Here t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ rūbbin’
bottle—that’s ten; an’ here t’ ’bacca—that’s elebben.—Ten for Betty,
an’ yan for me! Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me!! Doctor, doctor,” says
I, “fwoke say ye ken oa things—what _hev_ I forgitten?” “I’ll tell ye
what ye haven’t forgotten,” says he, “ye haven’t forgotten the ale at
Keswick. Get home, Robert, get home,” says he, “and go to bed and sleep
it off.” I believe he thowte I was drūnk; but I wasn’t—I was no’but
maizelt wid tryin’ to finnd oot what I’d forgitten.
As I com nār to t’ Swan wid two Necks I fell in wid greet Gweordie
Howe, and says I, “Gweordie, my lad,” says I, “I’s straddelt,” says I,
“I’s fairly maiz’t,” says I. “I left sūm’at ahint me at Kes’ick, an’
I’ve thowte aboot it till my heid’s gā’n like a job-jūrnal,” says I,
“an’ what it is _I_ cannot tell.” “Can t’e nūt?” says Gweordie. “Can
t’e nūt? Whey, than, cūm in an’ see if a pint o’ yall ’ll help thé’.”
Well, I steud pints, an’ Gweordie steud pints, an’ I steud pints ageàn.
Anūdder time I wad ha’ been thinkin’ aboot what Betty wad say till o’
this pintin’, but I was gittin’ despert aboot what I’d forgitten at
Kes’ick, an’ I cūd think o’ nowte else.
T’ yall was gud aneùf, but it dùdn’t kest a morsel o’ leet on what was
bodderin’ on ma sa sair, an’ I teuk t’ rwoad ageàn finndin’ as if I was
farder off’t nor iver.
T’ rain keep’t cūmmin’ doon—t’ rwoad gat softer an’ softer—t’ basket
gat heavier an’ heavier—t’ top sark hetter an’ hetter, an’ my heid
queerer an’ queerer. If I stopt anonder ya tree i’ t’ wūd, I stopt
anonder twenty, an’ coontit ower t’ things i’ t’ basket till they begon
to shap’ theirsels intil o’ mak’s o’ barnish sangs i’ my heid, and I
fūnd mysel’ creunin’ away at sec bits of rhymes as thūrr—
Ten things an’ yan, Bobby,
Ten things an’ yan;
Here five an’ five for Betty Banks,
An’ yan for Betty’s man.
“Lord preserve oor wits—sec as they ūrr,” says I. “I mūn be gā’n wrang
i’ my heid when I’ve teàn till mackin’ sangs!” But t’ queerest break
was ’at I dūddn’t mak’ them—they meàd thersel’s—an’ they meàd me sing
them an’ o’, whedder I wad or nūt—an’ off I went ageàn till a different
teùn—
Says Betty—says she; says Betty till me—
“If owte thou contrives to forgit,
“I’ll reckon thè’ daizter an’ dafter,” says she,
“Nor iver I’ve reckon’t thè’ yit.”
I’s daizter an’ dafter nor iver, she’ll say,
An’ marry, she willn’t say wrang!
But scold as she will, ey, an’ gūrn as she may,
I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang, lāl sang,
I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang.
“Well! It hes cūm’t till whoa wad hae thowte it,” says I, “if I cannot
stop mysel’ frae mackin’ sangs an’ singin’ them of a wet day i’ Widdup
Wūd; I’ll coont t’ things ower ageàn,” says I, “an’ see if that’ll stop
ma.” Ye ma’ believe ma or nūt, as ye like, but iv anūdder tick-tack
there was I coontin’ t’ things ower iv a sang:—
Here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed, oald lad!
Here t’ soat an’ t’ sugger an’ t’ tea—
Seàp, starch, steàn-blue, an’ t’ bottle to rub,
An’ t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me,
Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me, me, me,
Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me.
I’ll niver git heàm while Bobby’s my neàm,
But maffle an’ sing till I dee, dee, dee,
But maffle an’ sing till I dee!
“Weel, weel,” says I, “If I _is_ oot o’ my senses—I IS oot o’ my
senses, an’ that’s oa’ aboot it,—but
Loavins what’ll Betty think, Betty think, Betty think,
Loavins what’ll Betty think if Bobby bide away?
She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink,
t’ brass i’ drink,
She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink this varra market-day.
She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass, her
būtter-brass,
She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter brass, but willn’t thrimle lang.
For Bobby lad thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to
feàce,
For Bobby lad, thū’s hūr to feàce; she’ll m’appen change thy sang.
Sang or nèa sang, t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ “hūr to feàce,” an’ that gaily
seùn, rayder brong me to my oan oald sel’ ageàn. I set off yance mair,
an’ this time, I dūdn’t stop while I gat fairly into t’ foald. Faith
seed me cūmmin’, an’ met me oot side o’ t’ hoose dooar, an’ says
Faith, “Whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car, fadder?” I dropp’t my basket, an’ I
geàp’t at her! Lal Jacop com runnin oot, an’ says Jacop, “Fadder, whoar
t’ meear an’ t’ car?” I swattit mysel’ doon on t’ stean binch, an’ I
glower’t at them—furst at yan an’ than at t’ tudder on them. Betty com
limpin’ by t’ God-speed, an’ says Betty, “What hes t’e meàd o’ t’ car
an’ t’ meear, thoo maizlin?” I gat my speech ageàn when Betty spak’,
an’, hoaf crazet an’ hoaf cryin’, I shootit oot, “’Od’s wūns an’ deeth,
that’s what I’s forgitten!” That was what _I_ said. What _Betty_ said I
think I willn’t tell yè.”