Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!—
Nowte’s left like what it used to be—
T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew—
An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see—
T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart,
For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils,
An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heart
Like “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.
“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn,
When stars war breet an’ frost was keen,
Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn,
Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen.
An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed,
An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt,
An’ hear, at ivery stave they played,
Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.
Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet,
Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels,
For few cud whyet hod the’r feet
When Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels.
Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel,
Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance;
An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal
’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.
Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn—
His marrow willn’t seùn be seen;
But rare top dancers many a yan,
He’s left to keep his memory green.
Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neet
We’ll see his gud reet elbow jog;
An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet,
T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.
Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair,
An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang;
We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to care
For heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang.
An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here,
T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails,
An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer;
Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!