Niver ageàn, Eddy! Niver ageàn!
If I moo’n’t hev a lad ’at ’ill coort me my leàn,
’At ’ill hod by ya sweetheart, an’ me be that yan,
I mūn bide as I is till I dee.
Thū’s coddel’t Keàt Crosstet, Ann Atchin, Jane Blair,
’Becca Rudd, Mary Mo’son, Ruth Lytle, an’ mair;
Thoo says it’s o’ fūn, an’ sec fūn ma’ be fair,
But it doesn’t seem jannic to me.
I favour’t the’, ey! abeùn o’ t’ lads aboot;
I thowte, like a feùl, ’at thū’d sing-elt me oot
Frae t’ tūdders, an’ I’ve been reet sarra’t, na doobt,
To trust sec a taistrel as thee.
Reet sarra’t? Ey, mess! I was warn’t gaily weel,—
I was tel’t hoo thū’d feùl’t an’ than left Greàcy Peile;
An’ what reet hed I to believe thoo wad deal
Ayder fairer or fonter wi’ me?
Fwoke tel’t mé thoo com of a slape, sneeky breed;—
’At a tungue sec as thine seldom hung iv a heid;—
’At twice i’ three times when thoo said owte, thoo leed;
But I fanciet that hardly cūd be.
For ’Speàtry, I kent, was a hard-spocken pleàce,
An’ I thowte ’at, may-hap, thū’d been wrang’t aboot Greàce;—
God help mé!—I thowte I read t’ truth i’ thy feàce,
When thoo swore thoo cared only for me.
We’re silly, us lasses—We’re maizlins, I know!—
We’re t’ meàst teàn wi’ them ’at oor frinds meàst misco’;
An’ when we’re teàn in, we’ve to shear what we sow,
An’ to rue sec mistaks till we dee.
But leet com’ i’ time, an’ it o’ com’ at yance,
I so’t fair aneùf, but, to give thee ya chance,
I went by mysel’ to Jane Loncaster’s dance,
Just to see if thoo dūd care for me.
Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk,
An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùk
Dūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk,
An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee.
Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr;
An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;—
When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur,
An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.
But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack;
An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back;
But if _thū’s_ fūnd oot _thine_, I’ve fūnd oot _my_ mistak’,
An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free.
Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n;
Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yan
Ma’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn,
But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.