been noticed that the chief forms of verse to which local poets have had
recourse have been the song, personal or dramatic, the ballad, and the
dialogue. Among the most hopeful signs of the times has been the recent
extension of dialect to poems of a more sustained character. Within the
last twenty years two writers, associated with the far north and the far
south of the county respectively, have made the bold attempt to use
dialect in narrative poems of larger compass than the simple ballad.
These are Mr. Richard Blakeborough, the author of T' Hunt o' Yatton
Brigg (1896), and Mr. J. S. Fletcher, who, as recently as 1915, published
in the dialect of Osgoldcross his Leet Livvy. These two poems are in
general character poles apart: that of Mr. Blakeborough is pure romance,
whereas Mr. Fletcher never steps aside from the strait path of realism.
T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg is steeped in all the eerie witch-lore of the
Cleveland moors. The plot is laid in the district round the famous
Roseberry Topping, and deals with the adventures which befall a certain
Johnny Simpson, who, when crossed in love, seeks the aid of the witches
to aid him in his work of vengeance on the woman who has cast him off.
The story is told with great vividness, and the author has made an
effective use of all the malevolent powers of witchcraft, seconded by the
elemental forces of thunder and lightning, to aid him in telling a story
of great dramatic power. Leet Livvy, on the other hand, is as sober and
restrained as one of the verse-tales of Crabbe, and the only resemblance
which it bears to Mr. Blakeborough's witch-story lies in the fact that
its hero, like Johnny Simpson, belongs to the peasantry and has suffered
at the hands of a woman. The tragic story of "Owd Mattha o' Marlby Moor"
is recorded by the sexton whose duty it is to toll the passing bell, and
Mr. Fletcher, whose reputation as a novelist is deservedly high, has
rendered the narrative with consummate art. The use of dialect enhances
the directness and dramatic realism of the story at every turn; the
characters stand out sharp and clear, and we are brought face to face
with the passion that makes for tragedy. The poem is purged clean of all
sentiment and moralising: it is narrative pure and simple, but aglow with
the lurid flame of a passion that burns to the very roots of life. It is
no exaggeration to say that Leet Livvy is the greatest achievement in
Yorkshire dialect poetry up to the present time; let us hope that it is
an earnest of even greater things yet to come.
The duty still remains of offering a few words of explanation concerning
the poems which find a place in the second part of this anthology, and
which I have classified as "traditional poems." It is not contended that
all of these are folk-poems in the strict sense of the term, but all of
them are of unknown authorship, and for most of them a considerable
antiquity may be claimed; moreover, like the folk-song, they owe their
preservation rather to oral tradition than to the labours of the scribe.
Many of these poems enshrine some of the customs and superstitions of the
country-side and carry our thoughts back to a time when the
Yorkshireman's habit of mind was far more primitive and childlike than it
is to-day. Moreover, though many of the old popular beliefs and rites
have vanished before the advance of education and industrialism, the
Yorkshireman still clings to the past with a tenacity which exceeds that
of the people farther to the south. For example, nowhere in England does
the old folk-play which enacts the combats of St. George with his Saracen
adversaries enjoy such popularity as in the upper waters of the Calder
Valley and in busy Rochdale over the border. This play, known locally as
"The Peace [or Pasque, i.e. Easter] Egg," was once acted all over
England. Driven from the country-side, where old traditions usually live
the longest, it survives amid the smoke-laden atmosphere of cotton-mills
and in towns which pride themselves, not without reason, on their love of
progress and their readiness to receive new ideas. It is, for our
purpose, unfortunate that this fine old play preserves little of the
local dialect and is therefore excluded from this anthology.(7) Apart
from "The Peace Egg," it is the remote Cleveland country in the North
Riding in which the old traditional poetry of Yorkshire has been best
preserved. This is the land of the sword-dance, the bridal-garter, and
the "mell- supper," the land in which primitive faiths and traditions
survive with strange tenacity. The late Canon Atkinson has made this
land familiar to us by his fascinating Forty Years in a Moorland Parish,
and, to the lover of traditional dialect songs, an even greater service
has been rendered by a later gleaner in this harvest-field, Mr. Richard
Blakeborough of Norton-on-Tees, whose T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg has already
been considered. In his supplement to the little volume which contains
that poem, and again in his highly instructive and entertaining Wit,
Character, Folklore, and Customs of the North Riding of Yorkshire, Mr.
Blakeborough has brought together a number of traditional songs and
proverbial rhymes of great interest, and, to some extent at least, of
high antiquity. Many of these have been collected by him among the
peasantry, others are taken from a manuscript collection of notes on
North Riding folklore made by a certain George Calvert early in the
nineteenth century, and now in Mr. Blakeborough's possession.
Of the first importance in this anthology of traditional song are the
"Cleveland Lyke-wake Dirge" and "A Dree Neet." The former has been well
known to lovers of poetry since Sir Walter Scott included it in his
Border Minstrelsy; the latter, I believe, was never published until the
appearance of T' Hunt o' Yatton Brigg in 1896. The tragic power and
suggestiveness of these two poems is very remarkable. It is, I think,
fairly certain that they stand in intimate association with one another
and point back to a time when the prevailing creed of Yorkshire was Roman
Catholicism. Both depict with deep solemnity the terrors of death and of
the Judgment which lies beyond. Whinny Moor appears in either poem as
the desolate moorland tract, beset with prickly whin-bushes and flinty
stones, which the dead man must traverse on "shoonless feet" on his
journey from life. And beyond this moor lies the still more mysterious
"Brig o' Dreead," or "' Brig o' Deead," as "A Dree Neet" renders it. It
would be tempting to conjecture the precise significance of this
allusion, and to connect it with other primitive myths and legends of a
similar character; but space fails us, and it may well be that the very
vagueness of the allusion is of more haunting tragic power than precise
knowledge. It is also interesting to notice the effective use which is
made in "A Dree Neet" of all the superstitions which gather about the
great pageant of death. The flight of the Gabriel ratchets, or Gabriel
hounds, through the sky, the fluttering of bats at the casement and of
moths at the candle flame, and the shroud of soot which falls from the
chimney of the room where the dying man lies, are introduced with fine
effect; while the curious reference to the folk that draw nigh from the
other side of the grave has an Homeric ring about it, and recalls the
great scene in the Odyssey where the ghosts of Elpenor, Teiresias, and
other dead heroes gather about the trench that Odysseus has digged on the
other side of the great stream of Oceanus, hard by the dank house of
Hades.
It is unnecessary to speak at any length of the other songs, proverbial
rhymes, and "nominies" which find a place among the traditional poems in
this collection. The mumming-songs, the boisterous "Ridin' t' stang"
verses, and all the snatches of folk-song which are, associated with the
festive ritual of the circling year either carry their own explanation
with them or have been elucidated by those who have written on the
subject of Yorkshire customs and folklore. I heartily commend to the
reader's notice the three songs entitled "The Bridal Bands," "The Bridal
Garter," and "Nance and Tom," which we owe to Mr. Blakeborough, and which
present to us in so delightful a manner the picture of the bride tying
her garter of wheaten and oaten straws about her left leg and the
bride-groom unloosing it after the wedding. It is hoped, too, that the
reader may find much that is interesting in the singing-games, verses and
the rhymes which throw light upon the vanishing customs, folklore, and
faiths of the county. They serve to lift the veil which hides the past
from the present, and to give us visions of a world which is fast passing
out of sight and out of memory. It is a world where one may still
faintly hear the horns of elfland blowing, and where Hob-trush Hob and
little Nanny Button-cap wander on printless feet through the star-lit
glades; where charms are still recited when the moon is new, and where on
St. Agnes' Eve the milkmaid lets the twelve sage-leaves fall from her
casement-window and, like Keats's Madeline, peers through "the honey'd
middle of the night "for a glimpse of the Porphyro to whom she must
pledge her troth.
1. Some years before Thoresby's letter was written, another
Yorkshireman, Francis Brokesby, rector of Rowley in the East
Riding, communicated with Ray about dialect words in use in
his district. See Ray's Collection of English Words, second
edition, pp. 170-73 (1691).
2. It has been republished by the late Professor Skeat in
the English Dialect Society's volume, Nine Specimens of
English Dialects.
3. Two editions of this ballad-opera were published in 1736.
The title of the first (? pirated) edition runs as follows:
A Wonder; or, An Honest Yorkshire-man. A Ballad Opera; As it
is Performed at the Theatres with Universal Applause. In the
second edition the words, "A Wonder," disappear from the
title.
4. Edited by J. O. Halliwell in his Yorkshire Anthology,
1851.
5. The first edition of Ben Preston's poems appeared in 1860
with the title, Poems and Songs in the Dialect of Bradford
Dale.
6. A. Holroyd: A Collection of Yorkshire Ballads, ed. by C.
F. Forshaw. (G. Bell, 1892.)
7. The reader will find a reprint of the West Riding version
of The Peace Egg, with an attempt by the editor of this
anthology to throw light upon its inner meaning, in the
second volume of Essays and Studies of the English
Association (Clarendon Press, 1911).
POEMS.
A Yorkshire Dialogue between an awd Wife a Lass and a butcher. (1673)
Anonymous
Printed at York as a broadside by Stephen Bulkley in 1673.
The original broadside is lost, but a manuscript transcript of it
was purchased by the late Professor Skeat at the sale of Sir F.
Madden's books and papers, and published by him in volume xxxii.
of the Dialect Society's Transactions, 1896.
AWD WIFE. Pretha now, lass, gang into t' hurn(1)
An' fetch me heame a skeel o' burn(2);
Na, pretha, barn, mak heaste an' gang,
I's mar my deagh,(3) thou stays sae lang.
LASS. Why, Gom,(4) I's gea, bud, for my pains,
You's gie me a frundel(5) o' your grains.
AWD WIFE. My grains, my barn! Marry! not I;
My draugh's(6) for t' gilts an' galts(7) i' t' sty.
Than, pretha, look i t' garth and see
What owsen(8) i' the stand-hecks(9) be.
LASS. Blukrins! they'll put,(10) I dare not gang
Oute'en(11) you'll len' me t' great leap-stang.(12)
AWD WIFE. Tak t' frugan,(13) or t' awd maulin-shaft,(14)
Coom tite(15) agean an' be not daft.
LASS. Gom, t' great bull-segg(16) he's brokken lowse,
An' he, he's hiked(17) your broad-horned owse;
An' t' owse is fall'n into t' swine-trough,
I think he's brokken his cameril-hough.(18)
AWD WIFE. Whaw! Whaw! lass, mak heaste to t' smedy,(19)
He's noo dead, for he rowts(20) already;
He's boun; oh! how it bauks an' stangs!(21)
His lisk(22) e'en bumps an' bobs wi' pangs.
His weazen-pipe's(23) as dry as dust,
His dew-lap's swelled, he cannot hoast.(24)
He beals(25); tak t' barghams(26) off o' t' beams
An' fetch some breckons(27) frae the clames.(28)
Frae t' banks go fetch me a weam-tow(29)
My nowt's(30) e'en wrecken'd, he'll not dow.(31)
E'en wellanerin!(32) for my nowt,
For syke a musan(33) ne'er was wrowt.
Put t' wyes(34) amell(35) yon stirks an' steers
I' t' owmer,(36) an' sneck the lear-deers.(37)
See if Goff Hyldroth be gain-hand (38)
Thou helterful,(39) how dares ta stand!
LASS. He'll coom belive,(40) or aibles titter,(41)
For when he hard i' what a twitter(42)
Your poor owse lay, he took his flail
An' hang'd 't by t' swipple(43) on a nail;
An' teuk a mell(44) fra t' top o' t' wharns(45)
An' sware he'd ding your owse i' t' harns.(46)
He stack his shak-fork up i' t' esins(47)
An' teuk his jerkin off o' t' gresins.(48)
Then teuk his mittens, reached his bill,
An' off o' t' yune-head(49) teuk a swill(50)
To kep t' owse blude in. Leuk, he's coom.
AWD WIFE. Than reach a thivel(51) or a strum(52)
To stir his blude; stand not to tauk.
Hing t' reckans(53) up o' t' rannel-bauk.(54)
God ye good-morn, Goff; I's e'en fain
You'll put my owse out o' his pain.
BUTCHER. Hough-band him, tak thir(55) weevils hine(56)
F'rae t' rape's end; this is not a swine
We kill, where ilkane hauds a fooit.
I's ready now, ilkane leuk to it.
Then "Beef!" i' God's name I now cry.
Stretch out his legs an' let him lie
Till I coom stick him. Where's my swill?(57)
Coom hither, lass; haud, haud, haud still.
LASS. What mun I do wi' t' blude? BUTCHER. Thou fool,
Teem(58) 't down i' t' garth, i' t' midden-pool.
Good beef, by t' mass! an' when 'tis hung
I's roll it down wi' tooth an' tongue,
An' gobble 't down e'en till I worry.
An' whan neist mell(59) we mak a lurry(60)
A piece o' this frae t' kimlin(61) browt
By t' Rood! 't will be as good as owt.
AWD WIFE. Maut-hearted(62) fool, I e'en could greet(63)
To see my owse dead at my feet.
I thank you, Goff; I's wipe my een
An', please, you too. BUTCHER. Why, Gom Green?
1. Corner. 2. Bucket of water. 3. Dough. 4. Grand-mother.
5. Handful. 6. Draff. 7. Sows and boars. 8. Oxen. 9. Stalls.
10. Gore. 11. Unless. 12. Pole. 13. Oven-fork.
14. Handle of oven-mop. 15. Quickly. 16. Bullock. 17. Gored.
18. Bend of hind.leg. 19. Smithy. 20. Snorts. 21. Swells and stings.
22. Flank. 23. Windpipe. 24. Cough. 25. Bellows. 26. Horse-collars.
27. Bracken. 28. Heaps. 29. Belly-band. 30. Ox. 31. Recover.
32. Alas! 33. Wonder. 34. Heifers. 35. Among. 36. Shade.
37. Barn-doors. 38. Near at hand. 39. Halter-full. 40. Soon.
41. Perhaps sooner. 42. Perilous state. 43. Flap-end. 44. Mallet.
45. Hand-mill. 46. Brains. 47. Eaves. 48. Stairs. 49. Oven-top.
50. Bucket. 51. Porridge-stick. 52. Stick.
53. Iron chains for pot-hooks. 54. Chimney cross-beam. 55. Those.
56. Away. 57. Bucket. 58. Pour. 59. Next harvest-supper.
60. Merry feast. 61. Tub. 62. Maggot-hearted. 63. Weep.
An Honest Yorkshireman
Henry Carey (Died 1748)
I is i' truth a coontry youth,
Nean used to Lunnon fashions;
Yet vartue guides, an' still presides
Ower all my steps an' passions.
Nea coortly leer, bud all sincere,
Nea bribe shall iver blinnd me ;
If thoo can like a Yorkshire tike,
A rogue thoo'll niver finnd me.
Thof envy's tongue, so slimly hung,
Would lee aboot oor coonty,
Nea men o' t' earth boast greater worth,
Or mair extend their boonty.
Oor northern breeze wi' us agrees,
An' does for wark weel fit us ;
I' public cares, an' love affairs,
Wi' honour We acquit us.
Sea great a maand(1) is ne'er confaand(2)
'Tiv onny shire or nation,
They gie un meast praise whea weel displays
A larned eddication;
Whaal rancour rolls i' laatle souls,
By shallow views dissarnin',
They're nobbut wise at awlus prize
Good manners, sense, an' larnin'.
1. Mind 2. Confined
From "Snaith Marsh" (1754)
Anonymous
This was written at the time of the Enclosure Acts
which robbed the peasent farmer of his rights to use Commons.
Alas! will Roger e'er his sleep forgo,
Afore larks sing, or early cocks 'gin Crow,
As I've for thee, ungrateful maiden, done,
To help thee milking, e'er day wark begun?
And when thy well-stripp'd kye(1) would yield no more,
Still on my head the reeking kit(2) I bore.
And, Oh! bethink thee, then, what lovesome talk
We've held together, ganging down the balk,
Maund'ring(3) at time which would na for us stay,
But now, I ween, maes(4) no such hast away.
Yet, O! return eftsoon and ease my woe,
And to some distant parish let us go,
And there again them leetsome days restore,
Where, unassail'd by meety(5) folk in power,
Our cattle yet may feed, tho' Snaith Marsh be no more.
But wae is me! I wot I fand(6) am grown,
Forgetting Susan is already gone,
And Roger aims e'er Lady Day to wed;
The banns last Sunday in the church were bid.
But let me, let me first i' t' churchyard lig,
For soon I there must gang, my grief's so big.
All others in their loss some comfort find;
Though Ned's like me reduc'd, yet Jenny's kind,
And though his fleece no more our parson taks,
And roast goose, dainty food, our table lacks,
Yet he, for tithes ill paid, gets better land,
While I am ev'ry o' t' losing hand.
My adlings wared,(7) and yet my rent to pay,
My geese, like Susan's faith, flown far away;
My cattle, like their master, lank and poor,
My heart with hopeless love to pieces tore,
And all these sorrows came syne(8) Snaith Marsh was no more
1. Well-milked kine (cattle) 2. Pail 3. Finding Fault
4. Makes 5. Mighty 6. Fond, Foolish 7. Earnings spent
8. Since
When at Hame wi' Dad
Anonymous
When at hame wi' dad,
We niver had nae fun, sir,
Which meade me sae mad,
I swore away I'd run, sir.
I pack'd up clease(1) sae smart,
Ribbed stockings, weastcoats pretty;
Wi' money an' leet heart,
Tripp'd off to Lunnon city,
Fal de ral de ra.
When I did git there
I geap'd about quite silly,
At all the shows to stare
I' a spot call'd Piccadilly.
Lord! sike charmin' seights:
Bods(2) i' cages thrive, sir',
Coaches, fiddles, feights,
An' crocodiles alive, sir,
Fal de ral de ra.
Then I did gan to see
The gentry in Hyde Park, sir,
When a lass push'd readely(1) by,
To whom I did remark, sir:
"Tho' your feace be e'en sae fair,
I've seen a bear mair civil."
Then, the laatle clease they wear!
God! Lunnon is the divil,
Fal de ral de ra.
To t' play-house then I goes,
Whar I seed merry feaces,
An' i' the lower rows
Were sarvants keepin' pleaces.
The players I saw sean,
They managed things quite funny;
By gock! they'd honey-mean
Afore they'd matrimony.
Fal de ral de ra.
Now havin' seen all I could
An' pass'd away my time, sir,
If you think fit an' good,
I'll e'en give up my rhyme, sir.
An', sud my ditty please,
The poppies in this garden
To me would be heart's-ease;
If not, I axe your pardon.
Fal de ral de ra.
1. Clothes 2. Birds 3. Rudely
I'm Yorkshire too
Anonymous
From A Garland of New Songs, published by W. Appleton,
Darlington, 1811.
By t' side of a brig, that stands over a brook,
I was sent betimes to school;
I went wi' the stream, as I studied my book,
An' was thought to be no small fool.
I never yet bought a pig in a poke,
For, to give awd Nick his due,
Tho' oft I've dealt wi' Yorkshire folk,
Yet I was Yorkshire too.
I was pretty well lik'd by each village maid,
At races, wake or fair,
For my father had addled a vast(1) in trade,
And I were his son and heir.
And seeing that I didn't want for brass,
Poor girls came first to woo,
But tho' I delight in a Yorkshrre lass,
Yet I was Yorkshire too!
To Lunnon by father I was sent,
Genteeler manners to see;
But fashion's so dear, I came back as I went,
And so they made nothing o' me
My kind relations would soon have found out
What was best wi' my money to do:
Says I, "My dear cousins, I thank ye for nowt,
But I'm not to be cozen'd by you!
For I'm Yorkshire too."
1. Earned a lot.
The Wensleydale Lad
Anonymous
When I were at home wi' my fayther an' mother,
I niver had na fun;
They kept me goin' frae morn to neet,
so I thowt frae them I'd run.
Leeds Fair were coomin' on,
an' I thowt I'd have a spree,
So I put on my Sunday cooat
an' went right merrily.
First thing I saw were t' factory,
I niver seed one afore;
There were threads an' tapes, an' tapes an' silks,
to sell by monny a score.
Owd Ned turn'd iv'ry wheel,
an' iv'ry wheel a strap;
"Begor!" says I to t' maister-man,
"Owd Ned's a rare strong chap."
Next I went to Leeds Owd Church--
I were niver i' one i' my days,
An' I were maistly ashamed o' misel,
for I didn't knaw their ways;
There were thirty or forty folk,
i' tubs an' boxes sat,
When up cooms a saucy owd fellow.
Says he, "Noo, lad, tak off thy hat."
Then in there cooms a great Lord Mayor,
an' over his shooders a club,
An' he gat into a white sack-poke,(1)
an gat into t' topmost tub.
An' then there cooms anither chap,
I thinks they call'd him Ned,
An' he gat into t' bottommost tub,
an' mock'd all t' other chap said.
So they began to preach an' pray,
they prayed for George, oor King;
When up jumps t' chap i' t' bottommost tub.
Says he, "Good folks, let's sing."
I thowt some sang varra weel,
while others did grunt an' groan,
Ivery man sang what he wad,
so I sang " Darby an' Joan."(2)
When preachin' an' prayin' were over,
an' folks were gangin' away,
I went to t' chap i' t' topmost tub.
Says I, "Lad, what's to pay?"
"Why, nowt," says he, "my lad."
Begor! I were right fain,
So I click'd hod(3) o' my gret club stick
an' went whistlin' oot again.
1. Corn-sack 2. Another reading is "Bobbing Joan."
3. Took hold
A Song 1.
Thomas Browne (1771-1798)
Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,
Y' are all ower slow by hauf for me,
That wait impatient for the mornin';
To-morn's the lang, lang-wish'd-for fair,
I'll try to shine the fooremost there,
Misen in finest claes adornin',
To grace the day.
I'll put my best white stockings on,
An' pair o' new cauf-leather shoon,
My clane wash'd gown o' printed cotton;
Aboot my neck a muslin shawl,
A new silk handkerchee ower all,
Wi' sike a careless air I'll put on,
I'll shine this day.
My partner Ned, I know, thinks he,
He'll mak hiss en secure o' me,
He's often said he'd treat me rarely;
But I's think o' some other fun,
I'll aim for some rich farmer's son,
And cheat oor simple Neddy fairly,
Sae sly this day.
Why mud not I succeed as weel,
An' get a man full oot genteel,
As awd John Darby's daughter Nelly?
I think misen as good as she,
She can't mak cheese or spin like me,
That's mair 'an(1) beauty, let me tell ye,
On onny day.
Then hey! for sports and puppy shows,
An' temptin' spice-stalls rang'd i' rows,
An' danglin' dolls by t' necks all hangin';
An' thousand other pratty seets,
An' lasses traul'd(2) alang the streets,
Wi' lads to t' yal-hoose gangin'
To drink this day.
Let's leuk at t' winder, I can see 't,
It seems as tho' 't was growin' leet,
The cloods wi' early rays adornin';
Ye loit'ring minutes faster flee,
Y' are all ower slow be hauf for me,
At(3) wait impatient for the mornin'
O' sike a day.
1. Than 2. Trailed 3. That
A Song 2.
Thomas Browne (1771--1798)
When I was a wee laatle totterin' bairn,
An' had nobbud just gitten short frocks,
When to gang I at first was beginnin' to lairn,
On my brow I gat monny hard knocks.
For sae waik, an' sae silly an' helpless was I
I was always a tumblin' doon then,
While my mother would twattle me(1) gently an' cry,
"Honey Jenny, tak care o' thisen."
When I grew bigger, an' got to be strang,
At I cannily ran all about
By misen, whor I liked, then I always mud gang
Bithout(2) bein' tell'd about ought;
When, however, I com to be sixteen year awd,
An' rattled an' ramp'd amang men,
My mother would call o' me in an' would scaud,
An' cry--" Huzzy, tak care o' thisen."
I've a sweetheart cooms noo upo' Setterday nights,
An' he swears at he'll mak me his wife;
My mam grows sae stingy, she scauds an' she flytes,(3)
An' twitters(4) me oot o' my life.
Bud she may leuk sour, an' consait hersen wise,
An' preach agean likin' young men;
Sen I's grown a woman her clack(5) I'll despise,
An' I's--marry!--tak care o' misen.
1. Prattle to me. 2. Without. 3. Argues,
4. Worries. 5. Talk
The Invasion: An Ecologue
Thomas Browne (1771--1798)
Impius haec tam culta novalia miles habebit?--Virgil.
A wanton wether had disdain'd the bounds
That kept him close confin'd to Willy's grounds;
Broke through the hedge, he wander'd far astray,
He knew not whither on the public way.
As Willy strives, with all attentive care,
The fence to strengthen and the gap repair,
His neighbour, Roger, from the fair return'd,
Appears in sight in riding-graith adorn'd;
Whom, soon as Willy, fast approaching, spies,
Thus to his friend, behind the hedge, he cries.
WILLY
How dea ye, Roger? Hae ye been at t' fair?
How gangs things? Made ye onny bargains there?
ROGER
I knaw not, Willy, things deant look ower weel,
Coorn sattles fast, thof beas'(1) 'll fetch a deal.
To sell t' awd intak(2) barley I desaagn'd,
Bud couldn't git a price to suit my maand.
What wi' rack-rents an' sike a want a' trade,
I knawn't how yan's to git yan's landloords paid.
Mair-ower(3) all that, they say, i' spring o' t' year
Franch is intarmin'd on 't to 'tack us here.
WILLY
Yea, mon! what are they coomin' hither for?
Depend upon 't, they'd better niver stor.(4)
ROGER
True, Willy, nobbud Englishmen 'll stand
By yan another o' their awwn good land.
They'll niver suffer--I's be bun' to say
The Franch to tak a single sheep away.
Fightin' for heame, upo' their awn fair field,
All power i' France could niver mak 'em yield.
WILLY
Whaw! seer(5) you cannot think, when put to t' pinch,
At onny Englishmen 'll iver flinch!
If Franch dea coom here, Roger, I'll be hang'd
An' they deant git theirsens reet soondly bang'd.
I can't bud think--thof I may be mistean
Not monny on 'em 'll git back agean.