FECKLESS WULLY.

Wee Wully wuns on yonder brow,
And Wully he hes dowters twee;
But nought cou'd feckless Wully dui,
To get them sweethearts weel to see.

For Meg she luik'd beath reet and left,
Her e'en they bwor'd a body thro';
And Jen was deef, and dum, and daft,
And deil a yen com there to woo.

The neybors wink'd, the neybors jeer'd,
The neybors flyr'd at them in scworn,
And monie a wicked trick they play'd
Peer Meg and Jen, beath neet and mworn.

As Wully went ae day to wark,

He kick'd a summet wid his shoe;

And Wully glower'd and Wully girn'd,

"Guide us!" quoth he, "what hae we now?"

And Wully cunn'd owre six scwore pun,
And back he ran wi' nimmle heel,

And aye he owre his shou'der glym'd,
And thought he'd dealings wi' the deil.

And Wully's bought a reet snug house,
And Wully's bought a bit o' lan ;
And Meg and Jen are trig and crouse,
Sin' he the yellow pwokie fan.

Nae mair the neybors wink and jeer,
But aw shek hans wi' them, I trow;
And ilk yen talks o' William's gear,

For Wully's changed to William now.

And some come east, and some come west,
And some come monie a mile to woo;
And Meg luiks straight, and Jen has sense,
And we aw see what gear 'll dui.

Ye rich fwok aw, ye'll aye dui reet;
Ye peer fwok aw, ye'll aye dui wrang:
Let wise men aw say what they will,
It's money meks the meer to gang.

THE BLECKELL MURRY-NEET.

[A Cumbrian MERRY-NIGHT is, as its name imports, a night appropriated to mirth and festivity. It takes place at some country ale-house, during the holidays of Christmas, a season in which every Cumbrian peasant refuses to be governed by the cold and niggardly maxims of economy and thrift.-SANDERSON.]

Ay, lad! sec a murry-neet we've hed at Bleckell,
The sound o' the fiddle yet rings i' my ear;
Aw reet clipt and heel'd were the lads and the lasses,
And monie a clever lish hizzy was there :
The bettermer swort sat snug i' the parlour,

I' th' pantry the sweethearters cutter'd sae soft; The dancers they kick'd up a stour i' the kitchen; At lanter the caird-lakers sat in the loft.

The clogger o' Dawston's a famish top hero,

And bangs aw the player-fwok twenty to yen; He stamp'd wid his fit, and he shouted and royster'd, Till the sweat it ran off at his varra chin en':

Then he held up ae han like the spout of a tea-pot, And danc'd "Cross the buckle" and "Leather

te-patch ;'

When they cry'd "bonny Bell!" he lap up to the ceilin,

And aye crack'd his thoums for a bit of a fratch.

The Hiverby lads at fair drinkin are seypers;
At cockin the Dawstoners niver were bet;
The Buckabank chaps are reet famish sweethearters,
Their kisses just sound like the sneck of a yett ;
The lasses o' Bleckell are sae monie angels;

The Cummersdale beauties aye glory in funGod help the peer fellow that gleymes at them dancin, He'll steal away heartless as sure as a gun!

The 'bacco was strang, and the yell it was lythey, And monie a yen bottom'd a quart leyke a kurn; Daft Fred, i' the nuik, leyke a hawf-rwoasted deevil, Telt sly smutty stwories, and meade them aw gurn, Then yen sung "Tom Linton," anudder "Dick Watters,"

The auld farmers bragg'd o' their fillies and fwoals, Wi' jeybin and jwokin, and hotchin and laughin, Till some thought it time to set off to the cwoals.

But, hod! I forgat-when the clock strack eleven, The dubbler was brong in, wi' wheyte bread and

brown;

The gully was sharp, the girt cheese was a topper, And lumps big as lapsteans our lads gobbl'd

down:

Aye the douse dapper lanlady cried, "Eat and welcome,

I' God's neame step forret ; nay, dunnet be bleate!" Our guts aw weel pang'd, we buck'd up for blin

Jenny,

And neist paid the shot on a girt pewder plate.

Now full to the thropple, wi' head-warks and heartaches,

Some crap to the clock-kease instead o' the duir; Then sleepin and snworin tuik pleace o'their rwoarin; And teane abuin tudder they laid on the fluir. The last o' December, lang, láng we'll remember, At five i' the mworn, eighteen hundred and twee: Here's health and success to the brave Jwohny Dawston,

And monie sec meetings may we leeve to see!

THE THUIRSBY WITCH.

AIR: O'er Bogie."

There's Harraby and Tarraby,

And Wigganby beside;

There's Oughterby and Soughterby,*
And bys beath far and wide;
Of strappin, sonsy, rwosy queens,
They aw may brag a few;
But Thuirsby for a bonny lass,

Can cap them aw, I trow.

Her mudder sells a swope o' drink,

It is beath stout and brown,

And Etty is the hinny fowt

Of aw the country roun ;

Frae east and west, beath rich and peer,

A-horse, a-fit, caw in

For whea can pass sae rare a lass,

He's owther daft or blin.

Her een are like twea Cursmas sleas,
But twice as breet and clear;
Nae rwose cou'd iver match her feace,
That yet grew on a brier;

At town, kurk, market, dance or fair,
She meks their hearts aw stoun,
And conquers mair than Bonyparte,
Whene'er she keeks aroun.

* Names of Cumberland Villages.