THE CLAY DAUBIN.

[AIR: "Andrew Carr."-In the eastern and northern parts of Cumberland, the walls of houses are in general composed of clay, and in their erection take seldom more than the space of a day. When a young rustic marries, the highest ambition of his heart is to be the master of an humble claybuilt cottage, that might afford shelter to him and his family. As soon as he has selected a proper site, he signifies his intentions to his neighbours, who punctually muster on the spot where the intended building is to be raised, each individual bringing a spade and one day's provisions along with him. SANDERSON.]

We went owre to Deavie's Clay Daubin,
And faith a rare caper we had,

Wi' eatin, and drinkin, and dancin,
And rwoarin, and singin leyke mad;
Wi' crackin, and jwokin, and braggin,
And fratchin, and feightin, and aw,
Sec glorious fun and divarsion
Was ne'er seen in castle or ha'.

Sing hey for a snug clay biggin,

And lasses that leyke a bit spwort ;

Wi' friends and plenty to gie them,

We'll laugh at King Gworge and his court.

The walls were aw finish'd er darknin ;

Now, greypes, shouls, and barrows thrown by,

Auld Deavie spak up wid a hursle-
"Od rabbit it! lads, ye'll be dry;

See, deame, if we've got a swope whusky-
I's sworry the rum bottle's duin—
We'll starken our keytes, I'll uphod us—

Come, Adams, rasp up a lal tune!"

When Bill kittl'd up "Chips and Shavins,"
Auld Phillip pou'd out Matty Meer,
Then nattl'd his heels like a youngen,
And caper'd about the clay fleer;
He deeted his gob, and he buss'd her,
As lish as a lad o' sixteen;

Cries Wull, "Od dy! fadder's i' fettle!
His marrow 'll niver be seen!"

Reet sair did we miss Jemmy Coupland—
Bad crops, silly man, meade him feale;
Last Sunday forenoon, after sarvice,

I' th' kurk-garth, the clerk caw'd his seale.*
Peer Jemmy! of aw his bit oddments
A shottle the bealies hae ta'en,

And now he's reet fain of a darrak,
For pan, dish, or spuin, he hes neane.

Wi' scons, leather-hungry, and whusky,
Auld Aggy cried, "Meake way for me!
Ye men fwok eat, drink, and be murry,
Wheyle we i' the bower get tea."

The "kurk-garth" or church-yard on a Sunday morning used to be to the country people of Cumberland what the Exchange is to the merchants of London. It answered all the purposes of business or amusement, from whence general information was sent round the parish.

+ This is a ludicrous name given to a poor sort of cheese made of skimmed milk. It is also called Whillymer, and sometimes Rosley Cheshire.

The whillymer ate teugh and teasty,

Aw cramm'd fou o' grey pez and seeds; They row'd it up teane agean tudderNae dainties the hungry man needs.

Now in com the women fwok bouncing-
Widout tem there's niver nae fun;
Wi' whusky aw weeted their wizzens,
But suin a sad hay-bay begun ;

For Jock, the young laird, was new wedded,
His auld sweetheart, Jenny, luik'd wae ;
While some were aw titterin and flyrin,
The lads rubb'd her down wi' pez strae.

Rob Lowson tuik part wi' peer Jenny,
And brong snift'ring Gwordie a cluff;
I' th' scuffle they leam'd Lowson's mudder,
And fain they'd hae stripp'd into buff:
Neist Peter caw'd Gibby a rebel,

And aw rwoar'd out, that was queyte wrang ; Cried Deavie, "Shek hans, and nae mair on't— I's sing ye a bit of a sang."

He lilted "The King and the Tinker,"
And Wully struck up "Robin Hood;"
Dick Mingins tried "Hooly and Fairly,"
And Martha "The Babs o' the Wood;"
They push'd round a glass leyke a noggin,

And bottom'd the greybeard complete;
Then crack'd till the muin glowr'd amang them,
And wish'd yen anudder guid neet.

THE FELLOWS ROUND TORKIN.

[AIR: "The Yorkshire Concert."-Torkin is a woodcovered hill, near Crofton-hall, the seat of Sir Robert Brisco, Bart. For obvious reasons we are only able to print the burden of this song.]

We'er aw feyne fellows round Torkin
We're aw guid fellows weel met ;
We're aw wet fellows round Torkin,
Sae faikins we mun hev a sweat;

Let's drink to the lasses about us,
Till day's braid glare bids us start;
We'll sup till the saller be empty-
Come, Dicky, lad, boddom the quart.

We're aw 'cute fellows round Torkin;
We're aw sharp fellows weel met ;
We're aw rare fellows round Torkin,

Sae faikins we mun hev a sweat :

Let's drink to the lang, leame, and lazy,
Deef, dum, black, brown, bleer-e'ed, and blin,
May they suin get weel weddet and beddet,
If lads they can onie where fin!

KING ROGER.

AIR: "Hallow Fair.'

'Twas but tudder neet after darknin,

1

We sat owre a bleezin turf fire;

Our deame she was stirrin' a cow-drink, Our Betty milk'd kye in the byre: "Ay, fadder!" cried out our lal Roger, "I wish I were nobbet a king!" "Wey, what wad te dui?" says I, “Roger, Suppose tou cou'd tek thy full swing?"

"Furst, you sud be lword judge and bishop;
My mudder sud have a gold crutch;
I'd build for the peer fwok fine houses,
And gie them-aye, ever sae much!
Our Betty sud wed Charley Miggins,

And wear her stamp'd gown ev'ry day; Sec dancin we'd have in the cock-loft, Bill Adams the fiddle sud play.

"A posset I'd have to my breakfast,
And sup wi' a breet siller spuin;
For dinner I'd have a fat crowdy,
And strang tea at mid afternuin :
I'd wear neyce white cotton stockins,
And new gambaleery clean shoes,
Wi' jimp lively black fustin breeches,
And ev'ry fine thing I cou'd choose.