To stop the never-ceasin storm,

I brong her cousin here;

She aw but brak the wee thing's heart,
An' cost her monie a tear :

If chance a frien' pops in his head,
Off to the duir she'll flee;
She snarls leyke onie angry cat,
An' sair I's vex'd to see!
Now fratchin, neist scratchin,
Oft wi' bleaken'd e'e;

I pray auld Nick hed sec a deame,
I trow he vex'd wad be!

How blithe man meets the keenest ills,
In this shwort voyage o' leyfe,
And thinks nae palace leyke his heame,
Blest wid a kindly weyfe:

But sure the greatest curse hard fate
To onie man can gie,

Is sec a filthy slut as meyne,

That ne'er yence comforts me;

Lads jeerin, lasses sneerin,

Cuckold some caw me;

I scrat an auld grey achin pow,
But darn't say they lee.

They're happy that have teydey weyves,

To keep peer bodies clean;

But meyne's a freetfu' lump o' filth,

Her marrow ne'er was seen:

Ilk dud she wears upon her back,

Is poison to the e'e;

Her smock's leyke auld Nick's nuttin bag,
The deil a word I lee:

Dour an' dirty-house aw clarty!

See her set at tea,

Her feace defies baith seape and san',

To mek't just fit to see!

A bite o' meat I munnet eat,
Seave what I cuik mysel;

Ae patch or clout she'll nit stick on,
Sae heame's just leyke a hell:
By day or neet, if out o' seet,
Seafe frae this canker'd she,
I pray and pray wi' aw my heart,
Death, suin tek her or me!
Fleyte, fleytin!-feight, feightin!
How her luik I dree!

Come tyrant rid me o' this curse,
Dui tek her! I'll thank thee!

THE LASSES OF CAREL.

The lasses o' Carel are weel-shep'd and bonny,
But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear;
You may follow, and follow, till heart-sick and weary,
To get them needs siller, and feyne claes to wear:

They'll catch at a reed cwoat, leyke as monie mack'rel, And jump at a fop, or e'en lissen a fuil;

Just brag of an uncle that's got heaps of money,

And deil a bit odds, if you've ne'er been at schuil!

I yence follow'd Marget, the toast amang aw maks, And Peg had a red cheek, and bonny dark e'e; But suin as she fan' I depended on labour,

She snurl'd up her neb, and nae mair luik'd at me: This meks my words guid, nobbet brag o' yer uncle, And get a peer hawf-wit to trumpet your praise, You may catch whee you will, they'll caress ye, and

bless ye

It's money, nit merit, they seek now-a-days!

I neist follow'd Nelly, and thought her an angel, And she thought me aw that a mortal sud be: A rich whupper-snapper just step in atween us,

Nae words after that pass'd atween Nell and me: This meks my words guid, nobbet brag o' yer uncle, They'll feight, ay leyke mad cats, to win yer sly

smile;

And watch ye, to catch ye, now gazin' and praisin',

They're angels to luik at, wi' hearts full o' guile!

JOHN RAYSON.

OHN RAYSON was for many years the sole survivor of those writers who, com

mencing with Relph, have swelled the poetical literature of Cumberland to so considerable a volume. On the father's side he was descended from a family which has been settled at Aglionby, near Carlisle, from time immemorial. The name is found in the Court Rolls spelled as Raison, Raeson, &c., and the probability is that the family has lived. at Aglionby since the Norman conquest. The early part of Rayson's life was spent on his father's estate, but the intention seems to have been to make him a draper. He was in business at Carlisle, and also in London, and in both instances failed. For some time, too, he filled the situation of attorney's clerk, at Penrith, but did not relish the drudgery of such employment. Undoubtedly the kind of life best suited to his own temperament was that of village schoolmaster, and to this occupation he devoted himself for many years of his life, teaching in various parts of Cumberland with more or less success. In the free and easy style of living followed by the schoolmasters of the last

generation, Rayson was quite at home. He was a favourite with the farmers, writing their letters, and making their wills, and received as the principal part of his remuneration free "whittlegate," as customary at that time. In 1845 he obtained the appointment of assistant overseer to the Penrith Union, and became a very efficient parish officer. But having got embarrased in his circumstances he was obliged to resign this situation, which, no doubt, preyed upon his mind, and perhaps shortened his existence. He died of disease of the heart, in 1859, and was buried in Warwick churchyard.

Rayson commenced as a rhymester about the time that Robert Anderson was in the zenith of his fame, and it must be added, in the lowest deep of depression and neglect. Whilst Anderson, in despair, was about "to commit his unpublished pieces to the flames" (1824), Rayson made his first appearance in the columns of the Citizen, a fortnightly periodical then issuing in Carlisle, with "Lines on the Cumberland Bard," written for the purpose of bringing aid to the elder poet. Rather poor encouragement for poets! nevertheless, Rayson continued a contributor to the Citizen while it lasted, and subsequently to other local prints. Several years ago he published a small volume of his ballads, but it was not until 1858 that he was enabled to bring out a complete edition to include his latest. and best pieces. Of the merits of his productions we can only speak comparatively; as the best of