Folk-Speech of Cumberland and Some Districts Adjacent: Being Short Stories and Rhymes in the Dialects of the West Border CountiesGibson, Alexander Craig
General
Folk-Speech of Cumberland and Some Districts Adjacent: Being Short Stories and Rhymes in the Dialects of the West Border Counties
Gibson, Alexander Craig
English language -- Dialects -- England -- Cumberland -- Texts
an’ efter o’, ’at ther’ may’d be sum’at i’ t’ oald man likin steans
of his oan breakin’ better nor ūdder fwoke’s. I remember’t t’ fiddle
’at Dan Fisher meàd, an’ thowte was t’ best fiddle ’at iver squeak’t,
for o’ it meàd ivery body else badly to hear’t; an’ wad bray oald Ben
Wales at his dancing scheùl boal acoase Ben wadn’t play t’ heàm meád
fiddle asteed of his oan. We o’ think meàst o’ what we’ve hed a hand in
oorsel’s—it’s no’but natteral; an’ sooa as o’ this ron throo my heid,
I fūnd me-sel’ gitten rayder sworry for t’ oald man, an’ I says, “What
wad yé gi’ me to git yé o’ yer oan bits o’ steàn back ageàn?” He cockt
up his lugs at this, an’ ax’t mé if his speciments, as he co’t them,
was seàf. “Ey,” says I, “they’re seàf aneùf; nèabody hereaboot ’ill
think a lal lock o’ steans worth meddlin’ on, sa lang as they divn’t
lig i’ the’r rwoad.” Wid that he jūmpt ūp an’ said I mud hev sum’at
to drink. Thinks I to me-sel’, “Cūm! we’re gittin’ back to oor oan
menseful way ageàn at t’ lang last, but I willn’t stūr a peg till I ken
what I’s to hev for gittin him his rubbish back, I wad niver hear t’
last on’t if I went heàm em’ty handit.” He meád it o’ reet hooiver,
as I was tackin’ my drink; an’ he went up t’ stair an’ brong doon t’
ledder bags I kent sa weel, an’ geh mé them to carry just as if nowte
hed happen’t, an’ off we startit varra like as we dūd afooar.
T’ Skeàl-hill fwoke o’ gedder’t aboo’t dooar to leùk efter us, as if
we’d been a show. We, nowder on us, mindit for that, hooiver, but
stump’t away togidder as thick as inkle weavers till we gat till t’
feùt of oor girt meedow, whoar t’ steans was liggin, aside o’ t’
steel, just as I’d teem’t them oot o’ t’ bags, only rayder grown ower
wid gūrse. As I pick’t them up, yan by yan, and handit them to t’ oald
jolly jist, it dūd my heart gūd to see hoo pleas’t he leùkt, as he
wipet them on his cwoat cūff, an’ wettit them, an’ glower’t at them
throo his specks as if they wer’ sum’at gud to eat, an’ he was varra
hungry—an’ pack’t them away into t’ bags till they wer’ beàth chock
full ageàn.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account