We ma’ leet on a barne wid t’ leùk of ill-natur’ An’ spite glowerin’ oot of a widderful feàce; A lean, discontentit, slee, gyversome creetur’, ’At kens hoo to mak’ its-sel’ t’ maister o’ t’ pleàce— ’At yowls when it wants owte, an’ glumps when it gits it, Till o’ but it’s mūdder wad droon’t iv a kit; ’An’ t’ mair ’at she dantles, an’ pampers, an’ pets it, T’ less like to growe t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick growes it. Or mayhap, a lāl lad ’at tells teàls of his brudders, An’ cocks his-sel’ up, an’ example to t’ rest— ’At seàvs his oan laikins an’ laiks wid anudder’s, An’ geaps for owte gud like a gorb iv a nest; ’At boggles at lowpy-back, rack-ups, or shinny, An’ keeps his-sel’ ootside o’ t’ ruck at foot-bo’;— They ma’ praise him ’at hes him—I’d lay my last guinea He s’ niver be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick for o’. Or a rovin’ yūng chap ’at ga’s hard efter t’ lasses, An’ stuffs them wid o’ maks o’ flaitchment an’ lees; Ol’a’s smùrkin’ an’ smilin’ an’ fair to the’r feàces, But skiftin’ his mattie as fancy ma’ please— Tackin’ up at t’ lang last, efter feùlin a duzzen, Wid sūmbody’s dowter he thinks weel to dee;— A taggelt like that sūd be hatit like puzzen— He’ll niver be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick, nūt he! Or a man ’at likes brass, an’ cheats o’ maks o’ ways for’t, An’ clowks at advantage whoariver he can; An’ taks drink gaily free when anudder chap pays for’t, But wi’n’t stand his share iv a shot like a man: ’At ol’a’s for sūm dūrty profit ligs watchin’; ’At keeps o’ he cares for anonder ya hat; An’ pays what he owes fwok wid phraisin’ or fratchin’— He munnet be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—moon’t that! Or a swaddlin’ oald sneak, wid a snowk an’ a snivel, ’At kests up his e’en when he hears a rūff jwoke; Co’in’ sangs an’ queer stwories o’ ’ticements o’ t’ divel— An’ snirrups his nwose ūp at t’ praise o’ poor fwok: ’At grùnts ageàn wrusslin’s, fairs, hoond-trails an’ reàces, An’ sec-like divarsions, as sinful an’ vain, Winkin’ hard at t’ seàm time at wār sins i’ hee pleàces— He niver was t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—that’s plain. Nay! for be what it may be—his yeàge, steàt or station, A man hollow heartit, unfrindly, unfair, Makin’ mair nor reet use of a lofe or occasion,— Grippin’ hard by his oan, ah, still grankin’ for mair; ’At can toak like a bishop, an’ hod back his meanin’, But can’t wid his neighbours or kinsfwoke agree; Keepin’ bleàmin’ an’ backbitin’, grudgin’ an’ pleenin’— He cannot be t’ clean Ned o’ Kes’ick—can’t he. FOOTNOTES: [5] Fiend’s-fell, an old name for Cross-fell, on the eastern verge of the county. [6] The beautiful secluded bay which divides the two Heads of St. Bees, the most westerly points of Cumberland, is called Fleswick. BEN WELLS.