Sannter! sannter!! sannter, Bella!!! Gi’ me time to tell my teàl; ’Tis n’t kind to mak’ a fellow T’ laughin-stock of hoaf o’ t’ deàl. Does t’e think o’ ’s nūt fairation? Hes t’e any foat to finnd? Nay! Whey than, ther’s nèa ’casion— Hŭh—By jing, I’s oot o’ wind! ’Beàt thy speed! Dar sonn, I’ll ho’d the’! Ho’d the’ till I’ve said my say— Till my heart’s ya wish I’ve shew’d the’, Gittin’ back for ’t ey or nay. Wil’ t’e than, say, wil’ t’e wed me? Ah! Thou wadn’t still say—no! Faith! a bonnie dance th’u’s led me, But that lāl squeeze mak’s up for o’!— T’ squeeze frae thy smo’ fing-ers, Bella! Trimlin’ here i’ my rough hand; It’s queer a touch sa leet can tell a Teàl sa plain to understand; It’s queerer thoo sūd be sa freeten’t,— Flay’t when nowte at o’ ’s amiss. Loavin! How thy feàce has breeten’t, Reedenin’ up at t’ furst fair kiss. BRANTHET NEUK BOGGLE. (A TEAL FOR A WINTER NEEGHT.) ’At Marron Beck’s a bonnie beck, what mazelin wad deny? An’ what compares wi’ Branthet Neùk ’at Marron Beck gā’s by? Wid hoozes white, an’ worchets green, an’ Marron runnin’ clear, Eigh! Branthet Neùk’s a heartsome spot i’ t’ sūnny time o’ year! But loave! it is a dowly pleàce when winter neeghts growe lang; For t’ lwoan ligs dark atween it’s banks,—- a flaysome rwoad to gang When t’ wind rwoars wild in t’ trees abeùn, an’ Marron rwoars below,— An’ Branthet Neuk’s a hantit spot, as I’ve some reeght to know. They say a heidless woman woaks at sartin neeghts o’ t’ year, An’ greàns an’ yewls at sec a rate as freeghtens fwoke to hear; I wadn’t mind sec teàls, but yance I gat a freeght me-sel’ I’ Branthet Neùk, an’ hoo it was, just lissen an’ I’ll tell. Yā neeght, lang sen, at Cursmass time, wid Cursmass mak’ o’ wedder, A lock on us at Branthet met, to hev a glass togidder; We crack’t, an’ jwok’t, an’ drank, an’ smeuk’t, while hoaf o’ t’ neeght went by, For Isbel Simon’ drink was gud, an’ we war rayder dry! ’Twas lownd an’ leàt—past yan o’clock—wid nūt a spark o’ moon: An’ like a clood o’ cardit woo’, thick snow keep’t sinkin’ doon, When reeght up t’ Neùk three Jwohn’s an’ me went wādin’ heàm through t’ snow— Jwohn Suntan, an’ Jwohn Bell o’ t’ Rayes, an’ Jwohn o’ Craypless Ho’. We’d gitten hoaf o’ t’ way up t’ lwoan,—nār Edward Beeby’ yat, An’ theear we stopp’t, for marcy me! a parlish freeght we gat, Lood greàns we heard—lang hollow beels, ’at shak’t oor varra beàns, “For God-seàk, lads, mak on,” sez yan, “them’s t’ heidless woman’ greàns!”