“A house ligs lā’ an’ leànsome theear, doon in that oomer dark, Wi’ wide, heigh-risin’ chimla-heeads, lā’ roof, an’ crum’lin’ wo’, O’ wedder-gnā’n an’ weed-be-grown—for time hes setten t’ mark O’ scooers an’ scooers o’ weearin’ years on hantit Co’garth Ho’. “T’ āld Philipson’s o’ Windermer’ lang, lang hed theer the’r heeam;[9] An’ far an’ wide the’r manors spread ooer forest, field, an’ fell; But now ther’s nit i’ t’ cūntryside a steeatsman o’ their neeam— Ther’s Philipsons, but o’ work hard for breead like me mysel’. “For niver thinkin’ they’d aneeuf, and strivin’ still for meear, They wantit ivery scrap o’ land the’r nebbers held aboot; An’ many a pooer man’s grund they gat, by meeans nit ol’a’s fair— An’ lang o’ that grund-greed o’ their’s, this teeal o’ mine fell out. “An’ āld-ly man nār Burthet leev’t, his neeam was Kraster Cook, An’ whyetly his life hed ron wi’ Dorot’y his deeam. A conny lile bit farm was theirs, a lown an’ sunny neeuk, An’ t’ house ’at’s theear upon it still keeps up āld Kraster’ neeam. “Myles Philipson wad often toak wi’ Kraster Cook an’ t’ wife, An’ priss them hard the’r bit o’ land ut swap wi’ him or sell; But beeath o’ t’em at last spak’ oot—they’d rayder part wi’ life Ner sell or swap a single yird of infield land or fell. “‘Ye s’ part wi’ ’t than,’ said Philipson, as rantin’ mad he rooar’d, ‘I’ll hev that bit o’ land o’ yours, sud yee be ’live or deead.’ An’ Kraster fūnd ’at efter that as if ther was a sooard ’At hed to fo’ when t’ time co’ round, still hingin’ ooer his heead. “Bit nowte com on’t till t’ Kersmas time, an’ than till āld Co’garth They went wi’ t’ tudder nebbors, kindly ex’t to t’ Kersmas feeast; An’ t’ best o’ t’ seeats at t’ sūpper booard, an’ warmest neeuk at t’ hearth Wer’ theirs, for t’ squire hed ooerder’t ’at they sud be that mitch greac’t. “Bit seeun they fūnd that Kersmas treeat mud cost ’em parlish dear, For Philipson pertendit ’at they’d stown a silver cūp, An’ Cook’s house was ratch’t through an’ through, an’ t’ silver cup fund theear, Heead theear, girt like, o’ purpose—an’ t’ āld cūpple wer’ teean up. “An’ for the’r lives they triet ’em beeath, an’ beeath condemn’t to dee. Myles Philipson was theear, an’ Dolly glooer’t him hard i’ t’ feeace, As meear ner plowmb she rais’t hersel’, an’, terrable ut see, She spak’ thir wūrds i’ seccan a skrike as rung through t’ justice pleeace:— “‘Ey, gūd thysel’, Myles Philipson—thou thinks th’u’s mannish’t grand; Thou thinks th’u’s hooal’t our lile bit grund, and gitten’t o’ for nowte, Bit, harks te’ here, Myles Philipson—that teenie lump o’ land Is t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;