I take leave to think that my version is the better, whichever may be the truer tale. I have further been told that the stone formerly stood in the centre of the field—and on the land coming into the possession of Mr. John Christian Curwen, the farmer waited upon that distinguished agriculturist to obtain permission to remove it to the hedge-side, and to plough the field. When he was told the history of the monument, and its inscription was recited to him, Mr. Curwen exclaimed, _more suo_, ”_Would not lie in consecrated ground!_ Then, plough him up! D—— him, plough him up!” CURSTY BENN. Cūrsty Benn of Under-Skiddaw Leev’t on t’ land whoar he was bworn; Eight-ty yacre, lea and meedow— Forty, green-crop, seeds an’ cworn. Cūrsty’ wife, a fewsome body, Brong him barnes, some nine or ten, Menseful, meat-heàl, fat an’ ruddy;— “Whoar’s their like?” said Cūrsty Benn. Cūrsty hed ya mortal failin’— Whoa may say they’ve less nor that?— Rayder fond was he o’ trailin’ Off frae heàm an’ bidin’ leàt. Fray Kes’ick Kit was ola’s leàtish; Hoo that com’ t’ wife gat to ken, When i’ t’ market neets she’d nwotish Signs o’ drink i’ Cūrsty Benn. Cūrsty’ wife was kind an’ canny, Nowder gi’en to flyte nor fret; “Weel aneùf,” she said, “I ken he Mayn’t be cured by sulks an’ pet; But I moon’t sit by an’ see him, Gear an’ grun’ spang-hew an’ spen’, I mūn gang till Kes’ick wi’ him!” Nowte ageàn’t said Cursty Benn. When they dadg’t away togidder, O’ row’t reet a canny bit; Cūrsty, pleas’t to market wid her, Tiped his pints, but dūdn’t sit. No’but for a bit it lastit— Sooa ’t’s been afoor an’ sen! When fwoke thowte she’d wiled him past it, Tull’t ageàn went Cūrsty Benn.— Tull’t ageàn i’ t’ public-hooses, Whilk an’ Cūrsty dūdn’t care; Adam Gill’s, or Mistress Boose’s, T’ Yak, t’ Queen’s Heed, or t’ Hoonds an’ Hare. Through them o’ t’ wife whiles went laitin’— Whiles, for hours an’ hours an’ en’, In their shandry sat she waitin’, Coald on t’ street, for Cūrsty Benn. Ya’ fine neet when leàt she gat him— Fairly forced to flyte, t’ poor deàm Lowsed her tongue reet freely at him, While t’ oald yoad went stammerin’ heàm. Whietly Kit bore her clatter, Nea back-wūrd he’d gi’en her, when T’ mèar pu’t up aside some watter;— “Drink, gūd lass!” says Cūrsty Benn. Lang she dronk, an’ lood she grūntit, Till a gay gud drain she’d hed; Than as t’ rwoad yance mair she frūntit, Cūrsty’ wife tūll Cūrsty said— “Sees t’e, min! that pooar oald mèar, When she’s full, she’s t’ sense to ken; Can’t thoo tak’ a pattren bee her— _Drink an deùn wi’t_, Cūrsty Benn?”