“I thowte I _was_ gā’n to be set up wi’ spats for sure, for she went at t’ oald corduroy ageàn feùrcer nor iver, an’ hed two mair meàd afoor I ken’t whoar I was. She hed them o’ wesh’t an’ iron’t, an’ straps putten on them, ruddy for gā’n to chūrch o’ t’ Sunday mwornin’; but loavin’ bliss us o’ weel! if she hedn’t geàn an’ meàd o’ t’ fower for t’ reet feùt, an’ left me just as far off hevin’ spats to my feet as iver. Mad as we war, we beàth brast oot laughin’, an’ laugh’t tull hūr laugh hed rayder less of a cry in’t nor it hed at t’ fūrst, an’ than says I, ‘What’s to be deùn noo, Mally?’ I says, ‘Urr we to send till Ireby for anudder par o’ t’ drip white corduroys, an’ hev fower par o’ spats? I is gā’n to be weel spattit i’ t’ lang run!’ ‘Nay,’ says she, ‘I’ll spat the’ na mair spats; I’ll lig thur i’ my oan top-dro’er, an’ wheniver I see them they’ll be a warnin’ to me nūt to mell wi’ wark at I hevn’t been browte up till. Fwoke says it taks nine tailiors to mak’ a man, but I divn’t think anybody hes tell’t us hoo many women it may tak’ to mak’ a tailior; but whedder it tak’s many or few, thoo may mak’ thysel’ seàf an’ suer ’at thy wife willn’t be yan o’ them.’ An’ that was t’ way I was deùn oot o’ my chance o’ gittin’ two par o’ spats.” A SNECK POSSET. Niver ageàn, Eddy! Niver ageàn! If I moo’n’t hev a lad ’at ’ill coort me my leàn, ’At ’ill hod by ya sweetheart, an’ me be that yan, I mūn bide as I is till I dee. Thū’s coddel’t Keàt Crosstet, Ann Atchin, Jane Blair, ’Becca Rudd, Mary Mo’son, Ruth Lytle, an’ mair; Thoo says it’s o’ fūn, an’ sec fūn ma’ be fair, But it doesn’t seem jannic to me. I favour’t the’, ey! abeùn o’ t’ lads aboot; I thowte, like a feùl, ’at thū’d sing-elt me oot Frae t’ tūdders, an’ I’ve been reet sarra’t, na doobt, To trust sec a taistrel as thee. Reet sarra’t? Ey, mess! I was warn’t gaily weel,— I was tel’t hoo thū’d feùl’t an’ than left Greàcy Peile; An’ what reet hed I to believe thoo wad deal Ayder fairer or fonter wi’ me? Fwoke tel’t mé thoo com of a slape, sneeky breed;— ’At a tungue sec as thine seldom hung iv a heid;— ’At twice i’ three times when thoo said owte, thoo leed; But I fanciet that hardly cūd be. For ’Speàtry, I kent, was a hard-spocken pleàce, An’ I thowte ’at, may-hap, thū’d been wrang’t aboot Greàce;— God help mé!—I thowte I read t’ truth i’ thy feàce, When thoo swore thoo cared only for me. We’re silly, us lasses—We’re maizlins, I know!— We’re t’ meàst teàn wi’ them ’at oor frinds meàst misco’; An’ when we’re teàn in, we’ve to shear what we sow, An’ to rue sec mistaks till we dee. But leet com’ i’ time, an’ it o’ com’ at yance, I so’t fair aneùf, but, to give thee ya chance, I went by mysel’ to Jane Loncaster’s dance, Just to see if thoo dūd care for me.