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 ootFrae 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 dealAyder 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.Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk,An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùkDūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk,An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee.Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr;An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;—When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur,An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack;An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back;But ifthū’sfūnd ootthine, I’ve fūnd ootmymistak’,An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free.Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n;Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yanMa’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn,But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.
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 ootFrae 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 dealAyder 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.Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk,An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùkDūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk,An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee.Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr;An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;—When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur,An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack;An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back;But ifthū’sfūnd ootthine, I’ve fūnd ootmymistak’,An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free.Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n;Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yanMa’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn,But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.
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.
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 ootFrae 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 dealAyder fairer or fonter wi’ 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.
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.
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.
Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk,An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùkDūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk,An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee.Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr;An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;—When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur,An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.
Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk,
An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùk
Dūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk,
An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee.
Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr;
An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;—
When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’n tull hur,
An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me.
But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack;An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back;But ifthū’sfūnd ootthine, I’ve fūnd ootmymistak’,An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free.Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n;Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yanMa’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn,But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.
But Harry an’ Bess meàd it up iv a crack;
An’ noo, ’at thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back;
But ifthū’sfūnd ootthine, I’ve fūnd ootmymistak’,
An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free.
Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n;
Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yan
Ma’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn,
But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.