Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!—Nowte’s left like what it used to be—T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew—An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see—T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart,For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils,An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heartLike “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn,When stars war breet an’ frost was keen,Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn,Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen.An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed,An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt,An’ hear, at ivery stave they played,Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet,Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels,For few cud whyet hod the’r feetWhen Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels.Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel,Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance;An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn—His marrow willn’t seùn be seen;But rare top dancers many a yan,He’s left to keep his memory green.Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neetWe’ll see his gud reet elbow jog;An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet,T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair,An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang;We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to careFor heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang.An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here,T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails,An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer;Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!
Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!—Nowte’s left like what it used to be—T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew—An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see—T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart,For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils,An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heartLike “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn,When stars war breet an’ frost was keen,Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn,Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen.An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed,An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt,An’ hear, at ivery stave they played,Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet,Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels,For few cud whyet hod the’r feetWhen Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels.Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel,Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance;An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn—His marrow willn’t seùn be seen;But rare top dancers many a yan,He’s left to keep his memory green.Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neetWe’ll see his gud reet elbow jog;An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet,T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair,An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang;We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to careFor heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang.An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here,T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails,An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer;Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!
Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!—Nowte’s left like what it used to be—T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew—An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see—T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart,For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils,An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heartLike “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.
Kersmas is hardly Kersmas noo!—
Nowte’s left like what it used to be—
T’ yall’s nūt what they used to brew—
An’ t’ fūn’s nūt what we used to see—
T’ lasses irn’t hoaf sa smart,
For o’ the’r fallal hats an’ veils,
An’ music niver stūrs yan’s heart
Like “T’ Hūnt’s Up” played by oald Ben Wales.
“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn,When stars war breet an’ frost was keen,Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn,Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen.An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed,An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt,An’ hear, at ivery stave they played,Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.
“T’ Hūnt’s Up” of a Kersmas mworn,
When stars war breet an’ frost was keen,
Wad roose us like a hunter’s whorn,
Whativer hakes ower neet we’d seen.
An’ dar! ’twas nice to snūg i’ bed,
An’ lissen oot that brave oald lilt,
An’ hear, at ivery stave they played,
Gud wishes shootin’ t’ chorus till ’t.
Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet,Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels,For few cud whyet hod the’r feetWhen Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels.Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel,Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance;An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.
Ben Wales’s fiddle, many a neet,
Gev weel oiled springs to t’ heaviest heels,
For few cud whyet hod the’r feet
When Ben strack up his heartenin’ reels.
Wid elbow room an’ rozel’t weel,
Swinge! how he’d mak’ fwoke keàv an’ prance;
An’ nowte cud match t’ sly fiddle-squeal
’At signall’d kiss i’ t’ cushion dance.
Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn—His marrow willn’t seùn be seen;But rare top dancers many a yan,He’s left to keep his memory green.Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neetWe’ll see his gud reet elbow jog;An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet,T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.
Noo poor Ben Wales is deid an’ geàn—
His marrow willn’t seùn be seen;
But rare top dancers many a yan,
He’s left to keep his memory green.
Nèa mair at ball or oald-fwoke’s-neet
We’ll see his gud reet elbow jog;
An’ when they laid Ben oot o’ seet,
T’ oald cushion dance went oot o’ vogue.
Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair,An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang;We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to careFor heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang.An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here,T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails,An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer;Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!
Fwoke’s ways turn different, t’ langer t’ mair,
An’ what, lang sen, was reet ’s grown wrang;
We’re, meàst on us, owre fine to care
For heàmly dance, teùn, teàl, or sang.
An’ nowte ’s meàd varra lastin’ here,
T’ best bow-hand growes oald an’ fails,
An’ t’ lishest legs git num’ an’ queer;
Few last sa weel as oald Ben Wales!
NOTE.
The late Benjamin Wells was, for about half a century, the best known and most popular of all the dancing-masters who have plied their vocation amongst the country people of West Cumberland; and, as a teacher of the old-fashioned style of dancing, in which vigour, activity, and precision are, rather than gracefulness, the maindesiderata, he has never been surpassed. As a violin player his performance was remarkably correct, distinct, and strongly marked as to time—in fact, the best possible fiddling to dance to. The last time I met with him was about twenty years ago, in the bar-parlour of an inn in the southern part of the Lake district, which was somewhat out of his ordinary beat, and where the strains of his fiddle, produced at my request, caused such excitement that a general and very uproarious dance (of males only) set in, and was kept up with such energy that, the space being confined, the furniture was seriously damaged, and Ben was at last ejected by the landlady as the readiest, indeed the only method of putting a stop to the riot. He was light, muscular, and springy, and, in his earlier years, wonderfully swift of foot, so much so that the late Dr. Johnstone, of Cockermouth, told me that he once (at Scale Hill) saw him, without any assistance, run down and capture a wild rabbit—a proof of activity rarely paralleled. Poor old Ben! It will be long ere his erect, compact little figure, his bright, cheery expression, his sprightly address, and his quick firm step are altogether forgotten in the western dales and seaward parishes of Cumberland.Requiescat!
The late Benjamin Wells was, for about half a century, the best known and most popular of all the dancing-masters who have plied their vocation amongst the country people of West Cumberland; and, as a teacher of the old-fashioned style of dancing, in which vigour, activity, and precision are, rather than gracefulness, the maindesiderata, he has never been surpassed. As a violin player his performance was remarkably correct, distinct, and strongly marked as to time—in fact, the best possible fiddling to dance to. The last time I met with him was about twenty years ago, in the bar-parlour of an inn in the southern part of the Lake district, which was somewhat out of his ordinary beat, and where the strains of his fiddle, produced at my request, caused such excitement that a general and very uproarious dance (of males only) set in, and was kept up with such energy that, the space being confined, the furniture was seriously damaged, and Ben was at last ejected by the landlady as the readiest, indeed the only method of putting a stop to the riot. He was light, muscular, and springy, and, in his earlier years, wonderfully swift of foot, so much so that the late Dr. Johnstone, of Cockermouth, told me that he once (at Scale Hill) saw him, without any assistance, run down and capture a wild rabbit—a proof of activity rarely paralleled. Poor old Ben! It will be long ere his erect, compact little figure, his bright, cheery expression, his sprightly address, and his quick firm step are altogether forgotten in the western dales and seaward parishes of Cumberland.Requiescat!