GREEN verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres,How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spellThat bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d yearsAnd held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel.’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills,And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail,And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,8Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel.And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long,A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,)Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong,Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame.Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray;The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere,And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay—The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere.And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest,Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone,And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast—The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone.And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day,And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky,By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay,We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I.Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong,And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride,As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long,He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide.“Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I,When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell;For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky,And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell.“And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long,Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time;The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song,So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.”Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim—For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade—And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim,He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.“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’ markO’ scooers an’ scooers o’ weearin’ years on hantit Co’garth Ho’.“T’ āld Philipson’s o’ Windermer’ lang, lang hed theer the’r heeam;9An’ 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’ lifeNer 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’garthThey 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’ hearthWer’ 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’ landIs t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed;Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand,Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed,A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day,Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’;Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away,Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead,(They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,)Two skulls steead in a hooel i’ t’ wo’, aside o’ t’ wide stair heead,At āld Co’garth, an’ theear they gurn’t, a warnin’ fray aboon.“An’, ivery mak’ o’ pains they teeuk ut git ’em druven away—They buriet them, they born’t them weel, they bray’t them till they brak’,They sunk ’em full’t wi’ leed i’ t’ lake, they pash’t ’em deep i’ clay,But just as Dolly said they wod, they still co’ gurnin’ back.“An’ theear they’ve gurn’t an’ gurn’t ageean, for many a hundert year.An’ scòoars o’ fooak ha’ seen ’em theear—it’s neea lees I tell—Till t’ Bishop10wo’t ’em up i’ t’ hooal, bit still they’re gurnin’ theear,For just afooar he wo’t ’em up, I seed them theear mysel’.“An’t’ Philipsons went doon an’ doon, the’r schemin’ o’ went wrang,Though offen for a sinkin’ coase they meead a gallant stand;Fray t’ steeat rowls about Windermer’ the’r neeam hes vanish’t lang,Idivn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”
GREEN verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres,How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spellThat bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d yearsAnd held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel.’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills,And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail,And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,8Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel.And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long,A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,)Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong,Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame.Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray;The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere,And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay—The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere.And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest,Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone,And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast—The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone.And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day,And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky,By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay,We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I.Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong,And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride,As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long,He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide.“Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I,When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell;For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky,And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell.“And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long,Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time;The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song,So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.”Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim—For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade—And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim,He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.“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’ markO’ scooers an’ scooers o’ weearin’ years on hantit Co’garth Ho’.“T’ āld Philipson’s o’ Windermer’ lang, lang hed theer the’r heeam;9An’ 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’ lifeNer 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’garthThey 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’ hearthWer’ 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’ landIs t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed;Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand,Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed,A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day,Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’;Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away,Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead,(They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,)Two skulls steead in a hooel i’ t’ wo’, aside o’ t’ wide stair heead,At āld Co’garth, an’ theear they gurn’t, a warnin’ fray aboon.“An’, ivery mak’ o’ pains they teeuk ut git ’em druven away—They buriet them, they born’t them weel, they bray’t them till they brak’,They sunk ’em full’t wi’ leed i’ t’ lake, they pash’t ’em deep i’ clay,But just as Dolly said they wod, they still co’ gurnin’ back.“An’ theear they’ve gurn’t an’ gurn’t ageean, for many a hundert year.An’ scòoars o’ fooak ha’ seen ’em theear—it’s neea lees I tell—Till t’ Bishop10wo’t ’em up i’ t’ hooal, bit still they’re gurnin’ theear,For just afooar he wo’t ’em up, I seed them theear mysel’.“An’t’ Philipsons went doon an’ doon, the’r schemin’ o’ went wrang,Though offen for a sinkin’ coase they meead a gallant stand;Fray t’ steeat rowls about Windermer’ the’r neeam hes vanish’t lang,Idivn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”
GREEN verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres,How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spellThat bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d yearsAnd held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel.
G
REEN verged, glancing Wynander, first, fairest of our meres,
How potent was its fairy charm—how perfect was the spell
That bound me to its beauty once in youth’s untrammel’d years
And held me lingering, lingering at its Ferry’s famed Hotel.
’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills,And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail,And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,8Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel.
’Twas ere the railway whistle ’woke the echoes of the hills,
And Arnold[8] the vivacious perch’d as yet behind the mail,
And that fine old English autocratic Boniface, Ben Bills,8
Ruled with a wholesome despotism the Ferry and Hotel.
And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long,A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,)Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong,Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame.
And Benjamin’s chief ferryman was stalwart old John Long,
A veteran of the wrestling ring, (its records hold his name,)
Who yet in life’s late autumn, was a wiry wight and strong,
Though grizzly were his elf-locks wild and bow’d his giant frame.
Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray;The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere,And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay—The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere.
Cool Michaelmas its summer brought, serene, and soft, and gray;
The high steep wood of Harrowslack all yellow grew and sere,
And shower’d its faded raiment o’er the Ferry’s gloom-girt bay—
The deepest, darkest, dreamiest nook of bay-fringed Windermere.
And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest,Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone,And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast—The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone.
And listlessly and idly as the lazy mists that rest,
Or cling with loving closeness, after summer’s heats are gone,
And autumn’s breezes over, to Wynander’s placid breast—
The latest guest the Ferry held, I loitered there alone.
And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day,And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky,By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay,We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I.
And there upon its calm-still’d wave, throughout the shortening day,
And oft when daylight waned apace, and stars be-gemm’d the sky,
By rocky nab or islet green, by slumb’ring pool or bay,
We glided through the peacefulness—stark old John Long and I.
Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong,And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride,As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long,He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide.
Yes; though John Long was worn and wan, he still was stark and strong,
And he plied his bending “rooers” with a boatman’s manly pride,
As crashing past the islands, through the reed stalk, crisp and long,
He stretch’d away far northward, where the lake spread fair and wide.
“Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I,When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell;For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky,And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell.
“Now rest upon your oars, John Long,” one evening still said I,
When shadows deepened o’er the mere from Latter-barrow Fell;
For far beyond broad Weatherlam the sun sank in the sky,
And bright his levell’d radiance lit the heights around Hillbell.
“And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long,Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time;The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song,So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.”
“And tell me an old story,” thus I further spoke, “John Long,
Some mournful tale or legend, of the far departed time;
The scene is all too solemn here for lightsome lay or song,
So tell, and, in your plain strong words, I’ll weave it into rhyme.”
Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim—For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade—And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim,He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.
Then old John Long revolved his quid, and gaunt he look’d and grim—
For darker still athwart the lake spread Latter-barrow’s shade—
And pointing o’er the waters broad to fields and woodlands dim,
He soberly and slowly spake, and this was what he said.
“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’ markO’ scooers an’ scooers o’ weearin’ years on hantit Co’garth Ho’.
“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;9An’ 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’.
“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.
“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.
“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’ lifeNer sell or swap a single yird of infield land or fell.
“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.
“‘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’garthThey 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’ hearthWer’ theirs, for t’ squire hed ooerder’t ’at they sud be that mitch greac’t.
“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.
“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:—
“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’ landIs t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;
“‘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;
“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed;Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand,Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed,A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.
“‘For yee sall prosper niver meear, yersel’, nor yan o’ t’ breed;
Whativer schemes yee set a geeat ’ill widder i’ yer hand,
Whativer side yee tak’ ’ill lwose; an’, spite of o’ yer greed,
A time ’ill come when t’ Philipson’s wi’ n’t awn an inch o’ land.
“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day,Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’;Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away,Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’
“An’, while Co’garth’s strang wo’s sall stand, we’ll hā’nt it neet an’ day,
Ye s’ niver mair git shot on us, whativer way yè tak’;
Whativer plan or geeat yè try, ut banish us away,
Ye’ll hardly knā’ we irr away afooer ye see us back.’
“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead,(They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,)Two skulls steead in a hooel i’ t’ wo’, aside o’ t’ wide stair heead,At āld Co’garth, an’ theear they gurn’t, a warnin’ fray aboon.
“An’ suer aneeuf, neist Kersmas, when they’d nit been twelvemonth deead,
(They’d buriet t’ pooer āld fooak wi’ lime, whār the’ wor putten doon,)
Two skulls steead in a hooel i’ t’ wo’, aside o’ t’ wide stair heead,
At āld Co’garth, an’ theear they gurn’t, a warnin’ fray aboon.
“An’, ivery mak’ o’ pains they teeuk ut git ’em druven away—They buriet them, they born’t them weel, they bray’t them till they brak’,They sunk ’em full’t wi’ leed i’ t’ lake, they pash’t ’em deep i’ clay,But just as Dolly said they wod, they still co’ gurnin’ back.
“An’, ivery mak’ o’ pains they teeuk ut git ’em druven away—
They buriet them, they born’t them weel, they bray’t them till they brak’,
They sunk ’em full’t wi’ leed i’ t’ lake, they pash’t ’em deep i’ clay,
But just as Dolly said they wod, they still co’ gurnin’ back.
“An’ theear they’ve gurn’t an’ gurn’t ageean, for many a hundert year.An’ scòoars o’ fooak ha’ seen ’em theear—it’s neea lees I tell—Till t’ Bishop10wo’t ’em up i’ t’ hooal, bit still they’re gurnin’ theear,For just afooar he wo’t ’em up, I seed them theear mysel’.
“An’ theear they’ve gurn’t an’ gurn’t ageean, for many a hundert year.
An’ scòoars o’ fooak ha’ seen ’em theear—it’s neea lees I tell—
Till t’ Bishop10wo’t ’em up i’ t’ hooal, bit still they’re gurnin’ theear,
For just afooar he wo’t ’em up, I seed them theear mysel’.
“An’t’ Philipsons went doon an’ doon, the’r schemin’ o’ went wrang,Though offen for a sinkin’ coase they meead a gallant stand;Fray t’ steeat rowls about Windermer’ the’r neeam hes vanish’t lang,Idivn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”
“An’t’ Philipsons went doon an’ doon, the’r schemin’ o’ went wrang,
Though offen for a sinkin’ coase they meead a gallant stand;
Fray t’ steeat rowls about Windermer’ the’r neeam hes vanish’t lang,
Idivn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”