A CORNISH DIALOGUE
Between Grace Penvear and Mary Treviskey.
Greacey.
Fath and Trath than! I bleeve in ten Parishes round
Sichey Roag, sichey Vellan es nat to ba found.
Mally.
Whoats' tha' fussing, Un Greacey! long wetha Cheel Vean?
Greacey.
A fussing a ketha! oads splet 'es ould breane!
Our Martn's cum'd hum cheeld so drunk as a beast,
And so cross as the Gallish from Perran-zan feaast:
A cum'd in a tottering, cussing, and sweering
So hard as a Stompses, and tarving and teering!
Mally.
Naver meynd et un Greacey, goa, poat en to bed
Al sleep ale tha lecker aweay froam es head.
Greacey.
I'd nat goa a neest en to fang tha Kings Crown,
For a sweers ef I speek to'an al cleev ma skuel down:
Tha navar en ale tha boarn daeys, fath and shoar,
Dedst behould sichey Maze-gerry Pattick a foar.
Why, a scat ale to Midjans and Jowds for the noans,
A clom Buzza of scale melk about on tha scoans.
And a raak'd up a showl for to steeve ma' outright,
But I'm run'd awaey, readdy to feyntey for freyt!
Loard! tell ma un Mally! whaat shall Ey do by 'an?
For Zoundtikins Deth! Ey'm a fear'd to cum ny'an.
Mally.
I know whoat Ey'd gee'an ef so bee 'twor my case,
Ey'd scat tha ould Chacks aa'n; Ey'd trem 'an un Greace.
Greacey.
Ey'm afeard o'my leyf to coam ny tha ould Vellan,
Else pleas faather! Ey bleeve Ey shu'd murely kill 'an.
Wor ever poor creychar so baal'd and aboos'd,
Ma heep here leyke bazzom, tha Roag have a bruis'd.
Ey mad for 'es sopar a Muggety Pye,
But a shaan't clunk a croom a'te Ey wish Ey meay die!
Mally.
Aye! Ey tould tha afore that tha jobb wor a done,
That tha'd'st find out tha odds 'ate, so shoor as a gun;
But tha' wouds'nt hark to ma for doubting, for why
That beshoor, that tha knowd'st 'en mooch better than Ey;
But Ey knaw'd tha good trem 'ane befour tha's't a got 'en;
Ey cou'd tell tha a mashes of stoareys about en;
But tha' aanserds't soa heytish and shrinkt up tha noaz:
'A gissing 'twor greeat stromming leys Ey sopoaz!
But there's one of es praenks Ey shall aleweays remembar
'Twill be three years agone coam tha eighth of Novembar,
Ey'd two pretty young Mabjers as eyes cu'd behould,
So fat as tha Botar; jest iteen wiks ould,
Tha wor picking about in tha Tewn plaace for meat,
Soa Ey hov downe sum Pillas amongst mun to eat:
When who but your man comd a tott'ring along
Soa drunk, that Ey thoft fath, ad fale in tha dung!
'A left tomble 'es Hoggan-bag jest by tha doar,
Soa I caled to tha man as one wud to be shoor,
Sez Ey, Martyn! dust hire Cheeld! teak up tha bag,
"Arrea" sez a, "for whoat beest a caleing me Dog?"
And dreev'd forth toweards ma, nar bettar nar wuss
Nack'd the Mabjers boath steff, we a gaert mawr o' fuss;
Ley'k enow ef Ey hadnt shov'd haastis awaey
A'd a done as a ded to Jan Rous t'oather daey,
When a gote en eis tantrums, a wilfull ould Devel,
A slam'd tha poor Soal on tha head we a Yevel;
Fath and Soal than un Gracey ef so bee a doent aelter
Ey bleev e ma conshance el swing en a haelter.
Greacey.
When tha Leker es runn'd awaey every drap
'Tis too late to ba thenking of plugging the Tap,
And marridge must goa as the Loard do ordean,
But a Passon wud swear to ba used so Cheeld Vean.
Had Ey smilt out tha coose 'ane but neyne weeks ago
Ey'd never a had tha ould Vellan Ey know,
But a vowd and a swear'd that if Ey'd by hes weyf
That Ey naver shud lack ale tha daeys o' ma leyf;
And a broft me a Nakin and Corn saave from Preen;
En ma conshance thoft Ey, Ey shall leve leyk a Queen.
But 'tes plaguey provoking, od rat es ould head!
To be pooted and flopt soa! Ey wish a war dead.
Why a spent haafe es fangings laast Saterday neyt,
Leyk enow by this teym 'tes gone every dyte.
But Ey'll tame tha ould Devel, afor et es long,
Ef Ey caant we ma Viestes—Ey will we ma Tongue.
(Fuss)
(Un) Aunt—a title usually given to an elderly woman.
(Vean) [Cornish for little] Cheel Vean—little Child.
(Tarving) Tarvings.
(Fang) [Saxon] to gripe, receive, &c. Shakespear.
(Maze-gerry Pattick) a mad brutish or frolicsome fool.
(Midjans and Jouds) shreds and tatters.
(Noans) [Nonce] on purpose.
(Clom Buzza) a coarse earthen pot.
(Scoans) the pavement. (Showl) a shovel. (Steeve) stave.
(Scat) to give a blow, to break. (Chacks) cheeks.
(Murely) almost. (Baal'd) mischievously beaten.
(Bazzom) of a blue or purple colour.
(Muggety Pye) a pye made of sheeps guts, parsley and cream, pepper and salt. (Clunk) swallow. (Croom) crumb.
(Mashes) a great many, number, &c.
(Mabjers) Mab Hens—young fowls two-thirds grown.
(Pillas) [Pilez—Cornish] the avena nuda or naked oats of Ray; bald, bare or naked oats without husks.
(Hoggan) Hogan in Cornish British signifies a Hawthorn berry; also any thing mean or vile; but here it means a Pork pasty; and now indeed a Tinner's Pasty is called a Hoggan.
(Arrea) Arria [vulg. for Ria] O strange.
(Gaert) great, "gaert mawr o Fuss," great root of Furze.
(Haestis) hastily. (Yevil) a Dung fork with three prongs.
(Passon) Parson. (Coose) course or way of him.
(Neyne weeks)—as though they had been married but nine weeks, whereas in the third line, she is addressed by Un Mally as 'long wetha Cheeld vean.' This will be readily explained by noticing a custom very prevalent among the lower ranks of the county, as will appear by the following anecdote. A friend of mine who was one year an officer in one of the mining parishes, told me that of fifty-five couples married during that year, it was manifest by the appearance of fifty of the ladies, that they ought to have been married several moons before. A young man, to the honor of the county be it said, (even if the practice be to its disparagement) needs no compulsion to marry his lass when in this condition.
(Nackin) Handkerchief. (Preen) Penryn. (Pooted) kicked.
(Fangings) gettings or wages. (Viestes) Fists.
CARN BREH,[147]
AN ODE HITHERTO UNPUBLISHED,
By Dr. WALCOT,
BETTER KNOWN BY THE POETICAL APPELLATION OF
PETER PINDAR.[148]
While nature slumbers in the shade,
And Cynthia, cloth'd in paly light,
Walks her lone way, the mount I tread,
Majestic mid the gloom of night.
With reverence to the lofty hill I bow,
Where Wisdom, Virtue, taught their founts to flow.
Wan, on yon rocks' aspiring steep
Behold a Druid form, forlorn!
I see the white rob'd phantom weep—
I hear to heaven his wild harp mourn.
The temples open'd to the vulgar eye;
And Oaks departed, wake his inmost sigh.
O! lover of the twilight hour,
That calls thee from the tombs of death,
To haunt the cave, the time-struck tower,
The sea-girt cliff, the stormy heath;
Sweet is thy minstrelsy to him whose lays
First sung this hallow'd hill of ancient days.
Yet not this Druid-scene alone
Inspires the gloom-delighted muse;
Ah! many a hill to fame unknown,
With awe the tuneful wanderer views;
And oft while midnight lends her list'ning ear,
Sings darkling, to the solitary sphere.
Poor Ghost! no more the Druid band
Shall watch, Devotion-wrapt, their fire,
No more, high sounding thro' the land,
To Virtue strike the plauding lyre.
The snake along the frowning fragment creeps,
And fox obscene beneath the shadow sleeps.
No more beneath the golden hook
The treasures of the grove shall fall;
Time triumphs o'er each vanish'd oak—
The power whose might shall crush this ball—
Yet, yet, till Nature droops the head to die
Compassion grant each monument a sigh.
The bards, in lays sublime, no more
The warrior's glorious deeds relate;
Whose patriot arm a thunder bore,
That hurl'd his country's foe to fate:
Lo! mute the harp near each pale Druid hung,
Mute, like the voice that once accordant sung.
Save when the wandering breeze of morn,
Or eve's wild gale with wanton wing,
To hear the note of sorrow mourn,
Steals to the silent sleeping string,
And wildly brushing, wakes with sweetest swell,
The plaintive trembling spirit of the shell.
Here Virtue's awful voice was heard,
That pour'd the instructive truth profound,
Here Cornwall's sons that voice rever'd,
Where sullen silence sleeps around.
See where she sung, sad, melancholy, tread,
A pensive pilgrim o'er th' unconscious dead.
She calls on Alda's, Odred's name,
Sons to the darken'd world of yore!
Lur'd by whose eagle-pinion'd fame,
The stranger left his native shore,
Daring, his white sail to the winds he gave,
And sought fair knowledge o'er the distant wave.
Tho' few these awful rocks revere,
And temples that deserted lie,
The muse shall ask the tenderest tear
That ever dropt from Pity's eye,
T' embalm the ruins that her sighs deplore,
Where Wisdom, Virtue dwelt, but dwell no more.