He wad be a cliverish fellow ’at went ta Kes’ick an’ gat oot on’t adoot rain; an’ suer aneùf, by t’ time ’at I’d finished my pint an’ my crack, it was cūmmin’ doon as it knows hoo to cūm doon at Kes’ick.
But when it rains theear, they hev to deù as they deù ūnder Skiddaw, let it fo’! an’ wet or dry, I hed to git heàm tūll Betty.
When I was aboot startin’, I begon to think ther’ was sum’at mair to tak wid me. I coontit t’ things ower i’ my basket hoaf a dozen times. Theear they o’ warr—ten for Betty, yan for me! Than what the dang-ment was’t I was forgittin? I was suer it was sūm’at, but for t’ heart on me I cūdn’t think what it med be. Efter considerin’ for a lang time, an’ gittin’ anūdder pint to help mé to consider, I set off i’ t’ rain wid my basket an’ t’ things in’t, anonder my top-sark to keep o’ dry.
Bee t’ time I gat to Portinskeàl, I’d begon to tire! T’ wedder was slattery, t’ rwoads was slashy, t’ basket was heavy, an’ t’ top sark meàd me het; but t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ forgitten sūm’at tew’t mè t’ warst of o’. I rūstit theear a bit—gat anudder pint, an’ coontit my things ower and ower, “Ten for Betty!—yan for my-sel.” I cūd mak nowder mair nor less on them. Cockswūnters!—what hed I forgitten? Or what was’t ’at meàd mè suer I’d forgitten sūm’at when I’d o’ t’ things wid mè?
I teuk t’ rwoad agean mair nor hoaf crazy.
I stop’t ūnder a tree aside Springbank, an’ Dr.—— com’ ridin’ up through t’ rain, on his black galloway. “Why, Robert,” says he, “ye look as if ye’d lost something.” “Nay, doctor,” says I, “here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed—I’ lost nowte—that’s three. Here t’ soat, an’ t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue—that’s sebben—I’ lost nowte, but I’ forgitten sum’at. Here t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ rūbbin’ bottle—that’s ten; an’ here t’ ’bacca—that’s elebben.—Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me! Ten for Betty, an’ yan for me!! Doctor, doctor,” says I, “fwoke say ye ken oa things—what hev I forgitten?” “I’ll tell ye what ye haven’t forgotten,” says he, “ye haven’t forgotten the ale at Keswick. Get home, Robert, get home,” says he, “and go to bed and sleep it off.” I believe he thowte I was drūnk; but I wasn’t—I was no’but maizelt wid tryin’ to finnd oot what I’d forgitten.
As I com nār to t’ Swan wid two Necks I fell in wid greet Gweordie Howe, and says I, “Gweordie, my lad,” says I, “I’s straddelt,” says I, “I’s fairly maiz’t,” says I. “I left sūm’at ahint me at Kes’ick, an’ I’ve thowte aboot it till my heid’s gā’n like a job-jūrnal,” says I, “an’ what it is I cannot tell.” “Can t’e nūt?” says Gweordie. “Can t’e nūt? Whey, than, cūm in an’ see if a pint o’ yall ’ll help thé’.” Well, I steud pints, an’ Gweordie steud pints, an’ I steud pints ageàn. Anūdder time I wad ha’ been thinkin’ aboot what Betty wad say till o’ this pintin’, but I was gittin’ despert aboot what I’d forgitten at Kes’ick, an’ I cūd think o’ nowte else.
T’ yall was gud aneùf, but it dùdn’t kest a morsel o’ leet on what was bodderin’ on ma sa sair, an’ I teuk t’ rwoad ageàn finndin’ as if I was farder off’t nor iver.
T’ rain keep’t cūmmin’ doon—t’ rwoad gat softer an’ softer—t’ basket gat heavier an’ heavier—t’ top sark hetter an’ hetter, an’ my heid queerer an’ queerer. If I stopt anonder ya tree i’ t’ wūd, I stopt anonder twenty, an’ coontit ower t’ things i’ t’ basket till they begon to shap’ theirsels intil o’ mak’s o’ barnish sangs i’ my heid, and I fūnd mysel’ creunin’ away at sec bits of rhymes as thūrr—
Ten things an’ yan, Bobby,