“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,
I divn’t knā’ a Philipson ’at hods an inch o’ land.”
MAP’MENT.
(IN THE DIALECT OF HIGH FURNESS.)
Māp’ment—Martha—māp’ment!
Thow knā’sn’t what thow says—
An’ thow fair torments my heart owt
Wi’ thy lile contrairy ways—