Be sure tha keeps fra being a flirt,
An pride thysel e being alert,—
An mind to mend thi husband’s shirt,
An keep it clean;
It wod thy poor oud mother hurt,
If tha wor mean.
Don’t kal abaht like monny a wun,
Then hev to broil, an sweeat, an run;
Bud, alus hev thy dinner done,
Withaht a mooild;
If its nobbut meil, lass, set it on,
An hev it boiled.
So Mary, I’ve no more to say—
Tha gets thy choice an’ tak thy way;
An if tha leets to rue, I pray,
Don’t blame thy mother:
I wish you monny a happy day
We wun another.
The Fugitive: a Tale Kersmas Time.
We wor snugly set araand the hob,
’Twor one wet Kersmas Eve,
Me an arr Kate an t’ family,
All happy aw believe:
Aar Kate hed Harry on her knee,
An’ awd aar little Ann,
When their come rapping at the door
A poor oud beggar man.
Sleet trinkled down his hoary locks,
That once no daht were fair;
His hollow cheeks were dead’ly pale,
His neck and breast were bare;
His clooase, unworthy o’ ther name,
Were raggd an steepin wet;
His poor oud legs were stockingless,
And badly shooed his feet.
Come in to’t haase, said t’ wife to him,
An get thee up to’t fire;
Sho then brought aht were humble fare,
T’wor what he did desire;
And when he’d getten what he thowt,
An his oud regs were dry,
We akst what distance he hed come,
An thus he did reply:
“Awm a native of Cheviot hills,
Some weary miles fra here;
Where I like you this neet hev seen
Mony a Kersmas cheer;
Bud I left my father’s haase, when young,
Determined aw wad roaam;
An’ like the prodigal of yore,
Am mackin toards mi hoame.
“Aw soldiered in the Punjaub lines,
On India’s burning sand;
An nearly thirty years ago
Aw left me native land;
Discipline being ta hard for me,
My mind wor always bent;
So in an evil hoar aw did
Desart me regiment.
An nivver sin durst aw go see
My native hill an glen,
Whar aw mud now as well hev been
The happiest ov all men;
Bud me blessing—an aw wish yah all
A merry Kersmas day;
Fer me, awl tack me poor oud bones,
On Cheviot hills to lay.”