Читать книгу Folk-Speech of Cumberland and Some Districts Adjacent - Alexander Craig Gibson - Страница 6

BOBBY BANKS’ BODDERMENT.
(A Sup of Coald Keàl het up ageàn.)

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HE was ola’s a top marketer was ooar Betty, she niver miss’t gittin’ t’ best price gā’n beàth for butter an’ eggs; an’ she ken’t hoo to bring t’ ho’pennies heàm! Nūt like t’ meàst o’ fellows’ wives ’at thinks there’s nèa hūrt i’ warin’ t’ odd brass iv a pictur’ beuk or gūd stūff for t’ barnes or m’appen sūm’at whyte as needless for ther’sels,—Betty ola’s brong t’ ho’pennies heàm.

Cockerm’uth’s ooar reg’lar market—it’s a gay bit t’ bainer—but at t’ time o’ year when Kes’ick’s full o’ quality ther’s better prices to be gitten theear; an’ sooa o’ through t’ harvest time, an’ leater on, she ola’s went to Kes’ick. Last back-end, hooiver, Betty was fashed sadly wid t’ rheumatics iv her back, an’ yā week she cūd hardly git aboot at o’, let alean gā to t’ market. For a while she wadn’t mak’ ūp her mind whedder to send me iv her spot, or ooar eldest dowter, Faith; but as Faith was hardly fowerteen—stiddy aneuf of her yeàge, but rayder yūng,—Betty thowte she’d better keep Faith at heàm an’ let me tak’ t’ marketin’ to Kes’ick.

Of t’ Setterda’ mwornin’, when it com’, she hed us o’ ūp an’ stūrrin, seùner nor sūm on us liket; an’ when I’d gitten sūm’at to eat, iv a hūgger mūgger mak’ of a way, says Betty till me, says she—“Here’s six an’ twenty pūnd o’ butter,” says she. “If thoo was gud for owte thoo wad git a shilling a pūnd for’t, ivery slake. Here’s five dozen of eggs,” says she, “I wadn’t give a skell o’ them mair nor ten for sixpence,” says she, “but thoo mun git what thoo can,” says she, “efter thu’s fūnd oot what ūdder fwoke’s axin. When thu’s meàd thy market,” says Betty, “thu’ll gā to t’ draper’s an’ git me a yard o’ check for a brat, a knot o’ tape for strings tūl’t, an’ a hank o’ threed to sowe’t wid—if I’s gud for nowte else, I can sowe yit,” says she, wid a gurn; “than thoo mūn git hoaf a pūnd o’ tea an’ a quarter of a steàn o’ sugger—they ken my price at Crosstet’s—an’ hoaf a steàn o’ soat, an’ a pūnd o’ seàp, an’ hoaf a pūnd o’ starch, an’ a penn’orth o’ steàn-blue, an’ git me a bottle o’ that stùff to rūb my back wid; an’ than thoo ma’ git two oonces o’ ’bacca for thysel’.

If thoo leùks hoaf as sharp as thoo sūd leùk thu’ll be through wid beàth thy marketin’ an’ thy shoppin’ by twelve o’clock; an’ thoo ma’ gā an’ git a bit o’ dinner, like ūdder fwoke, at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall. Efter that t’ seùner thoo starts for heàm an’ t’ better. Noo thu’ll mind an’ forgit nowte? Ther’ t’ check, an’ t’ tape, an’ t’ threed, that’s three things—t’ tea, an’ t’ sugger, an’ t’ soat, an’ t’ seàp, an’ t’ starch, an’ t’ steàn-blue, an’ t’ rūbbin’ stūff, an’ t’ ’bacca—I’s up-ho’d the’ nūt to forgit that!—elebben. Ten things for me, an’ yan for thysel’! I think I’ve meàd o’ plain aneùf; an’ noo, if thoo misses owte I’ll say thoo’s a bigger clot-heid nor I’ve teàn the’ for—an’ that ’ill be sayin’ nèa lal!”

Many a fellow wad tak t’ ’frunts if his wife spak till him i’ that way—but bliss yè I leev’t lang aneùf wid Betty to know ’at it’s no’but a way she hes o’ shewin’ her likin’. When she wants to be t’ kindest an’ best to yan, yan’s ola’s suer to git t’ warst wūrd iv her belly.

Well, I set off i’ gŭd fettle for Kes’ick, gat theear i’ gradely time, an’ pot ūp at Mistress Boo’s. I hed a sharpish market, an’ seùn gat shot o’ my būtter an’ eggs at better prices nor Betty toak’t on. I bowte o’ t’ things at she wantit, an’ t’ ’bacca for mysel’, an’ gat a gud dinner at Mistress Boo’s, an’ a pint o’ yall an’ a crack.

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,

Ten things an’ yan;

Here five an’ five for Betty Banks,

An’ yan for Betty’s man.

“Lord preserve oor wits—sec as they ūrr,” says I. “I mūn be gā’n wrang i’ my heid when I’ve teàn till mackin’ sangs!” But t’ queerest break was ’at I dūddn’t mak’ them—they meàd thersel’s—an’ they meàd me sing them an’ o’, whedder I wad or nūt—an’ off I went ageàn till a different teùn—

Says Betty—says she; says Betty till me—

“If owte thou contrives to forgit,

“I’ll reckon thè’ daizter an’ dafter,” says she,

“Nor iver I’ve reckon’t thè’ yit.”

I’s daizter an’ dafter nor iver, she’ll say,

An’ marry, she willn’t say wrang!

But scold as she will, ey, an’ gūrn as she may,

I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang, lāl sang,

I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang.

“Well! It hes cūm’t till whoa wad hae thowte it,” says I, “if I cannot stop mysel’ frae mackin’ sangs an’ singin’ them of a wet day i’ Widdup Wūd; I’ll coont t’ things ower ageàn,” says I, “an’ see if that’ll stop ma.” Ye ma’ believe ma or nūt, as ye like, but iv anūdder tick-tack there was I coontin’ t’ things ower iv a sang:—

Here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed, oald lad!

Here t’ soat an’ t’ sugger an’ t’ tea—

Seàp, starch, steàn-blue, an’ t’ bottle to rub,

An’ t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me,

Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me, me, me,

Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me.

I’ll niver git heàm while Bobby’s my neàm,

But maffle an’ sing till I dee, dee, dee,

But maffle an’ sing till I dee!

“Weel, weel,” says I, “If I is oot o’ my senses—I IS oot o’ my senses, an’ that’s oa’ aboot it,—but

Loavins what’ll Betty think, Betty think, Betty think,

Loavins what’ll Betty think if Bobby bide away?

She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink,

She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink this varra market-day.

She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass,

She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter brass, but willn’t thrimle lang.

For Bobby lad thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce,

For Bobby lad, thū’s hūr to feàce; she’ll m’appen change thy sang.

Sang or nèa sang, t’ thowtes o’ hevin’ “hūr to feàce,” an’ that gaily seùn, rayder brong me to my oan oald sel’ ageàn. I set off yance mair, an’ this time, I dūdn’t stop while I gat fairly into t’ foald. Faith seed me cūmmin’, an’ met me oot side o’ t’ hoose dooar, an’ says Faith, “Whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car, fadder?” I dropp’t my basket, an’ I geàp’t at her! Lal Jacop com runnin oot, an’ says Jacop, “Fadder, whoar t’ meear an’ t’ car?” I swattit mysel’ doon on t’ stean binch, an’ I glower’t at them—furst at yan an’ than at t’ tudder on them. Betty com limpin’ by t’ God-speed, an’ says Betty, “What hes t’e meàd o’ t’ car an’ t’ meear, thoo maizlin?” I gat my speech ageàn when Betty spak’, an’, hoaf crazet an’ hoaf cryin’, I shootit oot, “’Od’s wūns an’ deeth, that’s what I’s forgitten!” That was what I said. What Betty said I think I willn’t tell yè.”