User:DogOfDoom/Middleton-in-Teesdale Fare


 * I sing, the custom s of our dale to show
 * Which were in practice fifty years ago,
 * Ere telegraphs and railway lines had brought
 * Our busy towns and country parts remote
 * In close connection; and the rustic mind
 * By this became in manners more refin’d.
 * The present dalesman heeds not, nor requires,
 * Amusements such as pleas’d his more rude sires
 * Though some of these, now almost obsolete,
 * Had no bad tendency, we may repeat.
 * Though bull baits, cockfights, cruel sports like these,
 * Could no one but the most degraded please,
 * Yet pleasing ’twas, on a peas-scalding night,
 * To see the merry, laughing faces bright
 * Of blooming swains and country lasses neat,
 * In the snug kitchen of some farmhouse meet;
 * While on a glowing fire, bright and hot,
 * Well fill’d with pease, boil’d a big bellied pot.
 * The steaming pods were on the table soon,
 * And to the feast the cheerful guests sat down
 * A tankard, too, o$ foaming home-brew’d ale
 * Was there the thirsty stomach to regale.
 * The order of the night was fun and mirth;
 * The most amusing stories were call’d forth,
 * And seldom any took the least offence,
 * Though jokes were crack’d at his or her expense.
 * When of their feasting duly satisfied,
 * Tables and chairs were quickly thrown aside,
 * And, to the sweet strains of the violin,
 * With ready gusto, dancing did begin,
 * Often to be kept up, as is well known,
 * Till in the east the morn began to dawn.
 * The mell nights, too, when all the grain was stor’d,
 * Did the same joys to youthful minds afford.
 * From further introduction I’ll refrain,
 * My muse must labour in a different strain,
 * And give, although, but a mere outline show,
 * Some truthful incidents of long ago,
 * From hoary-headed dalesmen glean’d with care,
 * Brought out in the description of a Fair.
 * ’Tis a fine morn; a culing breeze,,
 * Frae t’west fells, gently blaws down t’Tees;
 * Breetly t’ sun shines, t’ sky’s blue an’ clear,
 * Nae cloud rids on t’ br’yad atmosphere.
 * All classes will et yance agree
 * Et better weather cannot be.
 * A busy scene hez just begun,
 * At the small town o’ Middleton;
 * Wharivver yan me turn yan’s een,
 * Strange motley groups o’ folk are seen,
 * On horseback, some; some o’ their feet,
 * Wie f’yaces flush’d wie t’ stour an’ heat;
 * Vehicles, too, frae different parts,
 * Fra phaetons down to donkey carts.
 * Cattle an’ sheep also appear,
 * Their drivers shouting the rear;
 * Surprising, were we not aware,
 * Et it was Middleton Spring Fair.
 * Wie stock an’ men t’ fair-grund gets thrang.
 * They fill h’yal spacious green alang;
 * Farmers an’ jobbers run about,
 * Some buy, some sell, some loss, some gain,
 * Noise an’ confusion widely reign.
 * By a wall-side, t’ west end o’ t’ green,
 * Three persons wie a cow are seen,
 * Rough-looking chaps they are, ov course,
 * Stout dalesmen frae abune t’ High Force.
 * T’ cow luiks unhilthy an’ unsound,
 * Yan leg displays an ulcerous wound,
 * Yet after all, ’t can not be said
 * Et poor beast’s i’ tha least ill bred;
 * A jobber chap, as he gans by,
 * Does the lean animal espy,
 * He turns round, t’ cow is keenly view’d,
 * His judgment wie these thoughts conclude;
 * A side this chance aw winnut thraw,
 * Cheaply this beast e'll sell, aw knaw,
 * A little docterin’ an’ good meat
 * Ev a short time ’ll put her reet;
 * Ev but a month, wie little trouble,
 * It’s price, az sartain, it ’ll double.
 * “What ask ye for that cow?” he cried.
 * Yan o’ t’ rough Harwood men replied,
 * “Eight pound, the price, we’ll take nae less,
 * An varra cheap at that, aw guess.”
 * “Eight pound,” said t’jobber, “can’t be given:
 * What do you think or say to sivven?
 * That beast’s ev a bad state, ’tis plain,
 * An nivver may be reet again,
 * Nae matter who may choose to buy,
 * Runs a risk, ye’ll not deny!
 * That leg 'luiks badly, d’ye knaw,
 * Hez ’t started t’sel or been a blaw?”
 * “Nauther,” said yan o’ t’ Harwood men;
 * “Reet weel t’yhal cause o’ t’ wound aw ken,
 * By nae disease or plague it’s smitten,
 * It by a rattlesnake was bitten!”
 * “A rattlesnake! O dear! hoot! hoot!
 * Ye knaw not what ye talk about.
 * Nae man o’ sense e’ll think, az sure,
 * Thar’s rattlesnakes ev Harwood Moor.”
 * “Nae mair do aw,” said t’ Harwood man,
 * “T’ snake had ’scap’d frae a caravan,
 * Through want o’ takin’ proper care,
 * As it pass’d by for Alston Fair.
 * T’ poor cow was grazing by t’ road side,
 * Luiking quite fresh an’ satisfied,
 * When t’ snake did frae a resh-bush slip,
 * An’ gav ’t on t’ leg a nasty nip.
 * Aw happen’d to be standing by,
 * An did t’ yhal sad affair espy,
 * It m’yad me feel a queer sensation,
 * Aw could hae gret through fair vexation,
 * Az for t ’ vile poisonous crawling trash,
 * Aw bray’d it ivvery bit to smash:
 * Aw nauther saunter’d or sat down,
 * But gallop’d off o’ t’ yance to t’ town,
 * Aw went unto a doctor chap
 * An’ telt him owre mie misshap.
 * ‘Now dinnot frit or fear,” said he,
 * ‘Gan quickly back, t’ cow winnot dee,
 * Aw’ll gie tha what e‘ll cure t’ bite,
 * Which follow ’d up e‘ll mend her quite.’
 * Aw gat some salve, also a drink,
 * Et luik’d amaist as black as ink.
 * Aw didn’t his advice neglect,
 * His stuff had sune a good effect,
 * An’ success did mie labour crown,
 * T’ pains ceas’d, an’ t’swelling sattled down.
 * Frae that time aw wie truth can say
 * She hez grown better ivvery day.”
 * “Strange story,” says the jobber man,
 * “To reason ’t owre is not mie plan,
 * We’ll say nae mair consarning t’ wound,
 * Now what say ye to sivven pound?”
 * Says V owner, “That’s a price owre law,
 * She’s worth far more than that, aw knaw;
 * To show aw’s not a greedy man,
 * Aw’ll tell tha just how far aw’ll gan,
 * Aw’ll t’ difference ’tween us splet, an’ then
 * She can be yours for sivven ten.”
 * Not lang t’ keen jobber chap delays,
 * But buys their cow an’ t’ money pays,
 * An’ t’ three men quickly disappear
 * Up t’ street to wet their throats wie beer.
 * An’ we leave t’ jobber an’ his beast,
 * An’ turn our footsteps further east.
 * Though ’tis nae easy task indeed
 * ’Mang sec a gathering to proceed.
 * We get to t’ other end o’ t’ green,
 * Whar a tall man, o’ warlike men,
 * Apart frae t’ thrang i’ studious mood,
 * Is sitting on a plank o’ wood.
 * ’Tis Dicky Coulthard, we sune see,
 * A friend an’ awd acquaintance he:
 * He greets us wie a plissent smile,
 * Beside him we sit down a while. |
 * Now Dicky is a cheerful fellow
 * As ivver whisky-punch m’yed mellow;
 * In t’ army a lang time he’d been,
 * An’ mony a bluidy conflict seen;
 * Wie soldiering done, he’s sattled down
 * In a small shop ’t high end o’ t’ town;
 * His only fam’ly is his wife,
 * Wie whom he leads a peaceful life.
 * Kindred i’ Teesdale, he has none.
 * The Green Isle claims him for her son.
 * He is a noted pugilist,
 * An’ knaws well how to use his fist;
 * Although to quarreling not inclin’d,
 * But helpful, generous, an’ kind;
 * Only is he severe wie those
 * Who trample too much on his toes;
 * But few wie him dare interfere,
 * Well knawing t’ cost may be too dear.
 * As we enjoy our pipes a bit,
 * Approaching up to whar we sit,
 * Comes a broad-shouldered stranger chap,
 * Wearing a military cap,
 * A son o’ Mars, et oft hez fought,
 * As medals on his breast denote.
 * T’ stranger’s keen glance an’ Dicky’s meet,
 * Dicky springs quickly to his feet.
 * On either is countenance a strange
 * Expression shows a fearful change,
 * To passions dark that indicate
 * An outburst of lang pent-up hate;
 * They speak not, but at yance begin,
 * Warlike, to peel off to the skin,
 * A ring is form’d, men gether round,
 * Hundreds come rushing on tit ground,
 * The combatants, baith men o’ skill,
 * Begin each other’s hides to mill.
 * A half-hour gans, yet sune explain’d,
 * Why nauther side a point hez gain’d,
 * So equal they’re in skill an’ force,
 * Parried have been the blows, of course.
 * Dicky at length receives a wound,
 * An’ bleeding, he falls to the ground;
 * He sune recovers, an’ brisk as ivver,
 * They do their heavy blows deliver.
 * The stranger now sustains a blow
 * That shakes his frame an’ lays hem low;
 * He, too, recovers, and again
 * They do the dreadful fight maintain,
 * An’ sune they’re in a woeful plight.
 * Wi’ wounds an’ bluid disfigured quite’
 * Vict’ry seems wavering, nane can see
 * Which o’ them will the victor be;
 * Nane standing round them interfere,
 * At nauther’s fall they raise a cheer
 * True pluck an’ honour baith men show,
 * Each scorns to deal a treacherous blow.
 * When fell’d upon the ground yan lies
 * The other waits until he rise.
 * Frae kicks an’ hugging they desist,
 * Their only weapon is the fist;
 * Each round we see their strength grow less,
 * They show plain signs o’ deep distress;
 * ’Tis sickening, an’ you may suppose
 * We wish t’ fierce struggle at a close;
 * Yet they fight on, we plainly see,
 * Rather than yield they’ll choose to dee.
 * The stranger now does reel an’ fall,
 * As if pierc’d by a musket-ball;
 * Exhausted on the ground he lies,
 * Quivering, and powerless to rise;
 * This ends t’ hard bluidy long affray,
 * The stranger chap is borne away,
 * Insensible an’ almost dead,
 * An’ gently plac’d on a soft bed,
 * Where peace an’ comfort reign; and there
 * We leave him to the doctor’s care.
 * Poor Dicky hez nae room to boast,
 * Batter’d an’ bruised an’ blind almost,
 * Wie faintness nearly owercome.
 * Kindly, some friends conduct him home.
 * Walk on smooth road he scarcely can,
 * But staggers like a drunken man.
 * Of this hard fight, what was the cause,
 * Unto this day naebody knaws;
 * Only this Dicky wad explain,
 * Wie Wellington they’d been i’ Spain,
 * An’ at fam’d Waterloo as well,
 * This also Dicky did reveal;
 * They countrymen were, an’ had been
 * Companions i’ the Island green.
 * We quit t’ Fair green ’tis now mid-day,
 * Cattle an’ sheep clear fast away,
 * Folk move up t’ street, because it’s known
 * It’s time for t’ horses to be shown.
 * We feeling dry wie t’ stour an’ heat
 * Also direct our steps up t’ street.
 * To quench our thirst is now our plan,
 * Sae into t’ nearest inn we gan.
 * In a back parlour sune we find
 * A risting pl’yas to suit our mind.
 * A farmer chap, Slater by n’yame,
 * Wie bullet head an’ bulky frame,
 * Wie nae small share o’ rude bombast,
 * Half slewed wie drink, is talking fast,
 * How to breed stock an’ the best way
 * To bring em up to mak em pay.
 * In a snug corner sits a chap
 * Wearing a bushy fox-skin cap.
 * To t’ crack he pays but small regard—
 * ’Tis Tommy Hunt, our country bard!
 * Now Tommy can, ev a short time,
 * Compose a verse or two o’ rhyme,
 * Though it may well be understood
 * Et t’ quality’s not ower good;
 * But grammar, an’ the rules o’ rhyme,
 * Are little notish’d at this time.
 * ’Tis good, folk are inclin’d to think,
 * If t’ lines are only m’yad to clink.
 * The bard, the farm er sune espies,
 * “Tommy, how gets tha on?” he cries,
 * “Aw ’magine thou luiks varra dull.
 * What rigmarole works ’neath thy skull?
 * Empty thy glass, aw’ll fill ’t again.
 * Cast off all thoughts et cloud thy brain.
 * Be cheerful, an’, onyhow,
 * Gie us a yam-spun verse or two.”
 * Says Tommy, “Ye mun me excuse,
 * At prisent only flat’s mie muse.
 * Besides aw’ve on nae subject thought,
 * Mie rhyming wad be good for naught.”
 * “H oot!” t’ farmer says, “now, nae excuse;
 * Do not our small request refuse.
 * O’ rhyme we want but a short spell,
 * For subject, thou can take m ysel.”
 * A rum en spoken wie a laugh,
 * “What says tha to an epitaph?”
 * Replies the bard, “Aw’ll hae to try;
 * Aw’ll hae nae peace till aw comply.
 * An epitaph ’tis, aw suppose.
 * Aw’ll just begin; sae here goes”—
 * “Here Slater lies beneath this sod,
 * “A fool at home, but worse abroad;
 * “He was so simple, daft, and shallow,
 * “That people thought his head was hollow.”
 * “Well dune!” “well done!” t’ pleas’d company cries
 * “True wit ’neath that fox-skin lies.
 * Now, Slater, satisfied thou’ll be;
 * Thou’s ruffled up a bit, we see.”
 * He’d had enough, and didn’t choose
 * For ony mair o’ Tommy muse.
 * He felt t’ keen sting o’ wounded pride,
 * Yet his vexation strove to hide;
 * His blethering tongue less noisy grew;
 * What words he spak were varra few.
 * Displeas’d wie t’ company’s jeers, nae doubt,
 * He drinks his liquor an’ walks out.
 * Not lang wie Tommy we remain—
 * We sune are 'into t’ street again.
 * We luik oh an im posing seet:
 * Young lads an lasses, clean an’ neat,
 * Frae ivvery part o’ t’ district wide,
 * Come pouring in on ivvery side,
 * Dress’d in their best, frae top to toe,
 * They are, indeed, a comely show!
 * What part wie Teesdale can compare
 * For bonny lasses, plump an’ fair?
 * To gain a lover, each intent,
 * An’ on a day o’ pleasure bent.
 * As near t’ wide booths and stalls we come,
 * We hear t’ loud beating ev a drum,
 * Wie t’ clear notes ev a bugle shrill
 * Blown by some yan o’ nae mean skill.
 * Frae a small show issues this sound,
 * Whar a dense crowd are standing round.
 * T’ harsh music ceases, an’ a man
 * Bawls out in front o’ t’ caravan: —
 * “Ladies and gentlemen, come in,
 * We are just going to begin.
 * For only twopence, may be seen,
 * Sec wonders as e’ll charm yer een.
 * Here’s a performing dog et can
 * Do tricks as well as ony man;
 * An here’s a python frae Brazil
 * Et can a large ox crush an’ kill;
 * An Indian ape, o’ species rare;
 * A Chinese pig an’ dancing bear.
 * For bye, some splendid moving figures,
 * Comprising red men, whites, an’ niggers.
 * Napoleon’s march an’ t’ storm at sea,
 * All luiking nateral as can be.
 * Ladies an’ gentlemen come in,
 * We are now going to begin.”
 * Folks rush up t’ steps, but sune they find
 * T’ show’s not exactly to their mind—
 * Not half as good as they’d suppos’d,
 * In fact, a poor affair at most.
 * But things, when ower much magnified,
 * Sarve but a short while t’ truth to hide;
 * An’ then we wonder, when ’tis seen,
 * Why we sae credulous hae been.
 * Close by Cheap Jack does loudly bawl,
 * Standing ahint his orange stall:
 * “Fine oranges come here an’ buy;
 * The cheapest man this day am I.”
 * A good trade ’mang young folks hez he,
 * Because he’s cheerful an’ free;
 * An t’ young men, as they come up t’ street,
 * Come to this stall their girls to treat;
 * But Jack hez to be on ez watch
 * Lest t’ fruit some ill-bred urchins snatch,
 * Which to do some wad not be slack
 * If ivver he should turn his back.
 * Alas! how trifling thefts like these
 * Lead on the thoughtless, by degrees,
 * Too oft to commit crimes still worse,
 * Till to their parents they’re a curse;
 * An’ to them selves respect sune dies;
 * They sink whar they nae mair can rise.
 * Parents, beware! an’ check in time
 * Your children’s tendencies to crime:
 * Nae matter how small it may be,
 * When young we best can bend a tree.
 * As further up t’ thrang street we steer,
 * Awd fiddler Harry’s voice we hear
 * Accompanied by his violin,
 * Wie which he does ez living win.
 * His bow glides quickly ower t’ strings
 * An’ like a lark he baudly sings:
 * “The miners of Weardale go in their clogs,
 * “They travel across the mountains and bogs.
 * “The miners of Weardale are valiant men,
 * “They’ll fight till they die for the bonny moor hen.
 * He’s hit on a good song we see;
 * Tharfore a good s’yal for ’t hez he.
 * ’Tis popular an’ nivver f’yals
 * To please t’ folk o’ these upland d’yals.
 * Again beginning to feel dry
 * Into a public-house we hie.
 * Wie glass an’ pipe at ease we sit,
 * By t’ noise an’ stir not mov’d a bit,
 * Two men we hear i’ strange debate,
 * Thir tongues move on at nae slow rate.
 * Geology appears their theme,
 * A branch o’ knowledge et they seem
 * Not to know mickle else, we would
 * Have their crack better understood.
 * Yan says et t’ whin o’ Holwick Scar
 * At yan tim ewas as soft as tar:
 * By strang volcanic force belch’d up,
 * Deep out o’ t’ yearth on Green Fell top.
 * In fact, t’ whin sill wharivver spread,
 * Was naught else but a lava bed.
 * “Hoot! man” said t’ other “ naught o’ t’ kind
 * Let nae sec daft thought fill they mind.
 * Regarding t’ whin sill this aw’ll say,
 * Be whar it will, it’s harden’d clay.
 * Harden’d, ov course, wie heat intense,
 * Ere God to mak man did commence.
 * Reet up t’ Tees valley runs t’ whin dyke,
 * Call ’t yearth’s backb’yan, or what ye like;
 * An’ plenty round about can tell
 * It can be seen on Cockfield Fell;
 * Yis, farther, several men agree,
 * It can be tr’yac’d frae sea to sea.
 * Suppose this sill, as ye hae said,
 * To hae run down like melted lead,
 * Aw’s sartin well, cul’d it wad be
 * An’ harden’d lang ere ’t could reach t’ sea.
 * As for volcanoes, some men tell
 * They’re naught but openings into hell,
 * Through which t’ awd Boy moves in an’ out,
 * To work mischief ower t’ world, nae doubt.”
 * Say t’other person, “Aw mun say
 * Yer theory o’ harden’d clay
 * Is what nae reasoning man can hauld,
 * But fit for fules an’ dotards auld.
 * You spak o’ t’ dyke, but didn’t say
 * Whar t’ fire an’ intense heat cam frae,
 * A wide extent o’ clay to burn
 * Till it did to hard whin rock turn.
 * As for t’ awd Boy an’ his hot den,
 * Whar plyac’d aw dinnot wish to ken,
 * Ower mickle stuff’s got up, aw find,
 * To freaten t’ weak untutor’d mind.
 * Wharivver sinful men abound
 * As mony devils may be found;
 * Not by misshapen monsters curs’d,
 * Men’s own bad hearts are for the worst.”
 * Here long we choose not to remain,
 * Frae thir discourse we naught can gain.
 * We to t’ big dancing room proceed,
 * To luik on a strange scene, 'indeed.
 * Frae end to end well fill’d is t’ room
 * Wie lads an’ lasses i’ thir bloom.
 * In t’ middle dancing is kept up
 * Et scarcely does a minute stop;
 * Aud fashion’d hornpipes, jigs an’ reels,
 * Put action into toes an’ heels.
 * On a platform sits Parkin Raine—
 * His supple elbows move amain;
 * His mellow notes, sae sweet an’ clear,
 * A fine effect hae on the ear.
 * In fact, folk say, an’ not in joke,
 * He can maist mak ez fiddle talk.
 * No fiddler in the vale o’ Tees
 * Like Parkin can the dalesmen please.
 * Thar’s not a merry night or fair
 * Held without (Parkin being there.
 * On each side, clear o’ t’ dancing space,
 * Seats form an easy risting place,
 * Whar young men can sit wie thir dears,
 * An’ whisper sweet words i’ thir ears.
 * We owerhear two young men’s crack:
 * “Luik yonder,” B illy says to Jack,
 * “Yon proud consaited Sally Scott,
 * Aw sez, hez a fresh sweetheart got;
 * But whe he is, aw cannot tell,
 * He seems to be a flash-up swell;
 * His fine watchguard an’ sparkling rings
 * Which he displays, are t’ varra things
 * A thoughtless woman’s mind to please—
 * Weak minds are turn’d by toys 'like these.
 * A gentleman he seem£ to be;
 * Nae working man like thou an’ me.”
 * “Ha! ha!” says Jack, “thou’s thinking wrang,
 * Sally’s new chap aw hae kent lang;
 * His means, like ours, are varra small;
 * He’s but a t’yallier, that is all;
 * But this we’ll not to Selly tell—
 * Just let her find it out hersel.”
 * Frank Thompson will be put about,
 * She’s jilted him aw hae nae doubt:
 * Frank’s a brave chap—aw wonder why
 * She’s let that fellow put him by.
 * Last peas-scadding held at Step Ends,
 * They luik’d to be the best o’ friends;
 * An often, on a Sunday neet,
 * Up Crossthwaite-road aw did them meet.
 * In fact aw’ve lately heard it said
 * Et they were gannen to be wed.
 * The course o’ love oft runs amiss;
 * Aw think aw can account for this—
 * Frank’s father hez had heavy loss,
 * His best draught nag was swamp’d i’ t’ moss,
 * His hay was spoil’d wie t’ rain, an now
 * They tell me he hez lost a cow.
 * Nor did his sheep do well on t’ moor—
 * In fact aw knaw he’s varra poor.
 * Wie Sally this hez had due weight,
 * I fear, to cause her Frank to slight.
 * Daft lass! on show an splendour bent,
 * Some day her folly she’ll repent.
 * But yonder’s Frank—he’s luikin weel,
 * Trouble he doesn’t seem to feel.
 * He’s nicely set wie pipe an glass,
 * An, what is mair, another lass!
 * Now they get up to hev a dance,
 * Not unobserv’d by Sally’s glance.
 * We cannot judge, hersel knaws best,
 * What are the feelings of her breast.
 * Sadr vex’d she was that varra neet,
 * Her wounded feelings gar’d her greet, !
 * When from her friends she came to know
 * That her fine starch’d up foppish beau
 * At best was but a “pricky-louse,”
 * Who travell’d wie lapboard an goose;
 * A toiling man, quite void o’ riches,
 * Et lived by making coats an breeches;
 * She slipp’d him, as aw’ve heard them tell,
 * An walk’d off yamward by hersel.
 * Frank’s partner is a miner’s daughter,
 * Her mother carefully hez taught her
 * By honest toil her bread to win,
 * How to mend claes, bake, knit an spin.
 * Though plainly dress’d she can compare
 * Wie ony woman i’ the fair,
 * In beauty an’ becoming grace,
 * In spite o’ curls, an’ silk an’ lace. •
 * ’Tis nae bad job, Frank feels quite sure,
 * That his courtship wie Sally’s ower.
 * We heartily wish this new-met pair
 * May all the joys an blessing share,
 * Deriv’d from toll an modest worth,
 * Mair even than from rank an birth.
 * We leave the dance, an Parkin Raine,
 * An sune are in the street again;
 * Ower t’ far west mountains t’ sun hez gone,
 * An darkness fast is coming on.
 * Ower t’ other side o’ t’ street folk run,
 * What dirdum-larum is begun?
 * We tak our way across t’ street, too,
 * To find there is a general row.
 * Wie squabbling there’s a hubbub quite,
 * A dozen men hae stripped to fight;
 * On ivvery side fast falls the fist,
 * They grasp each other, writhe and twist,
 * Their thick-soled boots deliver kicks,
 * E’en some resort to st’yans an sticks.
 * T’ cause o’ t’ riot is, we hear,
 * Some rough men frae t’ vale of Wear,
 * Brave-hearted, and o’ fighting kittle,
 * To exercise their fists a little,
 * Wie some o’ our own dalesmen stout,
 * W'ie whom they've contriv’d to fall out.
 * Though t’ men o’ Teesdale, we can say,
 * For fighting are as keen as they.
 * We see et fight ’ill not. last lang,
 * The Teesdale force becomes mair strang;
 * Their Weardale foes are backward borne,
 * Knock’d down an batter’d, bruis’d an torn.
 * They yield, the sounds o’ conflict cease,
 * Baith parties settle down in peace.
 * Tir’d wie rambling ower t’ town,
 * In t’ Blue Bell tavern we sit down,
 * Amang a set o’ cheerful men,
 * Neighbours some are et weel we ken,
 * Met here to hev a quiet spree,
 * Determin’d chaps they luik to be.
 * Poachers they are, who ’mang t’ brown heather
 * Hae mony an hour spent together,
 * Wie dog an gun, by neet an day,
 * An hae frae yam been months away,
 * On t’ bleak wild moors an peaty fells,
 * Where the red grouse finds food an dwells.
 * Even ower t’ Borders they hae gaen,
 * An grouse frae t’ Scottish moors taen;
 * An like bold outlaws fought their way,
 * In mony a desperate affray,
 * Wid keepers an hired bands that came
 * To stop their sport an guard the game.
 * Yan o’ this gang wid whom we sit,
 * Ower t’ dyal is reckon’d quite a wit,
 * Keen seeted, an slee as a fox,
 * Yan et can give an tak hard knocks;
 * But few there are et’s fond o’ fun
 * Et knaws not Geordie Alldson.
 * As they sit ower thir yal an’ rum
 * Talking o’ sporting days to come,
 * A curious-luiking man comes in,
 * Wie stiff-starched collar ’neath his chin;
 * Weel dress’d though foppish-like an’ vain,
 * Wielding a silver-headed cane,
 * “Gentlemen, I’ve come here,” said he,
 * “The suff’ring race o’ man to free
 * Frae pains an’ maladies, an save
 * Them frae a premature grave.
 * I am a doctor, an’ my aim
 * Hez been to study t’ human frame;
 * Few ills there are -but what I’ve power
 * Wie my good medicines to cure.
 * Thousands there are ’et will attest
 * ’Et my pills are the varra best
 * ’Et can be got, an’ hae prevail’d
 * When other doctors’ drugs hae fail’d.
 * Aw wish this to be understood,
 * If thars yan here whose health’s not good
 * Wie two boxes o’ pills, no m ore,.
 * I will to perfect health restore
 * My patient, or you hear me say,
 * Two pounds as forfeiture I’ll pay.”
 * “Why man,” says Geordie, “thou speaks weel
 * 0 ’ what diseases thou can heal,
 * As for mysel’ aw hae a pain
 * Which izent easy to explain,
 * On my left leg, an’ aw hae tried
 * All -t’ doctors o’ t’yhal country side. >
 * All to nae use, spite o’ their skill;
 * Mie legs as bad as ivver still.”
 * Say t’ quack, “Thie leg pray let me see,
 * To mend it nae hard task ’t wiil be;
 * The cause o’ t’ pain aw mun find out,
 * My maxim is, strike at the root.”
 * Geordie at yance his leg displays,
 * Which, while the boasting quack surveys,
 * He quickly draws his reet foot back,
 * An’ gi’es the doctor sec a smack
 * Across his ribs as makes him roar,
 * An’ sends em sprawling on the floor.
 * “Now Mr cheating Quack tak that;
 * Did tha suppose thou’d catch’d a flat?
 * Gether up thisel, an’ tak off out,
 * And mindful be what thou’s about;
 * How to im pose learn other rules,
 * An’ think not dalesmen are all fules
 * As to part wie thir hard-earned cash
 * For thy confounded dirty trash.”
 * The poor quack soon rose on his feet
 * And from the room took his retreat.
 * Now darkness settles on the town,
 * An’ t’ stalls an’ booths are all taen down,
 * T’ throng hez dispersed except a few,
 * A sotted, reeling blackguard crew,
 * ’Et drink an’ squabble on t’yhal neet,
 * Remaining still at morning leet,
 * Until the worth o’ thir last groat
 * Hez vanished down each greedy throat.
 * O foolish man! to spend thy gains
 * On drink, to stupify thy brans;
 * Money earned by thy sweat an’ toil
 * On liquor spent, thy health to spoil;
 * Heedlessly breaking nature’s laws
 * Of all our numerous ills the cause.
 * We -longer not inclin’d to roam
 * Direct our course for quiet home
 * And bid adieu unto the Fair,
 * Nae langer aught to please us there.
 * And now, friends, I’ve contrived to draw
 * A sketch, though brief, of long ago;
 * Yet no embellishment I’ve tried.
 * Plain facts which cannot be denied.
 * And should this sketch fall in the hands
 * Of Teesdale men in foreign lands
 * (Which no doubt t’ will),—tis hard to say
 * How far the Mercury finds its way,—
 * They’ll think of their old native home,
 * Dear still, no matter where they roam.
 * Dear brethren they, though far away,
 * For whom I’ll in conclusion pray,
 * And let each dalesman say with me,
 * God bless our friends beyond the sea!