CUMBERLAND BALLADS.

NICHOL THE NEWSMONGER.

TUNE," The Night before Larry was stretch'd.”

COME, Nichol, and gi'e us thy cracks,
I seed te gang down to the smiddy;
I've fodder'd the naigs and the nowt,
And wanted to see thee 'at did e.
Ay, Andrew lad! draw in a stuil,
And gi'e us a shek o' thy daddle;
I got aw the news far and nar,

Sae set off as fast's e could waddle.

In France they've but sworrowfu' teymes,
For Bonnyprat's nit as he sud be;
America's nobbet sae sae;

And England nit quite as she mud be:
Sad wark there's amang blacks and wheytes*
Sec tellin plain teales to their feaces,

Wi' murders, and wars, and aw that,
But, hod-I forget where the pleace is.

Alluding to the insurrection of the blacks.

Our parson

he gat drunk as muck,

Then ledder'd aw t' lads roun about him; They said he was nobbet hawf reet,

And fwok mud as weel be widout him:

The yell's to be fourpence a whart

Odswinge, lad, there will be rare drinkin!

Billy Pitt's mad as onie March hare,
And niver was reet fwok are thinkin.

A weddin we'll hev or it's lang,

Wi' Bet Brag and lal Tommy Tagwally; Jack Bunton's for off to the sea

It'll e'en be the deeth of our Sally;

The clogger has bowt a new wig;

Dawston singers come here agean Sunday;

Lord Nelson's ta'en three Spanish fleets;
And the dancin schuil opens on Monday.

Carel badgers are monstrous sad fwok,

The silly peer de'ils how they wring up! Lal bairns, ha'e got pox frae the kye,*

And fact'ries, leyke mushrooms, they spring up: If they sud keep their feet for a wheyle, And goverment nobbet pruive civil, They'll build up as hee as the muin, For Carel's a match for the deevil,

* Cow-pox.

The king's meade a bit of a speech,
And gentle fwok say it's a topper.;
An alderman deet tudder neet,

Efter eatin a turkey to supper;

Our squire's to be parliment man,

Mess, lad, but he'll keep them aw busy! Whee thinks te's come heame i' the cwoach; Frae Lunnon, but grater-feac'd Lizzy.

The cock-feghts are ninth 'o' neist month,
I've twee, nit aw England can bang them;
In Ireland they're aw up in arms,

It's whop'd there's nee Frenchmen amang thên A boggle's been seen wi' twee heeds,

Lord help us! ayont Wully' carras, Wi' girt saucer e'en, and a tail

They dui say 'twas auld Jobby Barras.

The muin was at full this neet week;
The weather is turn'd monstrous daggy
I' th' loft, just at seeben last neet,
Lal Stephen sweethearted lang Aggy:
There'll be bonny wark bye and bye,
The truth'll be out there's nae fear on't,
But I niver say nought, nay nit I,

For fear hawf the parish sud hear on't.

་

Our Tib at the cwose-house hes been,

She tells us they're aw monstrous murry; At Carel the brig's tummel'd down,

And they tek the fwok owre in a whurry; I carried our whye to the bull;

They've ta'en seeben spies up at Dover; My fadder compleens of his hip,

And the Gran Turk hes enter'd Hanover.

Daft Peg's got hersel, man, wi' bairn,

And silly pilgarlic's the fadder;

Lal Sim's geane and swapp'd the black cowt,

And cwoley has wurriet the wedder;

My mudder has got frostet heels,
And peace is the talk o' the nation,

For

paper says varra neist week

There's to be a grand humiliation.*

Aunt Meable has lost her best sark,
And Cleutie is bleam'd varra mickle;
Nought's seafe out o' duirs now-a-days,
Frae a millstone, e'en down to a sickle:
The clock it streykes eight, I mun heame,
Or I's git a deuce of a fratchin;
When neist we've a few hours to spare,
We'll fin out what mischief's a hatchin.

JULY 5, 1802.

* Illumination.