  Niver ageÀn, Eddy! Niver ageÀn! If I moo’n’t hev a lad ’at ’ill coort me my leÀn, ’At ’ill hod by ya sweetheart, an’ me be that yan, I m?n bide as I is till I dee. Th?’s coddel’t KeÀt Crosstet, Ann Atchin, Jane Blair, ’Becca Rudd, Mary Mo’son, Ruth Lytle, an’ mair; Thoo says it’s o’ f?n, an’ sec f?n ma’ be fair, But it doesn’t seem jannic to me. I favour’t the’, ey! abeÙn o’ t’ lads aboot; I thowte, like a feÙl, ’at th?’d sing-elt me oot Frae t’ t?dders, an’ I’ve been reet sarra’t, na doobt, To trust sec a taistrel as thee. Reet sarra’t? Ey, mess! I was warn’t gaily weel,— I was tel’t hoo th?’d feÙl’t an’ than left GreÀcy Peile; An’ what reet hed I to believe thoo wad deal Ayder fairer or fonter wi’ me? Fwoke tel’t mÉ thoo com of a slape, sneeky breed;— ’At a tungue sec as thine seldom hung iv a heid;— ’At twice i’ three times when thoo said owte, thoo leed; But I fanciet that hardly c?d be. For ’SpeÀtry, I kent, was a hard-spocken pleÀce, An’ I thowte ’at, may-hap, th?’d been wrang’t aboot GreÀce;— God help mÉ!—I thowte I read t’ truth i’ thy feÀce, When thoo swore thoo cared only for me. We’re silly, us lasses—We’re maizlins, I know!— We’re t’ meÀst teÀn wi’ them ’at oor frinds meÀst misco’; An’ when we’re teÀn in, we’ve to shear what we sow, An’ to rue sec mistaks till we dee. But leet com’ i’ time, an’ it o’ com’ at yance, I so’t fair aneÙf, but, to give thee ya chance, I went by mysel’ to Jane Loncaster’s dance, Just to see if thoo d?d care for me. Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teÙk, An’ thoo d?dn’t c?’ n?r; n?t a smile nor a leÙk D?d tÉ kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neÙk, An’ w?nder’t I’d trustit i’ thee. Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty b?r; An’ she c?tter’t wi’ thee j?st to greg Harry Sc?rr;— When t’ c?shi’n com’ in thoo teÙk t’ c?shi’n tull hur, An’ thoo glimed, when thoo kiss’t her, at me. But Harry an’ Bess meÀd it up iv a crack; An’ noo, ’at th?’s hed a begonk, thoo c?’s back; But if th?’s f?nd oot thine, I’ve f?nd oot my mistak’, An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heÀl an’ free. Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steÀk, an’ be g?’n; Amang thy oald chances th?’s m’appen finnd yan Ma’ be fain, though th?’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageÀn, But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me. |
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