I leyke the king, I leyke the state,
The kurk, and constitution,

An' on their foes, baith soon and late,
Wish downfa' an' confusion;

But may nae frien' o' mine, by cheats,
Turn out that maizlin ninny,

To barter a' a Briton's reeghts,

For nonsense an' a guinea,

Wi' Keyte this day.

But here's a row worth a' the rest,
Come, we'll attend this tuoly;
Ifaith! we've fund a famous nest
'At mek a battlin' bruoly;
Here crazy, lazy, blin', an' leame,
Engage for general trial,

An' heevy-skeevy, fire an' flame,
They yoke in battle royal

A sodger, wid a wooden leg,

A keynd o' snafflin' noddy,

Pell-mell this day.

Had begg'd a bure, her neame was Meg,
A winsome weel-far'd body;
A darky glaum'd her by the hips,

The sodger band leyke thunder,
But still the blin' man held his grip

As tho' he ne'er wad sunder

Frae her that day.

Then up ruose Cæsar in a wrath,
An', sweyan owr his crutches,
Swear he wad lib the fiddler's graith
If he com' in his clutches;
But his inconstant marrow Meg,
As for a bang he bummel'd,
Lows'd in a treyce his timmer leg,

An' down the warrior tumel'd

Lang streek'd that day.

Now sprawlin' on the brade o's back,

Wi' rage the vet'ran ranted,

An' roun' laid monny a loundrin' whack,

But aye effect they wanted,

For as they keepd ayond his reach

His bats fell fause not fairly,

Wheylst they kept batt'ring him en breach,

Which vext the wight reeght sairly,

Wate weel that day.

Roun' on his bum, his central bit,

As on a pivot wheelin',

The hero whurl'd him wi' his fit,
Fast roun' his duibs aye dealin' ;
At length owrwhelm'd wi' filth an' sods
Frae thar ferocious tartars,
He sank beneath superior odds,
An' grean'd aloud for quarters

An' leyfe this day.

Now a' seems outrage owr the hill,
Dread conflict an' confusion,

The watchword's blown,-be kill'd or kill;
The day's wark's near conclusion;
We'd best be fettlin' off wi' speed

Wheyle we've hale beanes for carrying,
For fear some hawbuck tek't i' his heade
To brake us weel for tarrying

Sae lang this day.

END OF JOHN STAGG'S POEMS.

T'S hey for th' lads of our town eyne!

IT'S

I trow they're like nea ither,—

Theer' Wulliam Brough, an' Jwoney Heyne,

An' Kursty' Kit for anither;

Theer' Geordy Waugh, a teeran haund

At berry'an bigg or shearan;

But Ritson' Joe can cap them aw

For jinkan an' careeran.

*The following piece, taken from Jollie's "Sketch of Cumberland Manners and Customs," 8vo., Carlisle, 1811, was written by Mr. Mark Lonsdale, and intended by him to have been published in Hutchinson's "History of Cumberland," but it arrived too late for insertion. It gives a true and natural description of the manners of the district of which it treats; it is a plain “unvarnished story," but on that account preferable, as affording a specimen of the humour and customs of the Cumberland peasantry which, in this "age of refinement,” are fast going to decay, though the same general characteristics are yet extant. Information is the first object of the poem, and next to that, entertainment, but without attempting to gratify either the antiquarian or the satirist; for the virtues, foibles, merits, and eccentricities of men and things are as

Thur Worton lads an' twea' three mair-
Theer might be six or seeven―
Tawk't of an Upshot lang an' sair
To keep up Fassen's-even.

Yea Sunday mworn, i' Bell' backseyde,
They geddert up a gay few,

But fand it cauld to stawn i'th' fauld,
Sea tawk't things owr i'th' hay-mew.

"That barn,” says Heyne, "i' Palmer' toft
"'Ll dea reet weel to keave in."
"Od dal!" says Joe, "theer' Wulson' loft,
"An' that's the thing till a sheavin'."
"Aw's speak to th' fiddler than," says Kit,

"O' Brammery we may leyte, mun.’

"Wa' shittle cum shaugh!" quo' Gwordy Waugh,

66

'A Stegg to fiddle as teyte, mun.”

freely and, it is hoped, as harmlessly introduced as if the relator were sitting by a Cumberland fireside, where every neighbour has his story and his laugh in turn. Jollie, the editor, accuses Anderson, the Cumbrian Bard, of borrowing in a clandestine manner many of his best characters and ideas from this piece.

This free sketch, ad vivium, of a Cumberland Upshot, taken about the year 1780, and descriptive of the manners and dialect of Great Orton, a village four miles west of Carlisle, is intended to form the ground of the picture; hence the images and phraseology made use of are not to be considered as general throughout the country, for a number of local variations may be met with in different neighbourhoods, which the curious observer will scarcely be able to reconcile with each other, and some of which are exemplified in the course of the Poem.