A SNECK POSSET.

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 mūn bide as I is till I dee. Thū’s coddel’t Keàt Crosstet, Ann Atchin, Jane Blair, ’Becca Rudd, Mary Mo’son, Ruth Lytle, an’ mair; Thoo says it’s o’ fūn, an’ sec fūn 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 thū’d sing-elt me oot Frae t’ tūdders, 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 thū’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 cūd be. For ’Speàtry, I kent, was a hard-spocken pleàce, An’ I thowte ’at, may-hap, thū’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 dūd care for me. Theear, hoaf oot o’ seet, a bye corner I teùk, An’ thoo dūdn’t cū’ nār; nūt a smile nor a leùk Dūd té kest to poor me, as I dark’t i’ my neùk, An’ wūnder’t I’d trustit i’ thee. Thoo stack till Bess Bruff like a cockelty būr; An’ she cūtter’t wi’ thee jūst to greg Harry Scūrr;— When t’ cūshi’n com’ in thoo teùk t’ cūshi’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 thū’s hed a begonk, thoo cū’s back; But if thū’s fūnd oot thine, I’ve fūnd oot my mistak’, An’, I’ll ho’d mysel’ heart-heàl an’ free. Sooa Neddy, gud lad, dro’ thy steàk, an’ be gā’n; Amang thy oald chances thū’s m’appen finnd yan Ma’ be fain, though thū’s snaip’t her, to hev the’ ageàn, But, Eddy! that yan isn’t me.