Still stick to him afield or home, The methodistic _brush_ defying, So that the Ranter's _curry-comb_ Is now the only means worth trying.

In habits form'd since sixty years, The hopes of change won't weigh a feather-- Their power so o'er him domineers, That they and life must end together.

See on their right a gambling few, Whose every word and look display A desperate, dark, designing crew, Intent upon each others' _pay_.

They're _racers, c.o.c.kers, carders_ keen, As ever o'er a tankard met, Or ever bowl'd a match between The _Popplin Well_ and _Mawvin's yett_.

On _c.o.c.k-fight_, _dog-fight_, _cuddy-race_, Or _pitch_ and _toss_, _trippet_ and _coit_, Or on a _soap-tail'd grunter's chase_, They'll risk the last remaining doit.

They're now at cards, and Gibby Gripe Is peeping into Harry's hand; And ev'ry puff blown from his pipe His party easily understand.

Some for the odd trick pushing hard--'

Some that they lose it pale with fear-- Some betting on the turn-up card-- Some drawing cuts for pints of beer.

Whilst others brawl about _Jack's_ brock, That all the Chowden dogs can bang; Or praise "_Lang Wilson's_" piley c.o.c.k, Or _Dixon's_ feats upon the sw.a.n.g.

Here _Tom_, the pink of bowlers, gain'd Himself a never-dying name, By deeds, wherein an ardour reign'd, Which neither _age_ nor _toil_ could tame.

For labour done, and o'er his dose, Tom took his place upon the hill; And at the very evening's close You faintly saw him bowling still.

All this display of pith and zeal Was so completely habit grown, That many an hour from sleep he'd steal To bowl upon the hill alone.

The night wears late--the wives drop in To take a peep at what is doing; For many would not care a pin To lose at cards a fortnight's hewing.

Poor Will had just his plagues dismiss'd, And had "Begone, dull Care" begun, With _face_ as grave as Methodist, And _voice_ most sadly out of tune;

But soon as e'er he Nelly saw, With brows a dreadful storm portending, He dropt at once his under jaw, As if his mortal race was ending;--

For had the grim destroyer stood, In all his ghastliness before him, It could not more have froze his blood, Nor thrown a deadlier paleness o'er him.

His better half, all fire and tow, Call'd him a slush--his comrades raff-- Swore that he could a brewing stow, And after that sipe all the draff.

Will gather'd up his scatter'd powers-- Drew up his fallen chops again-- Seiz'd Nell, and push'd her out of doors, Then broke forth in this piteous strain:--

"O! Nell, thou's rung me mony a peal, Nyen, but mysel, could bide thy yammer; Thy tongue runs like wor pully-wheel, And dirls my lug like wor smith's hammer.

Thou'll drive me daft, aw often dread, For now aw's n.o.bbet verra silly, Just like a geuss cut i' the head, Like _Jemmy Muin_ or _Preacher w.i.l.l.y_.

Aw thought wor Nell, when Nelly Dale, The verra thing to myek me happy; She curl'd ma hair, or tied ma tail, And clapt and stroakt ma little Cappy.

But suin as e'er the knot was tied, And we were yok'd for life together; When Nell had laugh'd, and minny cried, And a' was fairly i' the tether;--

Then fierce as fire she seiz'd the breeks, And round maw heed flew stuils and chairs; Ma tail hung lowse like candle weeks,-- An awd pit ended Cappy's cares.

Just like wor maisters when we're bun', If men and lads be varra scant, They wheedle us wi' yell and fun, And coax us into what they want.

But myek yor mark, then snuffs and sneers Suin slop yor gob and lay yor braggin'; When yence yor feet are i' the geers, Ma soul! they'll keep your painches waggin.

Aw toil ma byens, till through ma clay They peep, to please ma dowly cavel; Aw's at the coal wall a' the day, And nightly i' the waiter level--

Aw hammer on till efternuin, Wi' weary byens and empty wyem; Nay, varra oft the pit's just duin Before aw weel get wannel'd hyem.

But this is a' of little use, For what aw dee is never reet; She's like a larm-bell i' the house, Ding-donging at me day and neet.

If aw sud get ma wark owre suin, She's flaid to deeth aw've left some byet; And if aw's till the efternuin, Aw's drunk because aw is se lyet.

Feed us and cleed us weel she may, As she gets a'ways money plenty: For every day, for mony a pay, Aw've hew'd and putten twee-and-twenty.

'Tis true aw sometimes get a gill-- But then she a'ways gets her grog; And if aw din't her bottle fill, Aw's then a skin-flint, snock-drawn dog.

She buys me, te, the warst o' meat, Bad bullock's liver--houghs and knees Tough stinking tripe, and awd cow's feet-- Shanks full o' mawks, and half nought cheese.

Of sic she feeds the bairns and me, The tyesty bits she tyeks hersel'; In whilk ne share nor lot have we, Excepting sometimes i' the smell.

The crowdy is wor daily dish, But varra different is their minny's; For she gets a' her heart can wish In strang lyac'd tea and singin' hinnies.

Ma canny bairns luik pale and wan, Their bits and brats are varra scant; Their mother's feasts rob them o' scran-- For wilfu' waste makes woefu' want.

She peels the taties wi' her teeth, And spreads the b.u.t.ter wi' her thoom; She blaws the kail wi' stinking breeth, Where mawks and caterpillars soom!

She's just a gannin' heap o' muck, Where _durts_ of a' description muster; For _dishclout_ serves her _ap.r.o.n nuik_ As weel as _snotter clout_ and _duster_!

She lays out punds in _manadge_ things, Like mony a thriftless, thoughtless bein'; Yet bairns and me, as if we'd wings, Are a' in rags an' tatters fleein'.

Just mark wor _dress_--a _lapless coat_, With byeth the _elbows_ sticking through-- A _hat_ that never cost a _groat_-- A _neckless shirt_--a _clog_ and _shoe_.

She chalks up _scores_ at a' the shops Wherever we've a twelvemonth staid; And when we flit, the landlord stops Ma _sticks_ till a' the rent be paid.

Aw's ca'd a hen-pick'd, pluckless calf, For letting her the breeches wear; And tell'd aw dinna thresh her half-- Wi' mony a bitter jibe and jeer.

'Aw think,' says d.i.c.k, 'aw wad her towen, And verra suin her courage cuil: Aw'd dook her in wor engine powen, Then clap her on Repentance stuil.

If that should not her tantrums check, Aw'd _peel_ her to the varra _sark_: Then 'noint her wi' a _twig o' yeck_, And efter make her _eat_ the bark.'

Enough like this aw've heard thro' life; For every body has a plan To guide a rackle ram-stam wife, Except the poor tormented man."

Will could not now his feelings stay-- The tear roll'd down his care-worn cheek: He thrimmell'd out what he'd to pay, And sobbing said, "my heart will break!"

Here Nanny, modest, mild, and shy, Took Neddy gently by the sleeve; "Aw just luik'd in as aw went by-- Is it not, thinks te, time to leave?"

"Now, Nan, what myeks th' fash me here, Gan hyem and get the bairns to bed; Thou knaws thou promis'd me ma beer The verra neet before we wed."

"Hout, hinny, had th' blabbin jaw, Thou's full o' nought but fun and lees; At sic a _kittle time_, ye knaw, Yen tells ye ony thing to please.

Besides, thou's had enough o' drink, And mair wad ony myek th' bad; Aw see thy een begin to blink-- Gan wi' me, like a canny lad."

"O, Nan! thou hez a witching way O' myekin' me de what thou will; Thou needs but speak, and aw obey, Yet there's ne doubt aw's maister still.

But tyest the yell and stop a bit-- Here tyek a seat upon ma knee-- For 'mang the hewers in wor pit There's nyen hez sic a wife as me.