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Title: Wit, Character, Folklore and Customs of the North Riding of Yorkshire - With a Glossary of over 4,000 Words and Idioms Now in Use
Author: Blakeborough, Richard
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation and accents have been standardised but all other
spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
On page 262
‘To leeak a bad leeak’ = to leeak ill. has been changed to
‘To leeak a bad leeak’ = to look ill.
The footnotes are located at the end of the book.
The book begins with an extensive list of subscribers immediatly after
the table of contents. This has been moved to the end.
Italics are represented thus _italic_, bold thus +bold+ and
superscripts thus y^{en}.
WIT, CHARACTER, FOLKLORE
AND CUSTOMS
OF THE
NORTH RIDING OF YORKSHIRE
Oxford
HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
_Wit
Character, Folklore & Customs_
OF THE
NORTH RIDING OF YORKSHIRE
WITH
_A GLOSSARY OF OVER 4,000 WORDS AND IDIOMS
NOW IN USE_
BY
RICHARD BLAKEBOROUGH
(SOCIETY HUMORIST)
LATE HON. CURATOR OF THE R.S.S.; AUTHOR OF ‘MORE THAN A DREAM,’
‘T’ HUNT O’ YATTON BRIGG,’ THE COMEDIES ‘TOMBOY,’ ‘AUNTIE,’ ETC.
London
HENRY FROWDE
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS WAREHOUSE
AMEN CORNER, E.C.
1898
THIS WORK
IS DEDICATED TO
THE
REV. E. S. CARTER, M.A.
OF YORK
AND
J. G. WILSON, M.A.
OF DURHAM
AS A MEMENTO OF SINCERE GRATITUDE
FOR MANY ACTS OF FRIENDSHIP
SHOWN TO
THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
At one time it was thought possible for the present work to be
undertaken conjointly by the Rev. M. C. F. Morris, author of _Yorkshire
Folk-Talk_, and myself. Such collaboration, though pleasing to both,
was found to be quite impracticable. Many of my patrons and friends
having urged me to undertake the work single-handed, I have ventured to
do so. I have aimed at no higher standard than the chatty style which
I have adopted in drawing-rooms and on the platform. If friends and
critics prove but half as kind and considerate in this new venture as
they have hitherto done, I have little to fear. My main object has been
simply to place on record, in, I hope, a readable form, some of the
wit, character, customs, and folklore of the North Riding which I have
thought to be sufficiently interesting and worthy of being saved from
that long list of things forgotten.
The chapter on some characteristic sayings of both the North and East
Ridings, kindly contributed by the Rev. M. C. F. Morris, will add
greatly to the value and interest of the work. I may here mention that
he is in no way answerable for any other single sentence throughout
the work. I feel it to be my duty to make this quite clear, for, as a
humorist, I have ventured to include certain items which the reverend
gentleman most probably would have run his pen through, had either the
MS. or proof-sheets passed through his hands.
The Glossary, though far from containing all the words of our North
Riding folk-speech, is as complete as it has been possible for me to
make it.
My thanks are due to Mr. Atkinson and to Mr. Morris, whose glossaries
I have frequently consulted, and in no less a degree to my friend Dr.
Johnson of Lancaster for his MS. notes, so generously lent me.
I have done my best, and if my literary repast is not set before my
readers with the usual glitter of silver and cut glass, I would humbly
remind them that the fare has been fairly stalked and prepared with
all due care as to accuracy, and cooked and served with the best of
everything my literary kitchen possesses.
Many stories illustrative of Yorkshire character and humour are given,
mostly gathered from original sources covering a period of many years,
and in the main are true. None of them, I believe, have hitherto been
published, and very few contained in these pages have I given publicly.
The stories afford numerous examples of the idiom and dialect as spoken
in the North Riding, but mainly (as to dialect) in that of Cleveland.
The reason for specializing that district is given elsewhere.
To the scores of happy hours spent with both old and young by their own
firesides, I owe the contents of this book. Nearly all it contains they
have given me: to them I return my warmest thanks.
One other word—should a copy of this work find its way into other
lands, and be read by any of my Yorkshire colonial cousins, to them I
sincerely offer the grip of friendship. And should any of our Yorkshire
words have gained a footing on other soil, I shall be grateful for a
list of the same.
To many of my subscribers I owe a lasting debt of gratitude for that
kindness and cordiality which at once made me one of their house party
when staying with them as Society Humorist, and also for the kind
letters of encouragement they were so good as to send me in the early
stage of my work, and to one and all I now offer my most sincere thanks
for their cordial replies in answer to my circular.
In conclusion, should this work bring conviction that the Riding ought
to have a Folklore and Dialectical Society identified with itself, I
shall not have written in vain, and it would have my hearty if humble
support. No time should be lost. Bear in mind, each aged person who
passes from amongst us is another valuable volume removed from the
shelves of an ever-decreasing library. I shall be glad to receive the
names of any of my readers willing to help me in forming a North Riding
Folklore and Dialectical Society.
THE AUTHOR.
24 TRENT STREET,
STOCKTON-ON-TEES,
_September 27, 1898_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. YORKSHIRE STORIES OF WIT AND CHARACTER 1
II. WIT AND CHARACTER 17
III. WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_ 28
IV. WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_ 43
V. WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_ 54
VI. CUSTOMS OF THE YEAR AND FOLKLORE 66
VII. CUSTOMS OF COURTSHIP, MARRIAGE, BIRTH, AND DEATH 94
VIII. OMENS, CHARMS, RECIPES 126
IX. WITCHCRAFT 153
X. WITCHCRAFT—CONTINUED 173
XI. SOME CHARACTERISTIC YORKSHIRE SAYINGS 210
By the Rev. M. C. F. MORRIS. B.C.L., M.A., Rector
of Nunburnholme. Author of _Yorkshire Folk-Talk_.
XII. IDIOMS AND THE PECULIAR USE OF CERTAIN WORDS 222
XIII. SIMILES, PROVERBS, AND SAYINGS 238
XIV. CHILDREN’S LORE 257
XV. ODD SCRAPS OF OLD YORKSHIRE, ETC. 279
XVI. A FEW SIMPLE HINTS ON THE GRAMMAR OF THE FOLK-SPEECH 316
GLOSSARY 342
CONCLUDING REMARKS 475
THE YORKSHIRE FOLK-SPEECH IS NOT A DIALECT, BUT A LANGUAGE.
To those unacquainted with our folk-speech, the following list will
be helpful when reading. A glossary of words now in use in the North
Riding will be found at the end of the volume.
Ah = _I_.
Ah’s = (_I is_) _I am_.
Ah s’ = _I shall_.
’an = _than_.
’at = _that_, _which_, _who_.
i’ = _in_, ’iv’ before a vowel.
i’ ’t = _in it_.
i’ t’ = _in the_.
’ll = _will_.
ma = _me_.
mah = _my_.
na = _nor_, _no_, _than_.
o’ = _on_, also _of_.
ov = _of_.
’s = _is_, _has_, or _as_.
s’ = _shall_.
‘t = _it_.
t’ = _the_.
ta = _thou_ or _you_.
ti = _to_.
ti t’ = _to the_.
ti ‘t = _to it_.
till = _to_.
tiv, used before a vowel = _to_.
wa = _we_.
wi’ = _with_, as a rule ‘wiv’
before a vowel.
ya = _you_.
yer = _your_.
yah, adj., personal numeral = _one_.
yan, adj. = _one_.
ya’d = _you had_ or _you would_.
CHAPTER I
YORKSHIRE STORIES OF WIT AND CHARACTER.
‘EDDICATION an’ self-binnders is gahin ti to’n t’ wo’lld upsahd doon,’
said an honest Yorkshireman to me the other day. ‘Are things in general
really much different now from what they were, say, fifty years ago?’
I asked. To which I received this laconic reply, ‘Nowt’s t’ saam[1].’
Nothing could have been more forcible: the words meant much, and the
tone in which they were uttered meant even more.
Unfortunately this ‘tone,’ which is the very soul of the dialect, can
never be rendered in print. How poor and meaningless in the mouth of
a stranger sound the words, ‘Cu’ thi waays, honey,’ but from the lips
of a Yorkshire mother to her bairn they carry with them the sound of
tenderest love and solicitude. They ring with music, but it is music
which is only tuneful to the Yorkshire ear.
But to return to our friend. Now, though he said ‘Nowt’s t’ saam’
in somewhat a depreciatory manner, he was fully aware of the value
of education and the utility of the various mechanical appliances
which have of late years revolutionized agricultural labour. There
is a species, shall I say of conservatism? deeply ingrafted in the
Yorkshireman’s character. It is a natural cautiousness which ever keeps
this conservatism to the forefront in everything connected with his
daily life. He does not, nor ever has, taken kindly to novelties. He
views with suspicion all things which he considers innovations, i.e.
which have a tendency to alter the general rut in which his father
travelled before him. To him the old way is good, and he is loth to
leave it. No matter whether it be temporal or spiritual, he hangs on
long and hard to the old and beaten track. _Errare est humanum_ fully
applies to the Yorkshireman; he makes mistakes, but never owing to his
having been too precipitate. He is naturally cautious and eminently
practical. ‘Ah leyke ti ken hoo tweea an’ tweea’s gahin ti mak fowr,
an’ ’at fowr penn’oth o’ stuff’s wo’th fow’pence, afoor Ah ware mah
brass on owt,’ said an old Tyke one day. This caution and practical
turn in our character, and which is carried into all things, naturally
leads those who are strangers to form the opinion that we are dull and
slow of comprehension, but to those who can read between the lines
this verdict is very speedily reversed; for should it be necessary to
_spend_ only words, ‘which costs nowt, bud deean’t want wasting foor
all that,’ then it will be readily conceded that the Yorkshireman’s
brain can grasp a question and turn on steam so as to give an answer as
quickly and as much to the point as the best of them.
It may not be couched in the politest of language; nay, most likely
it will be very plain-spoken, even to bluntness; but it will be
just what the speaker thinks, devoid of all the silken trimmings of
conventionalism.
Many of the answers given to inquisitive questioners often seem
irrelevant; they need as it were some sidelight to point the
application, and generally it is necessary one should have a
considerable knowledge of the dialect and idiom before its terseness
can be fully appreciated.
Nevertheless, when properly approached our people are communicative,
and express their opinion freely and always _ad rem_.
But once having weighed any matter over, the opinion so formed
is, as it were, engraved on a rock of adamant. Perhaps one or two
illustrations will show the different phases of character referred to
in a clearer light than pages of written explanation.
The new vicar (not a Yorkshireman) of a country parish decided that his
congregation should stand up when he and the choir processed from the
vestry. ‘Tha’ll nut deea ’t,’ said the churchwarden when the question
was mooted; ‘t’ au’d fau’k nivver did seea, an’ t’ young uns weean’t.’
The tone in which this was uttered would have been conclusive to any
Yorkshireman.
‘I think I can make them,’ said the vicar. ‘Mak ’em!’ with great
unction; ‘did ya saay mak ’em? Noo ya mebbe mud ’tice ’em—yan nivver
knaws what’ll happen—bud Ah’s mairna sartin sewer ’at ya’ll nivver mak
’em; an’ tha’ll tak a gay bit o’ ‘ticing, if Ah knaw owt.’
‘Oh, leave it to me, I’ll manage it,’ said the vicar confidently.
‘Whya noo, gan on wi’ ya; bud deean’t forgit ’at a hoss sumtahms
tumm’ls ower t’ raal ’at it’s loup’d afoor,’ was the parting advice of
the worthy churchwarden.
The following Sunday evening the vicar told his congregation that he
wished them to stand as the choir came from the vestry, but next Sunday
morning found his congregation stolidly seated as heretofore.
‘Ah tell’d ya tha wadn’t deea ’t,’ chuckled the churchwarden.
‘But they will,’ replied the vicar. ‘Bud tha weean’t,’ put in the
churchwarden; and then he added as a clincher, ‘Acoz tha’ve made up tha
mahnds aboot it, an’ ya weean’t shift ’em when yance tha’ve deean that.’
‘You wait until evening,’ said the vicar, ‘and I shall make them
stand.’ And he did. Coming to the doorway of the vestry, he gave out
the hymn, the organ commenced to play, up rose the congregation, and
out marched the choir and vicar.
‘Ah’ll watch him fra deeaing that onny mair,’ muttered one old dame
loud enough for half the church to hear.
‘Did I not say they would rise? And I’ll do that every Sunday,’ said
the vicar, as he and the warden walked home.
‘Whya, Ah deean’t knaw saa mich aboot that. It’s nut awlus seeaf ti
ride wiv a curb an’ spurs. Ya’ll ’a’e ti tak care noo; wa deean’t tak
kindly ti being tricked, Ah can tell ya; bud wa s’ see at eftther.’
Next Sunday morning out stepped the vicar, gave out the hymn, and then
waited in the vestry until the organ and congregation were in full
swing; then, and not until then, did he and the choir march out, and to
his no little surprise he found the whole congregation lustily singing,
but seated to a man.
As an example of their plain-speaking, as well as their objection to
fall in with a new order of things, perhaps the following is fairly to
the point.
The wife of the Vicar of ——, having engaged a new maid, concluded
various instructions by saying, ‘Should any ladies call during the
afternoon, and I ring, you must bring in the small tea-tray and a
kettle of boiling water.’ The first two days passed over without a
hitch, but when the bell rang on the third afternoon, instead of
tea-tray and kettle a head was thrust through the half-open door, and
Mary said, ‘Here Ah saay, cum ootsahd; Ah want ya a minit.’ On the
hostess retiring, Mary was heard to say, ‘Noo then! is this new-fengled
gahin-on gahin ti happen ivvery daay? Baith them an’ yow owt ti knaw
’at it’s maist in_con_venient leeaving yan’s reg’lar wark ti mak tea at
this tahm o’ t’ daay. Ya’ll ’a’e ti gan back an’ saay ’at wa s’aan’t be
yabble ti mannish owt for ’em this efttherneean; Ah’s up ti t’ elbows
i’ muck.’
The Archdeacon of —— gave me the following story, which is too good to
hide its head. The bishop had been preaching a restoration sermon in
one of our villages. After the sermon his lordship and the archdeacon
overtook the village blacksmith, a well-known character. ‘Well, John,
and how have you enjoyed the sermon?’ inquired the archdeacon. ‘Whya,
nowt bud weel. Ah s’u’d think, sir’ (turning to the bishop), ‘wiv a bit
mair practis ya’ll mannish cannily. I’ t’ main what ya sed war varra
good; a larl bit ti low i’ t’ voice for me, bud ya’ll mend o’ that.
Noo, Ah yance did hear a young chap, an’ he war nobbut a young un an’
all. Ah think ’at he war iv a grosser’s shop, bud Ah’s nut sartin;
bud that’s nowt. He yance preeached i’ t’ Methody chapel, an’ theer’s
nut a wo’d of a lee aboot it, what Ah saay is trew; ya c’u’d hear him
slap t’ Bahble an’ shoot hauf t’ waay doon t’ village. Aye, ya c’u’d
stan’ ootsahd an’ smeeak ya’re pipe an’ get all t’ good fra what he war
saaying; _bud, then, he war a preeacher_.’ I can well imagine the tone
that last ‘bud, then, he war a preeacher’ would be uttered in.
The younger fry are just as open as the older folk. I remember a lady
telling me she had called at a farm-house. Evidently she had been
seen approaching. It would seem the doll and other litter of the wee
daughter had been quickly bundled out of sight, and all things, as far
as possible, put in order. For the moment the amusement of the little
one was put an end to, and this did not escape the notice of the child.
She, Yorkshire-like, formed her own opinion upon the proceeding, and
only waited for a suitable moment to very plainly express the same.
Resting her elbows on the lady’s knees, with her chubby little face in
her hands, she said, when a lull in the conversation gave her a chance
to speak, ‘Ah saay, missus, hoo pleasant it wad ’a’e been if you’d
nivver ’a’e cum’d.’
The cautiousness of the Yorkshireman is so evident in all matters,
it is so pronounced, that to give examples is almost to lay oneself
open to the charge ‘ov telling a chap summat he knaws.’ Nevertheless
I give you one, not so much because it is exactly Q.E.D., but because
it is one of the best expositions of Socialism I have ever heard. It
seems that some Socialist won one man over to his views, and this man
met a friend of his. ‘Whya, noo then,’ began the friend; ‘what tha
tell ma ’at thoo’s to’n’d ti be a Socialist, is ’t reet?’ ‘Aye, it’s
reet; an’ it’s a gran’ thing an’ all. Thoo owt ti join uz.’ ‘Owt Ah?
What is ’t ’at ya’re efter?’ ‘Whya, thoo knaws it’s lyke this; ther’s
a lot o’ fau’k living i’ gert hooses, an’ tha’re eating an’ drinking
all t’ daay lang an’ guzzling t’ neet thruff, sum on ’em, an’ it’s
gahin ti be stopped. Ivverything’s gahin ti be shared up, an’ all on
uz get what’s wer awn; neeabody nowt na mair ’an onnybody else, dizn’t
ta see,’ ‘Whya, nut fur sartin.’ said his friend. ‘Diz ta meean ’at
thoo’ll share up an’ all?’ ‘Aye, ivverybody will.’ ‘What, is’t gahin ti
be a soart o’ brotherly luv’? Ivverybody wi’ nowt neea mair na onnybody
else.’ ‘Aye, that’s it; brotherly luv’. Ivverybody all t’ seeam,
neeabody nowt neea different neeawaays ti neeabody i’ neea road.’ ‘It
soonds grand; bud diz ta meean ti saay if thoo ’ed tweea hosses an’
Ah ’edn’t a hoss ’at thoo’d gi’e ma yan?’ ‘Iv a minit Ah wad. If Ah’d
tweea an’ thoo ’edn’t yan Ah s’u’d gi’e tha yan leyke all that,’ said
he, slapping his friend on the back. ‘Aye, an’ if ta ’ed tweea coos,
an’ Ah wanted a coo, wad ta gi’e uz a coo?’ ‘Just t’ seeam. If thoo
’edn’t a coo, an’ Ah ’ed tweea, Ah s’u’d tell tha ti tak yan awaay wi
tha. Noo thoo understands what wa’re efter.’ ‘An’ if thoo’d tweea pigs,
an’ Ah ’edn’t a pig, an’ Ah ass’d tha fur a pig, wad ta gi’e ma yan?’
‘Naay noo,’ said the Socialist; ‘thoo’s cumin’ teea clooase hand noo;
thoo knaws ’at Ah ’ev tweea pigs.’
Possibly not a little surprised was the angler who, when fishing in one
of the small streams of the upper reaches of the Ure, said jokingly to
an old chap who had been watching his vain attempts to land several
fish, ‘I think I need a hanger on; what do you say?’ The old chap had
been thoroughly disgusted with the way in which the fish had been
played. It was no case for joking; it was a downright sin for such a
man to be allowed to fish. So the answer, as may be expected, was more
to the point than polite. ‘What thoo wants,’ said the old chap with a
grunt of disgust, ‘is nut a hinger on, bud a flinger oot. If it’s fish
’at thoo’s efter, thoo’ll ’a’e ti lig t’ rod doon an’ set ti wark wi t’
net; thoo mebbins mud ’a’e t’ luck ti catch yan o’ them ’at thoo’s hauf
killed. Thoo’s naa fisher; thoo’s nowt bud a spoil watter, that’s what
thoo is.’ Thus relieving himself, Old Willie walked away.
One of my sketches, given at a Primrose League meeting, gave great
offence to the coachman of a noble lord. Entertainers, by the way, do
not hold any social position in the eyes of such. Some time afterwards
I was asked to go as entertaining guest on his lordship’s son’s
attaining his majority. A day or two before my arrival my host asked
his coachman if he had not been to the entertainment which I had given.
‘Aye,’ said the old chap, ‘bud I wadn’t gan agaan. He’s up ti nowt,
isn’t yon youth; he’ll nivver git on. He’s gitten impedence foor owt,
he spares nowt na neeabody, he taks sarvants an’ t’ quality off all
alike; Ah reckon nowt on him at all.’
‘I am sorry to hear that,’ said his master.
‘Whya, Ah’s seear ya’ve gitten neea call ti be, he’s nut wo’th it.
Ya mun excuse me, my lord, bud what mud ya be sorry foor?’ ‘Well,
because he is coming here.’ ‘Cumin’ here!’ said the coachman, amazed;
‘what ivver foor?’ ‘To entertain my guests.’ ‘What! deea ya meean
when t’ young lord cums at age?’ he asked, his amazement increasing.
‘Yes,’ said his lordship, greatly amused. ‘Oha! an’ wheer will ya put
him up? ’coz Ah can tell ya ’at t’ sarvants weean’t want ti ’ev him
amangst them, tha neeawaays setten up wiv him.’ ‘But he won’t be with
the servants.’ ‘Then wheer will he be?’ ‘With us, of course.’ ‘Deea
ya meean ti saay ’at he’ll dine wi’ yow an’ t’ quality?’ asked the
old chap, fairly amazed now. ‘Certainly.’ For a moment the old fellow
hesitated; he was bewildered by such a piece of folly. And then he
spoke his mind. ‘Well!’ he gasped, ‘ya mun excuse me, my lord, bud
Ah think ’at yer gahin ti mak a varra common do on ’t.’ Nice for me,
wasn’t it?
However boorish and brusque strangers may dub us, it is admitted on all
hands that the Yorkshireman is fairly ’cute: he always has an eye to
the main chance. And although others who are glibber of tongue may to a
certain extent fairly ’mazzle’ him with their verbosity, yet any such
may certainly claim to having done the ’hat trick’ if in the end they
manage to outwit the Tyke. ‘He ommaist ’wildered ma wiv his slather,
bud Ah pairted wi’ nowt,’ said an old man who had been tackled by a
book agent.
‘Did ta bet owt at t’ races?’ asked one Tyke of another. ‘Neea, Ah
didn’t. It war leyke this, thoo knaws. T’ chaps ’at Ah seed stanning
o’ t’ top o’ steeals an’ sitting unner gert um’erellas all seeam’d ti
’ev gawd rings an’ cheeans on, an’ tha war varra weel dhriss’d an’
all, whahl monny ov ’em ’at war ’livering ther brass up war oot at t’
teeas an’ doon at t’ heels. Seea Ah sed tiv mysen, “T’ steeal an’ t’
um’erella chaps leeak ez if tha war ’evving t’ best o’ t’ bargain all
t’ waay thruff,’ an’ seea neean on ’em gat onny o’ mah brass. Dizn’t ta
think ’at Ah war i’ t’ reet on ’t?”
Cautiousness and ’cuteness is fairly well set forth in the following
story. Old Jobson wished to gain some legal information, ‘bud he didn’t
want ti pay owt for ’t.’ Meeting the legal light one day, he began,
‘Ah saay, if Ah wor ti ax ya summat aboot summat, s’u’d Ah ’a’e ti pay
summat? It’s aboot yon pathwaay o’ mahn ’at Ah want ti knaw summat.’
‘Certainly; I don’t give advice free,’ replied the lawyer. ‘Whya then,
Ah weean’t ax ya nowt; things may bahd ez they are, whahl yow want a
larl piece o’ knowledge fra me, an’ then wa’ll see if wa caan’t mak a
swap on’t. Nowther t’ field na t’ path’ll shift,’ said Jobson as he
walked away. And so matters rested for some months, in fact until the
lawyer’s horse (a very valuable one) was suddenly taken ill. Jobson was
at once sent for, he being an expert in all horse ailments. The old
farmer, after a careful examination of his patient, declared he knew
what was amiss and what was needed to effect a cure. ‘Then I will send
my man for what you need at once,’ said the owner.
‘Aye, bud wait a bit; deean’t ya aim ’at tahm’s cum’d when wa s’all
’a’e ti swap wer knowledge?’ said the farmer, with a twinkle in his
eye. The solicitor burst out laughing; he saw the joke and admitted the
validity of the claim. The old chap saved the horse, and the pathway
was satisfactorily arranged.
The Yorkshireman always sees that he gets value for his money, at least
he always tries to do so.
The village orchestral society were rehearsing for a public performance
which was to be given the following week. The squire and a musical
friend had just dropped in towards its conclusion. The friend, speaking
at the conclusion with the conductor, said, ‘You have a remarkably good
band; you only lack one slight addition to make it one of the best for
the size of your village I have ever listened to. Will you allow me to
suggest that you get a horn? you lack only that.’ ‘Oha, an’ what’s a
horn?’ inquired the conductor. Having had the matter fully explained,
he asked what a horn could be bought for. But the gentleman pointed out
there was hardly time to procure a horn and teach a man how to play it
before the entertainment came off. ‘Whya then,’ asked the conductor,
‘deea yer knaw a chap ’at c’u’d cum an’ play t’ horn foor uz, an’ what
wad he cum foor?’ ‘I know a first-class player, and I think he would
come for five pounds.’ ‘Fahve pund!’ gasped the conductor. ‘Whya, Ah
c’u’d git a whoale band foor that!’ ‘Never mind the money, John,’ said
the squire; ‘I’ll see about that.’ ‘Oha, whya, if it’s gahin ti be
leyke that, let’s ’a’e t’ chap wi’ t’ horn.’ And so the matter was
settled. On the night of the performance the man with the horn put
in an appearance, and all went well for about ten minutes, when the
conductor stopped the band, and turning to the horn-player, he said,
‘Noo then, thee wi’ t’ horn, thoo isn’t playing.’ ‘No,’ said he; ‘I
have forty-five bars rest here.’ Whereupon the conductor electrified
every one by saying, ‘Mebbe thoo thinks seea, bud leeaks ta here, wa’ve
paid thee fahve pund foor t’ neet an’ thoo’ll ’a’e ti puff all t’ waay
thruff.’
Scores of stories could be given illustrating the aptitude our
country-people exhibit in extricating themselves when placed in an
awkward corner.
The dear old lady who was my study for Mrs. Waddleton asked me to paint
her a picture—‘seea ez Ah s’all ’a’e summat ti leeak at ’at ya’ve deean
yersel when ya’ve geean,’ said she. I readily promised to do so, and in
due course sent her a little snow scene.
A few days afterwards she saw me passing. ‘Noo then,’ she shouted, ‘cum
in wi’ ya. Ah’ve gitten ’t heng’d up, an’, mah wo’d, bud it leeaks
grand, dizn’t it?’ ‘I am glad you like it,’ said I, as I gazed at my
work of art nestling amongst coloured grasses and peacock feathers;
‘and very nicely you have arranged everything. But perhaps it would
be better if you hung it the right way up.’ Her face was a picture.
The dear old soul felt that she had blundered; she was fearful lest I
should feel hurt.
But her native wit saved her. ‘Wrang sahd up, is ’t? Aa, bud, Ah saay,
ya mun be a clivver penter seea ez ti pent a picter ’at leeaks reet
onny road up.’ Then, after a moment’s consideration, she added, ‘But
mebbies Ah’d best to’n ’t t’other road roond; sum fau’k mud think ’at
yan didn’t knaw t’ reet end ov a picter if yan let it bahd ez ’tis.’
Sir C—— and Mr. W——, a solicitor, once overtook Abe Braithwaite, a
well-known character in Bedale, on the way to the meet. ‘Good morning,’
said Sir C——; ‘shall we have a find, Abe?’ ‘Nut i’ yon cover; bud Ah
cud gi’e ya a wrinkle.’ ‘Well, let’s have it,’ said Sir C——. ‘Whya,
deean’t weeast mich tahm yonder, bud gan ti t’ far cover, an’ ya’ll
finnd yan theer, hard eneeaf.’ ‘All right, Abe, I’ll bear in mind what
you say,’ said Sir C—— as the two rode off. ‘Ah saay,’ shouted Abe
after the retreating horsemen, ‘if ya’d ass’d advice frev him ’at’s wi’
ya he’d wanted six an’ eightpence, bud Ah nivver charge nowt na mair
’an a bob mysen.’ And he got it.
A story just strikes me which illustrates several points already
mentioned. A young fellow who was supposed to be learning land agency
bought a horse at an adjacent fair, and was most systematically
swindled. The said horse was being looked over by one of the village
Tykes. Now for many reasons the fellow did not wish to offend the
purchaser, but it was really impossible to say one thing in its favour.
‘Well, Tom, what is the verdict?’ asked the embryo agent. And then
came the answer, which was worthy of a Grecian lawyer: ‘Whya noo,
that gertly depends. Ya weean’t ’a’e bowt it owther ti show or hunt,
noo ’a’e ya?’ ‘Oh no, just to knock about on.’ ‘Oha, whya then, ’t’ll
deea grandly ti knock aboot on,’ said Tom. ‘All the same you think
they’ve swindled me, now don’t you?’ ‘Whya it’s mebbins mair ’an Ah’d
’a’e gi’en for ’t mysen, but ’t’ll deea grandly ti knock aboot on.’
At this juncture they were joined by the village ostler, one who was
never over-nice in his remarks. ‘Now, Jack, what do you think of my
bargain?’ ‘What div Ah think on ’t? Whya, Ah wadn’t be seen takking it
ti t’kennels’ (i. e. taking it to feed the dogs); and then, thinking
he had been a little too severe, he added, ‘Bud Ah’ll tell ya what,
’t’ll deea foor yer ti larn what a hoss s’u’d be, foor it’s getten
neean o’ t’ points ’at a hoss owt ti ’ev, an’ ommaist ivvery yan ’at it
s’u’dn’t; ’t’ll deea foor yer ti study ’t up.’
The Tyke has a habit of answering you in a kind of metaphor, which, as
before remarked, is almost unintelligible unless something of dialect
and idiom has been mastered. As a case in point, I remember after the
last general election saying to an old fellow, ‘Now, John! what do you
think of this complete change in the country?’ Now, John did not know
which side I favoured, neither did he wish me to learn for which party
he had voted, and, further, he was determined not to say anything which
would either give offence to me or expose his own hand. The question
for a moment was a difficult one to answer, but the answer came pat
enough: ‘Whya, Parliment’s varra mich leyke t’ land—ya mun chaange t’
crops noos an’ agaan, or it’s ti neea good. Ah s’ ‘a’e ti be gahin noo;
good daay ti ya.’ He had answered me, fully answered me. He had let
nothing escape him. I was none the wiser as to what his own opinions
were, and I might just as well have saved myself the trouble of asking.
The inspectors of our Board schools can recount many true and curious
anecdotes of our country scholars; but it should be borne in mind by
the department that, although the Yorkshire country-people and their
bairns are bilingual, it is only their mother tongue and ordinary
English which up to the present they have mastered. The southern twang,
pronunciation, and slang is to them as a mystic rune. North-country
men, if you please, to examine North-country boys and girls. Very
often the questions, as put by South-country inspectors, might just as
well be asked in Sanskrit, and very naturally they remain unanswered,
whilst the class is voted as hopeless dunces, when the fault really
lies at the door of the questioner. At one school in Wensleydale a
South-country inspector, when examining a class on the Bible, put this
question, ‘Neow tell me something abeout Mouses.’ ‘Cats kill ’em,’ was
the prompt reply. Another one said to a promising standard in mental
arithmetic, ‘Three packets of pins at a penny each, five hanks of tape
penny each, nine reels of thread penny each, five boxes of hair-pins
penny each, and six ounces of worsted at three halfpence per ounce.
How much does the parcel come to? Quick!’ But the speed with which the
question had been asked, the twang, and the unfamiliar sound of many
of the words, left the standard almost in absolute ignorance of the
question. One thing, and of only one thing, were they clear upon—that
they were being asked something about _thread_, _worsted_, and
_hair-pins_. But as the inspector uttered that ‘Quick!’ he fixed his
eyes on one lad, and the effect of that glance was mesmeric. The lad
immediately answered, ‘Pleease, sur, wa ar’n’t lasses.’
But it is not the South-country man alone who receives unlooked for
answers from the practical bairns of our dales. After a somewhat
lengthy and highflown picture-painting on faith, the teacher, wishing
to see if the children had grasped her foolish poetical outburst,
said to one of the boys, whose mother, by the way, was a widow and
desperately poor, ‘Now, Tommy, if I were to say to you, “There will be
a rich plum pudding for your dinner,” and you believed me, what would
that be?’ ‘It ’ud be a gert tak in, for wa nivver ’a’e nowt na better
’an a suet dumpling at oor hoos,’ was the unexpected reply.
Again, an inspector asked one of the boys in Bilsdale, or rather
commenced to ask, a question in mental arithmetic: said he, ‘If you
had in your hand five apples, two oranges, and three pears, and I was
to take—-— ’ But he got no further; the practical bairn stopped him by
saying, ‘Pleease, sur, Ah c’u’dn’t ho’d ’em all i’ yah han’.’
To conclude this chapter, just one more example. Said an inspector to
a little girl, ‘If I knitted twelve stitches in a minute, how many
stitches should I have on my needle at the end of five minutes?’ ‘Ya
wadn’t a’e neean, ’coz ya deean’t knit stitches; ya’re nut gahin ti
catch me i’ that waay.’ He ought to have said ’loops.’
CHAPTER II
WIT AND CHARACTER
Our country-people possess in a very marked degree the faculty of
explaining away anything which for special reasons they do not care to
admit. Very often they do this in a marvellously subtle way. Sometimes
so fine is the point upon which they turn an argument, that that which
was to be demonstrated is entirely lost sight of, whilst new issues
are introduced in such a seemingly natural way that in the end you
find yourself contending for some point in which you have no earthly
interest, and which has no connexion with the original argument, but
which, owing to this strategical shifting, has put them on sure ground,
leaving you at a hopeless disadvantage. Equally conspicuous is their
pride and independency; no matter how poor they may be they strongly
object to being patronized.
‘Ah weean’t let onnybody clap me on t’ back. Ah paay fer what Ah git,
an’ that’s good eneeaf; he’s nowt na better ’an what Ah is,’ said a man
one day, who had been spoken to, with the kindest intention, but in
that unfortunate way which some of the best-intentioned people have of
being familiar, but faintly colouring the same with just a slight whiff
of patronizing superiority. And the Yorkshireman won’t stand it. Don’t
misunderstand me: although no respecter of person he is quite willing
to pay deference to those whom he considers his superiors and who are
worthy of it; but he is the one who acts as judge in such a case.
If you are a stranger, you will have to earn this deference by good
behaviour on your part, or it is quite possible, if you act otherwise,
you will be the recipient of some very plain Yorkshire, whether you
understand it or not. And also bear in mind the Tyke is always equal to
giving an answer, and in his own peculiar way very smart at repartee.
A good example of one of the peculiarities mentioned is made evident
in the following story. Master and man were returning from a coursing
match, at which the master’s dog had been badly beaten. The man knew
it was a great disappointment, and as a faithful servant he felt
keenly the adverse result of the day’s outing. ‘I felt sure our dog
would win,’ said the master, and then waited for his man to reply.
Now, Tom would not say how much inferior their dog really was to the
winner; in fact, he would only admit that to himself. So he held his
peace. A moment later the master tackled him again, and this time with
a question direct. ‘You saw the course, Tom; how do you account for
it?’ ‘Whya, sur,’ began Tom, ‘dogs is queer things, an’ hares is queer
things; in fact, theer’s nowt na queerer ’an what hares offen is. Noo,
they’re varra flighty things is hares, an’ Ah’ve offens thowt ’at
sumtahms tha tak mair ti yah dog na what tha deea ti t’ tother. An’ ya
knaw leyke, when tha finnd oot ’at theer’s nowt else for ’t bud what
they ’a’e ti be killed, tha let t’ dog deea’t ’at they’ve ta’en t’
maist fancy tull. Ah caann’t mak ’t oot onny other road, an’ that mun
be it.’
Years ago, when guides showed tourists and others round Fountains
Abbey, giving at the same time their version of the history of the
ruins—much of which it must be said was the outcome of their own
imagination, and, though deeply interesting, was opposed to all the
canons of archaeology—several members of the Royal Archaeological
Society and a party of ladies and gentlemen were relegated to the care
of ‘Scott,’ an old guide and a well-known Yorkshire character of those
days. As they went through the ruins the old fellow gave his version,
only a moment afterwards to hear quite a different explanation given
by some member of the R.A.S. At last Scott could ‘bahd it na langer.’
‘Ah saay,’ questioned he, ‘war you here when t’ Abbey war built?’
‘No, neither were you, my friend,’ replied the gentleman. ‘Mebbe nut,
bud Ah’ve been here a seet langer ’an what you ’ev, for all that; sum
fau’k think tha knaw sa mich,’ he was heard to mutter. By-and-by the
round was completed, and then it was that old Scott fired off his last
shot. ‘Noo then,’ said he, ‘cum on all t’ lot on ya, an’ Ah’ll tak
ya ti summat ’at neean on ya can owther gainsaay or alter; noo then,
cum on,’ and he marched them under the echo. ‘Noo then, gentlemen, ya
can’t dispute owt ’at’s sed here; gan on, sum on ya, shoot summat.’
One of the party, who had already had more than one wordy battle with
the old fellow, shouted, ‘Any one seen an old fool knocking about this
morning?’ At which there was a general laugh. But before the repeat
had died away, the old fellow shouted in a voice which made the echo
ring again, ‘Neea, bud theear’s onny amount o’ young uns under t’
echo.’ And I think he scored.
Another good story: in fact many hail from Great Ayton. When the Grange
was being built, artists and other workmen from town and elsewhere were
requisitioned to beautify the place. Many of these travelled gentlemen,
on their first arrival, considered the Yattoners fair game for their
sport and wit, but very often they found out, when too late to save
themselves, that they had pressed the wrong button. During their stay
a small wild-beast show opened on the green. In front of the monkeys’
cage stood a Yattoner, greatly amused with their antics. ‘Admiring your
relations?’ inquired one of the foreign masons as he passed. ‘They’re
neea relations o’ mahn; neean ov oor family’s owt akin ti yours,’ was
the instant reply. ‘Why don’t you wash your brains? there’s plenty
of water in the beck,’ said another of the foreign fraternity. ‘Ther
mebbins is what ’ud wesh mahn, bud you’d ’a’e ti wait whahl a fresh cam
doon.’ ‘Go home,’ said another of them, ‘and tell your father you are
the biggest fool he has ever seen.’ ‘He’d leather ma for telling a lee
if Ah did; ya’re forgitting ’at ya lodge wiv uz;’ and then he dodged a
lump of wood which came that way.
Old Bessy kept the village store, and in her way was quite a character;
so was her shop for the matter of that. I never was in such a shop in
my life. Anything, everything, and all on the top of something else.
In fact it was as one of the natives put it, ‘Owt ’at Bessy ’ezn’t ’s
nut wo’th assing for.’ The one big house in the place for a short time
was rented by a gentleman whose family made up for any deficiency in
pedigree by all-round rudeness to every one with whom they came in
contact. On one occasion a daughter of the said house flounced into
Bessy’s shop and asked for something which it was most unlikely would
be kept in a shop of that kind. ‘Naay,’ said Bessy, ‘Ah ’a’en’t gitten
nowt o’ that soart; Ah deean’t knaw what t’ stuff is ya’re assing for.’
‘It is just useless my trying to buy anything in a pottering little
shop like this. You keep nothing but a lot of old rubbish. You never
have anything I want,’ was the young lady’s rude reply. ‘Why noo, Ah’ll
tell ya what, t’ next tahm ’at Ah gan ti Ripon, Ah’ll see if Ah can’t
get a box o’ good behav’o’r; you mun cum in then, an’ Ah’ll gi’e ya
good weight, for ya want it mair na onnybody else. Noo deean’t forgit
ti cum in,’ were the last words the young lady heard as she hurried out.
His Honour Judge —- for some little time had a house in a Cleveland
village, and whilst there he did a bit of ’hoss swapping’ with one of
the farmers. Unfortunately his Honour’s horse did not turn out well.
Meeting the farmer one day, he said, ‘Robert, you took me in with that
horse, it has turned out very badly.’ ‘Hez ’t, noo? Whya, that’s a bad
job; bud you maun’t gan blethering aboot ’at Ah’ve ta’en ya in, or else
fau’k’ll get it i’ ther heeads ’at ya’re nobbut a varra poor judge.’
Quite likely enough, if you get into conversation with the old people,
they will give you their opinion upon most things, and that too very
often without your asking for it. There will be no beating about the
bush, no attempt to smooth away rough corners; the Yorkshireman detests
putty and varnish. What he has to say, like his hitting, comes straight
from the shoulder.
The hounds were in full cry. A lady and gentleman on approaching a
closed gate against which a farmer’s man was leaning, the gentleman
called out, ‘Hi there! open the gate, look sharp!’ but the man
stood stolidly looking at the hounds. ‘Why don’t you open the gate,
you fool?’ shouted the horseman angrily. Turning slowly round, the
yokel said very quietly, ‘Ah deean’t call ti mahnd ’at ivver Ah ’ed
a God’s-penny fra you. If ya’ll nobbut stan’ back Ah’ve na doot t’
lady’ll show ya t’ road ower. Ah can see ’at ya’re a bit caff-hearted.’
Springing to the ground the horseman found the gate was locked. ‘Why,
it’s locked,’ said he, turning to the lady. ‘Ah c’u’d ’a’e tell’d ya
that lang sin,’ said the yokel. ‘Well, I think you might have done so,’
said the lady, kindly. ‘We have lost a lot of time.’ ‘If you’d cum’d
byv yersen, miss, Ah’d ’a’e brokken t’ gate doon for ya. Bud yah feeal
losses his wits when he’s called yan byv another,’ was the compliment
and retort all in one.
On another occasion, the horseman forgetting to pay the usual toll, the
gate-opener greatly amused every one by saying, as he touched his cap,
‘Noo, mebbe ya ’evn’t gitten neea small chaange on ya, bud Ah’ll tell
ya hoo wa can mannish ’t: Ah’ve gitten nahnpence, if you’ve a bob?’
A good story is told by a Cleveland vicar. The day on which he arrived
in his new parish he had to transact some little matter with the
sexton. On inquiry he was informed this worthy was to be found in the
far pasture. Thither he went, finding the old man busy mowing. ‘Well,
my man!’ began the vicar. ‘Noo then,’ said Old Willie, going on with
his mowing. ‘I wish to have a word or two with you,’ said the vicar,
not very pleased with his off-hand reception. He was not Yorkshire, and
didn’t understand their ways then.
‘All reet, gan on wi’ tha.’ This without stopping the swing of his
scythe.
‘I think you don’t know who I am. I am your new vicar.’ Doubtless at
the time the vicar imagined the effect of this startling announcement
would be such that Old Willie’s scythe would fall from his hands, and
most abject apologies be poured forth. But no, Willie just remarked,
‘Oh, are ya? Whya, ya maun’t stan theer; ya’ll ’a’e ti shift yersen, or
Ah s’all mow yer legs off t’ next swathe Ah tak.’ And the vicar moved.
Our country-people have a way of summing up and giving a verdict quite
on lines of their own. But it must be borne in mind that what is taken
in a figurative sense by those of a wider experience, is often accepted
literally by those whose lives for the most part have been bounded by
their own homestead and dale. When the last historical pageant was
held at Ripon, trips brought the dales-people from all parts. And
although I do not think any of them went so far as to imagine the
various characters impersonated had been dug up and set in motion
for their amusement and edification, I am sure in the main they were
greatly mystified as to how they had all been gathered together. On
the last day, when possibly fifteen thousand people were present, a
group of ladies and gentlemen were standing near the east window of the
Abbey—near by were two or three monks conversing with several knights
in chain armour, and on their right stood King Charles surrounded by
the ladies of his court. A gentleman standing hard by said to his lady
companion, ‘It is really a splendid spectacle, and gives one a perfect
picture of what it must have been in days past.’ ‘You’ll excuse me,
sir,’ said a dame who had overheard his remark, ‘bud is this leyke what
it used ti be?’ ‘Yes, my good woman, exactly,’ the gentleman answered.
‘Whya then, Ah can weel understan’ hoo it war ’at tha pulled t’ pleeace
doon’ (meaning the Abbey), ‘for it’s a giddy gahin-on is this. Bud Ah
will saay,’ pointing to the ladies of King Charles’ Court, ‘’at Ah
nivver seed a finer set o’ lasses i’ all mah leyfe. An’ Ah’ve na doot
’at that accoonts for ’t.’
The last clause, I imagine, referred to the ruinous state of the Abbey.
The same peculiar trait was fully exemplified during an Art exhibition
at York. Several of the pictures were offered for sale, the price being
given in the catalogue. Whilst a couple were gazing in wonderment at
one picture, the woman was overheard to say, ‘Ah nivver thowt ’at
fraams cost seea mich brass. Sitha, mun, that yan’s ower a hunderd
pund; it mun be t’ fraam, thoo knaws, fer t’ picter’s nobbut hauf
deean; t’ chap ’at’s pented it ’ezn’t ’ed tahm ti finish ’t, fer neean
on ’em’s gitten ther cleeas on.’
Some few years ago there was an excursion started from Whitby _viâ_
Battersby, its destination being Wensleydale. Many who availed
themselves of the trip alighted at Aysgarth. One batch in charge of
the curate wended their way to the force, which owing to recent rains
was seen at its best. ‘By gum,’ said one, ‘bud ther’s a seet o’ watter
cuming ower yonder.’ ‘Ah’ll tell ya what,’ said another, giving a huge
wink, ‘they weean’t be yabble ti keep that gam up lang; tha’ll be
letting ’t all off afoor t’ tothers cum up, if they deean’t mahnd.’
The curate was shocked; his poetical soul was pained at such, as he
imagined, crass ignorance, so he endeavoured to lift them from out of
themselves. After quite a rhetorical outburst bearing on the grandeur
of the scene, he wound up with, ‘Is it not marvellous, magnificent,
overwhelming, to behold it thundering, rumbling, tumbling over?’ Poetry
of that kind makes the speaker breathless, and he paused. Then, turning
to one of the party, he said, ‘What do you think, John, eh?’ ‘Aye,
ya’re all reet about its thunnering, tumm’ling, an’ rumm’ling, bud for
t’ leyfe o’ mah Ah deean’t see owt ’at ther is ti ho’d it back,’ was
the laconic reply.
I remember on one occasion, when being driven to the station by a
real old Yorkshire coachman—I had been one of a house party for three
days as society humorist—the old fellow giving me a huge dig with
his elbows, and saying, ‘Ah saay, is yon all you deea fer a living?’
‘That is all,’ I replied. ‘Well, by goa! bud ya git yer living easy,
you deea.’ ‘I don’t know; if you had all the knocking about that I
have perhaps you would not think it quite so easy,’ said I. ‘Whya,
Ah deean’t knaw; what ya’ll ’ev yer expenses paid, ’evn’t ya?’
‘Certainly,’ I answered. ‘Aye; an’ ya git fed fer nowt, deean’t ya?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, greatly amused. ‘Whya then,’ said he, ‘Ah’ll
tell ya what: ya travel fer nowt, yer sheltered fer nowt, fed fer nowt,
an’ ya deea nowt; Ah leeak upon ya ez nowt i’ t’ wo’lld else bud a
aristocratic pauper.’ ‘Wait a moment,’ said I; ‘don’t you think brains
count for something in a matter of this kind?’ And then, with that
ineffable scorn which I think only the Yorkshireman of that type can
assume, he said, ‘Braans! braans!! braans!!! Ugh, Ah’ve ez monny brains
ez you ’ev if they war nobbut scraped oot.’
‘Which waay did ta vote?’ asked one. ‘Whya noo, it war leyke this waay:
Ah went an’ heeard all ’at t’ blew chap ’ed ti saay, an’ he made it
oot ez cleear ez t’ neease on yer feeace ’at t’ yallers war up ti neea
good; an’ efter that Ah went ti lissen ti t’ yaller chap, an’ he sed
’at t’ blews war warse ’an nowt at all. Seea Ah thowt ti mysen, ’at if
them ’at’s my betters dizn’t knaw what’s what, it’s nut for sike o’ me
ti saay; seea when t’ voting daay cam Ah stopped at yam an’ sell’d t’
pig.’
A classical curate was seized with an inordinate yearning to improve
and elevate the ’thought tone’ (I quote his words) of certain Cleveland
farmers. Now, as a body of men, the Cleveland farmers, as I know them,
are about as shrewd, practical, and thoroughly business-like as you
will find anywhere in Yorkshire, and that is saying a deal; still I
am bound to admit, though I know little of ’thought tone’ myself,
they know less. There is no money in it. Make it clear that an income
of two hundred a year can be squeezed out of ’thought tone,’ and
Yorkshire will supply the world with any amount, in tins, condensed,
and hermetically sealed. At present it is not quoted on ’Change. But
to my story. The curate made a dead set at one farmer in particular,
giving him, on one occasion, a graphic account of the siege of Troy.
‘One general, sir,’ said he, ‘though sorely wounded, commanded his
armour-bearer to strap on his armour, and this having been done he
placed himself in the forefront of the battle’ (here much dramatic
action and tone was indulged in by the curate, and the hearth-rug
greatly disarranged)—‘in the forefront, sir, and single-handed he
engaged three of the Trojans’ (seizing the poker and swinging it round
his head). ‘He slew two of them, but the third pierced him to the
heart, and he sank lifeless upon his vanquished foes. ‘Twas a brave
deed, and a noble death, the death of a hero. What do you think, sir?’
Breathless, and with dampened brow, he waited for an outburst of tone,
which he fully expected would rush forth as waters from the burst bank
of a reservoir. The farmer just removed his pipe and placidly remarked,
‘Too bou’d, sir, too bou’d.’ The curate sank into a chair aghast. Was
the man human, or was he beyond hope! ‘Is that all?’ he gasped; ‘has no
other thought struck you whilst I recounted my story?’ ‘Whya,’ said the
farmer, ‘Ah did yance ower aim ’at ya’d be fetching t’ clock doon wi’
t’ poker, bud fort’natly ya didn’t.’ The curate fled.
CHAPTER III
WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_.
Our country-people, as has been incidentally remarked, are very proud
and independent, but I venture to say both their pride and independency
are cast in a right groove, and may certainly be classed amongst the
chief elements which have made the Yorkshireman the self-reliant
mortal which he certainly is. I have already said that he is eminently
practical, and I now add hard to convince. Often, I admit, his mode
of arguing would puzzle a Philadelphian lawyer, but after all it is
argument, if you are only Yorkshire scholar enough to understand his
way of handling a subject. The country-people are hard to convince, and
no respecters of person.
Mary W—-—- had for many years received a dole of ten shillings every
Christmas for coals, but having obtained regular work at the Hall, the
vicar rightly decided that five shillings in future would meet her
circumstances, the more so as there were many other deserving cases.
At the time appointed he left five shillings with Mary’s daughter,
the mother being out at the time. On her return she was told of the
vicar’s call, and of the five shillings which he had left. ‘And what
did you do, Mary?’ asked a lady, some short time afterwards. ‘Deea!
deea! Whya, Ah ’ed t’ fahve shillin’ seal’d an’ posted back agaan tiv
him, afore he left t’ village. Ah’m nut that poor ’at Ah want for fahve
shillin’; an’ if Ah can’t be treated like a lady wi’ ten shillin’, Ah
weean’t be maad a pauper on; neea, nut if t’ archbishop war ti cum wiv
it hissel.’
Chatting one day with a very old friend of mine, the Vicar of —-, he
gave me the following:—‘In my younger days,’ said he, ‘I was brought
up amongst the South-country peasantry, and for some time after I came
into the North Riding I was greatly surprised at the small amount
of deference paid to me as their pastor. So marked was this, that I
determined if possible to discover the reason; so one day I entered
into conversation with a blunt but honest old stone-breaker I found
hard at work by the roadside. “Now, Willie,” said I, “you are hard at
it.” “Aye,” said he, “Ah’ve gitten ti arn my bit; ya’ve nivver ’ed ti
deea a stroak foor yours.” Not heeding his remark—which, by the way,
a South-country man of like position would never dared have uttered—I
asked: “How is it, Willie, that none of the villagers ever touch their
caps or the women curtsy when they meet me?” I know it was a bit
snobbish to ask such a question, but I had good reason for so doing:
I wished to find out if I was in any way remiss. “Touch wer caps an’
co’tsey!” said he, still continuing to break his stones. “Wa’ve neea
call ti deea owther t’ ane or tither; wa knaw varra larl aboot ya ez
yit.” “But I am your pastor,” I urged, feeling at that time that was
all-sufficient. “That coonts fer larl,” said the old fellow. “Ther’s
good uns an’ bad uns ov all soarts. Ah tell ya ’at wa knaw varra larl
aboot ya ez yit. Wa s’all finnd oot efter a bit what soart o’ stuff
yer maad on, bud ya’ll ’a’e ti treead yer teeas cannily, or wa s’aan’t
tak ti ya at all.” All this,’ said my old friend, ’at that time was a
complete revelation to me. Up to then I had been used, anyway before my
face, to something approaching servility, and here was a stone-breaker
plainly telling me I should have to be very careful, and doing so
without so much as ceasing his work.’ Let me add, the stone-breaker has
been laid to rest now many a year, and the flock has fully recognized
the vicar as their shepherd, and as one worthy both of their love and
respect; and in their way they give the one and show the other in a
marked degree. It takes a little time to get at the bottom of our
people, but the trying to do so always brings a plenteous reward.
Mr. Pawson by nature was bumptious. He was distinctly of the genus
_novus homo_. He came to the village as a stranger, and built himself
a house, and from the day he came to reside therein, figuratively
speaking, he began to push the villagers about. ‘He’ll stritch t’
lastic’ (elastic) ’whahl it flees back an’ smacks him i’ t’ feeace,’
said one. And he did. It happened this way. One day, turning to a small
pig-jobber, he said, ‘Jackson, tell one of your lads to take my dog
back to the house; and, Jackson, he had better call at the saddler’s
and take some repairs along at the same time.’ Now, as has been already
remarked, this addressing the country folk by their surname is deeply
resented; and in the case of Mr. P. there was almost open rebellion.
Jackson, however, was in no way dependent on the self-elected squire;
so, winking to the bystanders, he said, ‘All reet; bud Ah saay, Mr.
Pawson, Ah think ’at ya owt ti saay Mister when ya speeak ti ma. Ya
knaw fau’k’s saying ’at maist leyklings wa s’all seean be related, ez
mah au’dest lad’s gitten his e’e on that eldest lass o’ yours.’ The
roar of laughter which followed was—well, I pity Mr. Pawson.
A lady of ample means, whose one desire was to do good to others, found
the people very difficult to approach when she first came amongst
them. As a fact, she knew nothing of the idiosyncrasy of the Yorkshire
people. Said she one day to an old Yorkshire dame whom she had weeding
her garden: ‘Bessy, how is it the people do not take kindly to me? I am
most wishful to help them, and to make them my friends, but they won’t
let me; how is it?’ ‘Whya, ya see wa’re a larl bit different mebbe ti
t’ fau’k ’at you’ll ’a’e been amang, afoor ya cam inti these pairts;
Ah’ve allus fun’ ya varra canny ti deea wi’ mysen, Ah will saay that.’
‘Yes, but how is it the other cottagers do not seem pleased to see me
when I call?’ ‘Whya, mebbins Ah c’u’d tell ya, bud Ah deean’t knaw ’at
Ah s’u’d be deeaing mysen onny good if Ah did,’ said Bessy, cautiously.
‘But I should be greatly obliged to you if you would.’ ‘Aye, ya saay
seea noo, bud ya’d leyklings git yer back up if Ah tell’d ya.’ ‘No,
indeed I won’t; I am really wishful to know.’ ‘Oha, whya noo, when ya
gi’e ma yer wo’d on ’t, Ah s’ ‘a’e ti gi’e ya a bit ov an inkling. Noo,
it’s leyke this, mum: wa deean’t tak kindly ti fau’k ’at tak liberties
wiv uz. Noo, Ah deean’t want ti saay owt ’at’ll vex ya, bud neea doot,
bidoot meeaning it, ya tak a gert deal upon yersen.’ ‘In what way?’
asked the lady, being quite unaware of ever having done anything of the
kind. ‘Whya noo, for yah thing, ya nivver knock at neeabody’s deear;
ya just lift t’ sneck an’ cross t’ deearstan ez if t’ pleeace belang’d
ti ya. An’ Ah’ll tell ya anuther thing whahl Ah’s aboot it: ya ass[2]
a seet ti monny quessions for yan ’at isn’t varra weel knawn ti yan.
Ya s’u’dn’t deea seea. Ya wadn’t be sae setten up noo, if yan ov uz
cam an’ walked wersens inti your parlour, bidoot knocking or owt, an’
started ti ass ya quessions aboot all manner o’ macks an’ mander o’
things, noo wad ya? Noo, wa ar’n’t aboon awning wer betters; bud, mahnd
ya, wer betters ’ez ti wait whahl wa deea’t, an’ they ’ev ti let uz
deea’t i’ wer awn waay an’ all, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that,’ concluded
Bessy. Let me add, the lady took the hint, and in time learnt to love
the plain-spoken people she had come to live amongst; and they gave
their love in return tenfold, which, if rugged and rough at the edges,
only enables you to get a firmer grip of it.
Just a few illustrations proving the practical side of our character.
In the village schoolroom a lecturer very learnedly and emphatically
discoursed on the human eye. Amongst other things he declared the eye
could quell the most savage beast. ‘Ah saay,’ said a sturdy farmer
at the close of the lecture, ‘deea ya ho’d ti be trew all ’at ya’ve
been telling uz aboot wer e’es?’ On assuring him every word was quite
true, the lecturer was somewhat staggered by the farmer’s desire for a
practical proof. ‘Whya then,’ said he, ‘Ah’ll tell ya what, Ah deean’t
believe owt ’at ya’ve tell’d uz; an’ mair ’an that, if you’ll cum up
ti mah hoos ti morn at morn, Ah’ll gi’e ya a chance ti tell mah ’at
Ah’s wrang. Noo, leeak here, if you’ll gan inti mah paddock, Ah’ll gie
ya leave ti e’e mah bull ez mich ez ivver ya leyke, an’ if he dizn’t
shift ya afoor ya can count fo’tty, Ah’ll gi’e ya leave ti tak him yam
wi’ ya. Bud you’ll be shifted.’ A friend calling to see one who was
seriously ill, said just before parting, ‘Whya noo, thoo maun’t gi’e
waay; thoo mun keep thi pluck up, or else it’ll be owered wi’ tha.’
‘Aye, mun!’ said the invalid, ‘bud it’s hard ti keep yan’s pluck up,
when yan feels all ov a shutther. Ah’ll tell tha what, if summat dizn’t
sthraangely alter, Ah’s foor off, an’ ther’s nowt can ho’d ma back.’
‘Oha well,’ said the visitor, ‘thoo owt ti knaw t’ best; bud whativver
thoo diz, thoo maun’t dee iv a horry’ (hurry). ‘It’s fowr mile ti t’
chetch, an’ thoo’s na leet weight, an Ah s’u’d be bidden, an’ ‘a’e ti
len’ a han’ ti hug tha. Liggin i’ bed a bit taks yan doon a lot; thoo
mun try ti hing on a week or tweea, hooivver.’
Old I—— of Masham, a well-known jobber in days past, was once asked for
a loan. But I will give the story as given to me years ago by William
Scorrer, than whom a finer specimen of the old school of Yorkshiremen
never lived, and to whom I am indebted for many of the best stories and
other information in this book. Could you but have heard the old man
tell them—old! why, he never looked old, and he was nearly eighty when
I knew him—but you never will hear him; he has stepped over the line.
His style, raciness, and everything which goes to make a Yorkshire
story worth listening to, were lost when the grave closed over his last
remains. At least, that is to my way of thinking. I know scores of
people who can tell a Yorkshire story, and tell it admirably, perfect
as to dialect, and humorously, too; but still, there always lacks that
something—I mean crispness; no, sparkle is the word—which the old chap
always managed to give just at the right moment. ‘Requiescat in pace.’
Pardon me, I will to the story. Old I—— was at Northallerton Market,
when another jobber rushed up to him. ‘Ah saay,’ said he, ‘c’u’d ta
mannish ti len’ uz fahve pund. Ah finnd mysel that sho’t, an’ Ah s’all
loss a grand bargain if Ah caan’t leet on sumbody ’at ’ll len’ uz ’t.’
‘Whya, thoo knaws, Bill,’ said I——, ‘Ah deean’t ho’d wi’ lennin’; ta
knaws it offens maks frien’s leeak shy at yan anuther; bud if so be
’at thoo’s gahin ti miss a bargain, whya, Ah mun stritch a point foor
yance, bud, mahnd tha, thoo ’ezn’t ti mak a common practis on ’t. Noo,
when diz ta think ’at thoo’ll be yabble ti pay ’t back? An’ what ’ez ta
gitten, ’at thoo’s gahin ti ’liver up ez security?’ ‘Whya, Ah’ll let
tha ’a’e my watch, an’ Ah’ll gi’e tha mah wo’d——.’
‘Nivver mahnd thi wo’d, let’s leeak at t’ watch. Ah tell tha what,’
said I——, when he had the watch in his hand, ‘thoo mebbins sets gert
store byv it thisen, bud tha’d bunch tha oot ov a pawn shop if thoo
war brazzen’d eneeaf ti ass a pund for ’t. When can ti let mah ’ev it
back?’ ‘Ah’ll gi’e tha ’t at Bedale next Tuesday.’ ‘Whya noo, Ah’ll
trust tha for yance, bud it’s mair ’an what thi awn feyther ’ud deea.
Noo thoo maun’t tak ma in; Ah s’all leeak for tha ti’ pay ’t back when
Ah see tha at Bedale.’ To Bill’s credit, the money was paid the week
following. But a fortnight afterwards he again begged for a loan, this
time for fifteen pounds. ‘Neea!’ said I——, ‘thoo teeak mah in yance;
Ah’ll nut trust tha na mair.’ ‘Teeak tha in! Didn’t Ah pay tha back
hard eneeaf at Bedale, when Ah tell’d tha Ah wad?’ ‘Aye, thoo paid ma
back all reet, bud Ah nivver thowt ’at thoo wad; naay, thoo’s ta’en ma
in yance, Ah weean’t be on agaan.’
That by nature the Tyke is tenacious of his opinion, and hard to
convince, may be taken as an axiom. I have referred to this before, but
this is a convenient opportunity to produce proofs of the same.
For years, old Sykes and Hobson, though neighbours, had been on
unfriendly terms. Years back, Sykes had found on several occasions a
certain gate thrown off its hinges. Whether he held any proof, history
does not recount, but he blamed Hobson for doing it. Hobson, however,
stoutly denied all knowledge of the affair. Anyway, for long they
remained about as unfriendly as they well could; until one day, Hobson,
at the risk of his life, rescued Sykes’ lad from drowning. On hearing
of the rescue, Sykes hurried away to thank Hobson. They met in one of
the latter’s fields. ‘Whya, noo then,’ began Sykes, ‘Ah’ve cum’d ti
shak tha byv t’ han’; thoo’s saved my bairn, an’ Ah’s behodden ti tha
foor awlus. Noo wa s’all ’a’e ti let bygones be bygones, an’ start
afresh. Thoo knaws wa used ti hit it off all reet yance ower; noo,
what diz ta saay?’ ‘Wha, mun, ther’s my hand on ’t, an’ Ah’s mair ’an
glad ’at wa’ve hap’t t’ au’d sore up at last; an’ ez thoo sez, wa mun
start afresh, just ez if nivver nowt ’ed cum’d atween uz’ So they shook
hands, and talked farming for an hour or so, until it was time for
Sykes to return. Shaking Hobson by the hand, he said, ‘Noo thoo knaws
Ah s’all nivver be yabble ti mak it up ti tha for saving t’ lad, an’
Ah’s reet glad ’at Ah can gan yam an’ tell t’ missus ’at thee an’ me’s
kind agaan, an’ Ah whoap ’at wa s’all awlus keep seea. Bud mahnd tha,
Ah still ho’d ti ’t ’at it war thoo ’at flang t’ yat offen t’ creeaks,’
i.e. ‘But bear in mind, I still think it was you who flung the gate off
the hinges.’
Old Hall, a well-known character in one of our dales, was the doctor
for miles round, and proud was the village wherein he actually resided.
He was more than doctor, he was the vet. as well; he read the lessons
in church; in fact, he was the father of the village. He was consulted,
and his advice acted upon in all things which are incident to a village
community. And then he died, and a new doctor took his place—top
hat, frock-coat, and everything. Some little time after his arrival,
Wilson’s cow died, and the death of the said cow was fully discussed
the day following, in the blacksmith’s shop. ‘What did ta gi’e it?’
asked one. ‘Nowt. Hoo mud Ah knaw what ti git for ’t?’ ‘Did ta gan for
t’ doctor?’ asked another. ‘Aye, an’ he war neean sae setten up, at
being fetched oot o’ bed i’ t’ middle o’ t’ neet.’ ‘Warn’t he! What
did he saay?’ ‘He tell’d ma ’at he warn’t a coo doctor, an’ knew nowt
aboot ’em.’ ‘Did he saay that?’ asked the smith slowly, resting on
his hammer, as he waited for an answer. ‘Aye, an’ he tell’d ma ti gan
yam an’ nivver wakken him up na mair on sike an earand,’ ‘Wha, then,’
said the smith very deliberately, ‘he’s nut a Hall! an’ he mud just ez
weel teeam his stuff oot, an’ quit his bottles foor au’d glass. Foor
Ah meean ti saay ’at a chap ’at dizn’t knaw nowt aboot t’ innards’
(the inside) ‘of a coo, an’ hosses, an’ pigs, an’ sike leyke, isn’t
gahin ti practis on onny ov uz, ’coz if he ’ezn’t gitten them off, he
caan’t knaw nowt aboot oor innards, foor wa’re a seet mair intrickiter’
(intricate) ’na onny o’ t’ dumb critters. He’s nut a Hall, an’ he’s na
ewse tiv uz.’ The oracle having spoken, it was agreed on all hands that
it was so. And from that moment the influence of that man as a doctor
ceased.
Here is another, which brings out a trait I purpose touching upon
afterwards. Incidentally, I may mention, a bargain is a bargain, and
must be maintained and carried out as originally agreed upon. The
story, however, I give as an illustration of how hard it is to convince
our people that their preconceived notion on any subject is wrong.
It was quite four miles from a certain house to the village, and as the
gardener was often required to go thither for one thing or another, his
master bought him a bicycle, thinking to make the journey easier for
him. A few days after the machine had been presented, John said, ‘Noo,
sir, Ah wanted ti ’ev a wo’d wi’ ya. Noo, when Ah cam, Ah cam for ti
be t’ gardener, an’ ti deea onny odd jobs ’at wanted deeaing. Bud,
ya knaw, Ah s’all want a bit mair a week if Ah’ve ti larn ti mannish
yon thing’—jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of
the tool-house, where the byke was kept. ‘Ya knaw, sir, ther warn’t
nivver nowt at no tahm owt sed aboot a bisittle, an’ Ah s’ want a bit
mair afoor Ah tattle yon thing. Noo, hoo mich is ’t ti be?’ The master
pointed out that it was for his (the gardener’s) own comfort, and to
lighten the journey to and from the village, he had been induced to
buy the bicycle. ‘Whya, noo, Ah deean’t knaw sae mich aboot that,’
said John; ‘it soonds weel eneeaf t’ waay ’at you put it; ther’s nowt
aboot that, bud Ah’ve leeaked fother inti ’t ’an what yow ’ev. Noo,
leeak here, it taks me nigh on ti tweea hoors an’ a hauf ti gan an’ cum
walking; noo, hoo lang is ’t gahin ti tak ma ti deea ’t o’ yon thing?’
‘When you get used to it, you will run there and back easily in an
hour.’ ‘Oha, s’all Ah! Then that’ll be leyke an hoor an’ a hauf ti t’
good.’ ‘Yes, you will save quite that.’ ‘Then when Ah git back, s’all
Ah ’a’e ti sit ma doon an’ deea nowt for t’ hoor an’ t’ hauf?’ ‘Sit
down and do nothing! Certainly not; you will go on with your work.’
‘Aye, Ah thowt seea; an’ that’s what maks ma saay ’at ya’ll ’a’e ti
gi’e ma a larl bit mair, ez Ah’s gahin ti put sa monny mair hoors’ wark
in i’ t’ week. Ya see, you reckon yah waay, an’ Ah reckon another, an’
Ah think Ah’s i’ t’ reet on ’t.’
Those who have given the slightest attention to the various traits
which are so interesting in the character of our people, will not have
failed to notice one which is very pronounced. I mean the objection
they have to showing, and the cleverness they display in hiding, their
ignorance on any matter. If in speaking to our country people you use
a word which they do not understand, they never let you know that they
do not catch your meaning: they wait until you say ’summat else,’ in
the hope that they may gather therefrom what you mean; and if you do
not happen to say anything which throws light upon the unknown word,
well, there the matter ends, and as a rule it does not trouble them
for one moment. A farm labourer fell off a bicycle, and sprained his
arm very severely; the doctor, a young locum, and a trifle pedantic,
gave him a bottle of lotion, saying, as he did so, ‘Your arm will be
all right in a few days: you have strained your biceps, you must rub it
well with this lotion.’ ‘What diz ta think on him?’ asked one, who had
been waiting outside. ‘Whya, he’s nowt bud a fondheead, is yon. What
diz ta think? He sez ’at Ah’ve spraaned my airm, an’ he’s gi’en ma a
bottle o’ stuff ti rub t’ bisittle wiv; let’s gan ti t’ bone-setter.’
A lady visiting a poor young fellow who was seriously ill, and very
feverish, said to the mother, ‘Your son is very ill, I fear.’ ‘He is
that, mum; he’s nut foor lang doon here. Hooivver, wa’ve deean t’ best
’at lay i’ wer power, an’ yan isn’t yabble ti deea na mair ’an that.
Bud Ah’s pleeased ti saay ’at wa’ve gitten eneeaf saved up ti put him
deeacently by, an’ that’s a blessing. It’ll be a beautiful funeral,
mum, an’ wa’ve let him saay whau’s ti be bidden; an’ Ah deean’t think
he’s forgitten yan ov his au’d frien’s—bud he awlus was thowtful.’
‘That is very nice,’ said the lady, for she understood something of
the people and their ways. ‘I will send you a couple of ice wafers,’
said she, thinking they would be nice for him to cool his lips with. ‘I
think your son will like them, he seems so feverish.’ Next day, when
she inquired how the patient was, the poor mother said, with tears
in her eyes, ‘Thank ya, mum, Ah think he’s warse.’ ‘Did he like the
wafers?’ she inquired, adding, ‘you can have more.’ ‘Well, mum,’ said
the mother, ‘Ah c’u’dn’t saay foor sartin whether he liked ’em or nut.
Ya see, ez seean ez ya sent ’em, Ah put him t’ white yan on his chist;
bud he ’pleeaned ’at it felt varra cau’d, an’ seea Ah teeak it off, an’
put t’ pink un on a plate i’ front o’ t’ fire ti warm. Bud Ah think t’
cat must ’a’e gitten ’t, foor it war gone when Ah went for’t. So ya
see, iv a waay, he ’adn’t a fair go wiv ’em. Bud you needn’t send na
mair, he’s gahin fast noo.’
A gentleman said to a Yorkshire dame, ‘Your little chap looks very
robust.’ ‘Aye, an’ your larl chap leeaks t’ saame,’ said she; not in
the least knowing what ’robust’ meant. ‘Nay, nay,’ said the gentleman;
‘I only wish he was’—glancing at the very weakly child he held by the
hand. The dame perceived she had made a mistake, so added, ‘Whya he
seean wad be’; and then, not quite certain of her ground, or where
‘robust’ was going to land her, continued, ‘bud then yan nivver knaws.’
When the gentleman had left the group, one of the bystanders said,
‘Dolly, what diz ro-bust meean?’ ‘Deean’t ass me, Ah’ve na mair idea na
t’ man i’ t’ meean,’ said she. ‘Then what maad ta saay ’at his bairn
leeaked t’ saame ez what he sed thahn did?’ ‘Whya, Ah thowt ’at if he
war calling mah bairn naames, Ah’d let him ’ev ez good ez he sent;
whahl, if he war sayin’ summat i’ praise on ’t, Ah sud be deeaing t’
saame byv his.’
On another occasion, a village dame entered the doctor’s visiting-room.
‘Noo, then,’ she commenced, ‘gie ma summat, an’ leeak sharp aboot it,
fer Ah is badly; Ah can nowther bahd ti sit doon, stan’ up, ner nowt.’
‘What is the matter with you?’ inquired the doctor. ‘Naay, what; it’s
neea ewse assing me, Ah’ve cumd to see you aboot that.’ ‘Well, but
what ails you?’ ‘Aals ma! Ah’ve gitten galloping paans all reet roond
aboot ivverywheear; Ah is badly.’ ‘But what have you been doing to
get them?’ ‘Whya, Ah can think o’ nowt bud, t’ daay afoor yesterdaay,
Ah war weshin’, an’ Ah mun ’a’e kept a damp ap’on on, an’ Ah aim ’at
it’s gi’en ma cau’d all reet roond aboot ivverywheer.’ ‘Now I know
what’s the matter with you. Here’s a bottle for you; take it home, and
you had better drink a teaspoonful every ten minutes, and it will be
best if you take it in a recumbent position,’ said he, handing Martha
the bottle. Now, ‘recumbent position’ was quite outside Martha’s
vocabulary; she had not the least idea what he meant, but she was not
going to expose her ignorance by asking. So off home she set, saying
to herself as she went along, ‘“Re-cum-bunt po-zition;” noo what diz
that mean?’ However, Yorkshire like, she hit upon a plan of getting to
know, without exposing her own ignorance. Calling on a neighbour as she
passed by, she shouted, ‘‘Liza Jane, Ah’ve been ti t’ doctor, an’ he’s
gi’en ma a bottle o’ stuff, an’ Ah ’ev ti tak a speeanful on ’t ivvery
ten minits; bud he sez ’at Ah ’ev ti tak it in a recumbunt po-zition.
Bud thoo knaws Ah ’evn’t gitten yan, an’ Ah thowt mebbe ’at thoo’d be
seea good ez ti let ma ’a’e t’ len’ o’ thahn; will ta?’ Liza Jane knew
no more what ’recumbunt po-zition’ meant than Martha, but she was not
going to give herself away, so she replied, ‘Ah wad ’a’e deean sa wi’
t’ gertest o’ pleasure i’ t’ wo’lld, nobbut Ah lent mahn yisterday. Bud
ez thoo gans up t’ village, call in at t’ shop an’ buy yan for thisen,
an’ then thoo’ll ’ev it at heeam when thoo wants it; an’ if tha ’evn’t
gitten yan, buy a mug—it’ll deea just t’ seeam.’
One more. Bessy having explained to the doctor that her husband was
suffering from a fearful pain in the head, was ordered to apply the
half-dozen leeches which he gave her. Now, had the doctor said, ‘stick
’em on,’ or ’clap ’em on,’ Bessy would have known what she had to do
with them. However, she had half a dozen leeches to do something with,
so she went home and did her level best. A couple of days after, the
doctor, seeing Bessy, asked her how John was. ‘Oh, he’s all reet noo.
Them things capped him; tha did, hooivver.’ ‘You managed all right,
did you, Bessy?’ asked he. ‘Whya, Ah caan’t saay ’at wa mannished sa
weel wi’ t’ fo’st un ’at Ah gav’ him; he chow’d on wi’ ‘t, bud he c’u’d
catch ho’d on ’t neea road, soa Ah boil’d him t’ rest, an’ he sluthered
’em doon neycely.’
CHAPTER IV
WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_
There are many other side-lights to our character, only a few of which
it will be possible to notice. But every story is pictured in such
varying light and shade as to afford those who can fully appreciate
them many varied traits of our character. And one word, if you please,
with reference to these stories. Nearly all have the merit of being in
essence true. They have been gathered from various sources, but in the
main first hand. Many of the characters were known personally to the
writer; and although in a few instances the origin and authenticity are
doubtful, they are included because they so fully illustrate that which
was to be demonstrated, and because they are so true to life, and just
what would really have happened under like circumstances.
There is one special gift which the Yorkshireman possesses in a high
degree, i.e. the humorous. It is a humorousness, too, which often
(given that you understand and appreciate the dialect) sparkles with
genuine wit. I plead guilty to the fact that much of the wit of our
country-people is, as it were, given with the back of the hand. Still,
it is none the less witty, for all that. And if the same sounds rough
and unmusical to you, kindly bear in mind that the Chinese consider
our best music little else than a tumult of discordant sound. It is
generally the last few words uttered which contain the bud, blossom,
and fruit all in one. I remember once being completely shut up by a
Yorkshire lad, and he only uttered two words; but the tone and the look
were the very cream of sarcastic jeering. This was how it came about.
The lad was driving home some ducks from the pond. ‘You have a lot of
fine ducks, my boy,’ said I. And then, thinking to buy a couple, I
asked, ‘How often do you kill them?’ ‘Nobbut yance,’ was the laconic
reply.
‘T’ law’s nowt bud a tak in all t’ waay thruff,’ said one. ‘When me
an’ Tom went afoor wer betters aboot that hedge, Ah’d Jackson ti talk
foor me, an’ he ’ed Smith ti talk foor him. An’ ti lissen ti them tweea
blackguarding yan anuther when t’ case war on, yan mud ‘ thowt ’at tha
war i’ arnist, an’ ‘at tha nivver wad ’a’e spokken civil t’ ane tither
agaan; bud bless mah leyfe, when t’ case war adjourned ti t’ next court
daay, an’ when me an’ Tom, scooling at yan anuther leyke all that, went
inti t’ Black Lion ti ’ev a glass o’ yal, if wa didn’t finnd them tweea
takking wine an’ ‘ranging ti gan fishing tigither t’ next daay. “Tom,”
sez Ah, “if this is t’ waay tha mak t’ feeal o’ yan, seeaner thee an’
me haps t’ business up an’ t’ better it’ll be foor baith on uz.” An’ he
sez ti me, “Gi’e uz thi han’ on’t,” an’ Ah did. An’ then Ah shoots oot,
“Hi! Ah’ll tell ya what, you tweea ’ed best ’range to gan fishing foor
awlus; bud mahnd ya, nowther me ner Tom’s gahin ti finnd t’ bait for
owther on ya!”
Sally Ridge was a terror to all those she took a dislike to. She
usually played some prank to the detriment of those who, for the time
being, were out of favour. On one occasion, however, she went a trifle
too far; she broke the back of a duck with a stone. This got poor Sally
into fearfully hot water, and there was every likelihood of her being
summoned; however, the writer interceded on her behalf, and on Sally
faithfully promising never to stone a duck again, she was pardoned.
Within an hour afterwards, I surprised her gaily pitching stones
amongst the feathered swimmers. ‘Didn’t you promise me faithfully not
to throw stones at the ducks again, Sally?’ I asked, taking hold of
her, and adding, ‘it is wicked of you to break your word in this way.’
‘Ah ’evn’t brokken my wo’d,’ replied Sally, trying to free herself.
‘But you have; you promised not to throw stones at the ducks again,’ I
repeated. ‘An’ Ah isn’t; Ah’s thrawing at yon geese, an’ it’s nut mah
fau’t if t’ silly au’d ducks git thersens i’ t’ road. Leave lowse, Ah
nivver sed nowt ti naebody aboot geese.’
Three visitors hired a boat at Staithes for an hour’s fishing, having a
man each to attend to their lines. On returning to land, the fishermen
were paid half a crown for the sail. The visitors had not got far away,
when one of the fishermen ran after them. ‘Ah saay, mister,’ said he,
turning the half-crown over in his hand, ‘ya see ther’s three on uz,
an’ nut being schollars, wa’re bet ti knaw hoo ti share ’t oot; bud
Ah’ll tell ya what wa deea knaw,’ he added, with a merry twinkle in
his eye, ‘if ya war ti gi’e uz anuther sixpence, wa s’u’d ’ev a bob
apiece.’ And they got it.
An old keeper was told off to hand the gun for a very poor shot. After
blazing away at several coveys, he turned to the old chap, saying, ‘I
am afraid you will think me a very bad shot!’ ‘Nut Ah. Ah think ’at Ah
nivver seed naebody shut better an’ hit warse i’ mah leyfe.’ ‘And yet
I have made many a good bag before to-day,’ said the sportsman, just
a wee bit nettled. ‘Aye, bud oor bo’ds flee, tha deean’t sit ti be
shutten at,’ was the quiet rejoinder.
Lady —- said to one of her under-gardeners, ‘Thomas, the maids tell
me that you often say very nasty things about women; do you ever do
the same of the men?’ And then her ladyship looked him squarely in the
face, but Thomas was equal to the occasion. ‘Neea, my lady, that Ah
deean’t, acoz i’ that case it ’ud be trew, ya knaw.’
Tommy had been fishing on Sunday; he had been caught red-handed by the
Chapel minister. The good man read Tommy a long lesson on the enormity
of his sin, concluding by asking what Tommy had to say for himself.
‘It’s nut a real rod!’ ventured Tommy. ‘That does not matter,’ said his
judge; ‘the sin is just the same, and the Lord never prospers those who
break the sabbath.’ ‘Wha, then,’ promptly replied Tommy, ‘it mun ’a’e
been Au’d Scrat’ (i.e. Satan) ‘’at’s egg’d ’em on ti bite ti-daay, foor
Ah nivver catched sa monny afoor’—holding up a bottle fairly alive with
sticklebacks and minnows.
Whether I am succeeding or not is for others to judge, but what I
am striving to do is to paint the various points in our character
faithfully. I am neither hiding nor glossing. Our brusquerie and
doggedness, our tenacity of opinion and keenness to acquire the
all-needful, our pride and independency, as also our want of that
respect for those who may consider themselves our superiors, have been
as fully and as truthfully set forth as space would admit of.
On the other hand, our people are warm-hearted, hospitable to a degree,
and exhibit a deep sense of gratitude for favours received, such as
would never be credited by those who judge us by our rugged exterior.
But it is there, for all that. Let me give you two or three stories
quite true, which prove to some extent what I have just asserted.
A woman possessed an old, carved corner cupboard, not really worth
much, but it had been her mother’s, and she prized it greatly—in fact,
far above its market value. The village doctor had often tried to buy
it, but without success. Her husband falling seriously ill, the doctor
was called in, and though there was no hope of a long bill being paid,
he was most assiduous in his attendance day and night. When recovering,
the patient, fully aware that he had been fairly snatched from the
grave, said to his wife one night, when she was sitting by the bedside,
‘Fanny, thoo’ll ’a’e ti let t’ doctor ’ev t’ cupboard.’ He well knew
what a wrench this would be, and was no little surprised when his wife
replied, ‘Bless tha, mun, ez seean ez ivver thoo gat a to’n foor t’
better, Ah ’ed t’ cupboard rovven doon, an’ sent Bob wi’ ‘t. Doctor
didn’t want ti ’a’e ’t, an’ sent it back, bud Ah sent Bob wiv it agaan,
an’ tell’d him ti saay ’at if he sent it back onny mair Ah’d mak
firewood on ’t. Thoo’s wo’th mair ’an all t’ cupboards i’ t’ wo’lld ti
me, an’ it war t’ only road ther war o’ paying him.’
Again. An old dame having been ill for a long time, recovered, much to
the surprise of every one. During her long illness a certain lady often
visited her, and sent her many little comforts. Some months after the
old dame’s recovery, she presented her benefactress with an elaborate
clip-hearthrug. For this the lady wished to pay her, but that the old
dame almost indignantly refused. ‘Neea, mum,’ said she, with tears in
her eyes; ‘Ah’ve ’ed ommaist ivvery bit o’ t’ stuff gi’en ma ’at Ah’ve
maad t’ clips on, an’ if ivvery prod ’at Ah’ve gi’en an’ ivvery clip
’at Ah’ve cutten war a gowden guinea, it wadn’t mak up foor hauf your
kindness ti me.’ Oh no, they do not lack gratitude.
The vicar’s bride had a remark made to her by one of the oldest men in
the village, which seemed to her to have a nasty application, but in
its idiomatic sense it was quite innocent of any such construction;
and the remark as addressed to the lady was certainly given in its
idiomatic form. By-and-by she learnt she had been a little hasty in
condemning the old fellow. However, to make up for any unkindness on
her part, she engaged the old man as a sort of anything-you-like about
the vicarage. It was not long ere the old chap won a very warm place in
the lady’s heart. This was after the arrival of the baby. Every night,
when his work was done, he would say, ‘Noo then what, Ah’ve deean; bud
Ah mun ’ev a leeak at t’ baa’n afoor Ah gan.’ One evening, after this
same formula had been gone through, he said, ‘Noo, Ah’ll tell ya what;
t’ baa’n’s nut sa varra weel ti-neet, an’ Ah knaw a seet mair aboot
babbies ’an what you deea. Noo you mun put ’t iv a hot bath, an’ then
hap ’t up an’ keep ’t varra warm. Noo you mun deea ez Ah’ve tell’d
ya.’ With this admonition he left the vicarage, and, though turned
seventy-eight years of age, set off at once to trudge seven miles for
a doctor, landing back again about midnight. The doctor assured the
delighted mother that, having followed the old man’s advice, and with
the remedies he had brought, a severe fit of croup had been staved off.
Oh yes, these blunt country-people have feelings. And they are grateful.
Gratitude shows itself in different ways, sometimes in a form of
self-sacrifice, as in the following, which occurred not so very long
ago. Said a vicar to one of his parishioners—who, by-the-way, was a
notorious poacher—‘I am very pleased to see you coming to church so
regularly; very pleased, indeed, William; and I trust that it may lead
you to see the error of your past life.’ ‘Well, Ah wadn’t gan sa far ez
ti saay ’at owt o’ that soart’s leykley ti happen, bud Ah s’ cum ti t’
chetch, for all that.’ ‘And may I ask the reason for this sudden change
in your life?’ inquired the parson. ‘Whya noo, it war i’ this waay. Me
an’ Luke an’ tweea or three uthers war talking ya ower yah neet i’ t’
Swan, an’ Luke sed ’at he didn’t ho’d wi’ neea parsons ’at hunted, an’
Ah sed ’at a parson war nowt neea different ti neeabody else, when he’d
ta’en t’ white goon off, an’ ‘at it maad neea odds whether ya hunted or
whether ya didn’t. Bud t’ main on ’em seeamed ti ho’d ’at ya warn’t
i’ t’ reet on ’t hunting. And seea Ah thowt ti mysen, t’ parson’s
offens deean me a good to’n, an’ if ther’s gahin to be sike a lot o’
narrer-mahnded fau’k i’ t’ village—an’ being a bit of a sportsman
mysen, ya knaw—wha, Ah sez, noo Ah’ll gan ti chetch if it’s foor nowt
else bud ti back ya up a bit, an’ sa Ah cums.’
The hospitality of the Yorkshire people is so well known, and so
generally admitted by all those who have been recipients of the same,
that I purpose just leaving it as an established fact. Still, there
is one curious offshoot from this generous branch, which needs _en
passant_ a moment’s consideration.
I once heard a South-country man say, ‘Yorkshire people give you more
than you want at their table, and then beg from you on the doorstep.’
And to those who know nothing of our ways, usages, and customs,
such would almost seem to be the case. Of course, as put by the
South-country man, the statement, if complete, would stamp Yorkshire
and its people as being rather more than contemptible. But such is not
the case, and when the reason for the remark was perfectly sifted,
the notion which had got such a firm hold of the speaker was found to
have been based on a want of knowledge of the elementary rules which
govern the unwritten law of bargaining. Why, pages could be written on
bargaining, and stories told by the score.
But when a bargain has been concluded, the money paid, the receipt
given, a substantial meal partaken of, with grog, &c., ad lib., it
becomes quite easy to understand the South-country man’s surprise,
on leaving the house, to be asked ’ti gi’e summat back foor luck.’
To him, not knowing our ways, the transaction was completed; with us
it was not, and therein lies the difference. It does strike one as
peculiar to find such marked generosity, when run on certain lines,
only to be confronted the next step with some little action which at
first sight looks very much like meanness. But all this misconception
vanishes if we bear in mind that _hospitality_ and _business_ are never
made to clash; they, as it were, occupy separate rooms.
I have a story in my mind which illustrates fully these peculiarities,
as well as others already mentioned. As it was given to me by his
lordship, so briefly let me give it to you.
One day two of a shooting party, his lordship and the Hon. G——, decided
to give their guns a rest, and visit an ancient church some six miles
distant. They were strongly advised to take a keeper with them, but
feeling quite sure they could find their way, started by themselves.
Possibly they might have succeeded, had not a sea fret and heavy fog
wrapped the whole moor in a shroud. They were lost, and they knew it.
Fortunately, when quite worn out, they discovered a farm-house; and on
inquiry they were told that they had wandered much out of their way,
being then quite ten miles from the shooting-box. Too tired to walk
back, they asked the farmer if he could possibly drive them. ‘Whya,
Ah c’u’d,’ said he, ‘bud it’s a langish waay, an’ mah meer’s a bit
tired; Ah’d ommaist rayther set ya ti wheer you c’u’dn’t loss yersels.’
They, however, declared they were too tired to think of walking, and
offered him half a sovereign as an inducement. Then the bargaining
propensity came to the surface. ‘Haaf a sover’ign!’ said he. ‘Neea,
what ya’ll ’a’e ti mak it fifteen bob.’ To which they assented. During
this bargaining, the good wife was spreading the table with abundance
of food. ‘Noo then,’ said the good man, ‘ya mun’ reeach teea an’ mak
yersens at heeam. Ya’re welcome ti t’ best o’ what wa’ve gitten;
deean’t be neyce aboot it, ther’s plenty mair wheer that’s cum’d fra;
Ah’ll cum roond wi’ t’ meer efter a bit.’ When they were ready for
departure, one of them inquired how much they were indebted for their
splendid repast. To which the farmer, in characteristic fashion, made
answer: ‘What wa’ve gi’en ya, wa’ve gi’en ya, an’ ya’re welcome ti
’t; drhaaving ya ti t’ shutting-box war a bargain, an’ anuther thing
altigither, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that.’ And not a penny piece could
either be prevailed upon to receive for their hospitality.
Just one other story, which illustrates the same propensity for
bargaining. A hamper containing a dead ‘pricky-back otch’n,’ with one
shilling carriage to pay, was delivered to one Pettigrew; by some means
he found out that the hamper had been the property of a friend of his,
named Tom Scott. But Scott declared on his word of honour that he was
innocent of the whole transaction. Unfortunately, Pettigrew did not
believe him, in consequence of which a coolness sprang up, which lasted
for two years. At the expiration of that time, Pettigrew met Scott one
market-day. ‘Whya, noo then,’ said he, ‘they tell ma ’at thoo’s gahin
ti wed mah cousin Martha; is ’t trew?’ ‘Aye, it’s trew hard eneeaf, Ah
is, hooivver,’ acknowledged Scott. ‘Whya, then thoo knaws thee an’ me
owtn’t ti be at loggerheeads when t’ ane’s gahin ti be related ti t’
ither; owt wa, noo?’ ‘Neea, bud thoo knaws ’at it’s neea fau’t o’ mahn;
Ah’ve nowt agaan tha, thoo knaws,’ said Scott.
‘Wha, bud Ah’d gert call ti blaam tha; thoo’ll awn ti t’ hamper,
weean’t ta?’ ‘Aye, Ah nivver, ’at Ah mahnd on, ivver tried ti disawn
’t. What mud Ah foor? Sumboddy stowl ’t; Ah c’u’dn’t help that, onny
road, c’u’d Ah?’
‘Then thoo’d nowt i’ t’ wo’lld ti deea wi’ t’ pricky-back otch’n?’
‘Ah’ve tell’d tha ower an’ up agaan i’ tahms back ’at Ah’d nivver
nowt i’ noa waay whatsoivver owt ti deea wi’ t’ otch’n,’ said Scott,
emphatically.
‘Whya, thoo knaws ’at Ah ’ed a shilling ti pay for ’t cuming; what’s
gahin ti be deean aboot that, then?’ ‘Whya, thoo dizn’t leeak ti me for
’t, diz ta?’ ‘Whya, Ah war that oot o’ pocket, an’ it war thi hamper
’at it cam in hard eneeaf.’ ‘Aye, an’ Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo’s
nivver let ma ’a’e ’t back agaan; bud nivver mahnd, thoo mun keep t’
hamper, an’ wa’ll lap t’ job up that waay,’ magnanimously offered Scott.
‘Ah see ’at Ah’s boun ti be oot o’ pocket wi’ t’ otch’n,’ persisted
Pettigrew, ‘bud Ah’ll tell tha what, thoo mun stan’ uz a glass foor
friendship’s sake.’ ‘Whya, noo then, ez Ah’s gahin ti wed thi cusin
Martha, cu’ thi waay.’ And so the matter was settled.
CHAPTER V
WIT AND CHARACTER—_continued_
I purpose devoting this chapter to stories which in themselves are
good examples, embracing, as they do, many phases of Yorkshire
character. With the exception of the first two or three, they will be
given regardless of classification. But these two or three do need
just a word. Our country-people, in their own way, hold in sincere
veneration all spiritual teaching; but don’t look for too much. Bear
in mind, superstition dies hard, and in judging them on this head, it
is well to keep to the forefront the fact that in religion, as well
as in everything else, they cling to much which their grandmothers
believed before them, just as they speak of their parents as ‘t’ au’d
fau’k,’ without in the least being disrespectful. So, without the least
intention of being irreverent, the Deity is often addressed and spoken
of in a manner which would shock the ears of many. ‘Ah wadn’t ’a’e
deean that if Ah’d been Him,’ said an old dame, after hearing how the
Israelites had been punished by God’s vengeance. ‘He owt ti ’a’e letten
’em off that tahm,’ was her concluding remark. It was her opinion, and
she freely gave it. The Deity being spoken of as ‘Him’ and ‘He,’ was
as natural to the old lady as it would have been for us to say ‘the
Lord.’ Anyway, for real piety, I for one make my bow to the old dame.
Again, they have a way of materializing the most spiritual things.
To them, heaven is nothing more than a big, beautiful city, which
they have to try their best to get into, and having managed to do so,
they are safe for ever. Doubtlessly they picture it sunnier, purer,
and altogether more delightful than any place they have ever seen or
heard of. But to them it is just a city. Certainly this applies more
especially to the older people in our dales; the rising generation are
learning different, but it will be long before they altogether leave
the old and beaten track. And may it be so, for, after all, their
religion is to them a very real and tangible thing. It is something
which in these days of higher criticism many of us are letting slip
from us. When reading the following stories, it should be borne in mind
why they are given, and just what I wish to illustrate.
A clergyman having asked an old dying woman if she were quite happy,
received this reply: ‘Neea, that Ah isn’t. Ah’s boun to dee, an’ Ah
s’ gan ti heaven, an’ it’s that what’s boddering ma. Nut gahin ti
heaven—Ah deean’t meean that—bud t’ music,’ said she, emphatically.
‘Ya see, Ah’ve nivver larnt nowt o’ music; Ah knaw nowt aboot it, an’
if tha start ma off wiv owther a harp or a dulcima, Ah s’all mak nowt
bud a laughing-stock o’ mysel, for Ah can nowther tune ner scrat on
’em. Noo, if ’t c’u’d be ’ranged foor ma ti tak care o’ yan o’ t’ angel
babbies, Ah s’u’d be ez reet ez ninepins, foor Ah allus did git on wi’
childer, an’ Ah’d fetch it up a pattern, an’ Ah’d promise nivver ti
slap it; onny road, Ah s’all mak nowt ow ’t wiv a dulcima.’
The village artist was dying; he had painted three out of the four
village signs, he had executed the scrollwork for every church
decoration for years past, and there was in his house an imitation
marble mantelpiece, which he had yearned to show every one. The
clergyman was about to leave him, but before doing so, asked if he
should pray. ‘Aye, aye,’ said the dying man, ‘and ez mebbe this’ll be
t’ last tahm ’at ya will pray foor ma, Ah s’u’d be glad if ya’d mention
’at Ah’s a good hand at decorating; it’ll mebbe help yan a bit.’
Old Matthew was a well-known character. For years both he and his old
dame lived in a little cottage near Newton-under-Rosebery. When on
his death-bed, a lady, after reading to him, said, ‘And after all I
have read and told you, Matthew, heaven is more beautiful than you can
possibly imagine; you might lie and call to mind all the beautiful
things you have either seen or dreamt of, and even then you would not
have the least idea what heaven is like.’ To say the least, she was
somewhat surprised when the old man, gently patting her hand, said in
a whisper, ‘Ya mebbe deean’t knaw ’at Ah yance seed Leeds pantomine;
that gave yan a inkling.’ N.B.—The Yorkshire people always pronounce
‘pantomime’ as spelt above.
Old Bessy, who lived in an old house near Kildale, was very near the
borderland. The clergyman found her quite happy and reconciled, and on
leaving her (he was going away for some time), said, ‘Well, goodbye,
Bessy; I may never see you on earth again, but I shall hope to meet you
in heaven.’ ‘Aye, an’ Ah s’ leeak oot for ya cuming; an’ deean’t forgit
’at neean on uz is nowt na different up yonder, so you maun’t git yer
back up if Ah just shak ya byv t’ han’, an’ saay, famil’ar leyke, ’at
Ah’s glad ti see ’at ya’ve mannished it.’
The rest of this chapter is merely a collection of Yorkshire stories,
which I think should not be lost, and which I leave to the perspicuity
of my readers, who doubtless, without any hints from me, will grasp the
many different phases of character contained therein.
The tire had come off the cart wheel, and the Tyke was in a bit of a
fix; shortly afterwards a cyclist drew up, and dismounting, remarked,
‘Punctchard. Can I lend you my pump?’ and then burst out laughing
at the man’s dilemma and his own wit. ‘Punctchard? neea, Ah isn’t
punctchard,’ retorted the Tyke, in fairly good imitation of the
would-be wit. ‘An’ thoo can stick ti thi pump; bud Ah deean’t knaw what
thoo wants it fer, fer thoo’d be all t’ better if thoo war punctchard
thisen a larl bit; it ’ud let sum o’ thi gas oot, foor thoo’s ommaist
brussen wi’ ‘t.’ And then he set to work to replace the tyre, as though
no cyclist had appeared upon the scene.
Several rustics were admiring two brand-new machines, whilst the owners
(a lady and gentleman) regaled themselves in the village pub. When
about to start on their journey again, the young fellow, taking stock
of the group, and, as he thought, seeing good material for a joke,
said, ‘Admiring our machines?’ and then, nudging his fair companion,
continued, ‘These are the very latest; they can either be used as
cycles, musical boxes, or garden mowers. I only have to turn a screw,
that’s all. Clever, aren’t they?’ ‘Aye!’ said one of the group, looking
as if he had swallowed every word just uttered. ‘It’s wunnerful what
they’ve gitten ’em ti deea noo; my weyfe’s gitten yan ’at gans wiv a
can an’ milks t’ coos all byv itsen.’ Then those two proceeded on their
journey.
There had been a terrific thunderstorm, lasting most of the night.
Talking the matter over next day, one said, ‘Did ta ivver hear owt
ti cum up tul ’t?’ ‘Naay, it gav mah a to’n yance or twice. What diz
ta mak on’t?’ ‘It’s t’ aliments’ (elements), ’thoo knaws; it’s t’
aliments.’ ‘Aye, thoo’s reet, it’ll be t’ aliments; bud, Ah saay, it
sets yan on ti think.’ ‘It diz, an’ all; just eftther that despert lood
crack cam, Ah thowt ti mysen, it’s gahin ti be all owered wiv uz; an’
foor a larl bit Ah wished ’at Ah’d ta’en Tom’s bid foor t’ colt.’
A delightful gathering had taken place at the rectory, followed by a
most sumptuous tea. The people had come to celebrate the home-coming of
the rector and his bride (a very dear South-country lady). After tea,
the bride, speaking to an old fellow, said, ‘I hope you have enjoyed
yourself?’ To which kind inquiry he promptly replied, ‘Whya noo, Ah’ve
been at monny a warse do ner this—Ah ’ev that.’ This really was the
very highest praise he could possibly have given. The bride, somewhat
annoyed at what she considered the ingratitude of the man, turned to
an old dame she saw walking down the drive. ‘Have you tired yourself?’
she kindly inquired. ‘Tired mysen? Neea, Ah’ve nut tired mysen. Ah
’edn’t need git mysen tew’d at a do leyke this. Ah’s nut tired, bud
Ah’s gahin yam. Ah wad ’a’e stopped on ti t’ end, bud ther’s that monny
flees aboot t’ pleeace, whahl yan dizn’t knaw what ti deea wi’ yan’s
sen, an’ sae Ah’s foor off.’ The only thing which had been made at all
clear to the bride was that the old lady complained of being troubled
with fleas, which she found too many for her. ‘Fleas!’ said she; ‘I
feel sure you are mistaken.’ To which the old lady made this reply:
‘Noa, Ah’s nut; but Ah deean’t meean fleas ’at’s fleas, bud flees ’at
flee’ (flies that fly), leaving the rector’s wife more bewildered than
ever.
A new-comer related to those assembled in the village bar a most
marvellous story of an accident from which his son had just
recovered. If anything, it erred on the side of being just a trifle
too marvellous. Several said, ‘How wonderful!’ but there was one man
sitting in the far corner, and spake he never a word. ‘Perhaps you
doubt my story?’ ventured the narrator. ‘Nut Ah. Ah’ve neea call ti
doot owt ’at ya’ve tell’d uz, foor yance yan o’ mah lads swaller’d a
pin, an’ ya can tak mah wo’d for ’t, bud i’ less ’an a month eftther it
cam oot o’ t’ back ov his brother’s neck. That’ll match your taal onny
daay.’
The following conversation between two old mothers was overheard by a
clergyman who happened to be travelling in the same compartment of the
train. Said one to the other, ‘Whya, noo then, wa’ve gitten him sahded
by.’ ‘Aye, wa ’ev,’ sighed the other; ‘Ah’ve knawn him ivver sin he
war a lad.’ ‘Thoo ’ez, an’ what thoo knaws ’at Ah went ti skeeal wiv
him?’ ‘Aye, thoo did,’ said her friend; ‘Ah’d forgitten that. Ah saay,
Mary, what a beautiful corpse he maad—sae still an’ sae quiet, bud they
maistly are.’ ‘Aye, aye,’ said Mary, slowly adding, ‘bud what a tea it
war; Ah’ve nivver been at sike an a-sitting doon i’ mah leyfe; ther
war nowt bud tea-cakes, an’ badly buttered at that. Noo Ah’ve sahded
fahve o’ my awn, bud thank the Lord Ah buried ’em all wi’ ham,’ which
was a sign not only of great respectability, but as having shown proper
respect to the dead.
Taking my seat in a third-class carriage at Malton, two men and a woman
joined me, and much edified by their conversation I was. They commenced
discussing the merits of an entertainment which had been given the
night previous in one of the villages in the neighbourhood. I gathered
from their remarks that Lady M—— and the Hon. Mrs. B—— had taken an
active part in organizing the same. However, for the moment, Lady M——
was very freely discussed. The woman had possession of the carriage,
and almost without drawing breath said, ‘Noo, sha’s a grand un, is t’
au’d leddy; sha’s gam foor owt. Mah songs, Ah nivver cam across t’
leykes on her onnywheear else; bud ther isn’t sike anuther onnywheear
aboot here, an’ Ah knaw summat aboot t’ maist on ’em. Sha’s nut yan o’
theease twopenny-haupenny upstarts ’at dizn’t knaw what’s matter wiv
’em hauf ther tahm. Aye, sha’s a grand un, is t’ au’d leddy.’ ‘Aye, sha
is,’ joined in one of the men, as the woman ceased for want of breath.
‘An’ Ah’ll tell ya what, that au’dist lad ov hers isn’t a bad un, an’
Ah meean ti saay ’at his lordship can rear poultry ’at neean on ’em
can touch aboot here; noo, he can. He’s a rare han’ wi’ bo’ds, is his
lordship.’ ‘Him rear poultry!’ burst in the woman. ‘Him rear poultry!’
she repeated, with ineffable scorn; and then, slowly and emphatically
(you, who are Yorkshire people, know exactly what I mean), she added,
‘Ah meean ti saay ’at t’ au’d leddy can mak a hen lay mair eggs ’an
onny man, woman, or bairn i’ this countrysahd; an’ Ah’ll tell ya what,
if tha deean’t gi’e her yan o’ t’ best harps ti plaay on when sha dees
an’ gans ti heaven, Ah’ll ’a’e nowt ti deea wi’ ‘t.’
A vicar once asked his sexton what he thought of the previous Sunday’s
preacher. The pulpit had been occupied on that occasion by a clergyman
whose oratorical powers are pretty widely known, but whose sermon had
been quite over the heads of his congregation on that particular day.
The reply the vicar got was certainly to the point. ‘Whya, Ah wadn’t
saay bud what mebbe you mud larn summat fra what he tell’d uz, acoz
ther’s neea doot ’at he war varra far larnt; bud ez foor me, an’ t’
likes o’ me, wa’d reyther sit an’ lissen ti t’ saam au’d ditties fra
you ’at wa’ve heeard ower an’ up agaan. Aye, that wa wad; ya see, wa
knaw what’s cuming.’
A neighbour’s third wife lay dead. Said a dame to the husband, ‘Mary’s
gone! Dear me, hoo sum fau’k diz ’ev bad luck; thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan ti
t’ burying, hooivver.’ ‘Naay,’ said the husband, ‘Ah deean’t think ’at
Ah s’all gan this tahm; Ah went ti t’ tother tweea—they’ll ‘ ti mannish
bidoot ma this tahm.’ ‘Naay, what, thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan, hooivver; it’ll
nivver deea eftther seeing t’ other tweea sahded by, nut ti gan ti t’
tho’d un. Whativver maks tha think ’at thoo weean’t gan?’ ‘Whya, thoo
sees, it’s ez thoo sez, Ah’ve seen tweea on ’em sahded by, an’ Ah think
’at it leeaks a bit greedy ti gan ti t’ tho’d un. Thoo sees, up ti noo
Ah’ve nivver been yabble ti return t’ compliment, an’ Ah deean’t leyke
ti put on a chap, an’ Ah s’aan’t gan.’
A good dame found her husband lying on the chamber floor. ‘Whativver
is ta deeaing, ligging on t’ cham’er fleear foor?’ ‘Aa, lass,’ the old
chap groaned, ‘Ah thowt Ah war boun ti dee; Ah did, hooivver. If ivver
Ah’s ta’en leyke that agaan, Ah s’aan’t cum round na mair; thoo’ll
finnd ma deead wheear Ah tumm’ls.’ ‘Whya, let’s get tha inti bed, an’
Ah’ll fetch tha a basin o’ gruel up; an’ Ah’ll put t’ au’d stick byv t’
sahd o’ t’ bed, an’ thoo mun think on ’at thoo mun thump on t’ fleear
if thoo’s ta’en queer agaan; whativver thoo diz, noo, thoo maun’t dee
unbeknawn. It’s varra inconsiderate o’ fau’k ti tak thersens off i’
that waay,’ said the wife, bustling about. ‘Bud thoo knaws yan caan’t
help ’t,’ said the old chap. ‘Whya, thoo mun deea thi best, an’ bear
i’ mahnd what a tideea ther wad ’a’e been if Ah’d happened ti finnd
tha deead on t’ fleear. Crowner wad ’ev ’ed ti cum’d, an’ all t’ jury
chaps gahin in an’ oot ez if t’ pleeace warn’t yan’s awn, an’ leykly
eneeaf afoor yan ’ed gitten tidied up, an’ then Ah s’u’d ’a’e ’ed t’
bobby fussing aboot an’ assing all manner o’ quessions, an’ Ah deean’t
knaw what else. Noo, thoo mauh’t let ma in foor a gahin-on leyke that.
Ah’ve putten tha t’ stick handy, seea mahnd thoo dizn’t drop off bidoot
gi’ing yan warning. It weean’t tew tha mich ti thump on t’ fleear, an’
then Ah’ll be up iv a crack. Noo, deean’t forgit thoo ’ezn’t ti dee
bidoot thumping.’
Old Sally was dying. On being asked by the vicar if she felt quite
happy, the old lady said, with great unction, ‘Oh yes, Ah s’all seean
be iv Jacob’s bosom.’ ‘Abraham’s bosom, Sally,’ corrected the vicar.
‘Aye, well, mebbe it is, bud if you’d been unmarried for sixty-fahve
year, leyke what Ah ’ev, ya wudn’t be particular wheeas bosom it war,
seea lang ez ya gat inti sumbody’s.’
A good story is told in Gloucestershire, which is a fair example that
Yorkshiremen are credited with being able to take care of themselves by
those of other counties. An ostler at one of the inns in that county in
a general way managed to draw a tip from all who put up, even from one
or two chaps who were well known as being very greedy. Said a gentleman
one day to the ostler, who had just led out of the yard the horse and
trap of one of these penurious old chaps, ‘Did you manage to drag a tip
out of him?’ ‘Aye,’ said the ostler, ‘he awlus gi’es ma summat, bud it
ommaist brecks his heart ivvery tahm he gans away.’ ‘Yorkshire, are you
not?’ questioned the gentleman. ‘Aye, Ah’s Yorkshire hard eneeaf,’ was
the characteristic reply. ‘Why,’ said the questioner, with a smile,
‘I am a bit surprised, seeing that you have been here so long, that
the whole place doesn’t belong to you.’ To which, with a twinkle in
his eye, the ostler replied, ‘It mebbe wad ’a’e deean afoor noo, if my
maister ’edn’t been Yorkshire an’ all.’
A story is told of two Yorkshire Tykes bargaining—of course this was a
case of ’when Greek meets Greek.’ Said one, ‘Whya, noo then, John, what
diz ta think if wa mak a unseen swap on ’t? Thoo ’ezn’t seen mah meer,
an’ Ah ’evn’t seen tha cob; bud Ah knaw ’at thoo awlus leyked t’ meer,
an’ Ah’ve awlus ’ed a bit ov a leaning ti t’ cob, an’ wa’ve knawn t’
ane t’ ither foor a lang whahl—noo, what diz ta saay?’ ‘Whya noo, ez
thoo sez wa’ve knawn t’ ane t’ ither ivver sen wa war lads, an’ ez thoo
’ezn’t seen t’ cob an’ Ah ’evn’t seen t’ meer, whya, thoo mun ho’d the
han’ oot.’ And so the bargain was struck. Then said one to the other,
‘Whya, it’s owered noo. Ther’s neea backing oot fra t’ bargain noo,
bud Ah aim ’at thoo war a larl bit ti keen. Thoo sees it’s leyke this:
t’ meer’s geean that deead laam, ’at Ah deean’t think ’at sha’ll ivver
gan agaan,’ ‘Oha, why, nivver mahnd,’ said the other; ‘t’ cob’s deead
altigither, an’ flayed.’
In the preceding five chapters, I have striven to give you some insight
into the character of our people. This, however, has not been my only
aim. I have endeavoured—and shall continue to do so—to put the dialect
in such a way as to be easily mastered by my readers, even should they
be strangers to our county.
Please bear in mind that the North and East Ridings dialectically are
the same. Certainly some few words have been retained or dropped, as
the case may be, in each Riding, but the pronunciation is identical,
or at least almost so. These remarks, however, do not hold good when
applied to the West Riding. Ripon (my native place) and Leeds are not
very far distant, only twenty-six miles. Ripon, although in the West
Riding, is to all intents dialectically in the North, but by the time
you have travelled the twenty-six miles all is changed—you have as it
were crossed the line.
CHAPTER VI
CUSTOMS OF THE YEAR AND FOLKLORE
Custom and folklore are so interwoven that it is quite impossible to
write of them separately. The North Riding to-day is _par excellence_
the home of both. This is easily accounted for. Many of the dales
are far removed from the varied influences of the outer world; they
are little communities; they belong to themselves. Many of the older
people have never seen a locomotive. It is in and about such places the
student may gather a rich harvest of folklore, always remembering that
any given area is not the whole of the riding, much less of Yorkshire.
I mention this because a custom, superstition, or peculiarity of
dialect, which may still flourish in one dale, may be quite unknown in
some other part of the riding. Bear in mind the riding, within a very
few miles, stretches from the North Sea to St. George’s Channel; so
it will be readily conceived that over such an extensive area, much
of which is sparsely populated and not easy of access, custom and
superstition still go hand in hand.
Our greatest observance of custom is, as it should be, in connexion
with Christmastide; indeed preparation for the same really commences
some weeks in advance. There is the pudding to make and partly boil;
all the ingredients for the plum-cake to order; the mincemeat to
prepare for the mince-pies; the goose to choose from some neighbouring
farmer’s stock; the cheese to buy and the wheat to have the hullins
beaten off, and to cree, for the all-important frumenty; the yule-cakes
or pepper-cake to make; the hollin to gather; the mistletoe and Santa
Claus presents to buy for the little folk’s stockings; the old yule
log and a new one to see after, as well as the yule candles. Even long
before these various duties have been taken in hand, children nightly
sing their Christmas carols on our doorstep, reminding us the great
event of the year is fast approaching, when peace and good will should
be extended to all men. The ’vessel-cups’ (i.e. wassail-cup) still come
round, with their doll in a box, decked out as the Virgin Mary, lying
in pink cotton-wool and evergreens. Some of these vessel-cups are in
their way quite little works of art. I remember (up to the time I left
Guisborough five years ago) Lavinia Leather travelled every year all
the way from the other side of Leeds, to sing the vessel-cup throughout
that part of Cleveland. As my wife had known the old body for many
years, we always had a call. There was no mistaking the advent of
Christmas, when, after unceremoniously opening the door, the old lady
commenced saying,—
God bless t’ maaster of this hoos,
An’ t’ mis-ter-ess also,
An’ all yer lahtle bonny bairns
‘At round yer table go!
Fer it is at this tahm
Straangers travel far an’ near.
Seea Ah wish ya a merry Kessamas
An’ a happy New ‘Ear.
But the days speed on, until there comes a night when the charred
remains of last year’s yule log glow with heat intense beneath the one
of that year’s cutting; for the new log must always rest upon and be
lighted by the old one, which has been carefully stored away for this,
the night of nights—Christmas Eve. The lads have kissed the lasses
under the mistletoe, fashioned out of two hoops bedecked with holly,
oranges, and apples, and with a bunch of the mystic white berries
glistening beneath. Every picture-frame, ornament, and everywhere,
where a sprig of holly would remain, has had the dark green leaves and
red berries thrust into or behind it. The old folk clasp each other’s
hands, knowingly nodding their heads the while, ‘for they remember,’
and, remembering, note the flashing eyes and whispered nothings,
sweet and low, of those whose horizon for the present is illumined
with love, with never a cloud in sight. Shrieks of laughter loud and
hilarious from the younger branches ring from basement to roof, almost
deafening the ’au’d fau’k,’ but a smile lights up their wrinkled faces
as they remember. By-and-by, the magic words uttered by the maid, ‘T’
frummety’s riddy,’ results in a rush for the dining-room or kitchen,
as the case may be. But first the yule candle must be lighted by the
master of the house. This must be done from a piece of the candle
saved from the year previous; it too must be lighted from the blaze
of the yule log, and on no account must anything be lighted from it.
That would be as unlucky as giving or receiving a light on Christmas
Day. Next, a cross must be scraped on the top of the uncut cheese, and
then, after having wished the guests assembled ‘A merry Christmas,’
the frumenty may be attacked. And very palatable is the creed-wheat
when boiled in milk, thickened with ’lithing,’ seasoned with nutmeg
and cloves, and sweetened with treacle. After this there are the
yule-cakes, one for each person, with a dice of cheese and a glass of
mulled ale or hot elder-berry wine.
By-and-by the younger ones are packed off to bed, and with us, as
the world over, their stockings are hung at the bed-foot to await
the mysterious visit of Santa Claus. It may be the sword-dancers are
announced; if so, their quaint performance is gone through, they are
served with ’summat to keep ’em warm’ and a few coppers, and they
depart for pastures new[3]. Some maiden mayhap has retired to her
chamber with a leaf and a berry plucked from the mistletoe under
which she has been saluted. Having locked her door, the berry must be
swallowed, whilst on the leaf she will prick the initials of him her
heart loves best; this she will stitch in the inside of her corset, so
that it rest near her heart, and thus bind his love to her so long as
there it remains.
In the early hours of the morning the waits will arrive, and tunefully
or otherwise sing ‘Christians, awake,’ and, unless precautions are
taken to stuff the bell with paper and fasten down the knocker, there
will be no sleep after five o’clock; for the children, in their
eagerness to catch the early worm, follow one another without a
moment’s rest, singing loudly through your key-hole one or other of
their Christmas greetings, as—
I wish ya a merry Kessamas
An’ a happy New ‘Ear,
A poss (purse) full o’ money
An’ a barrel full o’ beer,
A good fat pig
‘At’ll sarve ya thruff t’ year,
An’ pleease will ya gi’e ma
My Kessamas box.
Gentle and simple herald Christmas morn[4] with kindly greetings, ‘A
merry Christmas to you,’ as they pass. And oh the parties, night after
night, the games, postman’s knock, hunting the slipper, spinning the
trencher, cushion dance, forfeits, &c.! Aye, but we knew how to enjoy
ourselves when I was a lad, and in many of our dales to-day Christmas
is Christmas still, with all the old observances treasured; aye, and
the old old games too. Amidst such scenes one is apt to forget that the
hair is turning grey at the sides, and easy to brush on the crown.
The Christmas dinner with its sirloin, turkey, or goose, followed by
the rich plum-pudding and mince-pies, in a greater or less degree,
is indulged in by all. Go where you may on and after Christmas
Day, either plum or pepper cake (a rich kind of gingerbread), or
spice-cake (a cheaper form of plum-cake) and cheese, will be found
upon the sideboard or table. ‘Ya mun ’ev a bit o’ keeak an’ cheese,
hooivver,’ say the country folk almost before you are seated. And be it
remembered, for every cake and cheese you taste one more happy month is
added to your life.
On St. Stephen’s Eve maybe some will pay a visit to the ’coo byre’ in
the hope of seeing the oxen kneel, for the quaint notion still lives
that on this eve the oxen kneel in their stalls in commemoration of the
martyr’s death.
On New Year’s Eve it is customary to eat the remains of the frumenty
left from Christmas Eve. This being finished, none other will be made
until the festive season comes round again. The older people always
watch the old year out and the new year in, which is made known by the
ringing of the church bells, and the loud knocking at your door of the
‘first foot or lucky bird.’ This happens immediately on the last stroke
of twelve. This first foot to cross your threshold—for none must go
out until the first foot has come in—must be a man or boy with dark
hair. Such only can bring luck to the household; for should he have
light hair, he would not be admitted, for he could only bring dire and
disastrous results.
The same clamorous singing as on Christmas Day commences just as early
on New Year’s morn, greetings for the new year are as freely given, and
the festive season itself lasts pretty well on towards the middle of
the month.
The dumb-cake is yet made—of which more hereafter—whilst other rites,
ceremonies, and charms are still indulged in by the buxom lasses of the
riding.
By due observance of certain ritual performed on the eve of St. Agnes,
a maiden might have a vision of her future spouse.
Very often, however, difficulties of no light kind had to be overcome,
before the ritual could be carried out in its entirety. And in some
cases, to my thinking, the maiden would need nerves of iron, and the
supple limbs of an acrobat, before she would be able to accomplish the
demands made upon her.
Take for example the following, which was given to me by an old lady in
Rosedale:—At midnight on the eve of St. Agnes, a maiden must pluck from
the grave of a bachelor a blade of grass, walk backward from the grave
to the church gate, and then hurry to her bed-chamber. Safely there,
she had to lock her door, hanging the key on a nail outside the window,
then undress herself; but—and here comes the difficulty—her various
garments had to be removed in the same order as they had been put on,
that is, that which she had donned first must be taken off first. This
must have been a feat requiring great agility and no little patience,
exceeding by a long way the task of skinning an eel in the dark. No
doubt everything would be worn very loosely that day, and any undue
exertion must have rendered such a maid liable any moment to assume the
condition of a statue. Of one thing I am absolutely certain: did the
maid accomplish the feat so far as her skirts and other items of her
apparel are concerned, she would have to sleep with her boots on, for
her stockings would present a problem which jeers at the senile efforts
of the Sphinx. But, having performed the said ritual so far, it only
remained for her to wrap the blade of grass in a clean sheet of paper,
place it under her pillow, leave a burning candle near the window, and
retire to rest, when presently she would see the man who was to be her
husband open the window, look in, throw the key into the room, close
the window, and depart. Where the chamber was on the ground floor,
or ladders were handy, I can well understand this ritual would often
succeed.
Maidens, however, may have a vision of their future lord and master(?)
without the necessity of almost dislocating their joints. For I find
at the present time it is only needful, on the day of the eve of St.
Agnes, to fast from the time of rising, only eating a little stale
bread and drinking parsley tea. On retiring to rest, remake your bed,
putting thereon clean sheets and pillow-cases, remembering to repeat as
you lay on each cover the following:—
St. Agnes, I pray unto thee,
I, a maid, would married be,
So thou my husband show to me.
Retire to rest, sleeping by yourself, and you will see the man you will
marry in a dream. Should you awake, my advice is—having seen the future
husband, get up and have a good supper; parsley tea and stale bread
for a day is not satisfying. There are other forms of the same charm,
differing only in minor details.
The making of the dumb-cake, however, differs only in one particular
throughout the riding. Some hold that those engaged in its preparation
must stand on something upon which they have never stood before, no
two persons standing on a similar thing, e.g. a box-lid, a newspaper,
&c. Others altogether ignore this canon in the ritual. Therefore I
must leave my fair readers to decide which formula they will adopt, in
case they decide to make a dumb-cake for themselves. As to the actual
preparation, it must be begun after eleven o’clock p.m. on the eve of
St. Agnes, and either three, five, or seven maidens may take part. In
the making of a dumb-cake, each must take a handful of flour and lay
it on a sheet of clean paper (this must be pretty large), bearing in
mind that from the moment the first hand is dipped in the flour, not a
word must be uttered whilst the cake-makers remain in that room, or the
spell will be broken.
Having each laid a handful of flour on the sheet of paper, all add a
small pinch of salt, water being also added, all taking part in working
the same into dough, every one kneading and assisting in rolling
the same into a thin cake, sufficiently large for each to mark her
initials in fairly large letters thereon. All must now lend a hand in
lifting it on to a tin, and in carrying it to the fire, in front of
which it must be laid. Having seated themselves as far from the fire
as possible, each will in turn rise, cross the room, and turn the cake
round once—not over, as it must be left the inscribed side uppermost.
All this having been accomplished before twelve strikes, remain quietly
seated; for, a few minutes after midnight, the husband of the maiden
who is to be married first will appear and touch her initials, often
leaving his fingermark upon the same. So there can be no doubt about
it.
Should you have no opportunity of joining others in the preparation of
a dumb-cake, you may, if so inclined, on the Friday evening following
that of St. Agnes (some say any Friday but Good Friday), have a vision
of your future husband by a strict observance of the following:—
Make a flat dough cake about the size of a crown piece; on this prick
the initials of the one you secretly love. Next procure three small
keys, all different, and make an impression of each on the underside
of the cake. On retiring to rest, thread the three keys on the garter
of your left leg, wrapping the same about the little cake; stitch
this ball to the inside of your nightdress so that it will rest in
the centre of your bosom, and you will then dream, either of the man
you love, or some other swain. If not of the one you love, then your
affections for the present are misplaced.
The days in Holy Week are familiarly known as Collop Monday, Pancake
Tuesday, Frutas or Fritters Wednesday, Bloody Thorsday,
An’ Lang Friday ’at’s nivver deean,
Seea lig i’ bed whahl Seterdaay neean.
The usual menu for the week is still pretty much as it was. Collops of
bacon and fried eggs on Monday. Pancakes served with either treacle
or lemon-juice and sugar on Tuesday. Frutas, or fritters, made from
a light kind of tea-cake paste, only much richer in fruit and fried
either in lard or butter, on Wednesday; and, with many of humble
degree, black puddings on Thursday. Whilst on Friday, fast is kept on
any frutas which may have been spared from Wednesday’s feast, and
there always is a very considerable helping left over.
Paste-egg or Troll-egg[5] Day, is now celebrated on Easter Monday, but
in days past Easter Day and Paste-egg Day were one. At the present
time the last five Sundays of Lent and Easter Day are still called
Tid, Mid, Miseray, Carlin’, and Paum, an’ Paste-egg Day. There is some
uncertainty as to what Tid and Mid mean, but there can be no doubt that
Miseray is a corruption of Miserere, the commencement of one of the
psalms ordered to be read during Lent. The whole of the names, however,
take us back to mediaeval times, and though some are inclined to think
that Tid means ‘Te Deum’ and Mid ‘Mid Lent,’ it seems to me careful
research will in time give a more plausible solution. Carling Sunday is
still observed in many places, grey peas fried with bacon or in butter
being a well-known dish on that day, many even carrying a goodly store
about in paper bags. At Great Ayton, and in many parts of Cleveland,
Carling Sunday is still fully observed. The same is equally true of
Palm Sunday, or, as it is called, ‘Paum Sunda,’ catkins, or lambs’
tails, as they are universally designated, being carried in the hand,
thrust in the buttonhole, or worn in the hat, whilst many a mantelpiece
and ornament is often tastefully decorated with the same. From noon on
Easter Day to noon the following day, an old custom which is now only
kept up in remote villages, but which was quite general throughout the
riding when I was a lad, was that of one or more young fellows seizing
a female and forcibly pulling off her shoe, sometimes both, laces being
no protection. These were held in bondage until a fine was paid. This
very rough proceeding was formerly known as ’buckle-snatching,’ the old
name for the theft during the days when buckles were worn. However,
if the lads had their good time from the Sunday to Monday’s noon, the
lasses did not fail to retaliate from that time until noon on Tuesday.
From any hidden corner or doorway, out they rushed, and rarely failed
to snatch either a hat, whip, stick, handkerchief, or something, they
were not particular what, or to scratching either, generally managing
to recuperate themselves for any losses of the day previous. On Easter
Monday the bairns hie themselves to some field and roll or troll their
hard-boiled eggs dyed in many colours; this lasts until the egg is
broken, when the youngsters feed upon the contents. Many of the lads,
however, have a much speedier method of either adding to their store
of food or losing their egg. They jaup or jarp them together, i.e. one
lad strikes his egg against that of his opponent, when one or both are
broken; if only one, it is forfeited and becomes the property of the
conqueror. Shuttlecock and battledoor is now greatly _en evidence_ with
the girls, and knur and spell with the lads. One might well, and with
profit, write a chapter on the sequence of games, but such comes hardly
within the scope of this work. But here and there a few will be noted
when they have attached to them special peculiarities.
There is an old custom, almost dead now. It is only in hidden and
unfrequented spots that it still survives—I mean ’the wading of the
sun.’ It was common enough thirty years ago. The _modus operandi_ was
as follows:—As the sun rose on Easter morn, a bucket of water was
placed in such a position that the sun was reflected in it. If the sun
waded, i.e. glimmered in the water, it would rain that day; but if it
kept fine in the morning and rained in the afternoon, then the spring
would be fine and the autumn wet, and vice versa. On this morning too
the flight of the crows was carefully observed; if they settled near
home, instead of flying far afield to feed, the farmer shook his head,
for they plainly told him, by so doing, that grub and other pests would
sorely afflict his crops that year.
Friday is looked upon as an unlucky day to commence or conclude any
undertaking. It is considered unlucky for the first lamb to be dropped
on a Friday, to begin sowing or reaping, or to lead the last load on
that day. Should the weather be very threatening, instead of finishing
leading on the Friday, one stook is very often left, and not brought in
until the following day.
Of St. Valentine’s Day we might truly write, ‘Poor St. Valentine! for
with thee it is Ichabod.’ No longer do we find shop windows filled
with works of art, wrought in silver, lace, and gold; no longer within
a coral bower, hung with icicles and rosebuds, is the maiden’s hand
clasped or waist encircled; no longer does a pathway of powdered
fish-scales lead direct to the little church seen in the far distance,
whilst the overfed cupid, who managed to sit on the edge of a very
thin cloud, must have fallen off and decamped with the couple of
skewered hearts which were usually floating at their own sweet will
’mid heaven. Hearts are at a discount now. Fifty years ago, love-making
was a very real and somewhat pedantic proceeding; in these days, when
time is money, the whole thing has been curtailed. It is—cut the
dialogue and come to the bank book.
Why, there was a time, and only a few years ago, when as many pounds
were spent on these love tokens as pennies now.
There may be, here and there, a maiden left who, before retiring to
rest, splits a holly twig and binds within the split part a small slip
of paper, upon which she has written, with her heart’s blood, the name
of him she loveth best, and who places the same under her pillow,
so that she may dream her fate. There may be, but I doubt it. Their
grandmothers did, though.
Valentine’s Day may be dead, but April Fools’ Day is still with us.
‘Makking t’ feeal o’ yan’ is yet common. The last sell I heard of was
sending a lad from one place to another for a bucket of steam. I wonder
how long ago it is since the first boy was sent for ’a penn’orth o’
strap oil’ or ’a pint ov pigeon’s milk,’ &c., &c.
On Good Friday it is considered impious to dig or plough.
On Good Friday rist thi pleeaf;
Start nowt, end nowt, that’s eneeaf.
Perhaps one of the oldest customs is that in connexion with St. Mark’s
Eve. The belief is still held that those who watch the church porch at
the hour of midnight on that eve, will see pass in front of them and
enter the church the spirits of all those friends who will die during
the coming year. With some it is held to be a _sine qua non_ that the
watcher must sit within the porch; whilst others hold four cross roads
to be equally efficacious, always provided that the body of one who had
committed suicide, with the orthodox stake driven through the chest,
had been buried there, that being the end of suicides in the good old
days.
It should be borne in mind that there are two slight penalties attached
to this porch or cross-road watching.
Firstly, should the watcher fall asleep, there is every probability
of its being the sleep of death. Should he, however, manage to awaken
from such a lethargic slumber, it doesn’t amount to much, as he will
assuredly die within the next twelve months. Secondly, whoever tries
this game once must continue to do so ever afterwards. There is no
escape; the spell upon them is said to be too strong to withstand.
Said an old fellow at Carthorpe, ‘Ah nivver watched mysen, bud one
James Haw used ti watch t’ deead gan in an’ cum oot o’ Bon’iston Chetch
ivvery St. Mark Eve ez it cam roond. He ’ed teea; he war forced tul’t,
he c’u’dn’t help hissen; he’d deean it yance, an’ ‘ed ti gan on wi’
‘t. Aye, an’ he seed t’ sperrits ov all them ’at war gahin ti dee that
year, all on ’em dhrissed i’ ther natt’ral cleeas, or else hoo mud he
’a’e kenn’d whau tha war? They all passed cleease tiv him, bud neean on
’em ivver gav’ him a nod, na nowt o’ that soart. Bud,’ added he, almost
in a whisper, ‘them ’at duz it yance awlus ’ev ti deea’t; tha cann’t
ho’d thersens back, they’re forced ti gan ivvery tahm St. Mark’s Eve
cums roond. Mun! it’s a despert thing ti ’a’e ti deea, ’coz ya ’a’e ti
gan, whahl at t’ last end ya see yersen pass yersen, an’ then ya knaw
’at yer tahm’s cum’d an’ ‘at ya’ll be laid i’ t’ cau’d grund afoor that
daay cum twelve-month.’
There was another method of divination very commonly resorted to, known
by the name of ’caff riddling’ (chaff riddling). The rite was carried
out as follows:—At midnight, with the barn doors thrown wide open, a
quantity of chaff had to be riddled, those taking part in the ceremony
riddling in turn; should a coffin pass the door whilst any one was
working the sieve, that person would die within the year. A story is
still current in Malton of a woman who tried the above divination. It
would seem, some little time after she had commenced to riddle, two men
passed the open doors carrying a coffin, and on those who were with her
rushing outside to see where they went, neither men nor coffin were
anywhere to be seen. Only the woman saw the coffin. It is on record
that she died within the year. The occurrence took place about forty
years ago.
Perhaps we are a trifle more superstitious than some other counties,
but it must be borne in mind that a wealth of folklore adds great
respectability to a genealogy which dates back to times so far remote,
that the rites and ceremonies of the religion from which it sprang must
now be sought for in the myth-history of other lands.
In connexion with Royal Oak Day took place the locking out of the
schoolmaster by the scholars, loudly singing, whilst they held the
fortress—
It’s Royal Oak daay,
T’ twenty-nahnth o’ Maay,
An’ if ya deean’t gi’e uz hollida
Wa’ll all run awaay.
The above was sung, to the entire satisfaction of the lads, a couple of
years ago at Great Ayton. On this day it is customary for every one to
display a twig of oak; should any one be so remiss as to walk abroad
without sporting an oak-leaf or two, it is quite probable some urchin
may give the delinquent a sharp reminder by switching him over the
hand with a nettle. And woe betide the lad who is so foolhardy as to
venture forth oakless, for in addition to being stung with nettles, he
may have to submit to being rubbed over with chalk until he looks very
like a miller. It may be mentioned that Royal Oak Day is often called
Chalky-back Day.
There are several charms and ceremonies peculiar to Midsummer Eve, the
careful observance of which enables a maiden to learn something of
what fate may have in store for her. Does she doubt the constancy of
her lover, she can satisfy herself once for all, no matter what other
folk may say, and in spite of anything she may have seen or imagined
herself, by observing the following rite. Certainly the carrying out of
the ceremony is a wee bit troublesome, but of what account is trouble
when such vital points are at issue as the unmasking of perfidy or the
establishment of truth and love? To perform the rite the maiden must
proceed as follows:—Pull three hairs from the tail of a perfectly
black cat, also three from a red cow; gather three leaves of the deadly
nightshade, and, having killed a white pigeon, smear each leaf with
blood from its heart. Now make three flat parcels, each containing a
cat’s hair, a cow’s hair, and a leaf. Next stew the pigeon, saving the
gravy. Now make a savoury dish, adding thereto the gravy. The suspected
one must be asked to supper on Midsummer Eve, the damsel being careful
to place under the tablecloth the three parcels, in such manner that
one will lie under his plate, one under the dish containing the gravy,
and the third under her own plate. During supper, should her lover
find the least fault with any person or thing, he is faithless. If the
maiden is very deeply in love, I should advise her to do most of the
talking; let it be only a one-course supper, and hurry through with it.
The above charm is rarely resorted to now; the several difficulties
which have to be overcome before it can be successfully carried out,
have almost laid it on one side. But I well remember its being tried
years ago by one of our servants, and I have been informed that it
was resorted to, inside of the last five years, at a farm-house near
Swainby.
Here is another one for the same eve, which is much more widely known,
and believed in yet by many. Three maids, unseen by and unknown to any
other but themselves, must each gather a sprig of rosemary, and between
the hours of eleven and twelve p.m. retire to an upper chamber, lock
the door, and from the moment the key is turned not a word must be
spoken. Near one end of the room a basin half full of water must be
placed, in which each maiden has dropped a handful of red-rose leaves;
the three sprigs of rosemary must now be laid on the rose leaves; next,
fix a line across the room, over which each must throw—not fasten
in any way—a chemise of her own make, but which she has never worn.
Having thus arranged matters, they must seat themselves as far from
the basin as possible, when they will be shortly rewarded, for a few
moments after twelve o’clock the husband of each will appear. There can
be no doubt about this, because each apparition will seize a sprig of
rosemary and sprinkle the chemise of the girl he loves. Nothing could
be more convincing than this; now, could there be?
If not yet fully satisfied, they may make another attempt on the eve of
St. Mary Magdalene. For this they will have to prepare the following
decoction:—Take a wineglassful each of rum, gin, and red wine, a
teaspoonful of honey, treacle, and sugar, and the same of vinegar,
lemon-juice, and sour oranges; these must be mixed together in some
utensil purchased that day, and for which each must pay an equal share.
When mixing the ingredients, the following rule must be observed: the
first maiden must pour in the spirits and wine, the second the sweets,
and the third the sours; this must be done at the hour of midnight.
Let each now take a sprig of rosemary, dip it in the liquor, and then
carefully stitch the same securely to the bosom of her nightdress;
bear in mind you are an old maid for ever if you and your sprig part
company during the night. Each in turn must now drink a tablespoonful
of the mixture, until every drop is consumed, then jump into bed, all
three together, and on falling asleep, each maiden will have a dream,
the meaning of which cannot be misunderstood. This seems to be quite
certain, and there is another thing equally assured—one and all will
awake with such a splitting headache in the morning, that they will
forswear improvised cold punch for ever afterwards.
It is not within the scope of this work to take note of purely local
customs, deeply interesting though they be. Therefore the Vardy dinner
at Helmsley, the procession of the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress of York
at Kilburn, the race up the hill at Askrigg, or the May-pole dances at
several other places, and the like, must be passed over.
The mell supper, though lacking much of its pristine glory, is still
with us. Mr. Robinson of Carthorpe, and many others in the riding,
still keep to the good old ways. The mell supper, i.e. a supper and
a dance after the ingathering of the harvest, is exceedingly common,
but with its older observances, or at least as many of them as are
remembered, is only adhered to here and there. Still, at the present
day, something of the old-time doings are to be met with. The last
sheaf at Carthorpe, as in Jutland, is called the ’widow,’ and the last
load is always led triumphantly home with songs of joy.
In many places it is common for the last few sheaves to be bound
together, these being decorated with ribbons and handkerchiefs—the
women racing for the ribbons, and the men contending for the
handkerchiefs. This, of course, is a survival of the time when the
sheaves themselves were run for; and in the days when an additional
bushel of grain was a thing greatly to be desired, the prize would
be not a little coveted. Here and there the mell doll is still made;
certainly it is not now bedecked with all the gaudy trappings it was
adorned with in days of yore, but often some skilful hand will plait
the straw into fantastical shapes, exhibiting considerable artistic
taste and skill. When completed, whether it be in the form of a doll[6]
or that of some other device, it still goes by the name of ’t’ mell
doll,’ and is placed in the centre of the barn, round which, by-and-by,
the guests will trip on the light fantastic toe.
One characteristic of the mell supper, so far as I know, is now a thing
of the past, i.e. the guisers. These were a kind of sword-dancers, who
twenty years ago generally came as unbidden guests after the dancing
had commenced; as a rule they were accorded a hearty welcome, as they
added greatly to the merriment of the evening’s revel, for as the cake
and ale went round, the excitement increased, songs and shouting became
general, and the dancing something after the nature of a stampede, till
at last the uproar was general. It is at such times when age forgets
its years, and the young let slip the tether of their youthful spirits,
and romp—aye, romp; for the ale is good, the lasses are bonny, ‘slim o’
waist and leet o’ foot.’ It is Yorkshire, all Yorkshire.
The fifth of November, with its bonfires and Guy Fawkes, is as
religiously observed in the riding as in any other part of the country.
Over a wide area it is the festive occasion on which every good wife
bakes a store of parkin, its general form being that of a flat cake of
gingerbread, the recipe varying according to the means of the house.
In the days when there were no county police, if not wise enough to
securely lock up your yard broom, of a certainty it would be stolen;
and if ever you did see it again, it would be on the evening of the
fifth, soaked with tar, in the hands of some fellow rushing like a mad
thing along the street with your property blazing in front of him.
I have known of scores of brooms which were stolen—aye, and stolen
them myself—but I do not recollect an instance of the thief being
prosecuted. No, if you did not secure your broom, it went, and that was
very much the end of it. There was more fun running with a stolen besom
than a bought one.
Quite an interesting collection of doggerel verses might be given,
which the lads in various parts sing when dragging their load of
sticks and thorns to the site of the bonfire. I give one, which an old
inhabitant of Great Ayton tells me was sung when his grandfather was a
boy.
Au’d Grimey sits upon yon hill
Ez black ez onny au’d craw;
He’s gitten on his lang grey coat
Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,
Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,
Wi’ buttons doon afoor-oor-oor,
He’s gitten on his lang grey coat
Wi’ buttons doon afoor.
Within a week, the young carol-singers will be on your doorstep night
after night, reminding you that Christmas is drawing nigh.
A very old custom, but which has now been pretty nigh stamped out by
the county policeman, is that of ‘Riding the Stang.’ It is not dead
yet, though; I witnessed the stang being ridden as recently as 1891 in
Guisborough, and in many of the villages in Wensleydale it is to this
day resorted to when considered needful.
The stang is held in wholesome dread by a certain class of evil-doers.
Wife-beaters and immoral characters chiefly had and have the benefit
of the stang[7]. Whatever their discovered sin might be, was fully set
forth in the stang doggerel. One or two points have to be, or at least
are, most carefully observed: (1) The real name of the culprit must not
be mentioned. (2) The stang must be ridden in three separate parishes
each night; and in many places, to make the proceedings quite legal, it
was considered a _sine qua non_ that the stang-master must knock at the
door of the man or woman they were holding up to ridicule, and ask for
a pocket-piece, i.e. fourpence.
The whole proceeding was carried out as follows:—An effigy made of
straw and old clothes, representing the culprit, was bound to a pole[8]
and set in an upright position in the centre of either a handcart or a
small pony cart, in which was seated the stang-master; and following
behind were gathered all the ragamuffins of the village, armed with
pan lids, tin cans, tin whistles, or anything which could be made to
produce a discordant sound. Being ready, the cart was drawn in front
of the culprit’s house, and after a fearful hubbub, the stang-master
cried out, in a sing-song voice,—
Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle tang,
It’s nut foor your part ner mah part
‘At Ah rahd the stang,
Bud foor yan Bill Switch whau his weyfe did bang,
Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle, Ah tinkle tang.
He banged her, he banged her, he banged her indeed,
He banged her, he banged her, afoor sha steead need;
Upstairs aback o’ t’ bed
He sairly brayed her whahl sha bled,
Oot o’ t’ hoos on ti t’ green,
Sikan a seet ez nivver war seen,
Ez neean c’u’d think, ez neean c’u’d dream.
Sae Ah gat ma a few cumarades
Ti traal ma aboot;
Sae it’s hip hip hurrah, lads,
Set up a gert shoot,
An’ blaw all yer whistles,
Screeam, rattle, an’ bang
All ’at ivver ya’ve gitten,
Foor Ah ride the stang.
Then, for a few moments, there arose a tumult of sound, to which the
wildest ravings of bedlam would seem insignificant.
This performance lasts three nights, and on the third the effigy is
burnt in front of the culprit’s house.
Another very old custom, which is now rarely seen, is that of bottle
breaking. When a house was ready for the thatch, in later days the
tiles, a bottle was suspended by a ribbon from the ridge beam. Stones
were then shied at it, and the one who was lucky enough to smash the
bottle claimed the ribbon. If in days past this custom had anything of
an occult nature attached to it, it has long ago been forgotten. In its
last days it degenerated into what was considered to be a valid excuse
for spending the rest of the day in the village pub. _O tempora, O
mores!_
The daily life of the Guisboreans does not seem to have altered much
from the time of Edward VI to the end of last century. In a letter
among the Cottonian MSS., the writer, addressing Sir Thomas Chaloner,
says, ‘The people bread here (Guisborough) live very longe, if they
be a while absent they growe sicklye; they are altogether given
to pleasure, scarce any good husband amongst them; Day and Nighte
feastinge, making Matches for Horse Races, Dog runninge, or runninge
on Foote,’ &c. The above was written about 1550, and we find in 1784
that things were still pretty lively, as the contents of the small
hand-bill[9] (see next page) fully testify. The contents of another,
setting forth the varied attractions of ‘Staithes Feast,’ are also
characteristic of the time.
Gisbrough Races.
Saturday, August 14, 1784.
A MATCH between SIR WILLIAM FOULIS’S Ass Colt, Turkey Nab, and Mr.
CHALONER’S Ass Colt, Sturdy; Catch-weights, 1l. 1s. play or pay, the
last Comer-in to Win. Change of Jockeys, crossing, jostling, and
kicking.
A PURSE of SILVER to be run for by Men in Sacks. Crossing and jostling.
LADIES’ PLATE.
A SHIFT to be run for by Ladies. No crossing-and-jostling. No Lady to
enter who has won more than one Shift. A Pair of Cotton Stockings for
the second Lady; and a Pair of Garters for the third. Free for all
Weights and Ages.
⁂ After the Races, A Soap-tail’d PIG will be turn’d out. Whoever
throws him over his Shoulder by the Tail is to have him for his own
Property.
††† Smoaking, Cudgel-††playing, and other Entertainments.
JOHN HALE, Steward.
‡‡ An Ordinary at the Cock at Gisbrough at Half past Two o‘Clock. The
Race to begin at Five o‘Clock.
* * * * *
STAITHES FEAST.
—WILL BE HELDE ON—
TUESDAY, JUNE 20, 1797.
When the prizes AS ADVERTIZED BELOW will be offered to ALL those
skilled in such matters, as well as DIVERS others not herin stated.
TO WIT.
⁂ A fish skin purse contayninge SILVER will be run or rolled for in
sacks a man and a boy in each sack. 25 Y^{RDS.} ERIC STAUMER Esq. will
adjudge.
††† A 50 Y^{RDS.} race. To be run for, A HOOD and CLOAK, each, for
maidens runninge in pairs, the right legge of the one to be fast bound
below the knee and at the ancle, to y^e left legge of the other[10].
T. METCALFE WILL BIND Y^E LEGGES AND ADJUDGE.
⁂ A CROWN piece for A MAN and WIFE race, y^e wife to be hugged either
on the backe, in arms, or by any other device, so as she be lifted
clean from y^e ground, HUSBANDS with light wives to be put backe. No
WHEELBARROWS allowed. M^{R.} MAT PETCH WILL ADJUDGE.
The choyce of a sark or petticote offered to the best performance of
skille in a SKEP and POLE tryal[11]. Only for married women. One
clean turn to be mayde. THOS. HILTUNE Esq. will adjudge.
††† A CŌBLE RACE for 1.l. 1.s.
⁂ A LYKE SUM will be gyven to the owners of the best kept CŌBLE. To be
equally divided. W. Hymers Esq. WILL adjudge.
††† 2 new CROWN pieces will be gyven to y^e maid under 18 yeares who
shalle fyrst cleanly bayte 100 hooks. M^{R.} W. PICKLES will adjudge.
⁂ LYKEWISE, Genning throw a BARFAN, SMOAKING, and other pastimes for
y^e entertainment of all commers will in nowise be found lacking.
ALL friends and nighbours are dilligently invited.
This was wrote by I. STOREY, schoolmaster.
N.B. This hand-bill was not printed, but most carefully and neatly
written.
CHAPTER VII
CUSTOMS OF COURTSHIP, MARRIAGE, BIRTH, AND DEATH
_Superstition._
The old customs and superstitions connected with marriage festivities
are perhaps more closely observed here and there in the North Riding
than in any other part of Yorkshire. In some parts of Cleveland, I
doubt if the bride and bridegroom would consider themselves properly
wedded if there were no race for a ribbon or handkerchief. And
certainly it would be a most unlucky omen, should any one but the
bride cut the first piece from the bride’s cake. But I anticipate—let
us commence at the beginning. Very rarely, I imagine, is it that an
orthodox proposal is ever made by a Yorkshire lad to the lass of his
choice. No, they just ’keep cump’ny t’ ane wi’ t’ t’other.’ ‘Keeping
company’ is the Yorkshire idiom for courting; and during that happy
time, in days past, were a young fellow ever caught kissing his
lady-love whilst a roof was over their heads (i.e. in any one’s
house), he was liable—if he did not instantly throw on the table
kiss-money—to be ‘pitchered[12]’ on the spot, i.e. either have a hole
burnt through his coat or his buttons cut off. This violent attack
on the person of arson and robbery was usually effected by a bevy of
damsels.
In time, if all went well, the twain decided to become one; to this
end the ’spurrings’ were put in, i.e. the banns were published. This
having been accomplished, the couple were said to be ’hanging in the
bell-ropes’—no maiden would ever think of attending church during the
time she was hanging in the bell-ropes, or to use another expression,
‘whilst she was suffering from a broken leg after having tumm’l’d ower
t’ bauk.’
The wedding day having arrived, the happy couple, accompanied by their
friends, either proceed two and two, or hire a cab.
Of course the bride is properly garnished for the occasion, and very
nice and blushy she looks—that goes without saying. But whatever her
toilet may be, one thing is certain—not a speck of blue or green
will be found anywhere about her, both colours being considered very
unlucky; neither will the wedding take place on a Friday.
Deean’t o’ Friday buy yer ring,
O’ Friday deean’t put t’ spurrings in,
Deean’t wed o’ Friday. Think on o’ this,
Nowther blue ner green mun match her dhriss.
If during the ceremony the sun is obscured for a short time, and then
bursts forth shining on the couple, happy will such a bride be. For
Blessed is t’ bride ’at t’ sun shines on,
An’ blessed is t’ deead ’at t’ rain rains on.
Years ago, it was the custom, in many parts of Cleveland, for the
bride and bridegroom to leap over a form on leaving the church
porch. On this feat being accomplished, a gun was fired, this often
being charged with feathers. At Guisborough the firing of guns was
continued throughout the whole route. And in many parts of Cleveland,
meeting the bridal procession with hot pots was common; these were
bowls filled with a kind of steaming punch, and as the bridal party
were expected to drink from every hot pot, one can well imagine and
understand the revelry which so often took place, especially when the
hot pots were numerous. Afterwards, these pots were carried from door
to door, a plate covered with a saucer being also presented; a gift
of money was slipped under the saucer, given to enable the hot pot to
be replenished. In the Staithes district, if a guest stepped in any
kind of filth on his or her way to the house, on no account would it
be wiped off, it being considered very unlucky to do so. I believe, at
that time, sanded floors and not carpets were the rule.
On passing through the church gates, the bridegroom usually threw a
handful of coppers amongst the crowd. A man now headed the procession,
carrying under his arm a young cockerel, which he made continually to
‘skrike oot’; this could only be silenced by the payment of bride’s
money. On arriving at the bride’s home, she was met on the doorstep,
and presented with a small cake on a plate. A little of this she would
eat, throwing the remainder over her head, typical of the hope that
they might always have plenty and something to spare. She then handed
the plate to her husband; this he threw over his head, their future
happiness depending upon its being broken[13].
The race for the bride’s garter was a common custom in former times,
its possession being held in high esteem, and valued as a potent love
charm.
Now, however, the custom has almost fallen into disuse, though within
the last five years the ceremony was fully carried out. At one time it
was not only a recognized custom, but in most cases special preparation
was made for its due observance, the maidens spending no little time
and skill in the working of their bridal garters.
Immediately after the plate had been broken, the bride’s attempt to
cross the threshold was hindered by the kneeling figure of the winner
of the race, claiming the privilege of removing the prize. The bride
then raised her skirt whilst he removed the valued trophy[14].
As it was the correct thing in those good old days for ladies to
raise the skirt quite as high when dancing, and as elaborately worked
stockings were worn to be looked at, nothing was thought of lifting the
skirt, and nothing would in these days if some lady of title revived
the custom. From an old rhyme, I give the following lines:—
T’ BRAHDAL BANDS.
Blushing, theer oor Peggy sits
Stitching, fahn stitching,
Luv knots roond her brahdal bands,
Witching, bewitching.
T’ brahd’s maids all mun deea a stitch,
Stitching, fahn stitching,
An’ tha mun binnd it roond her leg[15],
Witching, bewitching.
Bud sum bauf[16] swain ’at’s soond o’ puff[17],
Stitching, fahn stitching,
‘Ll claim his reet ti tak’ it off,
Witching, bewitching.
An’ he aroond his awn luv’s leg,
Stitching, fahn stitching,
‘Ll lap it roond ti binnd his luv,
Witching, bewitching.
Whahl sha sweet maid’ll wear his troth,
Stitching, fahn stitching,
Mahnding each tahm sha taks it off,
Witching, bewitching.
That daay when sha will ’a’e ti wear,
Stitching, fahn stitching,
Nut yan, bud tweea, a brahdal pair,
Witching, bewitching.
Oh, happy day! when sha s’all stitch,
Stitching, fahn stitching,
Her brahdal bands, the wearing which
Mak maids bewitching.
It may be remembered that knights often bound the garter of their
lady-love about their sword-hilts.
The following lines evidently were written when the bridal garter was
held in greater favour than the ribbon:—
SONG.
DRINK TO THE BRIDAL GARTER.
Nance is wed ti morn at morn,
High doon a derry O,
Monny a lad ’s this daay ’s forlorn,
High doon a derry O;
Bud cheer up, lads, yer glasses fill,
Fer ivvery Jack ther is a Jill.
Sup off, my bucks, an’ divn’t spill,
An’ maay Ah win her garter O.
Neea prude is Nance; tha saay sha’s maad,
High doon a derry O,
Her brahdal bands ov gowden braad,
High doon a derry O.
Noo fer a ribbon Ah weean’t run,
It gi’es neea luck, an’ stops wer fun,
Sike nimmy nammy waays ’ez sum;
Cum drink ti t’ brahdal garter O.
Here ’s health an’ luck ti t’ brahd ’at darr,
High doon a derry O,
Her brahdal bands baith stitch an’ wear,
High doon a derry O;
Ti them ’at ho’ds a ribbon up
Neean on uz here’ll draan a cup,
Sike healths wa ’evn’t tahm ti sup,
Ov slipshod, undarned stockings O.
T’ brahd ’at darn’t her skets pull up,
High doon a derry O,
Maist leykly is a mucky slut,
High doon a derry O.
Yan best can tell a lass’s waays
Byv what sha wears, ’an what sha saays;
A ribbon gi’en o’ wedding days
Screens mucky undarned stockings O.
Maay ivvery bonny blushing brahd,
High doon a derry O,
‘Ev nowther muck ner hoals ti hide,
High doon a derry O,
An’ maay sha on her brahdal daay
Pull up her skets, an’ smiling saay,
‘Mah garter’s thahn, tak it, Ah praay,
An’ gi’e ’t ti thi true lovey O.’
Afoor wa pairt fill up each glass,
High doon a derry O,
Let each yan drink tiv his awn lass,
High doon a derry O,
Ti Bessy, Sally, Sue, an’ Peg,
Ti Martha, Mary, Maud, an’ Meg;
An’ here’s ti ivvery shap’ly leg
Roond which a brahdal band diz go.
Originally the ceremony of removing the bridal garter was, as has been
said, carried out in a perfectly decorous manner; in time, however, it
degenerated into actually stealing the garter by force. This unseemly
proceeding possibly arose from the strong opposition and resentment
which was felt, and for long demonstrated, whenever the ribbon
supplanted the garter.
Why, as recently as 1820, Lady —— [18], a great stickler after old
customs, on stepping from her bridal coach, inquired who had won the
race. ‘Ah did, my lady,’ answered one of the stable lads. Ascending the
steps, her ladyship stepped half over the threshold, calling out to
the lad, ‘Come, Tom, and claim your prize,’ adding, as she raised her
silken gown, ‘I intend to be properly married and have the luck I am
entitled to.’ Then turning to the young fellow, smiling, she added,
‘Take it off, Tom, and give it to your sweetheart, and may it bring
luck to both of you.’
In Great Ayton the ribbon seems to have supplanted the garter in
the early part of this century. In fact it is only the old folks
who remember, and can tell you anything concerning the gay and
festive doings of those days. But the older custom held its own
for long afterwards, and that, too, within a very few miles. But
intercommunication between villages has never been a strong feature.
Even to-day there is a species of rivalry existing between Stokesley
and Great Ayton people, but this is common to all adjacent villages.
It only adds one more proof in support of what has already been said,
that the customs, superstitions, and dialect of any given locality, or
even that of a whole dale, cannot, and must not, be taken as being that
of the whole of the North Riding, much less of Yorkshire.
A case in point may here be mentioned. In days past it was usual
in Great Ayton to discharge firearms over the bridal party as they
processed both _to and from the church_. This, however, was by no
means the custom throughout Cleveland[19]. Neither was the firing of
the stithy, which I am told was never omitted; i.e. a charge of powder
poured into a hole in the anvil, upon which a heavy weight was laid;
this, when fired, went off with the report of a cannon. In many places
the latter was only resorted to when either objectionable people were
united or in the case of a forced marriage. In Great Ayton it was done
in honour of the occasion.
Much variation exists as to the exact time when the ribbon is to be run
for. In some places it is the custom for the racers to stand at the
church door, and start off on a signal being given that the ring has
been slipped on the bride’s finger. In other localities the race takes
place the moment the bride and bridegroom leave the church porch, the
one arriving first at the bride’s door being the winner.
In other localities it does not take place until after the wedding
feast, and again, often not until evening.
In many places it is customary for the bride to stand as the winning
post, holding the ribbon in her hand, the winner not only claiming the
prize, but a kiss also. It may be mentioned here that the best man
generally claims the first kiss at the conclusion of the ceremony. At
Great Ayton and many other places sixty years ago, before the bride
left the altar steps the sexton removed her shoe, which was ransomed
by the bridegroom. It was, and is still, considered most lucky to rub
shoulders with the bridegroom. And until somewhat recently the parson
officiating was always expected to kiss the bride. Before railways
were so general, and when, as often happened, the honeymoon had to be
spent amongst friends within driving distance, or at the bride’s home,
‘throwing the stocking’ at the bride and bridegroom after they had
retired to rest was never omitted.
It is a bad omen should the bridal party meet a coffin, or should a
cripple cross their path. Had they to pass over a stream, it was usual
for both to throw something over their shoulder into the stream,
saying as they did so, ‘Bad luck cleave to you,’ being very careful
not to set eyes on the object again. On an occasion of this kind,
should the man wish to be master in his own house, he had better see
that he cross the centre of the bridge a little in advance of his
bride, or that lady will gain an advantage she will be careful not
to undervalue—the husband will have to do the wife’s bidding. It is
also considered unlucky to remove the wedding ring before the birth
of the first child. Should a bride unfortunately do so, be sure it is
the husband who replaces it; on no account must she let another man
do so, unless she wishes speedily to become a widow. Before the bride
and bridegroom left for their own home, it was common for a kettleful
of boiling water to be poured on the front step, upon which the bride
stepped, being careful to wet both her shoes. The due observance of
this custom ensured another happy marriage being arranged amongst the
company there assembled.
When the time arrives for the happy couple to take their departure,
either for their own home or the honeymoon, great care must be observed
that the husband steps over the threshold in front of his bride,
otherwise she will take the lead in all things through life. It would
be a great advantage to a lot of men if the wife did step a little in
advance. They must also be very careful not to make their exit with the
back and front door open at the same time; and on entering their new
home, a man must receive them, never a woman, neither must they enter
an empty house, as it would result in a lack of friends. The belief
in open doors, &c., applies to all occasions when leaving or returning
home after having spent the night under a strange roof. As the bride
leaves the paternal roof, some swain will endeavour to seize her foot.
This doubtless is a surviving relic of the time when it was deemed a
post of honour to assist the bride into the saddle. It ensures little
separation through life if the happy pair, on rising from their bridal
couch, take each other by the hand, and slip out of bed, so that their
feet touch the floor together; then, still keeping hold of hands, they
must cross the room and step outside, as equally as possible.
Whilst the immediate friends enjoyed themselves as guests at the
bride’s house, many of their well-wishers adjourned to the nearest
hostel and drank their healths with many a glass and catch-song.
One, a kind of catch-verse, was very common a few years ago. Each time
it was sung the glasses were drained, some one else being called upon
to repeat the song. This had to be done at once, and in the reverse way
to the former vocalist, i.e. if the last singer toasted the bridegroom,
the next must commence with the bride; did he make a mistake, he had to
pay for glasses round.
_The Verse._
The brahdgroom’s health we all will sing,
In spite of Turk or Spanish king,
The brahd’s good health we will not pass,
But put them both into one glass.
See, see, see that he drink it all,
See, see, see that he let none fall,
For if he do, he shall drink two,
And so shall the rest of the company do.
Another catch-rhyme must have resulted in innumerable glasses having to
be paid for each time it was sung. It was quite an action song, each
taking a line in turn, every glass being raised at the commencement of
each line, and then replaced, forming a ring round the bride’s garter,
which lay in the centre of the table, or a borrowed one doing duty for
the time. As each glass had to be lifted on the word DRINK, and tapped
against that of its right and left hand neighbour at CHINK, then set
on the table again without spilling, some one would have to pay for
glasses round. The verse ran:—
Wa lift each glass ti t’ brahdgroom’s health,
DRINK, DRINK, DRINK.
T’ yan ’at slaps pays fer t’ next roond,
CHINK, CHINK, CHINK.
An’ here’s ti t’ brahd, good luck ti t’ lass,
Drink, Drink, Drink.
Wa thruff her band noo pass each glass[20],
Wink, Wink, Wink.
Wer liquor will all t’ better seeam,
Chink, Chink, Chink,
When wa call ti mahnd wheer it hez been,
Drink, Drink, Drink.
Bud him ’at trimm’ls, smiles, or slaps (spills),
Chink, Chink, Chink,
Pays fer wer glasses gahin ti t’ taps,
Drink, Drink, Drink.
Quite a collection of these catch-songs might be made; they are all
quaint, and if they point to days when things were a trifle different,
we must bear in mind that a hundred years hence we shall be pretty
severely criticized.
_Birth._
The future of a child greatly depends upon which day it is born.
A Munday’s bairn will grow up fair,
A Tuesday’s yan i’ grace thruff prayer,
A Wednesday’s bairn ’ez monny a paain,
A Tho’sday’s bairn weean’t bahd at heeam.
A Friday’s bairn is good an’ sweet,
A Settherday’s warks frea morn ti neet,
Bud a Sunday’s bairn thruff leyfe is blist
An’ seear i’ t’ end wi’ t’ Saints ti rist.
From the day of its birth to that of its baptism, pepper cake, cheese
and wine, or some other cordial, are offered to all those who cross the
threshold. No one would think of refusing to ’tak a bite an’ sup,’ to
wish the little stranger all the happiness and good luck possible. In
many places, the doctor cuts the cake and cheese immediately after the
happy event is over, giving a piece to every one present; neither cake
nor cheese must have been previously cut into, and what is cut must be
divided into just so many pieces as there are friends present, neither
more nor less. Should it unfortunately happen the pieces exceed in
number that of the guests, it would portend that troubles in this life
will be too many to contend against; but should there be not enough
pieces to go all round, then the child in after years will lack many of
those comforts, the possession of which make life a blessing.
When possible, a new arrival, before being laid by its mother’s side,
or even touched by her, is placed in the arms of a maiden. To a boy,
this early contact, with our highest ideal of earthly purity, gives
to him a nobleness of character which in after years will help the
world to be better, whilst in the case of a girl she will grow up to be
modest and pure in all things. The idea is pretty.
In Cleveland, and some of the dales westward, the notion still prevails
that a child should always go up in the world before it goes down; so
when it happens that a child is born in the topmost story, in which
case it is impossible to carry it into a higher room, the nurse will
stand upon the bed with the child in her arms, holding it above the
mother, that being a higher position than it held at its birth. After
this ceremony it may be safely taken to the lower regions. Were this
rite omitted, and the child allowed to descend before it had gone up,
failure in life would most likely be the lot of such a one—the tendency
of such always being downhill. These little ceremonies, anyway, point a
splendid moral. One cannot begin to be good and diligent too early in
life.
When a child is born with a mask or caul over its head, good luck
will follow it all the days of its life, always provided the caul is
properly preserved. There is some rite in the preservation of such,
the details of which I have not been able to obtain. Speaking to one
old dame, she said to me that she did not rightly know what they did
in such cases, none of her children having been fortunate enough to
be so distinguished at their birth. This much, however, she did know,
that some just dried such a covering by laying it between two layers
of muslin, but—and to give her own words—‘Ther’s other some ’at ’ev a
straange carrying on wi’ sike leyke; they lap it roond t’ Bahble an’
deea summat, bud Ah deean’t knaw what, bud Ah can git ti knaw foor
ya.’ That cannot be now; she has crossed the borderland. That such
cauls or masks were held in high esteem at one time, is proved by the
high prices paid for them, not because they had belonged to people of
note or high degree, but because they possessed the power to ward off
many evils which might assail the possessor. Sailors even to-day set
great store by them: they act as a charm, saving the possessor from
drowning in case of a wreck. These veils were much prized by witches,
and great was the evil they could work should such ever come into their
possession, hence the necessity of using all precautions against their
loss.
An old body, Ann Caygill by name—I think she was a native of
Bedale—told me the following story. She was seventy-five years of age,
and the event took place some twenty years before she was born, but
as the individual affected told the story to Ann herself, I have it
pretty much from its original source. Jane Herd at her birth had a mask
covering both head and face, which, as quite natural in those days, her
mother carefully preserved. It turned out to be one of extraordinary
power. If Jane laid it on the Bible and wished to see any one, they
were bound to put in an appearance. And many other wonders she could
work with her caul. Jane, it seems, was a pious girl, and never used
it for an evil purpose, though, said my informant, she might have done
had she been so minded. One day when Jane was using her mask for some
rightful purpose, a puff of wind blew it through the open window.
Jane of course rushed into the street to recover her treasure, but it
was gone, and could not be found; being of such an exceedingly light
nature, the wind had carried it no one knew whither.
And from that day Jane’s life became a burden. Her lover grew cold—the
wedding day had been arranged, but he declined to carry out his
promise—a nasty lump came on her neck, and a fearful pain and swelling
attacked her right knee, which made her walk very lame, and indeed
she became a perfect wreck. At last things got into such a parlous
state with her, that people began to suspect some evil-minded person
had found her mask, and was working her evil with it. It was then
remembered, when Jane had rushed into the street to recover her lost
treasure, that the only person visible at the time was one Molly
Cass[21], a witch of considerable local repute in those days. But Molly
at the time had been so far distant from Jane’s cottage, that she was
not even questioned. In the end, Jane had resort to the wise man, or
rather men, of that day—Master Sadler and Thomas Spence[22], both of
Bedale. These two worthies, after many questions, made a sign round
the lump as well as round her knee, telling Jane to collect certain
things—what these were could not be called to mind—and bring them
next day near midnight. These several things having been collected
and duly delivered to the charmers, were mixed together, with other
ingredients, and the whole boiled on a wickenwood fire, and stirred
by Jane with a wickenwood stick; near the end of this boiling, a great
smoke arose from the pan, which Jane was told to inhale. She did so,
but it nearly choked her, still she kept on swallowing mouthful after
mouthful, until she had done so nine times; she was then told to cease
stirring, but to retain the stick in one hand, the other being laid
on the Bible. She had then to repeat the following question: ‘Has —— ’
(here mentioning the name of anyone she suspected) ‘gotten mah caul?’
Then Master Sadler, after a moment’s pause, said, ‘No, she is free.’
Master Spence then joined in with ‘By the power of the Holy Writ and
the charm of Hagothet and Arcon[23], mention the name of some other
person thou doubtest.’ This formula was gone through until the name of
Molly Cass was mentioned. Even as the witch’s name was uttered, the
pan boiled over, filling the room with such a fearful stench, that all
three had to hurry into the yard. So quickly was this accomplished,
that they surprised the old witch scrambling off a settle, upon which
she had been standing to enable her to peep through a small hole in the
shutters. She was instantly seized and thrust into the room, and kept
there until so nearly suffocated, that she confessed she had the caul
on her person, and promised then and there to deliver it up. On being
brought out of the room more dead than alive, she further confessed
that she had been forced to run all the way from Leeming—the current
belief, however, was that she had come astride of a besom—the moment
they had put the pan on the wickenwood fire. She begged to be forgiven,
but as a punishment she was locked up in a stable, a wicken peg having
been driven into the door to prevent her from escaping; and next day,
for the diversion of the Bedale inhabitants, she was hurried to the
mill dam and duly ducked nine times.
‘A FRAGMENT,’
ON THE WITCH MOLLY CASS.
* * * * *
Foor seear sha war a queer au’d lass,
Ez meean ez muck, ez bou’d ez brass;
Ah meean t’ au’d witch, au’d Molly Cass,
‘At lived nigh t’ mill at Leeming.
Noo fooak will clack, Ah’ve heeard ’em saay
At t’ dark o’ neet, when pass’t that waay,
Tha fan’ it ommaist leet ez daay,
Sike leets war awlus gleaming;
An’ sum held ti ’t ’at mair ’an yance
Wiv her feet fra t’ grund they’d seean her prance,
Loup hoos heigh up, wi’ t’ Divil dance.
* * * * *
The above would, I believe, be written about the year 1810 by one who
wrote under the signature of R. H.[24] At that time Molly must have
been dead some twenty years, but her deeds would still be remembered by
many. Mr. W. Hird, from whom I had the above fragment, told me he used
to know the whole piece, which was of considerable length.
But to return to recent times, still keeping to Bedale. I remember a
shopkeeper’s wife saying to me, ‘That girl has been lucky, but then
she had a veil on when she was born, so one need not wonder.’
The case is a simple one, I know, but a straw shows which way the wind
blows, and here was the belief still flourishing in the potency of
the caul. This happened about twenty years ago. One has no need to go
that far back; so recently as four years ago, a man, a native of Great
Ayton, said to me, pointing to a girl, ‘Ah’ve putten that lass’s muther
intiv a straange stew. Ah’ve stown’ (stolen) t’ lass’s mask, an’ her
muther’s ommaist to’n’d t’ hoos upsahd doon latin’ on ’t, bud Ah s’all
let her ’ev ’t back agaan; Ah wadn’t keep ’t foor nowt;’ and then he
added, ‘An’ Ah wadn’t wark neeabody onny ill wi’ ‘t.’ Here again you
have the old belief showing itself as strongly as in days past.
But to return to the baby. The baby’s nails must not be cut during
infancy; should they grow inconveniently long, they may be bitten
off by the mother, for if they were cut, the child would grow up
light-fingered, i.e. a thief. When the child has celebrated its first
birthday, they may be properly cut; but here again certain days must be
avoided—Fridays and Sundays are considered to be very unlucky. It is a
common saying—
Better t’ baan ’ed ne’er been born,
‘An cut its naals on a Sunday morn.
There is no virtue attached to the pieces of the nails when cut, but
the first pieces bitten off should be carefully preserved, until
there is a scrap from every nail on both hands; these must be wrapped
together and buried under an ash-tree, and the child, if not freed
from the diseases incident to the young, will only have them in a
slight degree.
The old rhyme says—
Cut ’em o’ Munday, cut ’em foor health;
Cut ’em o’ Tuesday, cut ’em foor wealth;
Cut ’em o’ Wednesday, cut ’em foor news;
Cut ’em o’ Thorsday, ya cut foor new shoes;
Cut ’em o’ Friday, ya cut ’em foor sorrow;
Cut ’em o’ Seterday, t’ bairn nivver need borrow;
Cut ’em o’ Sunday, ’t ’ed better be deead,
Foor ill-luck an’ evil ’ll lig on its heead.
Again:—
Sunday clipt, Sunday shorn,
Better t’ bairn ’ed nivver been born.
Before the baby is nine days old it is wise to decide upon its name,
and once having done this, _so let it be_. If either parent should
happen to say, ‘We will call it So-and-so,’ do not alter after having
so declared, for if so the child will grow up a liar, and probably
have to assume several aliases before death. But the worst of all is
to decide upon a name before the child is born, and then afterwards
change to some other. Singular to say, in Cleveland you are told that
such a proceeding ’can end i’ nowt bud harm’; but you are not informed
either precisely what form the harm will take, or why. There is a
legend lingering still in Wensleydale, to the effect that once a soul
was permitted to view the body it would shortly tenant. The mother
happened to say whilst the soul was near, ‘When my baby is born, if
a boy, we shall have him christened ——,’ mentioning the name they had
decided upon. The soul knew it would be a boy, and on its return to
spirit-land gave a full description of the body it was going to have
for its companion on earth, mentioning at the same time the name by
which it would be known. What then was its dismay to discover, on being
carried to the font, that it was being christened by some other name.
For a time it was sorely troubled. What must it do? What could it do?
In the end it felt there was only one way open: it must hurry back to
soul-land and clear itself from an apparent untruth, but in order to do
this it must free itself from the body; but if ever the soul and body
part company they never meet again. So the baby died, and the soul went
back to spirit-land.
The above was given to me years ago by an old Yorkshire dame, who
during her girlhood, if not a native, lived for many years in the
village of West Burton. In the dales of Cleveland and Wensleydale,
to guard her babe from the influence of evil spirits and bad wishes,
the mother used to place a Bible under the pillow of the sleeping
child, until such time as the infant had been christened, that being
considered sufficient protection against all evil spirits. And in the
days of witchcraft, in many houses where the first cradle would shortly
be tenanted, it was most carefully kept wrong side up until the child
was laid in it. This was done so that no other living thing in that
house should sleep in it before the coming owner. Otherwise the cradle
would be forestalled, and in after years the occupant might have reason
to doubt the fidelity of his wife, or vice versa.
In such fear was this forestalling of the cradle held, that one was
rarely purchased until absolutely needed. A cradle should always be
paid for before it crosses the threshold. It is said that the child
who sleeps in an unpaid-for cradle will end its days lacking the means
to pay for its own coffin, or, as others put it, be too poor to pay
for its lodgings on the earth or in it. Should the baby when grown
older say ‘Papa’ before he or she utters ‘Mamma,’ then be assured the
next little stranger will be a boy; however, should it say ‘Mamma’
first, then it will be a girl; and should it say ‘Papa’ and a girl is
born, then be quite sure that it said ‘Mamma’ some little time before,
when no one was near. This last bit is mine; I like to help even a
superstition out of a difficulty.
If baby’s first tooth appears in the upper jaw, it is not considered
a good sign; there is a fear of the child dying in infancy. Sometimes
they don’t.
Should the baby be born with a mole on its chin, success is strongly
foreshadowed; the same on the left thigh is considered quite the
reverse. One on the right temple gives wealth and high position, and
one placed at the outside corner of either eye denotes a sudden death.
Whilst
A dimple on the chin brings a fortune in,
A dimple on the cheek leaves the fortune for to seek.
No woman ever dreamt of crossing any threshold but her own until after
she had been churched, as in doing so she carried ill-luck into every
house she entered.
At the baptism, should a boy and a girl be presented at the same time,
the boy must always be christened first, as otherwise he will play
second fiddle to his wife, and when come to man’s estate be for ever
beardless and effeminate; and worse than this, the baby girl when
grown up will assuredly possess more hair on her face than is usually
considered needful, and more than beauty demands. She will also be
manly and masculine in her ways and habits.
When the new baby is taken round for inspection, the lady of the house,
after passing various eulogiums on and over the small being, pins to
its garments a small packet to help the future Lord Chancellor on his
way through life. This packet contains three things—an egg, a silver
coin, and a pinch of salt: the salt, so that it may never lack the
savour of life, whatever that may be; the egg assures it food, raiment,
and a roof over its head; and the coin starts it off with a banking
account. If these well-wishers were to add a fourth gift, in the form
of a small cane, sufficiently hypnotized so that the young mother
would be compelled to use it when needed, what a lot of really fine
bairns there would be. Unfortunately superstition has never been run on
practical lines.
_Death._
A lack of the needful may compel the parties concerned to wed without
the smallest attempt at rural ostentation, but not so in the case of a
funeral. Every sacrifice is made to honour the dead. They like it to be
said that their loved ones were decently buried. They themselves feel
proud to say, ‘Aye, he’s geean; wa’ve gitten him sahded by’ (buried),
‘an’ it war a beautiful funeral; Ah will say that.’
In these days one can scarcely conceive the needless waste of money,
and by those too who can ill afford it, which is so lavishly squandered
on funeral folly. It was even worse a few years ago.
Had it been possible for the moment to put on one side the solemn fact
that some dearly loved one was being borne to his or her last long
rest, funerals, as I remember them years ago in Ripon, were more like
circus processions than anything else. Happily many of the old notions
are being laid aside by the rising generation. Yet often to-day in
country places, as far as circumstances will admit, the old order of
things is most rigidly observed.
Two years ago I witnessed a country funeral, almost in all the pristine
glory of my youthful days. One thing it lacked, the hearse and horses
with their sombre nodding plumes. This, be it remembered, was the
funeral of a widow’s son, her finances at the time being in anything
but a flourishing condition. Two mutes stood guarding the open door. A
silk scarf about three yards long was given to each bearer and mourner
to fasten round his hat, and a pair of black kid gloves to every one
bidden. I cannot say how much port wine was drunk, what it cost per
bottle, or the weight of finger biscuits consumed, but as these were
freely handed to every one assembled inside and outside the house, who
could roll a pocket handkerchief into a ball, and assume a funereal
aspect of countenance, considerable expense must have been incurred
with these two items alone. After the return from the graveside, there
was the funeral feast. Those who have never seen what provision is
made for an affair of this kind can form but a very poor idea of the
actual amount of food provided for and consumed by those who follow
as mourners to the graveside. Refreshment is necessary for those who
have driven, it may be, a long distance to pay their last respect to
the departed one, but in the case of those who live near by, surely
it does not need a moment’s thought for them to decide upon the more
seemly course to pursue. The old days of the funeral arvel, when almost
the whole countryside were bidden, not only to the funeral, but to the
funeral feast, have passed away, or nearly so. Even to-day, in many of
our dales, the neighbours are still bidden. This bidding, and the very
name of it, are both of Scandinavian origin. The order of men carrying
men, and women women, is still observed. The same also with the sex of
the young; only, in the case of a young maiden, the girls who act as
bearers are dressed in white, and the carrying of a garland in front
of the coffin is not even yet extinct. At one time these garlands[25]
were after the funeral hung up in the church, and I believe in some of
our dale churches in Cleveland these emblems of purity are to be seen
hanging yet.
In the case of women who died in childbirth, a white sheet was thrown
over the coffin. The bearing of the coffin either by towels (staves
are things of the past now) or on the shoulders is equally common in
various parts of the riding.
Should the family of the departed one possess a hive, the announcement
of a death must at once be made to the bees, and the hive be draped in
black. The bees must also have given to them a portion of everything,
to the minutest detail, which is offered to the bidden guests,
including wine, spirits, tobacco, and pipes; nothing must be omitted,
for in some undefined way bees watch over the welfare of those to
whom they belong, and it would be unwise to offend them. It is held
that if the first swarm following a death, no matter how long the
interval, is easy to hive, success is guaranteed for the next business
transaction, but should the swarm settle on a dead bough, it foretells
death to another of the family in the near future; while should the
swarm fly away and be lost, then great care must be exercised in all
undertakings, until such times as a swarm has been successfully hived.
It is not so very long ago since every funeral at Guisborough[26] was
headed by the sexton singing a hymn from the house to the church gates,
but this singing by friends is common to-day.
The superstitions connected with the dying and the dead are many and
varied. Few country people doubt the existence of a power by which the
living can (as they put it) hold back the dying. It is not an uncommon
thing to hear some one say, ‘Sha wad ’a’e deed last neet, nobbut Mary
wadn’t let her gan,’ or ‘Mary wadn’t gi’e her up,’ or ‘Mary ho’ds on
tiv her seea.’ It is, as it were, the last link of the chain connecting
life with the earthly side of eternity, the snapping of which would
for ever free the soul, but which the dying person is unable to break,
because some one refuses to be reconciled; they cannot bear to part
with them, and in this way hold them back. Again, the soul cannot free
itself if the dying person has been laid on a bed containing pigeon
feathers, or the feathers of wild birds even. Instances are on record
of pigeon feathers having been placed in a small bag, and thrust under
dying persons to hold them back, until the arrival of some loved one;
but the meeting having taken place, the feathers were withdrawn, and
death allowed to enter.
On the other hand, when something unaccountable has seemed to prevent a
person _in extremis_ from passing into the other world, pigeon feathers
have often been suspected. Under such circumstances the invalid has
been lifted out of bed, and either laid upon another one, or seated in
a chair. And as a rule death speedily followed either treatment, the
patient passing away in an incredibly short space of time, which of
course clearly proved that such feathers had inadvertently been mixed
with those in the bed.
When the signs of death are observed the windows and door are thrown
wide open, and a silence as still as death itself is maintained, so
that nothing shall either hinder the dark angel from setting his seal
on their loved one, or impede the soul’s flight over the borderland
into that of the great unknown.
Much of what is done may be rooted in the rankest superstition, or
in many cases long-forgotten pagan rites, and one feels inclined to
smile; but, after a moment’s consideration, one is forcibly reminded
that it is equally deeply rooted in the old belief, which embraces
in its faith a devil, a fiery hell, Jonah, whale, and everything. As
things go nowadays, theorists are not leaving us much to believe or be
superstitious about.
The death-watch, with its ’tick-a-tick,’ has blanched the cheek of
many an otherwise brave Yorkshire man and woman. Tell them it is only
the head of a small beetle called _Atropos_ tapping against the wood
as it eats its way out, and they will jeer at you. They know, as their
fore-elders did before them, that it is the sign of death; if not for
some one in that house, assuredly so for some one in the village, and
by-and-by some one dies, and wise heads are shaken—they knew.
Every care is taken that nothing animate shall pass over the corpse. I
never heard of any domestic pet having been killed which so offended,
though such at one time would have been the case a little further north.
The belief still lingers that the passing bell possesses the power to
drive away all evil spirits, and so prevent them from troubling the
soul in its upward flight, for even to-day a sexton, on being asked to
‘put the bell in,’ is also often urged to do so as speedily as possible.
It is looked upon as a kindly action, when standing by the corpse of
some dear one, if the visitor gently touch the same. In some undefined
way, this solemn contact of the living with the dead, makes known to
the sorrowing ones that nothing but sympathy is felt. By this act all
past injuries or misunderstandings, if such existed, are blotted out,
forgiven, forgotten.
So soon as the vital spark has left its earthly house, the fire, if
such be burning in the room, is immediately extinguished[27], and it
is not an uncommon thing for the looking-glass to be either draped
entirely, turned with its face to the wall, or removed from the room.
The omens denoting the near approach of death are many—a white dove
fluttering near the window, the rapid flight of birds over the house,
and in some instances the actual appearance, to some dearly loved one,
of the wraith of the person about to die. Many instances of the latter
could be given.
I cannot say when or where the Lyke Wake dirge was sung for the last
time in the North Riding, but I remember once talking to an old chap
who remembered it being sung over the corpse of a distant relation
of his, a native of Kildale. This would be about 1800, and he told
me that Lyke Wakes were of rare occurrence then, and only heard of
in out-of-the-way places. Doubtless this was so, but a superstition
closely connected with the Lyke Wake is still with us. Old people will
tell you that after death the soul passes over Whinny Moor, a place
full of whins and brambles; and according as the soul when a tenant of
the body administered to the wants of others, so would its passage over
the dreaded moor be made easy. It seems, according to the old belief,
every one ought to give at least one pair of new shoes to some poor
person, and as often as means would allow, feed and clothe the needy.
Whether these rules were faithfully carried out or not, the soul on
approaching Whinny Moor would be met by an old man carrying a huge
bundle of boots; and if amongst these could be found a pair which the
bare-footed soul had given away during life, the old man gave them to
the soul to protect its feet whilst crossing the thorny moor.
THE LYKE WAKE DIRGE.
This yah neet, this yah neet,
Ivvery neet an’ awl (all),
Fire an’ fleet an’ cann’l leet,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
When thoo fra hither gans awaay,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
Ti Whinny Moor thoo cum’st at last,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
If ivver thoo gav’ owther hosen or shoon,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
Clap tha doon an’ put ’em on,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
Bud if hosen or shoon thoo nivver ga’ neean,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
T’ whinnies ’ll prick tha sair ti t’ beean,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
Fra Whinny Moor that thoo mayst pass,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
Ti t’ Brigg o’ Dreead thoo’ll cum at last,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
If ivver thoo gav’ o’ thi siller an’ gawd,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
At t’ Brigg o’ Dreead thoo’ll finnd footho’d,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
Bud if o’ siller an’ gawd thoo nivver ga’ neean,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
Thoo’ll doon, doon tumm’l tiwards Hell fleeams,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
Fra t’ Brigg o’ Dreead ’at thoo mayst pass,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
Ti t’ fleeams o’ Hell thoo’ll cum at last,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
If ivver thoo gav’ owther bite or sup,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
T’ fleeams ’ll nivver catch tha up,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
Bud if bite or sup thoo nivver ga’ neean,
Ivvery neet an’ awl,
T’ fleeams ’ll bo’n tha sair ti t’ beean,
An’ Christ tak up thi sowl.
Although there is a place called Whinny Moor, as used in the Lyke
Wake song it is mythical, simply representing a wearying hindersome
tract of land through which the soul must perforce pass, the ease or
difficulty of such passage being lesser or greater according to the
good deeds done and alms bestowed during life. There are other versions
of the song; the one here given is as it was dictated to me. How the
original from which it was taken was worded, I cannot say. There is
another version in the North Riding which seems to have been written
according to the tenets of Rome; at least I imagine so, as purgatory
takes the place of hellish flames, as given above. It may be mentioned
that the influence of the Reformation never reached many of the dales
in Cleveland and those further westward. Hence the more commonly known
version is in the phraseology of the predominant belief of that time.
Evidently the version given is one of a much later date, and must have
been sung by a Protestant.
As to the ‘Brigg o’ Dreead,’ I dare say but little; ‘Fools only rush
gaily in where angels fear to tread.’ However, I may venture this far;
just as Whinny Moor had to be passed, so the ‘Brigg o’ Dreead’ had to
be crossed. Upon one point all authorities agree. Wherever it was, or
whatever its form, the Brigg was the real crux. Whether we incline to
the theory that it was as narrow as a thread, shaky as an aspen leaf,
or slippery as a glacier side, it had to be crossed. This accomplished,
the soul was fairly safe. But did it slip or stumble whilst crossing,
then the length of time occupied in its fearful descent, the depth
to which it fell, together with all the concomitant evils belonging
thereto, depended solely upon the amount of good and evil with which it
had been accredited during its earthly pilgrimage.
CHAPTER VIII
OMENS, CHARMS, RECIPES
Quite a volume might be written on the above; their number and variety
is legion. Therefore in brief only will it be possible to treat many of
our omens, &c. To some few of the more striking a few details will be
given.
Many of the omens, charms, &c., quoted are in no sense peculiar either
to our riding or county. They are with us, they are duly observed, and
the belief in them is not wholly dead yet.
To break a looking-glass foreshadows an early death, or great evil in
the near future, and for any one (if they have not previously seen or
spoken to the person that day) to look over his or her shoulder, so
that their reflection is seen in the glass, foretells an untimely death
to one or both. Should a hen crow, the reward for its exhibiting such
marvellous vocal powers would be immediate death. The old song says
(date, the early seventies)—
Than awn a crawing hen,
Ah seeaner wad t’ au’d divil meet,
Hickity O, pickity O, pompolorum jig,
Or breed a whistling lass,
Ah seeaner wad t’ au’d divil treeat,
Hickity O, pickity O, pompolorum jig.
Nowt bud ill-luck ’ll fester wheear
Ther craws an’ whistles sike a pair;
Maay hens an’ wimin breed neea mair,
Pompolorum jig.
A dog howling under your window three nights in succession portends
evil or death in the near future. A picture falling, if the glass be
broken, speaks clearly of a death in the family at no very distant
date; the glass being intact, implies that misfortune of some kind is
hanging overhead, but possibly everything may come right in the end.
A strange cat coming to your house, if black, should never be driven
away; if you do so, you simply drive luck from your door.
If you are unmarried, be very careful to keep in mind the fact that,
having attended three funerals, you must at least be present during
part of a wedding service before standing at the graveside of a fourth,
or you will die single, unless you are exceedingly rash, and get
married in spite of everything.
If you accidentally break anything, it is a good plan to let two other
articles of little or no value slip from your hand. This will save you
from breaking two other things of value, because you are bound to smash
three, and it is really an advantage to be allowed to choose two of
them yourself.
Yes, things go by threes. If one death takes place in a street, it
won’t be long ere the bell tolls for two others—so say they.
If the youngest daughter in a family is married first, the eldest
had better unravel one of her garters, knitting the same, mixed with
other wool, into something a man can wear. This she must present to
the one she has a special regard for, and it most likely will incline
his heart towards her. Garters, by-the-way, are rather out of it
now; they once were articles in great request, to work charms and
spells with, but that was in the days when either a long band with a
buckle, or a knitted affair about an inch wide and a yard long, was
universally worn. In these days of patent things and other inventions,
some of which do not encircle the leg at all, the girls are debarred
from resorting to many of the old-time spells. In days past, so long
as a fellow wore one of his lady love’s garters round his neck, he
was bound to be true to her and she to him. Did a fellow try the same
thing now, he would strangle himself. The old-time garters, by-the-way,
had other uses; the Bible, a key, and a garter often playing the part
of a private detective, or infallibly making known to some doubting
maiden the name of the man she would marry. The _modus operandi_ was as
follows:—In the case of an undetected thief, a key was placed within
the Bible; this was bound securely within by winding a garter round it,
the whole being suspended from a nail. The name of the supposed thief
was now mentioned three times—in some districts seven—and if the key
turned round, the thief was discovered.
Very similar were the rites used for the discovery of a future husband.
In this case, however, the maiden wishing to know her fate, had to use
one of her own garters, and it was also needful that the Bible should
be opened at Ruth i. 16, 17. Some part of the key resting on the verses
named, the Bible was then closed, and the key as before bound fast with
the garter. The questioner and some other person now seated themselves
opposite each other, each placing an elbow on a table and resting the
open part of the key on their index fingers. All being thus arranged,
the names of several of their male acquaintances were mentioned, the
key turning on the name of the future husband being uttered. Not long
ago the writer helped a maiden through the ceremony. The above, and the
two following, are still commonly resorted to.
There is no difficulty in obtaining information touching the time you
will be married. Simply let an anxious maiden take a looking-glass,
and an apron which she has never worn or held between herself and the
light, into the garden when the moon is at full; she must be careful
not to look upon the queen of night until the rites are concluded.
Keeping her back, then, to the moon, let her stand upon something she
has never stood upon before—a newspaper, an old box, anything—and
drawing the apron over the glass, hold it so that the moon shines upon
it; let her now count the number of moons she sees reflected through
the apron, and so many years will it be before the happy day arrives.
I may mention, if such a one is in any violent hurry to get married,
it is best to choose the apron of some light material, and to draw it
tightly over the glass; careful attention to these small details has a
marvellous tendency to lessen the number of moons.
Throughout Cleveland the maidens have recourse to the following method
of divination for the discovery whether they are to be married or die
old maids. From a stream running southward a maiden fills a clean
glass with water, and having borrowed an old wedding ring, or one
worn by a widow—the ring must grace maternity—she suspends it over
the glass of water hanging by a single hair drawn from her own head,
her elbow resting on the table and the hair being laid over the ball
of the thumb. Should the ring hit the side of the glass, her fate is
sealed—she will die an old maid; if, however, it spins round quickly,
she will have to wait a year; if slowly, she will be wedded more than
once.
It is commonly held that if you can find a four-leaved clover, and
then walk backward upstairs to bed, sleeping with the leaf under your
pillow, you will dream of the man you will marry.
It is considered most unlucky to see the new moon for the first time
through glass. To break the spell cast upon you by such an unfortunate
occurrence, make the sign of the cross on the doorstep, and jump
backwards over it into the house.
Should a hairy worm cross your path, pick it up, throw it over your
shoulder, and wish.
If you tread on an ordinary road beetle, rain will presently fall.
Whenever you hear a cuckoo, turn the money over in your pocket for luck.
To see a single magpie is very unlucky; two together is the reverse.
To see a single owl is also unlucky; but to hear one hoot, and then
see it, foretells that you will have timely warning of some impending
evil.
Wet your finger and cross your left shoe and wish every time you see a
piebald horse.
Should two persons utter the same words at the same time, they must
link their little fingers together and wish, keeping their wish secret.
The deciduous teeth of a male child, which have not touched the ground,
if kept about the person are a specific against all manner of evil.
To ensure the child having a good and sound set of teeth, those which
fall out of themselves, or which the child itself pulls out, should be
dipped in salt and thrown into the fire.
A tooth found in a churchyard is believed to charm away the toothache
if rubbed on the cheek.
And lastly, children’s teeth must either be carefully preserved or
utterly destroyed by fire with salt, as should one accidentally be
swept away and fall into the ground, or be buried by some evil-minded
person, the child will not live long, the first rites of ashes to ashes
having been consummated.
No luck will follow a declaration of love if made on St. Dunstan’s Day.
To be wed on St. Thomas’s Day makes a bride a widow ere long.
A young woman, a native of Great Ayton, assured me the following was
a certain charm for obtaining a sight of one’s future spouse. The
individual desirous of obtaining such a vision must make a cake of
the following ingredients:—flour, a small pinch of graveyard mould
taken from nine different graves, sufficient water from nine distinct
sources, a pinch of salt, and a drop or two of blood from her third
finger. The resulting dough had to be baked at midnight on the eve
before that of St. Agnes, and whilst warm placed under the pillow; if
found whole in the morning, well and good; if not, the charm could not
be carried to its conclusion until the following year. The cake, if
whole, had to be carried on the eve of St. Agnes and laid where four
cross roads meet. All being accomplished, just before midnight the
future husband or wife would come along, halt, look at the cake, and
then vanish. Although the night might be pitch-dark, the apparition, it
seems, would be quite visible. Immediately the spirit form vanished,
the watcher must regain possession of the cake at once, or the water
elves would seize it and work all manner of evil. These water elves
keep cropping up, but little of their doings and nothing of their
appearance seems to be known amongst our people. It is a bit of lost
myth.
During harvest time you may easily discover how long you are destined
to wait before being led to the altar. When the moon is at full, pluck
three ripe ears of barley, which must be carefully wrapped up together
with something belonging to him you love best. The parcel must be laid
under your pillow, and on arising in the morning, open it, and if all
the grains have remained _in situ_, then you will be wed that year; but
if any have broken away, count how many—they tell how many years you
will remain single.
If a young fellow is in love, and the girl’s heart does not incline
towards him, there is a charm which will cast a spell about her from
which she cannot escape. There is a difficulty, and rather a grave one,
but love surmounts all things, so they say. He must cut off a willow
knot and chew it. So far, it is quite a simple affair; given time, a
love-lorn swain might manage to masticate the whole tree. But now comes
the difficulty—having chewed the said knot, he must secrete the same in
the bed of the girl he loves. Once she falls asleep with that chewed
knot as her companion, she will be bound to yield to his importunities.
Should, however, the knot be so placed that it causes the fair sleeper
such inconvenience that she is compelled to find the cause, and having
done so, throws it away, that young man may consider his case as
hopeless.
If you can, within three days after becoming engaged, seize a snail
by its horns and throw it over your left shoulder, you will to a very
considerable extent reduce the roughness of the road which true love is
said to journey along.
And remember it is unlucky to say good-night three times to the girl
you love, without returning to the house and starting the whole thing
over again, but one doesn’t mind that. When parting with friends for
any length of time, never say goodbye without adding that you hope to
see them again, and never watch the parting ones out of sight—it is
most unlucky.
The various nostrums administered, and the methods employed in days
past for the cure of all the diseases man is heir to, one cannot help
but think, if carefully observed, would usually have terminated in a
funeral feast. The rank filth our forefathers had prepared for them,
and doubtless were induced to swallow, has left behind the unsolvable
mystery of accounting for the fact that specimens of the Anglo-Saxon
race are still extant. Putting on one side for the moment the wretched
stuff they had to swallow, let us turn to a few things usually employed
to effect a cure.
If any one was seized with a colic, and colic water was not handy, all
that was necessary was for some one to slip out and catch either a carp
or a pike, slit the fish open whilst alive, and clap it on the stomach
of the sufferer—and lo! a cure. This sounds all very nice, but it has
often taken me three days to catch a pike, and carp, by-the-way, are
not very widely distributed; and as colic water required for the making
thereof nearly every flower which blooms in our woods and gardens, and
of two or three others which never do so in ’perfidious Albion’—and
when actually all things had been obtained, it could not be properly
prepared under nine months—possibly there may have been some other
remedy I have not heard of, and which could be applied during the time
the pike was being captured, otherwise the patient would often have a
lengthy squirm of it.
For pains in the joints, a toad tied belly downwards over the affected
part would enable the patient to walk as well as ever. Now this is
something sensible; just you find a poor body suffering from pains
in the joints, and then produce a toad, and you will work a miracle.
Long before you can tie it belly downwards anywhere, the patient, if
a female, will be beating her best running record; if a male, his
joints will be right in an instant, and you will have to take the toad
outside, minus dignity.
An old lady tells me she has known a drink made from the following
ingredients do a power of good in case of fever:—a handful of
dandelion, agrimony, verjuice, rue, powdered crab’s eyes and claws, and
yarrow from off a grave. These had to be boiled for some hours, and
taken when the moon was on the wane. Doubtless there was another recipe
equally efficacious for those who unfortunately were struck down with
fever when the moon was on the rise.
The tongue of a still-born calf, if dried and worn so that it touched
the spine, would prevent fits of almost any kind.
Wart-charmers are not defunct yet. I know several who, after
pronouncing an inaudible incantation, rub the wart with a special
stone, and then you are assured the wart or warts will die. Frog spit
rubbed on a wart is said to be a certain cure. If you rub your wart
with a black snail, sticking the snail on a thorn where you will never
see it again, the wart, as the snail dies, will disappear. If you
yearn to afflict any one with warts, let them wash in water in which
eggs have been boiled. This belief is quite common to-day. A plate of
salt, upon which a dead man’s hand has rested overnight, used to be
considered good for chilblains.
Master Sadler of Bedale, in the year 1773, undertook the cure of ague
in quite a simple way. After the patient had answered a few searching
questions touching his past private life—which information doubtless
he would much rather have kept to himself—his name was chalked at the
back of the hob, an incantation pronounced, and he went home whole. I
am inclined to the belief that many in these days would have to take
the ague back with them. The ague is bad enough, but for a fellow to
systematically trot out one’s past doings would be infinitely worse.
That was a hundred years ago; but only the other day I was told that if
a field-mouse was skinned and made into a small pie and eaten, and the
warm skin bound hair-side against the throat, and kept there for nine
days, the worst whooping cough ’’at ivver was’ would be cured.
Speaking of whooping cough, I remember a lady at Guisborough, only a
few years ago, taking both her boys to the gasworks for them to inhale
the fumes from the gas-tank. It nearly poisoned the whole three, but
the cough survived it nicely. However, that and the field-mouse were
infinitely preferable to the recipe I had from an old dame, who assured
me ’no cough o’ no kind whatsoever could stan’ agaan it.’ It was this:
equal quantities of hare’s dung and owl’s pellets—the latter are the
disgorged remains of feathers, bones, &c., which the owl objects
to digest. Well, having carefully mixed these two ingredients with
dill-water, clay, and the blood of a white duck, the resulting filth
had to be made into pills the size of a nut, three of which had to
be taken fasting on going to bed. This was to be continued until the
cough was cured or the patient buried. A much simpler method is to
catch a frog, open its mouth and cough into it three times, throw the
poor brute over your left shoulder, and the patient will be cured
at once. If not, depend upon it there is some very good reason why
the charm has failed. One woman I knew, used to take her little girl
and hold her over an old well when a bad fit of coughing seized the
child. She declared, if at the time either a frog or a toad happened
to be at the bottom of the well with its mouth open, the child would
be cured instantly. I offered to catch her a frog and open its mouth
for the child to cough into; this she objected to, because, as she
said, the frog might spit at it and injure it for life. This belief
in the poisonous and spitting power of frogs is still retained by the
good people of Great Ayton, and also of many other places. I remember
an old angler once saying to me, ‘Ya see, the Lord gav’ t’ fishes
understan’ing; tha knaw ’at frogs is venomous, an’ tha’re a gran’ bait
foor pike, bud neea pike’ll tak ho’d if ya deean’t run t’ heuk thruff
baith ther lips, seea ez tha can’t spit at ’em.’ ‘But,’ said I, ‘how do
the pike catch them when they are swimming in a natural state?’ ‘Easy
eneeaf,’ answered he; ‘tha tak hodden ’em fra behint, an’ tha can’t
spit backkards waay ower ther heeads, ya knaw.’
Still another plan may be tried to ease the little sufferers. If they
be passed nine times under the belly and over the back of either a
piebald pony or an ass (the latter preferred), the cough will be
immediately charmed away, whilst a touch on the larynx from the hand
of a seventh son of a seventh son is held to be a certain cure. And a
hairy caterpillar or small wood-lizard tied round the child’s neck,
having been stitched in a small bag, was, and I believe is yet, looked
upon as a sovereign remedy.
Snail soup is drunk even to-day for the cure of consumption. And the
skin of an eel (if skinned when alive), placed in a silken bag and worn
so as to rest on the chest, is believed to cut phlegm when nothing else
will.
To cure the ‘water-springs,’ an old name for acidity or heartburn, old
people tell me the following is an infallible cure if taken in time—a
very wise proviso—burnt oyster, cockle, and mussel shells ground to
powder, equal parts, and mixed in worm-water. This latter was prepared
by gathering a handful of worms from the churchyard and boiling them.
The burnt shells might do good; ordinary water and chalk would have
been equally efficacious, had they but known it.
But nearly every disease or complaint had its cure in days past, and,
in a more or less degree, all were nasty.
For the moment let us return to wart-charmers. There is room here for
both speculation and research. They did cure warts, of that there is
not the least shadow of a doubt. The amount of evidence on record is
such that contradiction and disbelief amounts to crass folly, and
shows an ignorance of well-authenticated facts. A man I know, whose
hand was covered with warts—warts which simply jeered at caustic and
all such applications—at last went to the charmer. What did the man
do? He simply asked the old chap if he believed he could remove them.
Having answered in the affirmative, the charmer just rubbed his hand
over the whole lot, muttered some words, and told the warty one to go
home—in a fortnight’s time he was wartless. Hundreds of cases could
be given. Absolute faith that they would disappear, may have exercised
some mental action over the physical, and the trick was done. In this
way, if we admit some hypnotic power which they unconsciously used, we
may account for many of the wonders which these charmers and wise men
worked in days past, often bringing about results at which possibly no
one was more surprised than the wise men themselves; but they, like
many of to-day, had the sense to hold their peace, and that has often
dressed many a conjuring trick with all trappings of philosophy.
It is held to-day, when any one is bitten by a dog, that the only
certain remedy against hydrophobia is to have the brute killed at once.
For, say they, should the dog in years to come go mad, all those bitten
by it will go mad at the same time.
The wearing of silver rings made from a single coin presented at Holy
Communion, was once held as a sovereign remedy and preventive against
epileptic fits.
The cures for children and others afflicted with worms are many and
curious. A few of the more striking will be noticed. A bunch of fine
yarrow, gathered from off a maiden’s grave, had to be boiled in water,
and a wineglassful of the liquor, with the addition of as much finely
powdered glass as would lie on a groat, had to be taken fasting for
six alternate mornings, bearing in mind that each morning the patient
was not fattening himself on corpse yarrow and broken window-panes; he
had also to swallow a stiff glass of salts and senna, which not only
made every kind of worm quit its hold of his inside, but left him in a
condition almost, if not quite, ready for the worms to commence their
attack from the outside. Worms, however, are seized with such a sudden
fear when a live trout is brought near them, that they die right off.
Hence it is not an uncommon thing for a father to procure a live trout,
and lay the same on the stomach of a wormy one. And then, what with the
fish kicking and the bairn screaming, the poor worms have no chance,
and they know it, and throw up the sponge accordingly.
In days past cramp seems to have awakened people three or four times
a week. But sleeping with your stockings on, with a piece of sulphur
in each, or the skin of a mole bound round the left thigh, or even
crossing your shoes on retiring to rest, would drive the cramp away.
Cramp, it would seem, was formerly looked upon as having a very close
connexion with the devil, and was often the result of an evil wish,
spell, or witch-work. In cases when it arose from any of the latter,
something more potent than sulphur and the crossing of shoes had to
be resorted to. A silken thread which had been passed round a coffin,
care having been taken to thread the silk through the handles, would,
if worn round the leg, just below the knee-joint, securely guard the
wearer against wicked spells of that nature.
The skin of an eel, if tied round the leg, prevents cramp whilst
bathing.
Rings fashioned from any metal accidentally turned up whilst digging a
grave, were until quite recently in great repute, especial virtue being
attached to one made from a coffin handle. Such rings acted as a charm
against almost every kind of evil spell.
Years ago it was commonly believed that there was some kind of sympathy
existing between the cause and the injury itself. An illustration of
this has been given in the case of a dog-bite, but it had a much wider
application; e.g. should any one be injured by a nail, or anything
else, the nail, &c., was carefully cleaned, polished, wrapped up, and
put away each time after dressing the wound.
I remember a case in point within the last ten years. A plough lad was
hurt by the colter, the cutting iron of the plough; the ploughing was
stopped, the colter removed, and sent to the blacksmith, with orders to
remove all dirt and rust, and to polish all parts to which blood was
adhering; and during the recovery, each time the wound was dressed, the
colter was cleaned and polished with equal care.
Flint arrow-heads were for ages looked upon as elf-stones, and
are to-day worn as charms against unseen evils. They also possess
healing power in certain diseases. So, too, do the belemnites—a
fossilized portion of an extinct cuttle-fish. These, in the hand of a
skilled person, work wonders in the case of sore eyes and ringworm.
Unfortunately, though belemnites are common enough, the skilled hands
are rare, and so their virtue in thousands of instances lies dormant.
These belemnites are supposed to fall from the clouds during a
thunderstorm; the same is said of rounded pieces of quartz or flints,
one and all being called thunder-bolts, or ’thunner-steeans.’
When a boy, I was an ardent archaeologist. I remember on one occasion
having been told that chipped flints were to be found in a field
near Blois Hall[28]. Hurrying thither the first whole holiday, I was
fortunate enough on that occasion to find a flint arrow-head—the only
one I ever did find. This I showed to an old fellow who was hedging;
without hesitation he pronounced it to be an elf-stone, declaring that
the elves were evil spirits, who in days past used to throw them at the
kie—I had up to that time always been told they were shot at cattle—but
my informant stuck to throwing. I well remember that he also said the
elves got them out of whirlpools, where they were originally made by
the water spirits, but he could not say what the water spirits used
them for, though he knew of several instances in which both cattle
and horses had been injured by the elves throwing their elf-stones at
them. He further informed me that when the elves got them from the
whirlpools, they had much longer shanks than was on the one I had
found: this was so that better aim might be taken with them. ‘But,’
said he, ‘tha’re nivver fund wi’ lang shanks on, acoz t’ fairies awlus
brak ’em off, seea ez t’ elves wadn’t be yabble ti potch ’em at t’
beasts neea mair;’ and he had been told that fairies often wore them
as ornaments. Sore eyes could be cured by the touch from an elf-stone,
if a fairy had ever worn it, and they were also a potent love-charm if
worn so that they rested near the heart.
Speaking of fairies, I know an old lady who still fully believes in
their existence. She assures me they have most beautiful houses at a
great depth below the surface. It seems no one ever finds them, because
the little folk possess the magical power of transporting them to a
distance in an instant, should there be the least likelihood of their
being disturbed; owing to this, ‘Nobody nivver cums across ’em when
well-sinking, mining, or owt o’ that soart.’
The old body told me the following story:—
In the days when tailors went out to work, she remembered one who came
to work for her aunt being lost for a long time in a big field, and
unable to find his way out, and all because he had said, ‘If ever he
saw a fairy he would catch her, and take her home, and put her in a
bottle and keep her there.’ So it happened, when he left the house to
go home, and just when he entered the long pasture, he dropped his
scissors, and for long he could not find them, and when he did place
his hand on them, his sleeve-board was snatched from him. He heard it
drop quite close to him, but when he stooped to pick it up, a pork pie
which the farmer’s wife had given him mysteriously disappeared; how,
he did not know. However, a little way off, he saw a most beautiful
damsel carrying a light; he implored her to come to his aid, and as the
damsel and the light would not come to him, like Mahomet he went after
them. This proved a most bootless errand, for the damsel and light led
him on and on, hither and thither, now shining quite close at hand,
then disappearing, and at last vanishing altogether, leaving the tailor
utterly lost; and for long the poor fellow wandered about, until his
cries for help were fortunately heard, ‘bud nut afoor he’d bed aboon
tweea hours on ’t.’
That he had been under a fairy charm, and that she (the fairy) had been
making sport of him, was evident to all. Never again did that man say
he would bottle a fairy—at least, I imagine so. When a sleeve-board, a
pair of scissors, and a pork pie are snatched from you, and you see a
beautiful damsel carrying a light of some kind, which she snuffs out
every time she is going to be caught, only to light up again some yards
ahead, and then finally disappear altogether—well! even a tailor can
draw his own conclusions after a game of that kind.
The other day I met an old lady in the train—a Mrs. Peary, of Sand
Hill Farm, near Picton. Although the old lady told me she was turned
seventy-three, she was as active as a woman of forty, and boasted she
could do the work of two lasses yet. I soon discovered she possessed
a fund of both witch and other lore. Next day I paid a visit to Sand
Hill, and had a couple of hours’ chat, or rather, I asked a few leading
questions, and then made notes as quickly as I could.
For many years she lived in Bilsdale, her native place. Now, the dale
in question is only a few miles distant from the borders of Cleveland,
and yet she had never heard of many of the customs so common to that
division of the North Riding. ‘Mell suppers,’ she told me, were kept
up in Bilsdale in all their pristine glory so lately as twenty years
ago—guisers, mell doll, and everything. She did not know the word
‘spurrings,’ meaning putting the banns in. The common expression in
her part was, and still is, ‘So-and-so ’ev tumm’l’d ower t’ bauk an’
brokken ther legs.’ I fail to see the application.
Again, though it was the custom for the bridesmaids to undress the
bride, and see her comfortably into bed, she never remembered a case
of stocking throwing, though she had heard of it, or of any attempt to
keep the bridegroom amongst the revellers all night. Running for the
bride’s garter was common in her mother’s time, but mostly a ribbon in
her own. She had never heard of the custom of letting a child go up
before it went down, or that it was unlucky to mention what name the
child should be christened before its birth.
I mention these facts because it bears out a previous statement, that
it is inadvisable to draw conclusions as to the non-existence of
customs or superstitions on evidence of a purely local character.
Although much of what the old lady told me was general throughout the
riding, the following was new to me.
For whooping cough I was assured that nothing was better than to walk
along a road until you found nine frogs; these had to be carried home
and made into soup. The patient on no account must see the frogs, or be
told of what the soup was composed—a most wise precaution—but on his or
her finishing the whole nine, soup and all, they would be found to be
quite recovered. It’s marvellous!
Those who suffered from a weak bladder had a remedy at hand: they
simply had to stand astride at the head of an open grave, after the
coffin had been lowered, but before being filled in, and then walk
backwards to the foot of the same. It seems simple enough, but when you
come to look at it, nine people out of ten, in endeavouring to perform
the feat, would assuredly have surprised the onlookers by turning a
somersault and landing flat on their backs upon the coffin below.
Again, count your warts, then unknown to any one take a small pebble
from as many different graves, put the lot in a small bag, throw it
over your left shoulder, and the warts will all disappear in a few
days. My old friend would not commence or conclude any business on a
Friday, and to break a clock-face was equally as unlucky as breaking a
looking-glass. Neither did she ever allow a candle to die out; to do
such a thing was, to her way of thinking, equal to passing sentence of
death on some one of the household. The cutting of the pepper-cake by
the doctor, on the birth of each grandchild, is still rigidly adhered
to by the old lady. Being farmers, one ceremony they still observed,
which was quite new to me. On the birth of a calf it was always carried
rear first to the stall in which it was to lie, a little salt and
water was given it to drink, and no one ever allowed to stride over
it, as that would mean death or ill-luck to it; but generally ’an
ower-stridden cauf deed,’ said she[29].
It is a bad sign, when starting on a journey, should the first person
you meet be a woman. In such fear was this held until quite recently,
that the fishermen near Staithes would not have gone to sea that day;
neither was it a good omen for a four-footed animal to cross their path
when going to their boat, or at any time.
If whilst a fisherman was baiting his nets any one mentioned anything
in connexion with a pig, or Dakky, as it was called, the worst of luck
would be looked for, and in many cases the fisherman would have ceased
to bait his lines for a time.
Again, no fisherwife would dream of winding wool by candle-light—to
do such a wicked thing would be tantamount to winding the husband
overboard.
Some years ago a young fisherman paid a visit to some relations inland;
during his stay he fell in love with a maiden whom in time he took
home as his bride. She, new to their ways and beliefs, simply laughed
at their superstitions. It happened one night, when her husband was
away on a voyage, that a fisherwife looked in for a bit of friendly
gossip, and discovered the young wife by candle-light about to wind
some wool. She implored her not to do so, telling her of the dreadful
and sure result of such wicked folly; others, too, who had also dropped
in, joined in declaring what a fearful and certain risk she ran, but
it was all of no avail. With a laugh at such nonsense the winder laid
the wool over a chair-back, daring them to wait and watch her wind
it; but not a woman would stay in the house—they dare not. They fled,
and the wool was wound. Three times did the ball slip from her hand.
When the good wives heard of it, they shook their heads—it was a bad
omen, so said they. When the husband returned hearty and well from his
voyage, the young wife laughed at them more than ever, but they shook
their heads. The ball had slipped from her hand thrice; he might go and
return again, it was the third journey they feared. When he was told
what his wife had done, his face blanched—if she had no fear, he had.
He had been taught the belief all his life, she only, in a way, for
five minutes. One more voyage would he make, and then the sea should
know him no more; he would not, dare not chance a third voyage. Again
he returned safely to his wife, but, as he had said, that was his last
voyage. The two set up a little shop, and for three or four years all
went well. Then there came a great storm. Volunteers were needed for
the lifeboat—few able-bodied men were in the village at the time. For
the moment everything was forgotten; Jack jumped in, and off they went,
the women helping to launch the brave crew. The wrecked ones were
saved, but in getting the last half-drowned wretch into the boat, Jack
overbalanced and fell into the foaming sea; nothing could save him, and
his body was found lying peacefully on the beach next morning. And then
they remembered. Aye, and so should we, had we been taught the same
belief when round our mother’s knee. The neighbours were kind—they were
more than that, they gave to the sorrowing one all their sympathy—but,
in spite of their kindness, the widow felt that they held her guilty of
her husband’s death. So the little shop was closed, and she went forth
from amongst them, and the village knew her no more.
There is a superstition in Cleveland that you must not eat a ’cock’s
egg,’ i.e. a small egg, the last one a hen lays before sitting. When
such are found, the contents are blown from the shell and burnt—the
merest speck of the contents even adhering to the clothes has a baneful
influence. The devil is said to superintend the laying of this last egg.
It is considered advisable that a new broom should sweep something into
the house before it is used in the contrary direction, otherwise you
sweep good luck away from your threshold.
I am told years ago it was considered ’a ventersome thing ti deea’
for any one to speak disparagingly of their broom; the reason given
being that no one was ever certain as to whether or no it had been
witch-ridden. For should it have happened that a passing witch had one
night borrowed their broom for a ride, it became witch-ridden, and was
ever afterwards jealously watched over by the witch, and any indignity
offered to her steed was sure to be resented.
It is looked upon as a most unwise thing for any one to give salt out
of the house. In days past it was supposed to give witches power over
the giver. Cases could be mentioned in which the work of the wise man
was totally frustrated by such a proceeding.
It is most unlucky to give any one either a knife or any sharp
instrument: such folly severs love, and breeds suspicion in the breasts
of those who hitherto have held you in sincere regard. You may buy
such a present by giving something in return for it, and such payment
may be of the most trivial kind—a pin, a bit of paper, or anything.
When you discover your shoe-lace is loose, walk nine paces before tying
it, otherwise you will tie ill-luck to you for that day.
Should a mouse run across the room, throw something at it, or, anyway,
in the direction in which it ran. It may happen to have escaped from a
witch’s cat, and you will please either the cat or the witch, or both,
by making some kind of pretence to stop it.
It is lucky, and acts as a charm, if you spit on, or place in your
mouth, the first money you receive each day. This is common to-day, but
I doubt if those who do so know its origin.
Years ago witches were supposed to watch over or, as my informant put
it, ‘eye-spell’ the first money paid, and often used to spirit it away.
This they were unable to do after it had been placed in the mouth. It
has now degenerated into what is vulgarly called ’spitting on ’t fer
luck.’ It is quite commonly done in our markets to-day.
A weasel crossing your path is most unlucky: it speaks of treachery.
This evil omen may be counteracted by the performance of a very mean
trick: drop a coin on the road where you saw the weasel cross, and the
evil which was yours by right, will cling to those who are unlucky
enough to find it. If there is a tramp behind you, when you see a coin
lying, leave it for him; he won’t mind about the ill-luck.
Always pass an old shoe so as to have it on your right hand; and don’t
move it, lest you should help some unknown person on in the world,
which would only be done to the detriment of yourself, for just as much
as you advanced them, to that extent you would be the loser. An old hat
you may kick about as much as you have a mind, always being careful to
see some one has not placed a big stone underneath it—in that case it
is always unlucky to kick a hat.
When a child was born, and it proved either unhealthy or deformed, it
was generally supposed some evil-disposed person must have pricked its
name with pins on a pincushion. When such a discovery was made by an
expectant wife, nothing was said to the person working the evil, but
the cushion was stolen, the pins withdrawn one by one, and stuck into
the heart of a calf. This had to be buried in the churchyard, care
being taken to bury it sufficiently deep, so that the dogs would not
scratch it up. All this had to be done before the child was born, and
by the mother. Such a discovery was made, and a heart stuck with pins
and buried, within the last twenty years.
Sores or other evil diseases caused by witchcraft could be speedily
cured if attended to when the moon was on the wane. I do not know in
what form the application was used, but here are the ingredients as
given to me by an old fellow who, though he had never used it, had
heard ’’at nowt cud cum up tiv it.’
Tak’ tweea ’at’s red an’ yan ’at’s blake (yellow)
O’ poison berries three,
Three fresh-cull’d blooms o’ Devil’s glut,
An’ a sprig o’ rosemary;
Tak’ henbane, bullace, bumm’lkite,
An’ t’ fluff frev a deead bulrush;
Nahn berries shak’ fra t’ rowan-tree,
An’ nahn fra botterey bush.
To this day there are fisher lasses who wear their chemises wrong
side out when their sailor lads are away at sea, and stormy weather
threatens.
A friend of mine within the last five years heard a fisher lass say to
a group of her friends, ‘Ah deeant leyke t’ leeak o’ yon cloods, an’ t’
winds gittin up; let’s gan yam an’ to’n wer sarks,’ and every one of
those who had a loved one on the water promptly did so.
Again, does a maiden fear that her lover is growing cold, she turns
her chemise, so as to win back his cooling affections. This, like most
other old beliefs, is dying out now. It is rather an undertaking, as
fashion goes, for a lass to undress and dress again nowadays.
... Her Jack war on t’ sea,
An’ t’ tuckkins marked her swelling breast,
Fer her sark war to’n’d aboot.
* * * * *
CHAPTER IX
WITCHCRAFT
Witch-lore runs so very much in the same groove, that one fairly good
example throws light on many points of interest. It was either the evil
eye, or the working of some spell, injury to cattle, or surreptitiously
riding horses during the midnight hour, an amusement which it would
seem witches were very prone to indulge in. Then followed a visit to
the wise man, during which he did something, usually winding up on his
part with an incantation, or the working of some anti-witch spell by
the injured ones on their own account at home.
These charms for destroying the power of witches were numerous; in
fact a careless inquirer would be led to the conclusion that every
dale of any size possessed its own peculiar charm, but after a little
careful research and comparison, such an opinion will be found to be
untenable. The difference exists only in detail, nearly all springing
from one or two common roots. When and how it came about these varied
alterations crept in, is somewhat of a mystery, because one would
naturally suppose, where such a vital point was at issue, every word
and detail as to manipulation would be most carefully handed down. The
only solution I can offer—and I do so in all humility—is that these
charms had their birth in remote ages. Afterwards local circumstances
may have placed almost insuperable difficulties in the way of certain
details being carried out; others would then be substituted as nearly
approaching to the original as possible, probably by order of the
priest or wise man. Add to this the fact that a fable told through
long ages in different districts always unconsciously takes a local
colouring, and you have a partial solution. Still, if the details
differ, they do not run on widely diverging lines; in general they
manage to keep fairly parallel, the main essentials being always kept
well in sight. Whether animate or inanimate, the _thing_ had to be
injured, and then something burnt; midnight was always the time chosen
for the final part of the ceremony, seclusion, as far as possible, and
absolute silence being necessary. Many of these rites and ceremonies,
especially in connexion with witchcraft, consisting as they do of
blood, death, and burning by fire, seem to be all that is left us of
what may have been in remote ages a propitiatory sacrifice to some
pagan god.
Chatting with an old mother one day, she remarked, ‘Aye, things is
altered noo. T’ young uns to’n up ther neeases’ (noses) ’at ommaist
ivvery thing ’at yan yance thowt an’ did; tha deea nowt bud mak gam
o’ yan if yan diz tell ’em owt, seea Ah nivver tells ’em nowt.’ This
statement explains much; the old people nowadays do keep their mouths
shut. It often happens that after an hour’s chat with some grey-headed
occupant of the big armchair, you gain more information about the
doings of days past than the rest of the household could have given
you, were they even willing to do so, because in many cases they have
little interest in things which ’happen’d afoor their tahm.’ But,
bear in mind, the unsealing of aged lips can only be accomplished
when properly approached, and a bond of mutual sympathy has been
established; then the lips and hearts will pour forth such a wealth of
bygone lore, that you will hardly be able to jot down your notes fast
enough.
But to return to my old lady. ‘Why,’ said I, ‘when you were a girl
there would be witches, or was that before your time?’ For the benefit
of my readers I will give the rest of the story literally, but in
standard English. ‘No,’ said she, ‘that it is not. There was one Dolly
Makin; I once saw her myself, but she will be dead now, for she was
over a hundred then; but my aunt once had a strange bout with her.’
‘And where did Dolly live?’ I asked, for I had years before heard of
this same Dolly Makin. ‘Nay, that’s mair ’an Ah can tell ya,’ said
she. ‘And what did she do to your aunt?’ I inquired. ‘Nothing; she
only tried to. It was like this. There was one Tom Pickles wanted to
keep company with my aunt, but he found out that she had a liking
for one William Purkis. It was always thought, when Tommy found this
out, that he went to the witch and gave her something to work a spell
on my aunt. Anyhow, one night when she had just finished milking, a
fortune-teller came up and took hold of her hand, and told her a long
story about the carryings-on of William Purkis and another lass, and
she advised my aunt to take up with Tommy, telling her that things
looked very black for her if she did anything else. But my aunt said
that she would wed who she liked, and it would not be Tommy. At that
the fortune-teller struck the cow with her stick; the cow lashed out
and knocked the milk-pail over; my aunt flung the milk-stool at the
fortune-teller’s head, but she ducked, and it missed her, and next
moment they were one grappling with the other like all that. My aunt,
however, was a well-built, strong lass, and after they had fought for
a long time, neither gaining an advantage, the fortune-teller screamed
out that my aunt had something about her that belonged to the unburied
dead, or otherwise she would have mastered her, and had her in her
power for ever. “But,” said she, as she walked away, “I have not done
with you yet;” and then my aunt saw it was the old witch. My aunt did
not know what the witch meant by saying she had something about her
that belonged to the unburied dead; but news came next morning that her
uncle had died the day before, and it happened that a brooch she was
wearing had a bit of his hair in it. It was that which had saved her.
It would have been useless trying to overtake the witch when she left
her, even on horseback, for she once went from the top of Ingleborough
to the top of Whernside at one stride.’ ‘But,’ I ventured to say, ‘it
is a long way, that.’ I was not quite sure of the distance, but I knew
I was within bounds when I added, ‘It will be quite nine miles.’ For a
moment the old lady hesitated; even to her, after making all allowance
for the witch’s marvellous power, it did seem a prodigious stride.
‘Well,’ she said, with a sigh of relief, as an idea struck her, ‘maybe
I am wrong; it would be a leap;’ or, as she put it, ‘mebbe Ah’s wrang;
sha wad loup it.’ Again I pointed out that it was an enormous leap.
‘Deean’t ya want her ti ’a’e deean’t?’ (i.e. ‘Don’t you want her to
have done it?’) she questioned, losing her temper. And then I had to
smooth her ruffled feelings. I knew I was precious near treading on
her pet corn, but I wished to see how, as I knew, she would explain
away the difficulty. ‘Whya, noo, ez you saay it’s a gertish loup,’ she
admitted, and then added, ‘maist leykly sha wad deea ’t iv a hitch,
strhad, an’ a jump; onny road, sha did it.’ That being settled, I asked
what took place when she herself saw the witch. ‘Nowt, bud summat might
‘ deean.’ And then she explained that one evening, a few months before
she was married, she and her sweetheart were walking to Feetham Holme
when they saw an old lady sitting on a great stone. It seems she looked
_that sackless_, that her sweetheart burst out laughing. The moment he
did that, the old lady sprang to her feet, and almost shrieked, ‘Ya
aren’t wed yet,’ and then disappeared. A moment afterwards, however,
a black cat sprang across their path, which was a most unlucky omen.
My informant could not say what it was, but something told her that
the black cat was none other than the old witch. She mentioned none of
her fears to her future husband, but the next day she paid a visit to
the wise man of Reeth. To him she unburdened herself of all her fears,
inquiring what would have to be done to break any spell Dolly might
work to prevent her marriage. It seems there were only two things the
wise man knew of equal to the occasion. One was to tear a piece of
cloth from the garment of a man hanging from a gibbet, cut it into nine
pieces, and burn them at dead of night, with every door and window not
only closed but securely fastened. This she had declared to be quite
impossible. Her next chance was to hear the last words of a man just
before he was hanged, write the same on nine pieces of paper, stick
a pin through each piece, and then burn them at midnight, doors and
windows as before. This she thought might be managed. From a copy of
the _Yorkshire Gazette_ which came into the dale every week, she learnt
that a man was to be hanged at York; so to Settle she went, and thence
by the carrier to her destination. She had a cousin living in York,
with whom she stayed until after the eventful day. She managed to hear
the last words, and carried out all other injunctions, and so, as
she said, ‘Dolly nivver c’u’d deea nowt nowther ti me ner onny o’ my
bairns.’
It is a well-known fact that witches have a decided aversion to a
stone with a hole through it. So one hanging in the house goes a long
way towards keeping them outside; and an old horse-shoe, which has
been picked up and nailed on the door, has even greater power. Again,
any girl, whilst a maiden, who was so fortunate as to find three
horse-shoes in one year, if she threw them over her left shoulder, and
walked round them three times, being careful to preserve all three, not
only she, but when married her children, could never be witch-held.
This, be it observed, only protected the person, it did not extend to
property of any kind.
Dolly Ayre, the Carthorpe witch, died within the ken of many now
living. Richard Kirby, an old inhabitant of Carthorpe, gave me the
following only a short time ago. I must really give it in his words.
Filling his pipe, he began, ‘Aye! Ah ken’d her weel; she yance witched
sum coos ov au’d Tommy’s, an’ sha wadn’t tak ’t off.’ I inquired
what it was she would not take off, and was promptly informed it was
‘summat sha’d deean tiv ’em: a spell o’ sum soart ’at sha’d warked on
’em.’ Old Tommy, it seems, hurried off to the wise man, Sammy Banks o’
Mickly, who, after Tommy’s story had been told, ‘did summat, an’ Tommy
did summat, an’ atween ’em tha baith did summat else ’at completely
flustrated Au’d Dolly intiv a cocked hat, bud nut afoor sha’d mannished
ti spell t’ leyfe oot o’ yan o’ t’ coos—ya see, iv a waay, sha ’ed t’
fost ho’d.’ On asking what they had done to master Dolly, he replied,
with a shake of his head, ‘Naay, noo, Ah deean’t knaw; that war kept a
dark secret. All ’at ivver war knawn, war ’at Tommy ’ed driven a peg
o’ wickenwood inti summat, an’ ‘at he’d thrussen summat thruff t’ au’d
witch’s latch slit, but what it war no man nivver knew, bud it mun ’a’e
been summat varra larl, or else he c’u’dn’t ’a’e thrussen ’t thruff,
an’ he bo’nt’ (burnt) ‘summat at midneet ’at stank warse ’an nowt. Aye!
an’ noo ther war yance a queer thing happen’d at Ness, near Pickhill.’
A man, it seems, took a farm over the head of the then tenant. The man
who had been so shabbily treated had once done a great kindness to
Dolly, though, according to my informant, it was a most risky thing
to offer a kindness to a witch, as they might take offence even at
that. However, in the case mentioned, the kindness had been graciously
accepted. When the new-comers arrived with their goods and chattels,
they found written in blood-red writing on every door and shutter,
these words, BAD LUCK; there was also something written underneath,
which no man could make out. ‘Aye,’ said the old man, in words which
there was no gainsaying, ‘an’ afoor they’d gitten hauf ther sticks in,
doon cam a lahtle bit ov a shelf they’d putten sum pans on, an’ it
tumm’l’d reet on t’ top o’ yan o’ ther bairns, an’ killed it wheer it
stood, an’ ther’s neea gitting ower that; noo, is theer?’
In this same Carthorpe, years ago, one of the houses was suspected of
being witch-held, and everything about the place witch-stricken, and
for some time neither land nor beast throve. It happened that one who
possessed the power of smelling witches slept for a night under this
particular roof. In the morning he said they were quite mistaken in
supposing the house was witch-held, declaring that it was haunted. He
advised them to prevail upon the parson to shout it down. The then
Rector of Burneston, having been seen, kindly undertook the shouting
down of the said spirit. To this end he partook of a good meal, rested
for an hour, and then betook himself to the farmer’s well. There he
read something out of the Prayer Book, which ‘incanted t’ spirit up ti
t’ wellsahd,’ and then the parson called out, ‘For ever and for ay,’
to which the spirit replied, ‘For a year and a day.’ Then the parson at
it again, and the spirit did the same, ‘and they baith went at it leyke
all that foor ower tweea hoors, bud t’ parson gat t’ last wo’d acoz t’
spirit c’u’dn’t ho’d oot neea langer, an’ seea t’ parson wan t’ battle
i’ t’ end, an’ cungled it doon; an’ seea that spirit nivver na mair, at
noa tahm, ivver agaan c’u’d cum oot o’ t’ bad pleeace ti wark ill agaan
neeabody[30].’
For some unexplained reason, witches held in great aversion posthumous
children, more especially male children. In fact their malevolence
was often made manifest prior to the child’s birth. An old dame gave
me the following as having occurred years ago at Kirby Hill, near
Boroughbridge. A young couple, recently married, met the witch (Sally
Carey) near the Devil’s Arrows. What they had done to gain Sally’s
displeasure, legend does not say, but as they passed the old lady she
shook her stick, and almost screamed, ‘Ya want a lad, bud Ah’ll mak it
a lass’; and sure enough, when the baby arrived, it was a girl. They
had hoped it would be a boy, for much future fortune depended upon
their having a son and heir. Still they hoped, should they be blest
with a further addition, that the next arrival would be a boy. Three or
four months after the birth of their daughter, the husband was thrown
off his horse and killed.
Some time after the sad event, and late in the evening, Sally knocked
at the widow’s door; on its being opened, the old hag screamed,
brandishing her stick in the widow’s face, ‘It shan’t be a lad this
tahm, nowther.’ So terrified was her victim that she fainted, and
was found some time afterwards in a doubled-up position and unable to
rise. By-and-by, when sufficiently recovered, her friends strongly
urged her to pay a visit to the wise man of Aldborough. At last she was
prevailed upon to do so, when a supreme effort on his part was made to
break the witch’s power. Much of what the wise man did, the old lady
had forgotten. All she remembered was that at midnight, with closed
doors and windows, a black cat and a black cock bird were roasted
to a cinder, on a fire made from boughs of the rowan-tree; a long
incantation was also pronounced, of which she could not call to mind a
single word, for as she put it, ‘wa war all ti freetened.’ The ’all’
consisted of the widow, my informant—then a maiden—and a mother of
seven sons, the trio being necessary for the working of the charm. When
the baby was born, it was a boy, but a cripple. Once again the wise
man was visited. This time the almost heart-broken mother was assured
that, if she remained unwedded for seven years, her son would outlive
his weakness, his back would grow straight, and all would be well. This
demand was readily complied with. ‘But,’ added the old dame, ‘t’ au’d
witch tried all maks an’ manders o’ waays ti git her ti wed. Ah nivver
knaw’d a lass seea pesthered wi’ chaps iv all mah leyfe. Sha’ (the
witch) ‘war awlus sending some good leyke leeaking chap for ti ’tice
her, bud sha kept single, and bested t’ au’d witch i’ t’ end, fer t’
bairn grew up ti be ez straight an’ strang a chap ez yan need wish ti
clap yan’s e’es on. Ah mahnd him weel, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that.’
Only the other day I met an old fellow who firmly believed not only
in the power of witches, but that they existed at the present day.
He held that the evil eye accounted for many mishaps, which ‘fooak
c’u’dn’t account for nooadays neea road at all.’ Of witches he had
known several, but of fairies he could only speak from hearsay. ‘Nobbut
sum fooak,’ explained he, ‘war yabble ti see t’ fairies’; he had never
possessed that power; but he continued, ‘Ah’ve knawn fooak ’at ’ez
seean ’em monny a tahm, bud that’s years sen noo.’ He had come to the
conclusion that as people had got so into the way of saying there were
no such things, ‘tha ’ed all ta’en t’ hig, an’ takken thersens fo’ther
up t’ dale; bud tha cum back sumtahms ti t’ au’d spots, acoz yan offens
sees t’ rings wheear tha’ve danced owerneet. Onnybody can see t’ rings
fer thersens if tha nobbut tak ther een aboot wiv ’em; bud,’ said he,
emphatically, ‘Ah think ’at tha mun awlus keep ther heead-gear on noo.’
I was given to understand that so long as a fairy kept its cap or
bonnet on it was invisible, but this, I think, is a bit of lore gone
wrong; he ought to have said, so long as they keep their invisible caps
on, &c. This old chap gave me a bit of lore which was quite new to me.
We all know that witches kept a black cat, and as a rule it was a
Thomas cat; but if, to work something especially evil, a witch took to
keeping a black tabby, she was, by some higher power, compelled to keep
that tabby until it had kittens. When this interesting event was about
to come off, the said tabby was securely locked up and guarded until
the expected increase arrived; immediately this happened, the whole
lot were drowned. The reason for this hurried departure of mother cat
and kitten babies from the land of the living was made quite clear.
For had the witch a son when the kittens were born, and any person
managed to steal one of the said kittens, the witch from that moment
became a ’bustard,’ being bereft of all power to work evil; but if up
to that time she had only given birth to girls, she remained a bustard
only until a son was born; then all power was restored to her. My
informant remembers a witch who was made a bustard of, and who never
again regained power to work evil, being too old at the time to dream
of having a son.
Perhaps the most widely adopted anti-witch charm was that of sticking
a beast’s heart full of pins and roasting the same at midnight, being
careful to observe the rule of closed doors and windows, absolute
silence, and the refusal to admit any one during the performance of the
rite; this, however, will be referred to by-and-by.
I think it must be put on record that witches sometimes did good even
if they committed evil to bring it about. To do this, I shall have to
step just over the boundary of the North into the West Riding. There
was a widow residing in the village of Aldfield, whose son, her only
support, lay at death’s door: he, so I was informed, was afflicted with
a disease which was consuming his vitals. After the matter had been
fully discussed by the neighbours, the consuming of his vitals was
pronounced to be the result of a bad wish, the evil eye, or a witch
spell, and, according to their verdict, one Nanny Appleby was suspected
of being the spell-worker. Nanny lived somewhere on the other side
of Dalla Moor. This must have been before the days of the wise man of
Mickley, or assuredly thither the widow would have gone. It seems that
the poor mother screwed up courage to seek Nanny out herself, hoping to
appease her—an almost hopeless task. Anyway, early one morning off she
set; fortunately she met the old witch before she had completed half
her journey.
On being questioned, Nanny swore she was innocent, but declared she
knew what ailed the lad, and offered to go back with her and cure him.
In much fear and trembling, the widow returned with Nanny, to the
astonishment of the whole village. After having been left alone with
the young fellow for some little time, Nanny told the weeping mother
that her lad was possessed of a devil, which she promised to drive out.
By what means she managed to induce the devil to let go his hold ’of
the vitals’ is not known; but a terrific fight took place, furniture
was smashed and pots were broken, amidst yells Satanic, and Nanny came
off victorious. Having got the devil out of the young fellow, the next
thing was, what must be done with the little imp? Nanny, however, seems
to have been equal to the occasion. Of course such a doubtful customer
could not be allowed to roam about at his own sweet will; oh dear no,
Nanny would not grant a favour of that kind. The spirit was commanded
to enter the body of a certain Tom Moss. Probably she had a spite
against Tom; anyway the order seems to have been most promptly obeyed,
for within a month Tom was found drowned in Grantley Lake. The invalid
recovered, and so there is no doubt about anything.
The following witch story unfortunately is wanting in one or two points
of interest. I am unable to give the witch’s name, or with certainty
her dwelling-place. One or two things, however, tend to the belief that
she was the Ayton witch, who flourished about 1750-80. If in this I am
correct, she was known as Au’d Nanny; and though a native of Stokesley,
she lived for many years in a tumble-down old cottage in the far corner
of the green near the mill at Great Ayton.
Though doubtless a terror in her day, nearly all her deeds, like
herself, have passed away. Two or three stories are yet told concerning
Au’d Nanny, but they are unauthenticated and of doubtful origin. They
seem to me most like latter-day ghost stories told to terrify children,
with Nanny’s name tacked on to them. They preserve her memory and
christian name, and that is all.
One story, however, I had from an old lady whose grandmother once had
an encounter with Au’d Nanny. As the story was told to me in that
matter-of-fact way which leaves small room for imagination to exploit
itself, I have no doubt it was repeated, for my benefit, as her mother
or grandmother had told it her years before. The main interest of the
story lies in the fact that it contains a witch’s curse, and sets forth
the proposition that a witch had the power not only of assuming the
form of one recently dead, but could even inhabit the body itself.
To divest the story of much repetition and redundancy, it will be
better to keep mainly to ordinary English.
It seems that her grandmother lived at Stokesley, and had a cousin
living at Kildale, to whom she was deeply attached. This cousin’s name
was Martha Sokeld. One day Martha was taken very ill, and sent for
her cousin Mary Langstaff to come at once and nurse her. Mary sent
word back she would be along directly; so after she had cleaned up and
‘putten things ti reets,’ she put on her hood and shawl and set off to
walk to Kildale—‘an’ it’s a goodish step an’ all, Ah can tell ya; an’
ther’s nowt aboot that.’ Well, when Mary had walked above halfway, she
saw an old woman ’hoppling alang t’ road.’ It seems there was something
about the old lady which struck Mary as curious—‘sha didn’t leyke t’
leeak on her.’ What it was which made her feel certain the old body
approaching was none other than ’t’ au’d witch[31],’ she never could
tell, but such became her conviction. So, to avoid the necessity of
speaking to her, she stooped down and commenced to cull flowers from
the hedge side. But on the old witch drawing near, she called out in a
creaking voice, ‘Thoo’s neea call ti hing thi heead doon i’ that waay.
Ah ken tha, Mary Langstaff, reet weel; aye, ez weel ez if thoo ow’d ma
summat. Noo, ’t wadn’t ’a’e cossen[32] tha mich ti ’a’e passed t’ tahm
o’ daay wi’ ma; bud sitha, Ah s‘an’t forgit ti-daay, an’ Ah knaw all
’at thoo off’ns sez aboot ma an’ all; but Ah’ll paay tha oot for ’t,
Ah’ll paay tha oot for ’t.’ She then banged the ground three times with
her stick, and when my informant’s grandmother looked up, the witch had
disappeared. The reason why the witch did not do her an injury at that
time was easily accounted for—she happened to be wearing in her bosom a
bunch of wicken-tree, i.e. mountain ash, berries.
On arriving at her cousin’s, she found her almost recovered. She stayed
with her a few days and then returned to Stokesley—this was on a Monday
afternoon. Much to her surprise, who should walk in on Wednesday
evening but Martha Sokeld. Martha told her she had had another bad
bout, and felt she was not going to last long, but before she died she
would like to see her sister who lived at Northallerton. She had got a
ride so far on the way that afternoon, and then, after a night’s rest,
she thought she would be able to go by the carrier to Northallerton.
Just then she felt very tired, and thought if Mary would go over to
Hannah’s and get her to put some things together which she wished to
send to her sister, she could manage to get a nap lying on the settle.
She was most pressing that Mary should not hurry back, but stop a good
hour, giving as an excuse—she did not wish to be ‘wakken’d efter sha
’ed yance gitten ti sleep.’ Mary went to Hannah’s, but there was a
something that made her feel very uneasy—she did not know what it was;
‘an’ i’ t’ end it gat sike a grip on her, ‘at sha left an’ set off yam
agaan.’ So that she should not awaken her cousin if she had fallen
asleep, she approached the house very quietly; and peeping between the
shutters (they did not fit very closely), she beheld a sight which
made her ’oppen wide baith e’es’—her cousin, instead of being asleep,
was sitting in front of a blazing fire, dropping things into a pan ‘an’
saying ower an’ up agaain’—
Fire cum,
Fire gan,
Curling smeeak
Keep oot o’ t’ pan.
Here’s a teead, theer’s a frog,
An’ t’ heart frev a crimson ask;
Here’s a teeath fra t’ heead
O’ yan at’s deead,
‘At nivver gat thruff his task[33];
Here’s pricked i’ blood a maiden’s prayer
‘At t’ e’e o’ man maunt see;
It’s pricked reet thruff a yet warm mask,
Lapt aboot a breet green ask,
An’ it’s all foor him an’ thee.
It boils, thoo’ll drink,
He’ll speeak, tho’ll think,
It boils, thoo’ll see,
He’ll speeak, thoo’ll dee.
Something seemed to say to Mary, ‘Sha’s working a curse on thee an’
Tom’ (Tom was her sweetheart). ‘Thoo mun deea summat, or sha’ll mak
mischief atween ya.’ So Mary opened the door and walked boldly in. She
then told the witch—for by this time she had no doubt her visitor was
such—that she had heard all she had said, and seen all she had done.
She then took hold of the Bible, and said, ‘Ya mun deea yer warst; Ah
ho’d byv this,’ meaning the Bible. No sooner had she said that she
had heard and seen all, and declared that she held by the Bible, and
dared her to do her worst, than the witch turned the pan wrong side
up on the fire, and shrieking out, ‘Thoo’s ’scaped ma this tahm, bud
Ah’ll mell on tha yet,’ disappeared. Early next morning a man rode
over from Kildale, with the news that Martha Sokeld was nowhere to be
found, and it was not until three days afterwards that her dead body
was discovered on the moor head. The conclusion come to at that time
(and which my informant thought most probable) was that the witch had
lured Martha on to the moor and then spelled the soul out of her,
taking possession of the body herself, and so deceived her grandmother.
However, her grandmother lived until she was eighty-five, having
brought up a large family; and so, as the old lady put it, ‘Efter that
t’ au’d witch ’ed nivver been yabble ti deea owt tiv her; sha aiblins
off’ns aim’d ti deea, bud it seeams ’at it nivver cam tiv a heead.’
The following further information regarding Molly Cass, the Leeming
witch, of whom mention has been made, was given to me by Abe
Braithwaite, a noted character of Bedale twenty-five years ago. Molly,
although a native of Exelby, lived for many years in a cottage close
to Leeming Mill: some declare in a disused part of the mill itself.
Be that as it may, one night whilst the miller, two others, and Abe’s
grandfather were playing cards in the mill, George Winterfield (one
of the players) had the nine of hearts dealt to him eight times in
succession. As the ninth deal was proceeding, one of the players laid
a guinea on the table, offering to wager Winterfield that amount to a
shilling, that the nine of hearts did not fall to his hand that deal.
‘Put thi brass i’ thi pocket,’ said Au’d Molly, popping her head just
inside the door; ‘thi brass is nut foor him, an’ his brass is nut
foor thee. Put thi brass i’ thi pocket, an’ leeak sharp aboot it.’ So
terrified was the owner of the guinea of gaining the ill-will of Molly,
that he pocketed his guinea at once. When the last card of the deal
fell, and whilst the cards still lay on the table, Molly said, ‘Thoo’s
gitten ’t again, George; tak thi han’ up and see,’ and such turned out
to be the case. ‘Aye, thoo’s gitten it hard eneeaf, an’ thoo’s had it
eight times alriddy; t’ au’d un’s[34] i’ tha noo, an’ he’ll nut leeav
tha whahl he’s gitten tha altogither. Thoo hed thi chance, an’ thoo
wadn’t tak’t, seea Ah’ve potched it inti t’ Swale’ (the name of the
river hard by), ‘an’ thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan theer ti late it. T’ Swale’s
waiting ti be thi brahdal bed. Thoo’d better gan noo; think on t’
langer thoo waits, an’ t’ langer thoo’ll stay[35].’ On hearing this,
George, turning as white as chalk, arose, saying, ‘Ah’ll wed her; Ah’ll
mak an honest woman on her, if thoo’ll nobbut gi’e ma anuther chance;
Ah’ve rewd all ’at Ah’ve deean.’ To which Molly replied, ‘Ah’s nut
off’ns i’ t’ mahnd o’ gi’ing onnybody yah chance, let aleean tweea;
thoo sez ’at thoo’ll tak her ti thi bed, Ah’ve sed ’at thoo s’all gan
tiv hers. Noo, then, gan thi waays; thi brahd’s waiting foor tha, sha’s
ligging asleep on a bed o’ bulls an’ segs. Oh, what a brahdal bed! Oh,
what a brahdal bed!’ she screamed, banging to the door.
Winterfield left the company, saying he would go at once to his old
sweetheart and promise to marry her. The night was intensely dark, and
whether he missed his way and slipped into the beck, which was much
swollen at the time, and his body drifted into the Swale, or whether
it was as Molly shouted to him as he left, ‘Good-neet, George, all
roads leead ti t’ Swale ti-neet,’ it is impossible to say. One thing,
however, is certain—though he joined his old sweetheart, he never saw
her again. It was as a corpse the current carried him along, and left
his body late that night by the side of her, who, only a few hours
before, in a fit of desperation and despair, had confided to the
silent waters the whole of her sin and shame. Both bodies were found
quite close together, tightly held by the ‘bulls and segs,’ in the
backwater where the beck joins the Swale. I well remember, when fishing
near the spot late in the evening for eels, an old lady remarking on
what she considered my temerity, for she fully believed that any one
who ventured near at midnight would see the dead body of a girl, and
presently that of a man, float by, both being quite visible until they
joined each other in the high seaves and bulrushes.
CHAPTER X
WITCHCRAFT—_continued_
So far as we have gone, it will be evident to those who read a
little between the lines, that mixed up with fact, imagination, and
exaggeration, there exists a very considerable amount of respectable
myth. But to which of the ancient myths we owe many of the stories
told in connexion with our local witches, is often somewhat difficult
to determine; but certain it is that nearly all of them possessed the
power, so common to those of an earlier date, of changing themselves
into some animal, the hare and cat being the favourite forms which
they assumed when hard pressed. Very similar stories exhibiting
this power are told of the following well-known local witches, all
of whom flourished during the present century:— Peggy Flaunders, of
Marske-by-the-Sea; Bessy Slack, of West Burton, Wensleydale; Nanny
Pearson, of Goathland; the Guisborough witch, Ann Grear; Nan Hardwicke,
of Spittal Houses; Au’d Nanny, of Great Ayton; Nanny Howe, of Kildale;
and Nanny Newgill, of Broughton and Stokesley. Then there was Dolly
Makin and Au’d Mother Stebbins, who seem to have had no regular place
of abode, but tramped the country with a few small wares.
Of these and others, pretty much the same stories are told, differing
only in slight details. These also bear a very strong resemblance to
others current in different parts of Europe, but of much earlier times.
Then, too, we have their malicious attacks on the dairy, either in
the form of spoiling or purloining the produce, or in surreptitiously
milking the cows, though the latter was more prevalent further north,
and often practised by the German witches. But in the exercise of the
evil eye, and in the committal of all manner of evil acts, our North
Riding witches held a position second to none.
Again, the methods used to overcome their power and break their spells,
as has been said, runs very much on the same lines throughout Europe.
Peggy Flaunders died in 1835, at the age of eighty-five, and was buried
in the churchyard at Marske-by-the-Sea.
Many old people have a lively remembrance of Peggy, with her tall hat
and red cloak; and the stories which are told to-day of the pranks
she played and the wonders she worked, make us open our eyes with
amazement, because we are not listening to the marvellous deeds of
some person who lived in mediaeval times, but of one who lived amongst
those now living. Do you wish to hear of her doings from one who knew
her? then find your way to Boyes Wetherell’s cottage, and have a chat
with the old worthy, and you will have such an outpouring of ancient
customs, rites, lore, smuggling stories, and the doings of days gone
by, together with touches of his own eventful life, as will stock your
mind with information such as it is only possible to obtain from an
original source[36].
But of Peggy and her doings.
On one occasion Peggy is said to have cast a spell against one Tom
Pearson (who lived on a farm near Marske), and every head of cattle
he possessed died. Whether this ruined him or not, is not known, but
he left the farm, and his cousin took it. As this cousin crossed the
threshold for the first time, Peggy passed by. (This cousin, it seems,
had once befriended Peggy.) She called out to him as she passed, ‘Thoo
’ez mah good wishes,’ and with that she turned three times round, threw
her cloak on the ground, jumped over it, mumbled something, and walked
away, and from that day everything prospered ’awlus wiv him.’
For three weeks in succession, Hannah Rothwell’s butter didn’t come
rightly, churn as long as she might; and at the same time Mary Parker,
her next-door neighbour, began to get very little milk from her cow.
These two old worthies having talked the matter over, decided they
would pay a visit to Jonathan Westcott of Upleatham, a wise man of that
day[37]. Jonathan, on hearing what they had to say, declared it was
all owing to Peggy’s malice. So far as Mrs. Rothwell was concerned,
she was told to return home, scald her churn out three times, first
with boiling water, in which a handful of salt had been dissolved;
secondly, with boiling water in which a handful of wicken-tree berries
had been thrown; and, thirdly, with a large amount of plain boiling
water. She had also to get two small wickenwood pegs and drive them
into each end of the churn, and whilst turning the churn with the last
filling of water, she had to repeat, as she pretended to look if the
butter was coming,—
This tahm it’s thahn,
T’ next tahm it’s mahn,
An’ mahn foor ivver mair.
This had to be repeated nine times, giving nine turns before repeating
the lines, when the churn would be found to be all right. At least
it would be quite clean, and that is needful for the making of good
butter. The milk case was a much more difficult one to tackle. However,
after Jonathan had consulted his almanack, and seen what direction and
position the heavenly bodies were in—he was great on the planetary
world—he advised the following: first, a good drench[38] must be
given the cow, followed by gentle exercise; secondly, it was not to
be milked to its full yield for nine days, but on the tenth, before
seating herself to milk, Mary had to whisper in the cow’s ear, ‘Ah’s
milking tha foor Peggy Flaunders.’ The cow would then yield its proper
quantity. This pious fraud of deliberately whispering tarradiddles into
the cow’s ear had to be continued indefinitely. On the other hand, if
after having so whispered Mary drew no more milk than usual, Jonathan
declared Peggy had nothing to do with the case, that she would be free
from all suspicion of milking the cow at home by magic art, and that
it was nothing ’neea warse ’an that t’ au’d coo war a larl bit oot o’
fettle, an’ wad mebbins cum roond iv a bit; if nut, sha mud git shut
on’t sumhoo.’
On one occasion some sportsmen, coursing in the old close field at
the top end of Marske, put up a hare, which was recognized as one the
dogs had often tried unsuccessfully to capture. Peggy’s son was one
of the company. The lad, it seems, had heard his mother say no hare
could escape their black bitch, but he was to be very careful not to
mention the fact, and never to slip it at one without her consent. In
the excitement the lad disregarded his mother’s commands, and repeated
what she had said. The black bitch was slipped, and, after an exciting
chase, seized the hare by the haunch just as it was trying to enter
Peggy’s worral hole[39]. On Peggy being examined, teeth-marks were
found on a corresponding part of her body.
The Guisborough witch, Jane Grear, was perhaps more widely known than
Peggy. She, like Peggy, was bitten by a dog, and bore the marks until
the day of her death. She received her injuries when trying to jump
through her own key-hole: it must have been either a very small hare
she had turned herself into, or she must have owned an abnormally
large key-hole; but this is a matter of detail. Whatever Jane may have
been like in the decline of her life, in her youthful days she must
have been quite a good-looking girl. There are two old rhymes still
remembered, one of which tells of her various charms, perhaps a little
too freely. So much into detail does it go, that only a few lines can
possibly be given. The second recounts a mighty hunt which once took
place.
* * * * *
Plump ez a suker[40] war Jinny when young,
Wi’ t’ waast an’ t’ bust[41] ov a queen;
T’ gallants an’ t’ bucks did all on ’em sweear
Sha beeat owt ’at ivver tha’d seen.
Her hair it war black ez an au’d raven wing,
An’ breet war t’ glint ov her een;
Neea kerchief hauf hid sike an _ivory breast_[41],
Whahl her throat wad ’a’e deean foor a queen;
An’ larl war her feet, an’ trim war her waast,
An’ reead ez a roaze war her lips,
Whahl her cheeks egg’d yan on for ti steeal a sly kiss,
An’ shaply an’ roond war her hips.
* * * * *
An’ when, tripping ti music, sha pulled up her goon,
Tweea feet war nivver mair nim (nimble);
Her ankles an’ buckles fair ’wildered yan’s seet,
An’ seea, mun, did t’ shap ov each limb.
Bud noo ’at Ah’s au’d, Ah finnd ’at sha’s t’ seeam.
Her charms ’ev all swithered awaay;
Sha ’s ugly ez muck, wi’ black blood iv her heart.
Au’d Scrat’s[42] bowt her sowl, seea tha saay.
* * * * *
It would seem that Jane, like Peggy, occasionally afforded sportsmen
a good run; at least, so the following would lead us to believe.
But here, again, much has had to be suppressed, being unfit for
publication. The lines, however, which are given are valuable, showing
as they do that several old customs were quite common at the time—about
1820, I should imagine.
* * * * *
Fra t’ Applegarth, ti Slapewath slack,
Wi’oot a rist i’ seet all t’ waay,
Sha (the hare) teeak uz roond byv t’ alum warks
Ti Aisdale gaate, an’ gat awaay.
* * * * *
Wa knocked at Tom’s, bud he warn’t up;
Bud then, it’s t’ seeam wiv all. Besahd,
Yan may loup up ti cauv a coo,
Bud finnd t’ bed pull ti leeave a brahd.
* * * * *
Wa drank ther healths at Jack’s belaw,
Wa wished em weel, an’ soup’d wer beer,
All hoaping when tha did git up
Tha wad tigither loup on t’ fleear[43].
* * * * *
Jack leeaked bit dazed, an’ hauf asleep;
Bud then, he’s a fair Tyke wi’ t’ lasses.
He cuddles, kisses, drinks wiv all;
Neea hot pot ivver by him passes.
* * * * *
T’ race he’d won, an’ t’ brahd he’d kissed,
On t’ thresho’d knelt, her garter gitten,
Fra snowy breasts ther kerchiefs stown,
Then wi’ ther budding charms war smitten.
* * * * *
Again they put up the hare, and the old dog gave chase.
Fra Scaling dyke ti Wapley end,
Thruff Tommy[44] geese an’ Mary[44] stee,
Alang t’ au’d to’npike, here then theer
That witched hare alang did flee.
Neea cleeaser did wa ivver git,
Neea gerter leead it ivver teeak;
Ten yards i’ front o’ Billy bitch—
Fra t’ fost it seeam’d a narrer squeeak.
At last ’mang heather, brackken, whin,
Lang stanghow bru’, wi’ hosses blawn,
An’ Billy bitch wi’ tongue loll’d oot,
Fair beeaten it war fain ti awn.
Just when, wi’ yah gert loup, t’ bitch thowt
Ti grab t’ hare haunch, t’ poor spent au’d bitch
Fan nowt ti snap at; t’ hare ’ed geean.
An’ then wa kenn’d wa’d hunted t’ witch[45].
I know a very similar set of verses exist, telling of a wonderful run
after a hare in connexion with Bilsdale and that district. But the
language, in fact the whole tone of the rhyme, is much too loose for
the publication of any part of it.
A word here explaining what is meant by witches milking cows may not be
out of place. It has been mentioned that Peggy Flaunders was thought to
have drawn the milk from one Mary Parker’s cow. How or by what means,
deponent sayeth not, but one Ann Allan, of Ugthorpe, who kept pigs, was
almost caught in the act. This was about 1780, and as Ann’s procedure
was run on much the same lines as the most respectable witches used
some hundreds of years before her time, we may take hers as a typical
example.
Not one, but three or four Ugthorpe cows ceased to give their usual
quantity of milk. Of course the villagers talked, and at last the
priest was visited; but a hundred years ago many of the clergy, both
of Rome and the Church of England, so far as learning was concerned,
would have been knocked into a cocked hat by a Primitive Methodist
local brother of these days. So it will be readily conceived the visit
to the priest resulted in very little good. He declared the devil had
got hold of the defaulting cows by the tail, and this made them hold
their milk back; he further assured them the only way to get the devil
to let go was to say three pater nosters and Ave Marias over their
milk-pails, and to subscribe a certain sum, which had to be paid to
him, to celebrate a mass to Saint somebody, who would send a holy
angel to frighten the devil away. Now, I know nothing about doctoring
cows, but I am inclined to the belief that old Jonathan Westcott,
of Upleatham, was much nearer effecting a cure, when he ordered an
aperient draught, to be followed by gentle exercise, than prayers
muttered inside any number of milk-cans.
I believe the good people of that day would have fallen in with the
prayers, but they drew a hard and fast line when the collection box
obtruded itself. They returned home dissatisfied. They were losing
their milk—that they could not help; but they could prevent their
pockets being dipped into, and they did. Another meeting was held, and
a watch was set on Ann, but nothing came of it. At last a neighbour’s
cow dried up altogether. At this the good man was so exasperated, that
he went to Ann’s and boldly accused her of milking the cows. Words
ran high, till in the end he seized a three-legged stool, intending
to hurl it at Ann’s head, when, lo! a curious thing happened—as
he gripped the leg of the stool, a stream of milk ran from it. The
neighbours, who by this time had flocked round the door, cried out
with one voice: ‘Thoo’s gitten ’t; that’s what sha milks wer coos
wi’.’ And sure enough such was found to be the case. On the name of
any neighbour’s cow being mentioned, and a leg of the stool handled as
in milking, a fine stream of milk came from it, and the bag of that
individual’s cow was found on examination to have shrunk. No wonder
she had fat pigs, when she could give them new milk in any quantity
and from any one’s cow she liked to name. Such a stool was not a fit
piece of furniture for any one to possess, so it was publicly burnt
on the moor just beyond the high end of the village, near to where
the windmill stands. Ann was ordered to walk three times from one end
of the village to the other, clothed in nothing but her sark[46],
i.e. chemise. The Godivan rule, which compelled every one to keep
within doors during the time of penance, seems (so far as Ugthorpe was
concerned) to have been absolutely reversed—they were all there, even
down to the babies in arms. From all accounts, Ugthorpe has never had
quite such a lively time since. Before judging the people and the ways
of that time as altogether too idiotic, indecent, and unjust, it is as
well to bear in mind that every age has its curious idiosyncrasies. In
1898 affiliation cases are heard in open court; a man may nearly kick
the life out of his wife with a pair of clogs at a small outlay of
about seven-and-six; but stealing a turnip necessitates a low form of
diet, and enforced seclusion for three months. These masterpieces of
our time will bring a smile to faces yet unborn.
Nan Hardwicke’s fame at one time was great, and her name and deeds
still live in many of the Cleveland dales. I remember once being
driven to Westerdale by an old chap, who gave me the following story.
I think the circumstance occurred to his father, and not himself—on
this point my notes are silent, anyway. Either his mother or his wife
was expecting the advent of a new baby, and the expectant mother’s
sister had to be sent for, to some place about five miles distant.
That afternoon Nan Hardwicke called as she was passing (she must have
been some miles from home), and asked for ’a shive o’ breead an’ a pot
o’ beer,’ which were given her. Nan let them know she was aware of
all that was about to transpire. Finishing her food, she opened the
door of the room where the wife was lying, and poking her head inside,
said, ‘Ah wish ya weell; ya’ll ’ev a lad afoor morning, an’ ya’ll call
him Tommy, weean’t ya?’ ‘Whya, wa ’a’e made up wer mahnds ti call him
John,’ replied the wife. ‘Aye, mebbe, bud ya’d best call him Tommy; an’
thanking ya, Ah’ll be saying good-daay ti ya.’ And with that she closed
the door and departed. The husband, on being made acquainted with the
witch’s request, declared that nothing of the sort should happen—John
they had decided to call the bairn, and John it should be—he dare not
run the risk of changing its name then. About six o’clock that evening
the husband put his horse in the gig, or whatever he had, and drove
away to bring back the sister-in-law. About three miles on the journey,
he had to cross a small bridge, but when within twenty or thirty yards
of it, the horse stopped, and could not be persuaded to move a step
further. The good man at last decided to get out and lead the mare
over, but in this he was wrong. Much to his amazement, he discovered he
could not leave his seat—he was ‘ez fast ez owt.’ Vainly did he strive,
but it was of no use. At last he came to the conclusion that a spell
was on them both, so he called out, ‘Noo, Nan, what’s ti eftther? this
is thi wark.’ Immediately he heard Nan commence to laugh, and then she
shouted, but he did not know where the voice came from, ‘Thoo’ll call
t’ bairn Tommy, weean’t ta?’ The husband was desperately bold for those
days, for he shouted, ‘Neea, Ah weean’t, nowther foor thoo na all t’
Nan divils i’ t’ country.’ ‘Then thoo’ll bahd wheer thoo is, whahl t’
bairn’s born an’ t’ muther dees,’ croaked Nan. This, in its way, was a
bit of a clincher, to sit stuck fast in a gig, neither able to proceed
nor get out, at a time too when all speed was necessary; add to this
a sinister threat of immediate death of the one he most loved, unless
he consented to christen an unborn child Tommy, when he had decided
to name it Johnny, and with a feeling at the bottom of his heart that
there was a margin for uncertainty, and that after all it might happen
to be a girl. Taking all these things into consideration, was it to be
wondered that he gave way, and swore the child, if a boy, should be
christened Tom? Having made this promise, he was allowed to proceed on
his way.
But Nan did not always have her own way. She had a habit of hiding
herself amongst the whins and brackens, which grew in abundance near
her humble roof. The young men used to collect all the hounds together
and put them on the scent of Au’d Nan. According to legend, they had
many a good run, ‘bud tha nivver catch’d her.’ One other unrecorded
story of Nan[47].
Nan had a relation living at Lowna Bridge, to whom she occasionally
paid a visit. This relation, I believe, only looked forward with
pleasure to Nan’s departure. On this point, however, Nan seems to
have been pretty thick-skinned. It is a mystery how this journey was
accomplished. Some thought she turned herself into a hare and ran the
distance of twenty miles easily in that form; anyway, the fact remains
that now and again Au’d Nan turned up at Lowna Bridge. It may, _en
passant_, be mentioned that human nature was very much the same in the
early part of this century as it is to-day. I mean, poor relations
are never welcome; their presence, or anything which calls them to
mind, makes one feel we ought to do something which we had very much
rather not do—their presence digs the spur into one’s conscience, you
know! But to return to Nan and her Lowna relations. I believe the
following occurred on her last visit: she arrived just after the bridal
procession of the daughter of the house had returned from church.
By-and-by the question arose—where could Au’d Nan sleep? On this
particular occasion every bed had more than one claimant already. The
matter was solved by a kindly bridesmaid offering to take Nan home and
share her bed with her, and then bring her back when the guests had
departed. Unfortunately, the bride, not knowing that Nan was near, said
to her friend, ‘Relation though the old thing is, I would not sleep
with her for anything.’ At this Nan turned round and, before the whole
company, exclaimed, ‘Neea, bud thoo wad sleep wi’ him,’ pointing to the
bridegroom; and then she added, shaking her stick,—
Ah’ve let tha be wedded,
Bud Ah’ll stop tha being bedded;
and so saying, turned about and left the house. Good cheer and bonny
bridesmaids soon banished any gloom the old lady’s words for the moment
had cast over the party.
Late that evening, after the bride had retired to rest, one of the
bridesmaids, sister of the bridegroom, whispered to him, that it would
be useless trying to join his bride by way of the stairs, as there
was a plot on foot to keep him with the revellers the night long—not
an uncommon thing in those days—it often needing all the scheming of
bride and bridesmaids, to outwit the well-laid plots of the bucks of
those gay old times. The plan which the bridesmaids had arranged for
the bridegroom’s escape, was that a game of blindman’s-buff should
be played, and on a given signal a maiden was to call out, ‘Kiss the
girl you love in the dark’; on this being said, every candle was to
be blown out, and the bridegroom had to seize the opportunity to
escape. A ladder had been placed underneath the bride’s window, and
although it was a little short, the bridesmaids had tied a long towel
to the window-sash, by which he could pull himself through the window.
Everything worked splendidly until he was just going to pull himself
up by the towel, when some half-intoxicated idiot discovered he was
escaping, and pulled the ladder from underneath him, bringing him to
the ground with an awful bang. The poor fellow, on being carried into
the house, was found to have broken his leg. The old lady was right
after all. It seems they did have their little excitements in the good
old days of yore—in these days it is a shower of rice[48] and an old
shoe.
Wrightson, the wise man of Stokesley, although he died about seventy
years ago, has left such a record behind as few men in his position
ever build up to their credit[49]. He was known as the wise man of
Stokesley. He was the seventh son of a seventh daughter; and whether
such a concatenation of circumstances lift a man out of the ordinary
rut, I am not in a position to say. But judging Wrightson from the
lips of those who knew him—they are all about gone now—or from those
who have heard of him from their parents, one cannot but come to the
conclusion, that he was undoubtedly a man endowed with marvellous
psychic power, and with the smallest amount of charlatanry possible.
In fact, all agree in testifying to the fact that he claimed nothing
beyond the power which belonged to all such as are born under similar
circumstances; and that sort of thing was fully believed in then, and,
I might add, is yet, for the matter of that.
In dealing with such a celebrity—for such he was, his fame extending
far beyond the boundary of the North Riding—one cannot be too
particular as to the source from whence information is obtained.
Fortunately, years ago, I knew an old Yorkshireman, already alluded
to—William Scorer, a native of Basedale, but who for some years kept
an inn at Fearby above Masham. During the time I knew him, he was the
landlord of the Fleece, Bedale. He personally knew Wrightson.
Take the following as examples of the man’s marvellous power. A friend
of Scorer[50] had bought several head of cattle at Northallerton fair.
These had to be driven to Stokesley; to this end they were given in
charge of an old drover who was driving a lot to the same place for
another buyer. The drover, arriving late at night, put the two droves
into a field about a quarter of a mile on the other side of Stokesley,
but in the morning two of Scorer’s beasts were missing; the drover
declared they were all there when he gated them the night before. A
suspicion somehow arose that the old chap had sold them on the way, and
pocketed the money. At that time they were altogether without any proof
that he had done anything of the kind.
The only way to discover if their surmises were correct, was to visit
Wrightson. But to put the wise man’s power to the test, they decided to
say it was a horse they had lost; arguing, if he really knew anything
that could help them, he would find out the trick which was being
played upon him. On entering his cottage, and before they could speak,
Wrightson shouted from the scullery, where he was washing himself, ‘Noo
then, if you chaps is sharp eneaaf, an’ ez that mich off’ (i.e. know
that much) ‘’at ya can manish ti to’n tweea coos intiv a hoss, it’s
neea ewse cumin’ ti me, foor Ah can’t to’n a hoss back inti tweea coos,
an’ seea ya’d better mak yersens scarce. Ah’ve nowt ti saay ti ya.’
And for some time the wise man was past all persuasion. In the end he
shouted, without leaving the scullery, ‘Tha’re baith i’ t’ beck, an’
tha’ve been theer sen yester neet.’ And sure enough both their bodies
were found a good mile below the bridge; evidently they had missed the
bridge when being driven over late the night before, and had both been
drowned in the Leven, which was much swollen by recent rain. Here, as
in many other stories told of the marvellous man, was an evidence of
foreknowledge; and many of them rest upon what must be admitted to be
very reliable testimony, and vouched for by most respectable people
of that time[51]. Now for the other story, which occurred some years
afterwards.
One Nathan Agar, for security, hid a stocking-foot (in which he had
wrapped five golden guineas) under a portion of the thatch. One
day, intending to add another golden one to his store, he found the
stocking-foot, guineas and all, had vanished. Nathan said nothing
to any one, but just went straight to Wrightson. ‘Thoo’ll knaw what
Ah’ve cum’d aboot,’ said Nathan. Wrightson at once twitted the old
man, touching some previous conversation they had held as to the
advisability of Nathan, who was about sixty years of age, marrying a
girl not quite nineteen. But the combined wisdom and unhappy future
which had been foretold by Wrightson, had not been sufficient to
overcome the old fool’s idiotic passion for the buxom lass. In the end
he was told to go home, and when no one was in the house, he had to
lift up the flag in front of the doorstep, and place a certain leaf
of the Bible underneath, and carefully watch who stumbled over the
threshold as they entered. This, Nathan most carefully carried out. The
first who entered was their young lodger, and he stumbled; after awhile
in came the wife, and she stumbled. I don’t know if the flag tilted,
or whether the next person would have stumbled also, because Nathan
didn’t wait to test the result of a third entry, but hurried off to
Wrightson, to whom he made known the result. Wrightson told him that
his property was hidden in a certain part of a pig-sty, together with
an old watch, which up to that time Nathan had not missed. Other and
more serious charges were made, which for ever destroyed Nathan’s hope
of future happiness. Wrightson’s advice was that he should return home,
secure his watch, give them the five guineas, and send them about their
business. This was promptly carried out, and I believe is the quickest
and cheapest divorce proceeding on record. One other story has just
come into my mind, which, if true, proves to what a wonderful degree
he must have possessed a clairvoyant power.
A lady residing in some part of South Durham was likely to die from a
lump in her throat—possibly a quinsy. Nothing that was done gave her
ease; at last some one suggested the wise man of Stokesley. A man on
horseback was dispatched—I believe the son of the lady. On approaching
Wrightson’s house, even before he got to the door, the wise man looked
out, saying, as the young man came up, ‘Bait thi hoss, git summat ti
eat, an’ git thisen back agaan; t’ bleb’s brussen; sha’s all reet now;’
i.e. ‘Bait your horse, get some refreshment, and return home again; the
lump has burst; she is all right now.’
I have just had the following story given me by Old Willie Bradley of
Great Ayton. His father, who was a quarryman, had some tools stolen,
and, like every one else in those days, he went to Wrightson. ‘Noo,
then,’ said that worthy, on Willie’s father entering, ’thoo’s cum’d
aboot thi teeals, bud Ah can deea nowt fur tha, ez they’ve been hugg’d
accross watter; bud Ah can let tha see wheear tha’re liggin.’ Wrightson
then put him in front of a seeing-glass (looking-glass) in a darkened
room, and told him to keep looking at the glass, telling him if he
took his eyes off something awful would happen, but my informant
cannot remember what. Anyway, his father never was so terrified in
all his life, and wished he had never bothered about the lost tools.
In a little while, however, he saw them quite plainly, lying amongst
some bracken in a wood—the place he recognized quite easily. On
telling Wrightson what he had seen, he was cautioned not to touch
them. Wrightson said he must bring him a live magpie. This he tried to
obtain, but failed; he could not catch one, neither, for some reason,
would any boy who had one part with his pet; so, after a week, he
had to tell the wise man that the task was impossible. ‘Then,’ said
Wrightson, ‘Ah caan’t wark him onny harm, an’ thoo’ll ‘ ti loss the
teeals[52].’
Other stories of this man’s foreknowledge could be given almost ad lib.
Many of his methods suggested and adopted were of the heart-frizzling,
pin-sticking, wickenwood, and bottery-tree order. His rites and
ceremonies, too, occasionally savoured of the time in which he lived;
and, after all, there is not much to wonder at.
We are most of us very much influenced by the environments of our
own day; and after seeing a few of my own sex in Town, I can forgive
Wrightson much. Like many another clever man, he played to suit his
audience, and sang the songs of the day. There was, if all is true, no
need that he should have done so, and possibly he knew it—who knows?
Nanny Pearson was held in great fear by the good people of Goathland,
and that, too, a good way into the present century. As a witch of
the old school, Nanny’s fame was not confined to that locality. Many
stories are still told of her and her doings, two of which I will
give, as they afford a bit of new information, i.e. the power which
holy water had over witches. I believe in her younger days she was a
communicant of the Roman Catholic faith; be that as it may, she was
neither better nor worse than her sister witches of any other faith, or
no faith at all. It seems that a Mrs. Webster had a goose, which, as
was the custom of the time, was sitting on a cletch of eggs near the
fireside. Now, Nanny came daily to Mrs. Webster’s for milk, bringing an
empty jug, which she left, taking a full one away with her. The goose
was set one morning, and remained dutifully on her nest until evening;
but as Nanny approached the house, off flew the goose in a great state
of agitation, breaking two eggs, and could not be pacified until Nanny
was well off the premises. The same thing occurred each time Nanny came
for her milk, until some one, who was going to Scarborough, called upon
the wise man and asked his advice. He told them to get a little holy
water, put it in the jug with Nanny’s milk, and her power would be
broken—I suppose that meant her power over the goose, for she worked a
vast deal of ill after that. This was done; the jug with the holy water
and milk in due course was handed to Nanny, and just as she took hold
of it, the goose plucked up courage and flew at her, knocking it out of
her hand. It was broken in the fall, the contents splashing over her
feet and gown; with a shriek she fled, and from that day the goose was
never disturbed again.
Years ago, the Squire of Goathland had a very beautiful daughter.
Some old chap with any amount of money, and quite ugly, wished to
wed her, and for some unknown reason the Squire favoured his suit;
but, as is often the case, the damsel had given her heart to a young
farmer in the neighbourhood. The elder lover got it into his head
the couple would elope, so he sought the aid of Nanny; and the old
hag helped him with a vengeance, inasmuch as she so sorely afflicted
the damsel that she could not rise from her bed, and her legs began
to die—I don’t quite know what that means; anyway, her limbs became
useless. Her father told her that one of the female saints was greatly
displeased with her obduracy, and would not restore power to her limbs
until she consented to marry the man of his choice. This she flatly
refused to do, choosing rather to die outright. The younger lover was
distracted; he could not gain any reliable information, and a personal
interview was impossible. So he did as every one else did in those
days—he paid a visit to the wise man of Scarborough. The wise man,
after a considerable performance of his own, placed a seeing-glass in
front of the young fellow, desiring him to gaze steadily thereon, and
to tell him if he saw the likeness of any one appear. Presently the
young chap swore he had seen the face of Nanny Pearson. The wise man,
on hearing this, declared that she was the origin of all the evil,
and told him to return home, procure by some means a drop of Nanny’s
blood, and steal a few drops of holy water; these had to be mixed in a
cup of milk drawn from a red cow, and rubbed by him on the soles and
calves of his lady-love, when all would be well. This was a strongish
order, and well-nigh staggered the young chap. Firstly, how was he to
procure a drop of Nanny’s blood? Stealing the holy water was a simple
affair, as also was the red cow’s milk; but how to gain admission to
his lady-love’s chamber, and apply the remedies when obtained, was not
only a task of difficulty, but of danger. Bear in mind this was in the
days of dogs and horsewhips, which were often freely used; but then, as
now, love laughs at difficulties. Once let him become possessed of a
drop of Nanny’s blood, and he would overcome all the other obstacles.
On making his trouble known to an old dame in the village, one Janet
Haswell, she told him something he already knew in part, i.e. that in
a certain field a hare nightly sat, which neither dog could catch nor
man shoot; this hare, declared the old lady, was none other than Nanny
herself. She further assured him that if he melted some silver and made
shot of it, he would be able to hit the hare, and perhaps he might
find some blades of grass stained with blood. Most carefully the young
fellow carried out the old dame’s advice. He was successful; he hit the
hare, and found several blades of grass spotted with blood, which he
carefully gathered. Next day Nanny was confined to bed, and for some
weeks after. At the time, he alone knew the cause. Having procured a
ladder, he invaded his love’s room, and applied the remedy, when she
recovered instantly; he then retired. The damsel, rising and dressing
herself, descended the ladder, and was conveyed to a place of safety,
where she remained until they were wedded. This, by-the-way, I believe
is the first recorded case of massage.
A curious belief still clings to Gribdale Gate. Any one who dares to
stand near the said gate on New Year’s Eve, will see an old man open
it, pass through, and then vanish. This takes place just as the new
year is born. There is one man still living in Great Ayton who has seen
the old chap thus herald in the new year. Again, old people of Great
Ayton still aver that on a certain night a once noted witch, Nanny
Howe, may be seen riding astride on a broomstick over Howe Wood just at
midnight. This witch, so mounted, is said once to have chased the devil
for miles—on this occasion the two must have fallen out; perhaps at
that time honest folk got their due. Howe Wood is near Kildale.
Ailer Wood, her real name being Alice, was a witch of considerable note
throughout the Bilsdale district fifty years ago. In the form of a cat
or hare, she seems to have cared little either what kind or colour the
hounds were which chased her. She never was caught, but then she had a
little way of making herself invisible when too hard pressed; but in
this she was not alone, a case in point having already being mentioned.
Innumerable times was she fired at, ‘bud nivver nobody could hit her.’
On one occasion a damsel named Annie Wilson felt sure the old thing
had bewitched her sweetheart. The reason for such a supposition lay in
the fact that the young fellow had transferred his affections to some
other fair charmer. My idea is that the other girl had bewitched him;
that, however, was not Annie’s notion. She, like many another maiden
of her time, went with the sorrow of her aching heart to the wise man
of those parts, one Henry Wilson, who, after carefully listening to
Annie’s woeful story, told her how she could discover if it was the
witch who had cast a spell on her lover. She was to return home, turn
the cricket[53] wrong side uppermost, pushing pretty close together
and very securely into the wood nine pins, saying, as she pushed in
the last one, ‘There’s nine for him and her and the witch’; in another
place she had to push in another nine, repeating at the ninth, ‘There’s
nine for the witch and her and him’; and lastly, in another place,
another nine, concluding at the ninth by saying, ‘And there is nine
more for all three of them, wi’ her in t’ middle.’ By this arrangement,
the vile creature who had stolen her lover, was always mentioned so
that she occupied a place nearest the witch. All this having been
accomplished, the stool had to be set on its feet, and, under some
pretext or other, Ailer was to be induced to seat herself thereon. On
doing so, she would be unable to get up again until she truly answered
any questions Annie asked her. Everything was carried out as ordered by
Wilson: Ailer was called in, and offered a cup of tea, the stool having
been pushed toward her; she was invited to seat herself, and have her
bite and sup comfortably. Now, was ever a maiden nearer finding out
just why her lover had deserted her? The stool was even put in front
of the fire, and Ailer again invited to seat herself; but no, the
witch quietly replied, it would not be possible for her to enjoy the
good things they had given her, seated on the back of a ‘pricky-back
otch’n[54].’ Ailer by some means had found out what had been done, and
so escaped the charm which had been prepared for her.
No doubt exists in the minds of many people now, that hedgehogs milk
the cows[55]. It seems they creep up to them whilst they are resting,
and draw their milk from them. My old friend told me they always killed
a hedgehog whenever they saw one, for that reason.
One Nancy Newgill, a Broughton witch, used to set hedgehogs to milk the
cows of those she had a spite against, and it was commonly believed
that at times she used to turn herself into one, and then ‘neeabody’s
coos had onny chance’; anyway, there was one hedgehog which could run
as fast as a hare, and never was catched, ‘ner killed ner nowt.’ This
Nancy Newgill cast a spell on a certain Martha Brittain, from which
she could obtain no ease, no matter what she took; so off to the wise
man[56] Martha went. She was told to go to Stokesley, and buy a new
fire-shovel, upon which she had to chalk Nancy’s name[57]; then to make
a cake—the ingredients need not be given—and, after closing her doors
and window, the cake was to be baked upon the shovel resting on the
fire. This was done at four o’clock in the afternoon[58]. Now, at the
time this cake was being baked, Nancy Newgill was ’luking’ weeds in a
field a mile away, and standing quite close to her was my informant,
Mrs. Peary. Suddenly Nancy clapped her hand on her stomach, crying out,
‘Ah mun gan yam! Ah mun gan yam!’ She left the field, and was ill for
days after; but Martha Brittain began to mend straight away, and was as
right as ever she could be.
This, however, is a small affair, compared with the case of a man who
lived at Broughton, and had a spell cast on him, by whom he did not
know; at least, he was divided in his doubts. He suspected first Nancy,
and also a man with an evil eye at Nunthorpe, but he could not really
say which of them had cast the spell; so he went to the wise man, but
in this he got little comfort. The wise man told him, before he could
do anything he must be quite certain who had cast the spell, because if
he worked a counter-charm on any one, and they were innocent, what he
did would fall upon the complainant, in addition to what he was already
suffering. He advised him to ‘plump[59]’ both Nancy and the Nunthorpe
man with it. On accusing Nancy, she was so indignant, and looked him
so straight in the face, and swore such a fearful oath, that he felt
certain she for once was innocent; in such contrast was the behaviour
of the evil-eyed one of Nunthorpe, that he was equally satisfied that
he was the man. So sure was he, that he told the wise man he would
chance it; so they set to work. A fire of wickenwood having been
lighted close on midnight, a ball of clay was beaten flat with the back
of an old Bible; on this a rude figure was scooped out in the shape of
a man. Into this rough mould was poured a mixture of pitch, beeswax,
hog’s lard, bullock’s blood, and a small portion of the fat from a
bullock’s heart. The whole having been melted and well stirred on the
wickenwood fire, what remained of the mixture after filling the mould
was divided; one-half was thrown into water, worked into a ball, and
thrown away; the remaining portion was poured on to the fire, causing
a most tremendous blaze; when this died out, the ashes were buried in
the churchyard. The figure having been removed from its mould, and two
small holes made to represent the eyes, a pin was thrust into one of
these eyes, an incantation pronounced, and the spell was concluded.
The pain left the man as he was returning home, and that very night
the evil-eyed Nunthorpian was seized with a fearful pain, and before
morning was blind of an eye—the eye corresponding to the one through
which the pin had been thrust in the wax figure. I had the above from
one who well knew the trio. My informant is still living.
Matthew Appleton, of Busby, for many years ruled the planets—it seems
he ruled them so well that he found a pot of gold. This was ruling the
planets to some purpose, and it is a great pity astronomers don’t work
this seemingly dead science up a bit.
In connexion with the witch-lore of the riding, it strikes one as
singular, that whilst many of the stories told of local witches closely
resemble those of other countries, yet other stories, equally common,
both abroad and a little further north, so far as I have investigated,
are with us conspicuous by their absence. Of witches turning their
victims into horses by throwing a bridle over their heads and riding
them the night through, or of a witch having been outwitted and treated
in like manner, even in some instances casting a shoe, and of being
reshod during the night, the shoe remaining nailed to the hand on
regaining their natural form—of such stories, I repeat, not a vestige
remains amongst us. Thorpe’s _Mythology_ and the Wilkie MS. give many
instances; and though some of the stories are dated almost in recent
times, doubtless their radicals are to be found in the myth of times
remote.
Again, whilst we retain the belief in the efficacy of the dead hand in
the curing of certain diseases, one never hears mention of the ‘hand of
glory[60].’ There are old people to-day who tell you of its marvellous
power, but their knowledge is that gained from hearsay. I have never
met a single person who knew of an instance of its having been used in
the North Riding; and if ever such was the case, it must have been long
ago, for many of the old folk know absolutely nothing about it.
Silver shot was a deadly charge, because, in some way not explained,
it was charmed. Jane Wood, who was accounted a witch about seventy
years ago in the Basedale district, gave little heed either to dogs
or guns; when she assumed the form of a hare, she escaped from the
former quite easily, and the latter never could hit her. At last one
sportsman, acting on the advice of a wise man, melted some silver
coins in an iron ladle smeared with the blood of a hare. This was done
at the blacksmith’s forge, the same being plentifully supplied with
wickenwood. The melted silver was poured into a basin of water, which
divided it into fine particles; suitable pieces were collected, the gun
charged, and next evening the venturesome hare was fired at. Though it
escaped, it was evidently badly hit. Suspicion had for some time rested
on Jane. Her cottage was visited; she declared she was too ill to rise
and open the door, having, as she said, accidentally turned a beehive
over and got severely stung. This statement did not satisfy those
outside. The door was burst open, and Jane pulled out of bed; over one
part of her body she was found to be covered with small sores, which
there was no doubt had been caused by the silver shot. Anyway, that
venturesome hare was never seen again, so no further proof was required.
There is one point which requires a few words of explanation, at least
so far as it can be explained. We have heard of witches who allowed
themselves to be chased as hares, some of which, if not caught, were
bitten just as they were entering their own homes; on examination,
teeth-marks were found on a corresponding part of their body. The
same may be said of the injuries inflicted by the silver shot. The
telling of these stories leaves no doubt in one’s mind that the witches
in the cases mentioned are supposed to have turned themselves into
hares. This, however, was not always the case, as the following story
will show. There was a woman on whom grave suspicion rested; for
some reason or other she was never openly charged with being a witch,
but old heads were ominously shaken when her name was mentioned. In
the district in which she lived, there was a notorious hare, which
simply jeered at dogs and guns alike. At length some one suggested
silver shot; this was duly made, and the hare shot dead. Afterwards,
on comparing the times, it was found that Mrs.—— had thrown up her
arms the very moment when the hare was shot, ejaculating, ‘They have
killed my familiar spirit’; uttering these words, she fell dead on her
kitchen floor. Now Mrs.—— had not been out that day—there were plenty
of witnesses to testify that—so it would seem it was not always a case
of transformation, but a familiar spirit which was chased, whilst the
individual herself was at home attending to her household duties. Of
course all such were subject to the ills which might befall their
familiars.
There seems to be a very close connexion between a hare being shot and
corresponding wounds being found on the person of those who had so
transformed themselves, and the stories told of the witch mares being
shod and the shoes remaining fixed to their hands when their original
form was resumed.
_Hobmen._
At one time the family of Oughtred, who lived on a farm near Hob Hill,
Upleatham, were greatly assisted in their various occupations by the
hobman, who lived in the Hob Hill. These hobmen are heard of now and
again in the North Riding. The hobman[61] with us seems to hold the
same place as the brownies of the north, and the pixies of Devonshire.
Anyway, the hobman still did his work as recently as 1820; for the
Oughtreds had their hay turned, their cattle brought home and driven
back again, their corn and other grain winnowed, their turnips topped
and tailed, and I do not know what all. What they did to offend the
hobman, is not known. But it is thought that a man hung his coat on
the winnowing machine, and forgot to remove it when his day’s work was
done. The hobman possibly thought, when he entered late at night, that
it had been left for him; and no offence, it seems, could be greater
than to offer a hobman clothes of any kind, so he went away, and has
never been heard of since. It seems at the very time they unfortunately
displeased their friend the hobman, they also incurred the ill-will
of Peggy Flaunders; for about this time, late one evening, a fearful
knocking came at the back door. The maid, on opening it, saw a fearful
thing like a blazing pig standing on the step; with one wild shriek
she fled, crying out to her master and mistress that the devil had
come, and was standing on the back doorstep. They at once asked, had
she closed the back door? On being told that she was too frightened
to do anything else but flee from such a monster, they both sank back
in dismay, well knowing the evil spirit had been given a chance to
enter, which they rightly feared it would not fail to avail itself
of. They rushed to the back door, but nothing was there; still they
had their misgivings—they were terribly apprehensive. And sure enough
it turned out not without cause—crockery was smashed, machinery was
broken, cattle died; in fact things got into such a parlous state, that
they decided to leave. On the day when they were preparing to flit, a
friend looked in, and asked Oughtred if he really meant shifting. As he
asked the question, a queer little head popped out over the top of the
press, and a voice squeaked out, ‘Aye, we’re gahin ti flit ti morn’; on
hearing which, Oughtred said, ‘Whya, if thoo’s gahin wiv uz, it’s teea
neea ewse gahin; wa mud ez weel stop[62].’ The wise man was eventually
consulted. Legend sayeth not where he lived; but under his directions a
live black cock bird was pierced with pins, and roasted alive at dead
of night, with every door, window, and cranny and crevice stuffed up.
By these means Peggy’s power and the imp were overcome.
Years ago, when the old church at Marske-by-the-Sea was condemned,
and a new one about to be built, it was decided to pull down the old
structure and use the stone for building the new. This bit of vandalism
was duly commenced; part of the old building was razed, and the stone
carted to the new site[63]—so far, so good. The old people murmured,
for they objected greatly to the demolition of the edifice in which
they and their fore-elders had worshipped; but they were powerless—they
could only stand by and watch with aching hearts stone after stone
being carted away. And so the first day’s work came to an end, which
to them was work of desecration, and they returned home sad at heart.
But if they were powerless, they had a champion, and one whom they
had never dreamt of taking up their cause. Next morning, when the men
returned to their work, what was their surprise, and the amazement of
every one else, to find the old church whole again, without a stone
displaced or a mark of the previous day’s work to be found anywhere.
Every stone had been brought back again and replaced _in situ_, and the
mortar which had been used to reset the displaced stones was as hard
and set as that of hundreds of years before.
This marvellous occurrence was duly reported at head-quarters. What
the officials thought or imagined, is not recorded; they ordered the
work to proceed, and even set on more men to pull the old place down,
so that on the second day a considerable portion was carted away and
stacked on the new site; but next morning the old church was found to
have been fully repaired during the night, every stone having once
again been brought back and placed in its original position. Things
were now looking a bit serious. On the third day, however, work was
resumed, a portion again pulled down and carted away, but this time
men were set to watch the stones and find out who came for them. Now,
whether these watchers fell asleep—they declared they did not—or
whether in the darkness the stones were all stolen away so quietly that
they never heard or saw anything of what was transpiring, cannot be
stated; one thing is only known—when daylight appeared, every stone had
vanished, and again the old church was found to have been restored, so
perfectly that no one could tell that ever a stone had been removed.
Those in authority were bound to admit that it was useless to contend
further against such a powerful and invisible opponent. For long it
was not generally known by what means the work of replacement had been
wrought; but there were those who knew, and in time every one did. It
was the hobman, assisted by others of his friends. In those days it
was simply the essence of folly for architects and bricklayers to pit
themselves against a hobman, just the same it would be to-day, if the
hobmen took it into their heads to undertake a job—but they don’t now.
There was a hobman once had his home in a hill near to Hob Garth,
and no doubt in his day performed many acts which are now forgotten;
however, I had one related to me years ago by an old chap who at that
time was working on the Mulgrave estate. His grandfather, Thomas
Stonehouse, lived at Hob Garth for many years. I think he had a small
holding; anyway, he kept sheep. It seems that some misunderstanding
arose between him and one Matthew Bland, of Great Fryup. Bland was of a
vindictive nature—at least, if the supposition was true that he broke
Tommy’s hedge down late one night, drove the sheep out, and left them
to wander whither they liked. And wander they did to some purpose,
for at the close of the day following, Stonehouse had only managed to
find five out of forty. Next morning, what was his surprise not only
to find his sheep back in the field, but the hedge repaired with new
posts and rails. The neighbours knew that he could not have done the
repairing, for he had caught a severe cold, having been wet to the skin
searching for the lost sheep the day previous. Next night, however,
every head of cattle belonging to Bland was turned loose. ‘And great
deed there was lating on ’em; it war ower a fo’tnit afoor they war all
gitten tigither again.’ That Stonehouse was quite innocent of this bit
of retaliation was clear even to Bland, as it was well known he was too
ill to stir out of doors. But when Bland had recovered all his lost
cattle, Stonehouse’s were set loose again, and the damage done was even
greater this time; and as the poor fellow was still too ill to turn out
to find them, the neighbours did what they could. This time, however,
even fewer were found, but again on the following morning all but four
were safely back in the field, and all damage repaired; subsequently
the four were found dead, having fallen into a disused quarry. People
talked, as naturally they would, and the bringing back of the lost
sheep and repairing of the rails was put down to the hobman. When this
conclusion was come to, heads were shaken in an ominous manner, for
evidently if Tommy was befriended by the hobman, Matthew would have to
mind what he did. As soon as Tommy could, he set off to see his sheep.
It happened to be rather late when he paid the first visit after his
illness, owing to the fact that a neighbour was driving past where
the sheep were, and as he was returning presently, he offered to put
Stonehouse down and pick him up again as he returned. Tommy counted his
sheep, and after cutting some hay for them—it was wintertime—he sat
by the gate waiting for the return of his neighbour. Presently an old
man accosted him, and begged him not to fret about the lost sheep, as
they would be more than compensated for when lambing time came. The
old chap told him that Bland had on both occasions been guilty, but
that he had not to mind. Just then his friend drove up. Tommy bade his
new acquaintance good-night, thanked him, and got into the cart. No
sooner was he seated, than the good neighbour asked him what he meant
by saying good-night and thanking nobody at all. It transpired that the
owner of the cart had not noticed any one speaking to Tommy. In the
end he thought the old chap ’war a bit waak an rafflin.’ Anyway, when
lambing time came, though the weather was very severe, and every one
else, and more particularly Bland, lost many lambs, Stonehouse never
lost one. Ewes, during Tommy’s absence, were found safely delivered of
their lambs, and mostly had two, and never a black one amongst them.
‘An’ noo that war a larl bit sing’lar, warn’t it? Bud then, ya knaw,
i’ them daays when t’ hobman did tak ti yan, ya war yal reet i’ t’
lang-run; an’ ivvery wo’d ’at Ah’ve tell’d ya’s trew, ’coz Ah’ve heeard
mah gran’father tell t’ taal ower an’ up agaan; bud it’s a gay bit
sen noo,’ wound up my informant. The hobman was described as a little
old fellow, with very long hair, large feet, eyes, mouth, and hands,
stooping much as he walked, and carrying a long holly stick. The date
of the story would be about 1760.
CHAPTER XI
SOME CHARACTERISTIC YORKSHIRE SAYINGS
Kindly contributed by the Rev. M. C. F. MORRIS, B.C.L., M.A., Author
of _Yorkshire Folk-Talk_.
There is a saying current among us in the East Riding that ‘it takes
a Yorkshireman to talk Yorkshire’; the very form of the expression
smacks of the county; and if this be true, as true it is, of the
mere pronunciation of the dialect, it is no less true with regard to
those other linguistic features—the idioms, phraseology, and way of
putting things, which in this, as in every other folk-speech, go to a
great extent to make up the vernacular. We might even advance a step
beyond the statement just quoted, for by no means the majority even
of those who have lived in the county all their lives can tongue the
speech aright, and many not at all. It is far from uncommon to hear
an accurate pronunciation of the dialect from the lips of those who
are supposed to speak it well, and to find at the same time that the
speaker wholly lacks an appreciation of those modes of thought, those
turns and peculiarities of expression in which the Yorkshire dialect is
peculiarly rich, and without which it sounds by comparison only tame
and feeble. As between dog-Latin and the well-turned and polished,
though often long-winded, sentences of Cicero, so is it in some sort
between the two styles of dialectical Yorkshire to which I refer. The
one grates upon the ear, while the other rings true. Over and above
idiomatic usages strictly so called, there are many sayings more or
less familiar which, though they cannot be brought under any rules of
speech, like those of grammar, yet seem to possess a certain raciness
all their own, and at the same time bring before us something of the
Yorkshireman’s force and character. To some of these I will here direct
attention, though it must be understood that what are here cited are
but a few disconnected specimens of many more which might be given.
We are most of us, no doubt, aware that in all his dealings and matters
of business the Yorkshireman is pre-eminently of a strongly practical
turn of mind. We ‘reckon nowt’ of a man who is not that.
It would be untrue to say that sentiment is a state of mind absolutely
unknown to his nature; but its presence is so rare, and its hold upon
him so feeble, that it need hardly be taken into account in considering
his character. There may, no doubt, be times when such feelings are
brought into play, but the strange thing is that when we might most
reasonably look for them, we look in vain.
Those attractive personal charms of the gentler sex which with ordinary
mortals are generally supposed to have their effect at times when a
young man is seeking a partner for life, weigh but little for the most
part with the matter-of-fact Yorkshireman who regards his intended
from a severely practical point of view. What, we may ask, would the
sentimentalist of the highly strung poetical temperament think of this
piece of advice which was once given to a youth at an interesting
period of his life? ‘Leeak at a lass’s han’s when thoo’s laatin’ a
weyfe; deean’t be daffled wiv ’er feeace!’ It was said in the olden
days that the lass who churned ‘wi’ buckles on her shoon’ was to be
lightly esteemed, but for sheer practicality the manual test could
hardly be surpassed. I well remember, many years ago, the case of a man
who was twice married. His first wife proved herself an excellent one
in every way, and the couple lived happily together. When she died,
and he proceeded to look out for a successor, his choice fell on one
who also turned out a no less industrious and tidy woman, though her
personal attractiveness was not of a specially pronounced character. On
being asked by a neighbour what led him to make his selection in the
way he did, he made answer to the effect that his sole reason for doing
so was because his second wife’s ’carcase’ reminded him so strongly of
that of his first; she was a lithe, active woman, and he thought, no
doubt, that she looked like work.
Despite these purely utilitarian considerations in matters matrimonial,
the saying we have heard that the ‘sweetness of a posy mainly hings
on fra wheear yan gits it,’ indicates that some at least of our
country-folk, under certain favouring conditions, can say pretty
things, though it must be confessed such elegancies are few and far
between. The ordinary village gossip who neglects her household
duties for the sake of ‘having a crack’ with her neighbours, has from
‘prehistoric times,’ no doubt, come in for much plain-speaking, of
which this may be given as an example: ‘T’ weyfe ’at can ho’d her au’d
man up wi’ t’ news oot o’ t’ toon, meeastlins bakes bo’nt breead.’
Such wives as these are not the ones to pay much heed to principles of
domestic economy. Nevertheless, considerations of this kind are as a
rule carefully thought out by our country-folk, if not scientifically,
at least in a way that makes a shilling go as far as possible. It may
be said, indeed, speaking generally, that domestic affairs receive, on
the part of the Yorkshire wife, an amount of attention that is highly
commendable, and adds not a little to the happiness of the family, and
in no part of England do the people understand the meaning of the word
‘comfort’ better than they do in Yorkshire.
Cleanliness is a virtue for which our people have long been
conspicuous, though even here extremes will sometimes meet, and
excessive scrupulousness in this respect will at times be something of
a burden to the household rather than a joy.
It was once said of a ‘gudewife’ whose washings, scrubbings,
polishings, and brushings were performed with more than ordinary
frequency and vigour, ‘Sha scrats an’ tews fra morn whahl neet; sha
werrits an’ natters an’ grummels t’ daay lang.... There’s neea comfort
i’ t’ hoos; an’ ther nivver is wheear t’ kettle’s breet all ower.’
In days gone by it used to be said that a ’calling’ wife and a dusty
spinning-wheel were commonly associated together, and the saying,
‘A mucky moos-trap shoots’ (shouts) ‘for t’ cat,’ was one of those
standing rebukes to a slatternly _mater familias_ which is tellingly
put, while the following doggerel might well find a place on the walls
of every kitchen:—
A cobweb i’ t’ kitchen
An’ feeat-marks on t’ step
Finnd neea wood i’ t’ yewn
An’ neea cooals i’ t’ skep.
No theme is more frequently harped upon by our old folks, when
contrasting present manners and customs with those of a generation or
two ago, than the change that has come over the community in the matter
of dress, and there is a moral which they commonly draw therefrom.
‘There’s sadly owermich prahd noo,’ say they; while the money that many
of the young people spend upon their dress passes the understanding
of their elders, who in their younger days were content with fustian
jackets and print gowns. It was said, for instance, by one who held
that a hood was a suitable head-covering for a woman, that ‘she is a
feeal ’at hugs a geease’ (i.e. the price of a goose) ‘on t’ top of her
heead.’ In consequence of extravagancies of this nature, it is doubtful
if, in spite of increased wages and cheapness of living, our farm lads
and lasses save as much money as they did in the olden days. With corn
at the high price it was, say, fifty years ago, the people were early
inured to thrifty ways, and the absolute necessity for carefulness in
all things was frequently insisted upon. Thus, for instance, a child
would be told that ‘a beean thrawn away at t’ fore-end is a dinner lost
at t’ back-end.’ Few of those living now would credit with what hard
fare their grandfathers had often to be content, and yet the physique
of the men which those times produced was probably not inferior, in
point of endurance and capacity for work, to that at the present time.
Most of us, I dare say, remember the schoolgirl’s reply when asked
to define scandal, namely, ‘When no one does nothing to nobody, and
some one else goes and tells’; and although we cannot perhaps surpass
even in Yorkshire that happy explanation of the term, yet we do own to
certain sayings with reference to the unruly member, some of which may
not be unworthy of being placed on record. There is one, for instance,
which savours somewhat of the schoolgirl’s definition just mentioned,
and there are probably many similar ones; it runs thus: ‘Them ’at says
they deean’t leyke saayin’ nowt aboot nowt ti neeabody, meeastlins pass
tahm by saayin’ summat aboot summat ti somebody.’
Again, the following rhyme aptly hits off what, it is to be feared, is
a not altogether uncommon failing in Yorkshire as elsewhere:—
Them ’at says they weean’t, an’ diz it still,
Dizn’t deea it when they saay they will.
We all know what to expect from a ‘slaap un’; he or she can never be
depended on for anything. It was said of a female whose tongue could
not be trusted, or, as we say in the East Riding, whom we could not
‘talk after’: ‘Ah reckon nowt o’ what sha says.... Praise frev a slaap
tongue is nae better wo’th ’an rain i’ haay tahm.’
That the idler is ever ready to make excuses for his idleness, and that
half the ‘loafers’ who infest the countryside are as capable of doing
a day’s work as any one else in the community, we are well aware. We
know, too, how any slight ailment is by many used as a plea for having
an ‘off-day’; it is to such ‘ne’er-do-weels’ as these that the saying
applies: ‘Yan’s nivver ower waak to wark when yan’s yabble ti bunch an
au’d hat ower t’ green.’
It is remarkable how few of the well-known English proverbs are in
common use among our country folk in the form in which they have been
handed down to us. They are for the most part either supplanted by
corresponding ones of more or less local growth or by extemporized
expressions which do duty for the same and are of scarcely less
force. Thus, for example, it was said of one who had been addicted to
intemperate habits, and had at length given them up, but, alas! only to
fall immediately into the wily snares of horse-racing and betting: ‘Ah
deean’t think ’at he’s mended hissen mich: they saay ’at he’s signed t’
pledge, bud started ti hoss-race; t’ rabbit dizn’t fare na betther ’at
’scapes fra t’ fox an’ meets wi’ t’ rezzil.’
The well-worn saying that ‘prevention is better than cure,’ is one
which none of us will care to gainsay, and we are for the most part
minded so to word the truism; the ancient statement is, however, apt to
take a different turn when uttered by Yorkshire lips. On one occasion
a Yorkshireman remarked to another countryman, with reference to a
certain fire in a house in the neighbourhood, ‘He sleck’d t’ fire
oot afoor mich damage wer deean’; whereto the reply came, ‘’T may be
clivver ti stop a bull, bud it’s wiser ti loup t’ yat.’
An instance is recorded, and we fear it is by no means a solitary one,
of a certain would-be fine lady in one of our Yorkshire villages who
dressed herself up in a manner singularly unbecoming for one in her
station in life, and withal gave herself highly ridiculous airs. This
kind of parade, as may be supposed, gave no little offence in certain
quarters, while others of her sex, though not able or willing to adorn
their persons to the same absurd degree of finery, were in no wise
inferior in real worth to this flaunty and gaily bedecked female. As
‘my lady’ sailed down the ‘town street’ on one occasion, a critical
observer of her ways was heard to remark, ‘Sha gans wiv her heead up as
thoff yan wer nowt bud muck; bud Ah’ll tell ya what, Ah’s as good as
sha is, if Ah’s nut sa weel putten on—black fleeace or white fleeace,
t’ mutton’s t’ seeam.’ It would be difficult to say whether such a one
were the more deserving of all the severe things that were heaped upon
her or another of whom we have heard—Bessie by name. Her ‘pleeanin’’
ways were thus described: ‘It’s awlus ower fine or ower wet for oor
Bessie, bud sum folks is that grum’ly, that they awlus ’ev a steean i’
ther shoon.’
The ordinary infirmities of the flesh are no doubt the inheritance of
the Yorkshireman equally with the rest of mankind; we can claim for him
no immunity from these. He is ‘hurt with the same weapons, subject to
the same diseases, healed by the same means,’ even as others. Fools
are perhaps rather less frequently met with in this than in some other
counties, and if there is one bump more clearly developed upon the
Yorkshireman’s cranium than another, it is that of caution. Those
who happen to be deficient in that particular quality come in for no
unfrequent reproofs and warnings from their more ‘gaumish’ fellows.
Thus to one who was always being taken in by people of whom he knew
nothing, this piece of advice was given: ‘Afoor yan claps a stthrange
dog uppo t’ heead, yan s’u’d awlus leeak ’at it teeal;’ while of
another, whose propensity to spend money was in excess of that usually
found among those who dwell between the Humber and the Tees, it was
said, ‘Aw deear, what a feeal he’s been! bud Ah’ve telled him mair ’an
yance ’at money ta’en oot o’ t’ pocket’s mair ’an hauf spent.’ Again,
we have a Yorkshireman’s equivalent of the brief injunction, ‘look
before you leap,’ expressed as follows: ‘Nivver loup a stell widoot ya
knaw what sooart of a footho’d you’ll leet on.’
To the same effect as the foregoing is a small bit of admonition that
comes down to us from the days of the old tinder-box; and for lack of
its due observance, many a small trouble has been experienced. The
word of warning shapes itself thus: ‘Afoor yan flints tundther, knaw
wheear t’ rush-leet is.’ A few old formulas of this kind may even still
occasionally be heard. It was not long ago that I was told of one from
the borders of Durham and Yorkshire which struck me as having an
antiquated flavour, but yet, withal, one of a picturesque kind. The
reason for its use was to reprove a child for displaying a certain
greediness at table. It would sound strangely in modern ears to hear
it said to a child in such a case: ‘Thoo’s ’greed wi’ sham an’ gi’en
mense a grot’ (you have made an agreement with shame, and given decent
behaviour a groat).
There is no little truth as well as force in the old expression which
says, ‘Them ’at crack o’ thersens awlus to’n’ (turn) ‘oot blawn
eggs’; and those who have risen in the world, especially if it be by
questionable means, may well take a lesson from the saying, ‘Him ’at’s
gitten ti t’ top o’ t’ stee, dhrops farest when he falls.’
In Yorkshire, as elsewhere, those who thus ‘crack o’ thersens,’ besides
being unpopular with their fellows, are, generally speaking, more
easily daunted than those who are not given to blow their own trumpets.
That was a truly good specimen of our dialectical usages which had
reference to one who was in the habit of sounding his own praises in no
measured terms. ‘Whya,’ said a countryman, who took a fairly accurate
measure of this vain boaster’s ways, ‘Ah deean’t knaw; he’ll mebbe nut
deea sa mich when all cums ti all; Ah’ve heeard folk saay ’at a bragger
taks a lang stthrahd when t’ teeap’ (the ram) ‘grunds it heeaf’ (stamps
the ground with its hoof).
The most trifling and homely incidents frequently give occasion to a
Yorkshireman for bringing out some of his flashes of wit and raciness
of expression. I remember not long ago hearing of a native of the
North Riding who, one day in the fore-part of ‘sheep-clipping time,’
accompanied an old shepherd in order to have some sheep washed. They
had to wait near the appointed place until another flock had gone
through the well-known process of cleansing, and as they were whiling
away the time, the vicar’s mother and sister drove by. Seeing what
was going on, they pulled up and entered into conversation with the
old shepherd, who, like every Yorkshireman, was a bit of a character.
‘We do so like the smell of sheep,’ they said; to which the old man
replied, ‘Yis, mum, an’ seea deea Ah; bud Ah leykes t’ teeast on ’em
betther!’
In the few examples I have here given, it will perhaps be seen how that
the Yorkshireman has a way of expressing himself which seems to be
peculiarly his own, and how his utterances generally strike a stranger
by their originality and quaintness. Refreshing is it to hear these
when spoken with all the naturalness and force with which some of the
older folk tongue them. They come upon us like whiffs of sea air laden
with ozone, which put new life into us and make us walk with a lighter
step.
I will bring my short chapter to a close by a characteristic little
story which forcibly illustrates how strong the Yorkshireman’s ruling
passion—I mean, of course, his love of horseflesh—is in death.
I was told quite recently of a farmer who, at the time of the
transaction to be related, was laid up with a dangerous illness;
indeed, it proved to be his last. At this time he was possessed of
a thoroughbred mare, which he was anxious to sell. A dealer in the
neighbourhood had had his eye on the mare, and wanted at once to
buy it. Accordingly he called on the farmer, and was shown into his
bedroom. The bargain was not struck during the visit, though the
difference between the two was only a matter of a sovereign or so.
A few days, however, after this interview, the dealer again presented
himself at the house, not knowing that in the meantime the farmer had
died. On entering the yard, the horse-dealer inquired of the man in the
stables, how the master was. ‘Oh! he’s deead,’ said the man; ‘he deed
last Tho’sda, bud afoor he deed he said ’at thoo was ti ’ev t’ meer!’
CHAPTER XII
IDIOMS AND THE PECULIAR USE OF CERTAIN WORDS
The folk-speech of our county abounds in idioms, and possesses many
forms of curious phraseology.
It is these and other peculiarities which add much to its forcefulness,
and form one of its main features.
It will be the object of this short chapter to explain some of these
usages and idioms.
In writing such a chapter there is one difficulty presents itself—where
to commence. There is too much material. As a starting-point, let us
take the following remark, which was made to me the other day by an old
dame:—
‘Them lads weean’t deea ez tha’re tell’d; Ah may shoot at ’em ez oft
ez Ah leyke, tha deean’t _mend ther waays_. Ah wadn’t mahnd if tha war
_onny bit leyke_;’ i.e. ‘Those boys will not do as they are told; I
may shout at _’em_ as often as I may, they do not mend their ways. I
would not mind if they were any way reasonable.’
One word with reference to ‘’em.’ Writers on Yorkshire mark ‘them,’ so
written, with an elision point (’em).
Is this correct? I offer an opinion for what it is worth. The
vocabulary of our people dates back to a very remote period; the same
may be said of many of the rules which govern their speech. May not
this ‘em’ be a case in point; and instead of being a contraction of
‘them,’ only the plural form ‘hem,’ which they have retained along with
many other old-time words?
Wicliff, in the parable of the Prodigal Son, translates as
follows:—‘And the younger of hem;’ and a few lines below, we find, ‘and
he departed’ (divided) ‘to hem.’ Although our people have not retained
in their vocabulary the word ‘departed,’ they have held on to another
equally archaic, i.e. parting, ‘partinge,’ to divide. I leave this for
others better able than I to decide.
In the old dame’s statement it was said that the lads would not mend
their ways. ‘To mend our ways’ is equivalent to saying, ‘improve,’ ‘to
grow better’; and to be ‘onny bit leyke’ = being reasonable.
In the sentence ‘Yon’s nowt ti mahn,’ the word ‘yon’ signifies ‘that
or those over there.’ ‘Yon chap’ is ‘that man over there’; or ‘yon
coos,’ ‘those cows over there.’ ‘That chap’ points out a man near at
hand; ‘yon chap,’ one who is a greater or less distance removed from
the speakers. Hence, ‘Yon is nothing to mine’ tells that the thing
spoken of was some distance away. ‘To,’ in the statement ‘to mine,’
is equivalent to ‘compared with,’ i.e. ‘That (one) is nothing when
compared with mine.’
‘To’ also = ‘for,’ e.g. ‘good ti nowt,’ ‘good for nothing.’ Again,
‘to’ = ‘this.’ And although to some it sounds odd to hear a farmer say,
‘Wa s’all ’ev a good crop ti year,’ ‘we shall have a good crop to’
(this) ‘year,’ it only sounds peculiar because it is unfamiliar. The
same individual who would smile at such usage, would perhaps a moment
afterwards ask, ‘what have we _to_ dinner _to_-day?’ i.e. ‘What have
we for dinner this day?’ The usage of the negative in the double,
treble, or quadruple form is not infrequent. ‘Ah nivver at neea tahm
sed nowt aboot nowt ti neeabody neeaways; Ah’d nivver neea call teea,’
literally, reads thus: ‘I never at no time said nothing about nothing
to nobody no way; I had never no reason to;’ or, ‘I never said a
word to any one; I had no reason to.’ ‘Ah’d nivver neea call teea.’
‘Call’ = ‘reason.’ ‘Ah’ll gi’e him a good calling when he cums in; bud
he wants his jacket lacing weel t’ maist ov owt.’ ‘To call’ here = ‘to
scold.’
‘Sha called ma leyke all that; aye! ivverything ’at sha c’u’d lig her
tung teea.’ In this instance, ‘called’ means more than a scolding; it
means, ‘to defame,’ ‘to have said of the person shameful things,’ ‘to
illify[64],’ ‘to speak evil of.’ ‘To lace any one’s jacket,’ is ‘to
administer a sound thrashing’; and to say ‘ivverything ’at one can lay
the tongue to,’ is to heap upon a person all the opprobrious epithets
we can remember or invent. We should not say to a child, ‘What is your
name?’ Possibly did we do so, we should be met with a blank stare of
amazement. The correct form would be, ‘What do they call you?’ and you
would have an answer at once.
We should not say ‘Shout to John,’ but ‘Call of John’; or ‘Thoo’ll ’a’e
ti shoot on him looder na that, if thoo aims ti mak him hear,’ i.e.
‘you will have to shout to him louder than that, if you intend to make
him hear.’ This word ‘call’ caused considerable bewilderment to one who
had to make a complaint to a mother of her son. Being a stranger, the
mother replied to him in her best English, but although she managed
to divest her speech of much of its usual vocabulary, idiom and the
peculiar use of certain words were not so easily laid on one side. She
began, ‘It’s ti little ewse, bud Ah’ll call on him, an’ Ah’ll call him
well when he cums; bud it’s ti no good my calling him when he does cum,
foor Ah’ve called him many a tahm afoor.’
Now, why the good lady should promise to call for him when he had
come, and to assure the gentleman it was of no use calling him when
he arrived, because she had done so many a time before, didn’t leave
things as clear as they might have been. What she really meant to say
was, ‘I will shout for him, and give him a scolding when he comes; but
really scolding is of little use, as I have done so many a time before.’
A little way back the word ‘aim’ was used—‘if thoo aims ti mak him
hear.’
‘Aim’ = ‘to intend,’ ‘to hope,’ ‘to think,’ ‘to go.’
‘Ah aim ti git deean ti-day’ = I intend to get done to-day; or, I hope
to get done to-day.
‘Ah aim ’at sha’ll git better’ = I think that she will get better.
‘Ah aim ’at he’s a better talker ’an t’ parson’ = I think that he is a
better speaker than the parson.
‘He’s aiming t’ wrang road’ = He’s going in the wrong direction.
‘Ah aim ’at it’s _good_ eneeaf ti deea’ = I think that it is easy
enough to do.
The word ‘good’ = ‘easy,’ also ‘considerable.’
‘Ther war a good lot o’ sheep an’ a goodish few pigs,’ i.e. There were
a considerable number of sheep, and equally so of pigs.
‘Good’ also = ‘well.’
‘Thoo mud ez good cum ti morn ez t’ daay eftther’ = You may as well
come in the morning as the day after.
‘To lap up a thing’ is ‘to conclude,’ ‘finish,’ ‘overcome.’
‘Ah s’all lap it up iv a minit’ = I shall be done in a minute.
‘Ah’ll seean lap yon job up’ = I will soon end that affair.
‘If Ah caan’t lap yon chap up, Ah’ll gi’e ower’ = If I cannot overcome
(thrash) yon man, I will give over; literally, I will admit my
incapacity to do anything.
‘To gi’e ower’ = ‘to cease.’
‘Noo, bairns! gi’e ower potching steeans at t’ ducks; ya’ll be
laamin’ sum on ’em, an’ then sum on ya’ll be gitting ta’en afoor yer
betters’ = Now, children, cease throwing stones at the ducks; you will
be hurting some of them, and then some of you will be getting taken
before your betters.
‘To be taken’ or ‘having to appear before one’s betters’ = ‘appearing
before the justices.’
‘Bunch’ and ‘punch’ are two words over which mistakes are often made.
‘Bunch’ is to kick with the foot or knee, ‘punch’ is to hit with the
hand.
‘He bunched, an’ Ah punched, an’ wa baith toupled inti t’ beck
tigither.’
‘Mrs. Ridge, will ya mak your Sally gi’e ower? sha’s bunching ma.’
‘Nobbut when thoo lugs (my hair), Ah deean’t bunch nobbut when thoo
lugs, an’ ivvery tahm ’at thoo lugs, Ah’ll bunch. If it’s gahin to be
lug foor bunch, it s’all be bunch foor lug,’ shouted Sally.
The very common occurrence of changing the past participle passive
into the infinitive active, with ‘be,’ is somewhat curious. Instead of
saying, ‘it will have to be seen to,’ we should say, ‘it’ll be ti leeak
teea’; or, ‘the dog is dead, it will have to be buried,’ would become,
‘t’ dog’s deead, it’ll be ti sahd by.’ ‘To sahd by’ is ‘to bury,’ and
‘to put out of the road’ is ‘to kill.’ ‘Wa’ve ’ed ti put t’ au’d meer
oot o’ t’ road.’
As the following bit of information introduces many of our idioms, I
will give it as uttered.
‘Thoo maunt _let on_ aboot it, bud oor Tom’s _keeping company_ wi’
Hannah, Mary’s lass; _an’ Ah’ll tell tha what_, she diz _git hersen up_
when they gan oot. _Ah nivver thowt foor_ oor Tom ti keep company wi’
her; sha’s _far an’ awaay_ t’ best leeaking ov onny on ’em. Aye! _byv
a lang waay_; bud he’s gitten weel in wi’ _t’ au’d woman_, an’ he can
gan an’ _hing his hat up_ onny tahm he ’ez a mahnd teea. Ah’ve gi’en
him _an inklin’_ ’at he mun allus _mak hissen mensful_, an’ ti _think
on_ nivver ti _let wit_ owt aboot Nancy. They ’ed a _few wo’ds_ t’other
daay aboot her; it war _all alang of_ summat ’at Jack let slip; an’,
mah wo’d, bud Tom did _ramp an’ rahve_ when he gat ti knaw. Sha sed
’at sha wadn’t be played _fast an’ loose_ wi’; bud Ah tell’t him ti
_feeace it oot_, an’ nut git oot o’ heart, an’ _fall oot_ t’ ane wi’ t’
ither ower a _larl matter_ leyke that. Bud he sed ’at sha war _grieved
an’ vexed an’ putten aboot_; an’ _moreover ’an that_, Ah tell’d him nut
ti _tak t’ hig_, bud ti tak neea _‘count on_ what fau’k sed, bud ti
deea his best ti _hit it off_, an’ _gi’e ower_ acting leyke ez if he’d
gitten _a slaate off_, an’ nut ti _fetch things up_, or else sha’d be
gi’ing him t’ _cau’d shou’der_, an’ mebbe _gi’ing him t’ sack_ if he
_gat her back up_; onny road, tha’ve _gitten things straighten’d up_ a
bit noo, seea lang ez it lasts.’
‘To let on’ = to tell, to divulge.
‘Keeping company’ = to be engaged.
‘An’ Ah’ll tell tha what’ = I assure you.
‘To get oneself up’ is to pay great attention to one’s appearance.
‘Ah nivver thowt foor’ = expected.
‘Far an’ awaay’ = much.
‘Byv a lang waay’ = much.
‘T’ au’d woman’ = either wife or mother.
‘To hing one’s hat up’ = to be on very friendly terms.
‘An inklin’ = a hint.
‘To mak oneself mensful’ = to put on one’s best.
‘To think on’ = to bear in mind.
‘To let wit’ = to divulge.
‘Few wo’ds’ = a slight disagreement.
‘All alang of’ = owing to.
‘Ramp an’ rahve’ = a violent passion.
‘Fast an’ loose’ = first one way and then another.
‘Feeace it out’ = to meet an accusation boldly.
‘To fall out with’ = to quarrel with.
‘Larl matter’ = of small moment.
‘Grieved an’ vexed an’ putten aboot’ = to be annoyed.
‘Moreover ’an that’ = besides.
‘Tak t’ hig’ = to take offence.
‘Count on’ = notice.
‘To hit it off’ = to agree.
‘Gi’e ower’ = cease.
‘A slaate off:’ to have a slate off = to be an idiot.
‘Fetch things up’ = to mention bygones.
‘To get the cau’d shou’der’ = to be treated coolly.
‘To give or get the sack’ = to dismiss, to lose a situation.
‘To get one’s back up’ = to be provoked to anger.
‘To get things straightened up’ = to arrange things in proper order, to
settle matters in dispute.
To the above list may be added a few others which are equally common:—
‘Ah’ll mak sewer o’ that, hooivver.’ ‘To make sure’ is to put a thing
in a safe place.
‘Ah’ll mak an end on ’t.’ ‘To make an end of’ is to destroy, or
conclude a matter once for all.
‘Recollect’ is generally used instead of ‘remember,’ but ‘beear i’
mahnd’ is most commonly used.
‘Ah nobbut want nobbut yan.’ ‘Nobbut yan’ is ‘only one.’ I only want
one.
‘Hard eneeaf’ = without doubt. ‘He’ll deea ’t hard eneeaf.’
‘Ah put it all waays.’ To put things all ways = explaining a thing in
every conceivable manner.
‘Ah feel _nobbut midlin’_ = only moderately well.
‘Ah’s _neycely_ noo.’ ‘Nicely’ is equal to almost quite well.
‘Ah’s _better_’ does not imply that the patient has recovered, but is
recovering.
‘It’s nowt bud a _misfit_, onny road ya tak ’t’ = it is nothing but a
bad fit (answers badly), or altogether out of place.
‘Ah s’u’d be all reet if ’twarn’t for this _naggin’ pain_’ = toothache.
‘Nighest ov onny’ = nearest of any. ‘Ah gat nighest tiv him ov onny on
’em.’
‘Not suited’ = not pleased. ‘Ah war neean seea suited at what sha sed.’
‘_Naay, what!_ wa s’all be _forced_ ti gan.’ ‘Forced’ is to be
obliged. ‘Naay, what!’ implies either surprise or disappointment.
‘Whya, yan sees him _noos an’ thens_.’ ‘Noos and thens’ = occasionally.
‘It won’t be _lang fo’st_’ = it won’t be long before.
‘Whya, Ah’ll tell tha what; if thoo nobbut _taks_ it this road, tho’ll
mebbe change thi mahnd.’ To take = to consider.
‘Ah _thowt for ti cum_, bud Tommy wadn’t.’ ‘Thowt for ti cum’ = almost
decided to, intended.
‘Ah caan’t say hoo, bud _wa’ve gitten oot wiv_ ’em.’ To get out with,
or fall out with = to be at variance.
‘_Wa’re kind_ agaan noo; Ah’ve _’ed it ower wiv him_.’ To be kind is
to be friendly; and to have it over with is to have given and received
a full explanation.
‘It war that _pick dark_ ’at Ah couldn’t see t’ hoss’s heead.’ ‘Pick
dark’ = absolutely dark.
‘He’s sthrangely _setten up_ wi’ t’ thing.’ ‘Setten up’ = very pleased.
‘Ah mun be gahin’; Ah ’ev ti ride on _shank’s gallowaay ti neet_,’
i.e. to walk.
‘He’ll ’a’e ti mahnd an’ _treead his teeas streight_, or he’ll be
gitting t’ sack.’ To tread one’s toes straight is to be careful to do
right in all things.
‘Ah caan’t gan up Roseberry leyke Ah yance c’u’d, Ah git seea _oot
o’ puff_ noo.’ ‘Oot o’ puff,’ and ‘sho’t o’ puff,’ is to be out of
breath, and short of breath.
‘Whya, Ah thowt ’at ther war nobbut varra _slack deed_,’ i.e. dull,
nothing doing.
‘Ah nivver war oot i’ sike a _steeping rain_ afoor,’ i.e. pouring down.
‘Ah _laid it oot_ tiv him _all roads_,’ i.e. explained. I explained it
to him every way.
‘Thoo can saay what thoo leykes, bud Ah _reckon nowt on_ him,’ i.e.
have a very poor opinion of him.
‘Ah warn’t _satisfied_ aboot it, efter Ah’d seed it,’ i.e. certain.
‘Ah _start_ ti morn; Bob dizn’t want t’ meer whahl t’ daay efter, he’s
nut gahin’ ti _start_ whahl then,’ i.e. begin.
‘Ah’s nut _thruff wi’_ ’t yet’ = finished.
‘Ah’s be _agate_ ti morn.’ ‘Agate’ is ‘to commence.’
‘He nivver did a _hand to’n_ all t’ tahm ’at he war here,’ i.e. a
single thing, or stroke of work.
‘Ah maad fahve on ’em _hand running_,’ i.e. without interruption, or
without ceasing to work.
‘‘Ez ’t _kessen up_ yet?’ = has it been found?
‘Tho’ll ’a’e ti _knuckle down_,’ i.e. humble oneself.
‘Sha’s a bad un, sha’s allus _setting_ things aboot.’ ‘To set about’
is to spread reports.
‘It gans weel wi’ them ’at weel gans wi’’ = it goes well with those
that well goes with, i.e. nothing succeeds like success.
‘Tha’re gahin’ ti ’ev _grand deed_; sha’s ti be _sahded by_ o’
Tho’sday.’ ‘Grand deed,’ something out of the ordinary; ‘sahded by,’
buried.
‘Ah’ve _wrought hard_ all t’ day, bud Ah’ve _brokken its heart_
noo.’ ‘Wrought hard,’ is to work hard; and ‘to break the heart of an
undertaking,’ is to get the upper hand of it.
‘Neea, Ah’s a bit ta’en in; it _show’d_ ti be a good un, bud it’s
warse ’an _a nahn wi’ t’ taal cut off_.’ ‘To show’ = to appear, and a
nine with its tail cut off stands a cypher.
‘It didn’t _fetch_ what Ah _reckon’d_ it wad.’ ‘Fetch’ = realize,
‘reckoned’ = thought.
‘Ah war _hard an’ fast asleep_ when ‘Liza cam,’ i.e. sound asleep.
‘Martha sez ’at sha’s _cumin’ roond_ neycely,’ i.e. improving.
‘Ah’ll a’e neea mair o’ that; Ah’ll seean _steck t’ yat_ o’ that gam.’
‘To steck the gate’ = to put a stop to, i.e. to close.
‘Ah caan’t forgit what he did ti ma; it’s _stuck i’ mah gizzard_ ivver
sen,’ i.e. taken a thing very much to heart, something which can
neither be forgotten nor forgiven.
‘He’ll be _dropping in_ for ’t yet; bud Ah’ve tell’d him _ower an’
up agaan_, bud it’s _teea neea good_.’ ‘To drop in’ has several
meanings: (1) To look in—‘Ah’ll drop in an’ see tha tineet;’ (2)
punishment—‘Tho’ll drop in for ’t when ta gans yam,’ i.e. you will
either be thrashed, scolded, or punished in some form when you go
home. ‘Ower an’ up agaan’ is a redundancy for ‘many a time’; ‘to neea
good,’ of no use, useless. ‘It’s teea neea good gahin’, ’coz he’s nut
at yam’ = it is useless going, because he is not at home.
‘If it _fairs up_ thoo maay _pop ower_ ti Jane, bud thoo’ll ’a’e ti
_mahnd thisen_ an’ see ’at t’ cau’d dizn’t _sattle o’ thi chist_;
thoo’s a _larl piece better_ ’an what thoo ’ez been, an’ _ther’s nowt
aboot that_; but thoo’ll ‘ ti _hap thisen up_, thoo seeams a bit
_closed up_ ez it is; an’ Ah seear thoo diz _leeak a bad leeak_, bud
thoo’ll _cum on_ neycely if thoo nobbut taks care.’
‘To fair up’ = to cease raining, to become fine.
‘To pop ower’ = to run, to go quickly to.
‘To mahnd thisen’ = to take care of oneself.
‘To sattle o’ thi chist’ i.e. for the cold to attack the lungs.
‘A larl piece better’ = a little better.
‘Ther’s nowt aboot that’ = no doubt of that.
‘To hap up’ = to wrap up.
‘To be closed up’ = difficulty in breathing.
‘To leeak a bad leeak’ = to look ill.
‘To cum on’ = to improve.
‘Sha’s cuming on neycely noo, sha’s gitten a to’n foor t’ better, bud
Ah thowt it war gahin ti be all _owered wiv_ her _yance ower_.’
‘To be owered with’ = to cease, to be the last end of.
‘Yance ower’ = once over, once.
‘Ah’s gahin’ ower[65] ti Bessy’s; t’ rest on ya mun stop wheer ya are,
ther’s ower[66] monny on ya ti cum wi’ ma.’
‘Ah war _hard set_ ti git it deean byv t’ tahm.’
‘To be hard set’ = to be much bothered, to find a thing difficult to do.
‘He _sidled aboot_ t’ Squire whahl he gat his rent sattled.’
‘He’s awlus _skewing aboot_ t’ doctor’s; Ah aim ’at he’s efter yan o’
t’ lasses.’
‘To sidle about a person’ = being obsequious.
‘To gan _skewing about_ a place’ = to look or go about slily. ‘To skew
about’ = to walk like a fool.
‘If thoo’s gahin ti _be agate_, Ah’ll _get agate_, an’ _set agate_
Matther.’
‘Be agate’ = to be astir.
‘Get agate’ = to commence work; and ‘to set agate,’ to set another to
work, or to start oneself. ‘If you are going to be astir, I will
commence (the job), and set Matthew to work (also).’
‘_To hang in the bell ropes_’ is either the time occurring between the
first publishing of the banns, or that during which a wedding may be
postponed.
‘_To let oneself down_’ = to perform some action which lowers us in the
estimation of others.
‘He’s gitten neea _heart i’ t’ job_, nivver neeabody ’ez when tha’re
_rahding t’ deead hoss_.’
‘To ride the dead horse’ is to do work for which payment has been made
beforehand; hence, a man shews no energy in such work.
‘It’s a fine daay, ther’s nowt aboot that; bud Ah’s ’fraid it’s nowt
bud a _weather breeder_.’
This is often said specially of fine weather when inappropriate to the
season.
‘To _look hard_ at anything’ is to do so earnestly.
‘Noo _leeak hard at it_, that’s “C,” nut “O”; noo leeak hard, an’ bear
it i’ mahnd,’ said an old country schoolmaster.
‘_Ho’d on a bit_, thoo’s nut gahin’ _ti rahd rough-shod_ ower me.’
‘Ho’d on a bit,’ spoken in an ordinary tone, means simply ‘wait,’
‘stay a moment.’ But in case of an argument, its utterance conveys
the information that the tongue of one of the disputants is wagging a
little too freely, or it may imply, ‘cease speaking altogether.’ E.g. I
heard a man say the other day to a fellow workman: ‘Thoo ho’d on a bit,
wa’ve ’ed eneaf o’ thi blather,’ i.e. ‘you cease speaking (hold your
noise), we have had enough of your silly talk.’ The tone of the ‘thoo’
gave such an emphasis, that there could be no mistaking the command
which it implied. On the other hand, ‘Here, Ah saay, ho’d on a bit,’
carries no greater weight than ‘That will do for the present.’
‘To ride rough-shod over any one’ = utterly ignoring or treating with
contempt their desires and wishes.
‘Wa’ve been tul him, an’ wa’ve tell’t him ez plaan ez wa c’u’d what wa
wanted an’ what wa meant ti ’ev, an’ wa didn’t _minsh matters_ nowther;
an’ when wa’d deean, he just to’n’d roond, an’ tell’d uz ’at wa mud
_jump up_ all t’ lot on uz for owt ’at he cared; he s’u’d _gan his awn
gate_, neea matter what wa sed or did. Ah tell ya what, chaps—it seeams
ti me ez if he meant ti rahd rough-shod ower t’ lot on uz.’
‘Minsh matters’ = not speaking in a straightforward way; another form
of the same expression is, ‘nut ti be ower neyce,’ not over-nice,
careless as to expressions or the method employed.
To tell a person he may ‘jump up,’ means he may just do as he likes.
‘To gan one’s awn gate’ = going our own way, i.e. acting as we think
best.
‘Ah deean’t _reckon_ mich on him—he diz ivverything by _fits an’
starts_, an’ ya caan’t _lay onny store byv_ owt he sez he’s at t’ _beck
an’ call_ ov ivverybody; an’ he’s _fo’st this road an’ then that_,
whahl yan caan’t pleeace neea dependence on owt ’at he owther sez or
diz.’
‘Reckon’ = think.
‘Fits an’ starts’ = erratically and at odd times.
‘To lay store by’ = to value, to believe in, trust.
‘Beck an’ call’ = to be the servant of any one who beckons or calls.
‘Fo’st this road an’ then that’ = first one way and then another,
unstable.
The following are also commonly heard:—
‘To give oneself airs,’ i.e. to ape manners, &c., above one’s station
in life.
‘To be despert thrang,’ i.e. being very busy.
‘Almost any day’ = at any time.
‘Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,’ i.e. might as well be
punished for committing a big fault as a little one.
‘As good luck would have it’ = as good fortune happened.
‘Away’ = continue. ‘He may knock away, I shan’t go to the door,’ i.e.
he may continue knocking.
‘To fancy oneself’ is to be conceited.
‘As matters stand’ = as things are.
‘At all events’ = in any case.
‘From the bottom of the heart,’ i.e. wholly, absolutely. Ex. ‘I
believe what you say from the bottom of my heart.’
‘Cut an’ come again’ = help yourself; when you have eaten that, have
more.
‘Dragged by wild horses,’ torture in any form. ‘I wadn’t ‘ tell’d owt;
neea, Ah’d ’a’e been dragged aboot wi’ wild hosses fost;’ i.e. I would
have been put to torture first.
‘To follow like a shadow’ is to keep close to.
‘For my own part’ = to my way of thinking.
‘As far as in one lies’ = to the best of one’s ability.
‘Not to allow the grass to grow under one’s feet’ is to be very
energetic, diligent in business.
‘To be hand and glove with any one,’ is to be very intimately
associated with them.
‘For once in a way’ = this time, just once.
‘To scrape one’s tongue’ = to talk affectedly.
‘To be over head and ears in anything’ = to be completely so—over head
and ears in debt, in love, &c.
‘To hang heavy on one’s hands’ = to be difficult to dispose of.
‘Not to know whether one is on his head or his heels’ is to be
absolutely bewildered.
‘On that score’ = on that account.
‘Over and above (ower an’ aboon)’ = more than. Ex. ‘An’ ower an’ aboon
that he sed——,’ and more than that he said——.
‘To pour into one’s ears’ = giving information with great unction.
‘To quake in one’s shoes (ti quake in yan’s shoon)’ = to be in great
fear.
‘Spoil the ship for a happorth of tar’ = penny wise and pound foolish.
‘To stir up strife’ = making mischief.
‘Stir your stumps,’ or ‘cut your sticks’ = off you go.
‘To the top of one’s bent’ = to fully carry out our inclination.
‘That’s telling,’ often said after a question has been asked, and
implies, ‘You would like to know, but I shall not tell you.’
‘Up to Dick’ = just as it should be, perfection.
‘To be wrang i’ t’ heead’ = being out of one’s mind.
‘Not to be worth one’s salt’ = useless.
‘To sleep like a top’ = to sleep soundly.
To conclude. It was said of one, who was somewhat inclined to be a fop,
‘He puts on airs, scrapes his tongue, skews aboot, an’ fancies hissel’
that mich, whahl he’s mair leyke yan ’at’s nicked i’ t’ heead, an’
clean daft, ’an owt else; he maay aim ’at he’s up ti Dick, bud Ah aim
’at he’s nut wo’th his sau’t, an’ Ah’s reet.’
I am certain of one thing—a Yorkshireman, no matter what his position
may be, never quite leaves his Yorkshire behind him. I was standing one
day waiting for the steamer which was to bring me once again to old
England, when a gentleman quite close to me said to his lady companion,
‘It’s a beautiful sight, is the sea[67].’ I turned to him, and raising
my hat, remarked, ‘Ah’s a Yorkshireman an’ all.’ That was enough, we
were friends the whole of the voyage. No, we Yorkshire people cannot,
if we would, leave our county behind us. And thank the gods for that.
* * * * *
When cultured speech in tones refined
Lead us to dream all others blind,
‘Tis well that we should bear in mind,
Though we may leave all else behind,
Our idiom goes with us.
CHAPTER XIII
SIMILES, PROVERBS, AND SAYINGS
The North Riding is very prolific in similes and quaint sayings. I
have by me a collection of some hundreds, varying in degree of point
and humour, but all worthy of being preserved. Many of them take us
back to the time of our grandfathers, speaking of things and pointing
to customs of other days. Still, they hang on the lips of the older
people now; but to those who know nothing of their past, their sayings
seem pointless and out of place. Nevertheless, ‘Ez useless ez damp
tunder’ (tinder) would be as forceful in their day as our saying, ‘As
useless as a damp match.’ In the days when many a pulpit was supplied
with an hourglass—like a huge egg-boiler—to let the preacher know
when to wind up his ‘thirdly,’ the old saying applied to those who
were somewhat importunate, ‘They hint ez plaan ez t’ hoorglass,’ and
‘Sha’s leyke t’ hoorglass—sha uses t’ same thing ower an’ up agaan,’ or
‘Sha’s ez careful ez a sandglass,’ which never wastes a grain, were in
their day as pointed as any in use at the present time. A few remarks
to elucidate the meaning of those in the following list which may be
somewhat obscure to any lacking knowledge on certain points, will be
found on page 243.
Those marked thus ([+]) are in daily use throughout the riding. Thus
(*), explanatory remarks will be found at the end.
1. Ez wise ez t’ ullot.
[+] 2. Ez hungry ez a dog.
[+] 3. Ez patient ez a cat.
[+] 4. Ez whisht ez a cat.
[+] 5. Ez still ez a moose.
* 6. Ez friendly ez a bram’l bush.
*[+] 7. Ez walsh ez pump-watter.
8. Ez poor ez pauper soup.
*[+] 9. Ez thick ez inkle-weavers.
[+] 10. Ez reglar ez clockwark.
[+] 11. Ez sartin ez t’ cess
getherer.
12. Ez scarce ez guineas.
13. Ez noisy ez a tinker.
* 14. Ez common ez a deear-snek. Any one handles it.
[+] 15. Ez strang ez a steeple.
[+] 16. Ez hoarse ez a raven.
[+] 17. Ez soft ez pap, i.e. child’s food.
[+] 18. Ez stiff ez buckram.
[+] 19. Ez deead ez a mauky ratten.
20. Ez sour ez a sloe.
[+] 21. Ez deead ez a hammer.
[+] 22. Ez deeaf ez a post.
[+] 23. Ez fit ez a fiddle.
24. Ez graspin’ ez a toll-bar.
25. Ez tall ez a mill chim’ly.
[+] 26. Ez brant ez a hoos end.
[+] 27. Ez red ez a cherry.
[+] 28. Ez tough ez leather.
29. Ez seeaf ez a pig ring.
* 30. Ez soft-hearted ez a rezzil.
* 31. Ez slape ez a greeasy powl.
[+] 32. Ez rotten ez touch-wood.
33. Ez cruel ez a spider.
[+] 34. Ez red ez rud.
[+] 35. Ez lish ez a squirrel. Lish = active.
[+] 36. Ez friendly ez yan’s shadder.
[+] 37. Ez hardy ez ling.
[+] 38. Ez impudent ez a cock sparrer.
[+] 39. Ez boddensome ez debt.
[+] 40. Ez bliew ez a whetstone.
[+] 41. Ez saut ez sea watter.
[+] 42. Ez strang ez an onion.
[+] 43. Ez common ez weeds.
[+] 44. Ez sweet ez t’ floors i’ May.
[+] 45. Ez sweet ez a posey.
[+] 46. Ez sour ez a crab-apple.
*[+] 47. Ez femmur ez a musweb.
[+] 48. Ez cracked ez a brokken pot.
[+] 49. Ez polite ez t’ divil.
[+] 50. Ez pricky ez a pricky-back otch’n.
51. Ez soft ez a geease-down pillow.
[+] 52. Ez common ez brack’ns.
53. Ez cheap ez promises.
[+] 54. Ez cau’d ez Kessamas.
[+] 55. Ez thrang ez bees iv a sugar cask.
[+] 56. Ez busy ez bees on t’ moor.
[+] 57. Ez straight ez a bulrush. Also ‘as tall as,’ &c.
[+] 58. Ez cheeap ez muck.
[+] 59. Ez soft ez muck. Also ‘Ez soft ez a wesh-leather.’
[+] 60. Ez common ez muck.
[+] 61. Ez laam ez a three-legg’d dog.
[+] 62. Ez fast ez a rivet.
[+] 63. Ez lazy ez a stee. A ladder generally leans against a wall.
[+] 64. Ez whisht ez yan’s shadder. As quiet as one’s shadow.
[+] 65. Ez true ez a die.
[+] 66. Ez mild ez a May morn.
[+]* 67. Ez tight ez a damp cleeas-line.
68. Ez slow ez a stutterer. Also ‘Ez slow ez a snahl.’
[+] 69. Ez wick ez a lop-flea.
[+]* 70. Ez fond ez a yat.
[+] 71. Ez kittle ez a moose-trap.
[+] 72. Ez wet ez a dishclout.
[+] 73. Ez tired ez a dog.
[+] 74. Ez savage ez a wasp.
[+] 75. Ez black ez midneet.
[+] 76. Ez black ez sin.
[+] 77. Ez hard ez a steean.
[+] 78. Ez soond ez a bell.
[+] 79. Ez creeak’d ez a dog’s hind leg.
[+] 80. Ez wet ez sump.
[+] 81. Ez wet ez thack.
[+] 82. Ez mucky ez a pig-sty.
[+] 83. Ez waak ez a kitten.
[+] 84. Ez oppen ez a skep.
[+] 85. Ez bold ez brass.
[+] 86. Ez lively ez a cricket.
[+] 87. Ez green ez grass.
[+] 88. Ez soft ez putty.
[+] 89. Ez deead ez a teead skin.
[+]* 90. Ez plaan ez a pike-staff.
[+]* 91. Ez plaan ez a yat-stoup.
[+] 92. Ez full ez an egg.
[+] 93. Ez dusty ez a flour pooak.
[+] 94. Ez white ez flour.
[+] 95. Ez mucky ez a duck pond.
[+] 96. Ez larl ez a flea-bite.
[+] 97. Ez still ez a finger-post.
[+] 98. Ez lonely ez a mile-steean.
[+] 99. Ez slape ez an eel.
[+]* 100. Ez good-natur’d ez a pump.
[+] 101. Ez pure ez spring-watter.
[+] 102. Ez reight ez a trivet.
[+] 103. Ez thin ez a bubble skin.
[+] 104. Ez sticky ez glue.
[+]* 105. Ez meean ez bo’d-lahm (birdlime).
[+] 106. Ez hard ez a nail.
[+] 107. Ez cau’d ez ice.
[+]* 108. Ez deep ez a well.
[+] 109. Ez strang ez a hoss.
[+] 110. Ez wet ez a mill-wheel.
[+] 111. Ez fond ez a goose nick’t i’ t’ heead.
[+] 112. Ez lang ez a parson’s coat.
* 113. Ez sartin ez t’ thorn-bush.
* 114. Ez waffly ez a mill-sail.
* 115. Ez soft ez butter.
116. Ez empty ez a blawn egg.
[+] 117. Ez rank ez nettles.
[+] 118. Ez blinnd ez a bat i’ daayleet.
[+] 119. Ez damp ez a cellar, or ‘t’ graav.’
[+] 120. Ez breet ez a new-made pin, or ‘ez sunleet.’
[+] 121. Ez fond ez a brush.
[+] 122. Ez greedy ez a rake.
[+] 123. Ez dhry ez a sarmon.
124. Ez tho’sty[68] ez a sponge.
[+] 125. Ez solemn ez a coo.
[+] 126. Ez breet ez a bald heead.
[+] 127. Ez bare ez a bald heead.
[+] 128. Ez roond ez a bullet.
[+] 129. Ez straight ez trewth (truth).
[+] 130. Ez mad ez a bull at a yat.
[+] 131. Ez phrood ez a banty cock.
[+] 132. Ez flat ez an iron.
[+] 133. Ez poor ez moorland.
[+] 134. Ez hard ez t’ to’npike.
[+] 135. Ez nak’t ez a graav-steean.
[+]* 136. Ez strang ez a teeagle chaan.
[+]* 137. Ez tough ez a swipple.
[+] 138. Ez strang ez an oak.
[+]* 139. Ez warm ez a sheep-net.
[+]* 140. Ez catching ez t’ scab.
[+]* 141. Ez bonny ez a sheep-cade. In ridicule.
[+] 142. Ez drunk ez a fiddler.
* 143. Ez thrang ez a cobbler’s Monday.
144. Ez meean ez a cuckoo. The cuckoo lays its eggs in other birds’
nests.
[+] 145. Ez welcome ez t’ floors i’ May.
146. Ez larl wanted ez rain i’ hay-tahm.
[+] 147. Ez hungry ez a dog.
148. Ez glib ez a leear’s tongue.
[+] 149. Ez wo’thless ez an au’d shoe.
150. Ez larl value ez an au’d hat.
[+] 151. Ez tough ez pin-wire.
* 152. Ez neyce ez an otter[69].
[+]* 153. Ez greedy ez an otter[69].
154. Ez fat ez a tailor’s goose. (The ‘goose’ is a tailor’s iron.)
[+]* 155. Ez sweet ez a kern.
[+]* 156. Ez greedy ez a fox iv a hen-roost.
[+]* 157. Ez meean ez a cat wiv a moose.
[+] 158. Ez leyke ez tweea peas.
[+] 159. Ez bitter ez gall.
[+] 160. Ez big ez bull beef.
[+] 161. Ez leet ez a midge.
[+] 162. Ez limp ez a dishclout.
[+]* 163. Ez scraped ez a bath-brick.
* 164. Ez badly used ez a peggy-tub boddum.
[+]* 165. Ez gam ez a cockroach.
[+] 166. Ez wet ez new pent (paint).
[+] 167. Ez sick ez a dog.
[+] 168. Ez flat ez a pancake.
* 169. Ez deead ez a red lobster.
[+] 170. Ez au’d ez my grandfather hat.
[+] 171. Ez merry ez a May-pole dance.
[+] 172. Ez white ez a sheet.
[+] 173. Ez catching ez t’ mezzles (measles).
[+] 174. Ez bad tempered ez a nettle.
[+] 175. Awlus t’ saam way leyke a bottle-jack
(ironical, as a bottle-jack turns both ways).
[+] 176. Ez smooth ez a cat’s back.
[+] 177. Ez rosy ez an apple.
[+] 178. Ez rotten ez (a bad) to’nip (turnip).
[+] 179. Ez bent ez a sickle.
[+] 180. Ez red ez raw beef, or ‘ez a brick.’
[+] 181. Ez thrang ez a woman’s tongue.
[+] 182. Ez brazend ez a sunflower.
[+] 183. Ez fresh ez new pent.
[+] 184. Ez breet ez a seeing-glass.
[+] 185. Ez wick ez an eel.
[+] 186. Ez slim ez a barber’s powl.
No. 6. _As friendly as a bramble bush._ The way in which the bramble
catches hold and clings to one is well known to all those who have had
to force a passage where they grow.
7. _As walsh as pump-water_, or containing as little sustenance.
9. _As thick as inkle-weavers._ In the weaving of inkle, a kind of
tape, the weavers had to sit quite close together.
14. _As common as a door-sneck._ This implies that a sneck is liable
to be pressed or used by any one; the simile is one of an opprobrious
nature.
30. _As soft-hearted as a weasel_, implies absolute cruelty, the
weasel lacking the smallest spark of generosity in its nature.
31. _As slape as a greasy pole._ It is common at village feasts to
erect a pole daubed thickly with grease, upon the top of which a ham,
a leg of mutton, or a kettle is fixed; he who can climb to the top,
which is a most difficult task, claims the prize.
47. _As femmur as a musweb._ ‘Femmur’ is slight, light, slender.
‘Musweb,’ a spider’s web.
49. _As polite as the devil._ His Satanic majesty is said to be
willing to shake hands with any one.
67. _As tight as a damp clothes-line._ A clothes-line, when left out
in wet weather, becomes very tightly stretched between its two hooks.
70. _As fond as a gate._ The folly of a gate is admitted on all hands;
does it not without any reason bang itself against the gate-post?
90. _As plain as a pike-staff_; and 91, _As plain as a gate-post_,
denote both plainness of appearance, and a thing not difficult to
understand. A pike-staff was just a bare pole, and a gate-post is
usually lacking of all ornamentation; and both are fairly conspicuous
objects.
100. _As good-natured as a pump._ A pump never grumbles, no matter how
often or by whom it is handled.
105. _As mean as birdlime._ It deceives those who rest upon it.
108. _As deep as a well._ ‘Deep’ is used in the sense of ‘to hide
from,’ ‘to be difficult to get at the bottom of.’ In a modified sense,
‘cunning.’
113. _Ez sartin ez t’ thorn-bush._ It was the custom for the parson to
collect the tithe by placing a branch of thorn in every tenth stook,
he choosing the stooks, and sending his cart along for them.
114. _As waffly as a mill-sail._ ‘Waffly’ here implies ‘unstable’; the
mill-sail is turned about by every wind which blows.
136. _As strong as a teagle chain._ These chains are used to drag very
heavy timber.
137. _As tough as a swipple._ The swipple is the short bar of the
flail, used to thresh corn with—by hand—and was always made of the
toughest wood.
139. _As warm as a sheep-net._ Used derisively; there is no shelter or
warmth in a sheep-net.
140. _As catching as the scab._ The scab is a very infectious disease
which sheep are liable to.
141. _As bonny as a sheep-cade._ The cade is a disgusting looking
sheep-louse; hence the simile is used ironically.
143. _As busy as a cobbler’s Monday._ It is generally supposed that a
cobbler has to rest over Monday to work off his week’s-end debauch;
hence the simile is one of ridicule.
152. _As nice as an otter._ ‘Nice,’ in this case, means dainty,
particular, eating as it does only the very best part of the fish it
kills, leaving the rest untouched on the bank.
153. See 152.
155. _As sweet as a churn._ A churn, of all things, must be sweet and
clean; hence anything which may be truly said to be as sweet as a
churn, must excel in cleanliness.
156. _As greedy as a fox in a hen-roost._ The fox, having gained an
entrance, not only kills the bird he intends to carry away for food,
but any he can lay hold of; then, picking out the best, leaves the
rest.
157. _Ez meean ez a cat wiv a moose._ ‘Mean’ is used in the sense of
cruel. The way a cat plays with its victim before killing it, is the
very essence of cruelty.
163. A bath-brick must be scraped each time it is used. Hence a person
who has slipped down an incline, and so become bruised, will use the
simile.
164. _As badly used as a peggy-tub bottom._ Surely whilst in use
nothing receives more thumps than the bottom of the peggy-tub.
165. _As game as a cockroach._ No insect perhaps is so pugnacious as
the common roach or black clock. The encounters which take place on
our hearths after we have retired to rest are many and deadly.
169. _As dead as a red lobster._ As the lobster must be boiled for
some time before assuming the red colour, we may with some certainty
conclude the crustacean has ceased to exist ere it dons its red jacket.
If many of the sayings which fall from the lips of our country folk
were only dressed in classic language, they would rank amongst the
wisest saws ever uttered.
Take a few illustrations picked from a considerable number which I have
jotted down as they have been uttered—I may say the circumstances which
called each forth were as varied as they well could be. Some, I have
little doubt, were impromptu, but in the main they belong to another
age. It will perhaps add interest if the illustrations are given as
uttered, followed by a literal translation, adding explanatory remarks
when needful.
_A raffle tung an’ a race-hoss gan t’ faster t’ leeter wight tha hug._
A foolish tongue and a race-horse go the faster the lighter weight
they carry; there will be more foolish talk, the lighter the weight of
brains carried.
_Them ’at grumm’ls sae mich aboot what tha ’evn’t gitten, are maistly
oot o’ love wi’ t’ things ’at tha ’ev._ Those who grumble so much
about what they do not possess, are mostly out of love with the things
they have.
_Them ’at nivver diz nowt thersens, awlus ’magines ’at ther’s nowt i’
t’ wo’lld ’at’s hard ti deea._ Those who never do nothing (anything)
themselves, always imagine that there is nothing in the world which is
hard to do.
_Him ’at’s gitten his heead screwed on t’ reet road i’ larl matters,
weean’t be leykly ti shut yah e’e when he’s owt gert on hand._ He who
has his head screwed on the right way in little matters, will not be
likely to close one eye when he has anything great on the way.
_Impatience is t’ hoss fau’k saddle and gallop on ti meet their
troubles._ Impatience is the horse people saddle and gallop on to meet
their troubles.
_It’s easier wark feighting sin ’an nursin’ ‘t._ It is easier work
fighting sin than nursing it.
_Religion is offens mair laamed byv those whau attend tul ’t, ’an them
’at feight shy on ’t._ Religion is often more injured by those who
profess, than by those who are careless. There is another: ‘No sinners
are so intolerant as those just turned saints.’
_Yan awlus ’ez ti paay a seet mair foor repentance ’an yan c’u’d ‘
bowt a vast o’ common sense wi’._ One always has to pay a great deal
more for repentance than one could have bought a great amount of
common sense with.
_If wa wad lig i’ peace an’ rest,
Wa mun see an’ hear an’ saay what’s t’ best._
If we would lie in peace and rest,
We must see and hear and say what’s the best.
_‘T’ll save ya neea larl trouble,
If when talking ya tak care
Ov whaum ya speeak, ti whaum ya speeak,
An’ hoo, an’ when, an’ wheer._
It will save you no small trouble,
If when talking you take care
Of whom you speak, to whom you speak,
And how, and when, and where.
_Closed lips an’ oppen een save yan fra monny a fratch._ Closed lips
and open eyes save one from many a quarrel (trouble).
_Advising yan ’at’s iv a passion’s dafter ’an scrattin’ a tup head._
Advising one that is in a passion is sillier than scratching a tup’s
head, i.e. giving advice to one who is in a passion, is equal in
folly to that of scratching a tup on the head, as there is no surer
way of inducing it to attack you than by following such a course.
_Him ’at’s meead up his mahnd ’at he caan’t deea a thing, maistly maks
up his mahnd afoorhand ’at he weean’t try._ He that has made up his
mind that he cannot accomplish an undertaking, mostly makes up his
mind beforehand that he will not try.
_Maist fau’k can see t’ wrang they’ve deean, bud nut t’ wrang they’re
deeaing._ Most people can see the wrong they have done, but not the
wrong they are doing.
_Varra off’ns when a chap sez ’at he’s deeaing nowt, he’s deeaing
summat he s’u’dn’t; an’ when he aims ti mak ya think ’at he’s deeaing
summat ’at he s’u’d, he’s off’ns deeaing nowt._ Very often when a
person says that he is doing nothing, he is doing something that
he should not; and when he tries to make you believe he is doing
something that he should, he is often idling his time away.
_Daftness nivver builds owght wo’th leaving up._ Daftness never builds
anything worth leaving up. ‘Leaving up’ means ‘allowing it to stand.’
The saying might be put this way: folly never accomplishes anything
worthy of being handed on to posterity.
_Fame is a lump ov nowt putten insahd ov a bubble, which bo’sts,
an’ it’s all owered wiv it._ Fame is a lump of nothing put inside a
bubble, which bursts, and then it is all over with it. To ‘be overed
with a thing,’ is for it to be absolutely annihilated.
_Good luck gi’es ti sum mair ’an what tha owt ti ’ev, bud nivver mair
’an what tha want._ Good luck gives to some more than what they ought
to have, but never more than what they want.
_Cussing an’ low-lived talk ther’s nivver neea call for; ther’s nowt
can hap it up, an’ ther’s nowt gitten byv it._ Cursing and low-lived
talk there is never no need for; there is nothing can cover it up, and
there is nothing got by it.
_Him ’at diz ez he owt ti deea when young, ’ll be yabble ti deea ez
he wants ti deea when his working days is owered._ He who does as he
ought to do when young, will be able to do as he wants to do when his
working days are over, i.e. he who diligently works when young, will
be enabled to take his ease when old age overtakes him.
_Them ’at weds wheer they deean’t love, maistly love wheer they
deean’t wed._
_It’s a poor hedge ’at hezn’t a bit of shelter._
_Be friendly wi’ all, bud familiar wi’ few._
_It saves neea end o’ loss if ya sleck t’ fire wi’ yah bucket o’
watter. Luke t’ weeds afoor tha seed; an’ let t’ tap-reeat o’ folly
gan ez deep ez it leykes._ It saves no end of harm if you put out
the fire with one bucket of water. Pull up the weeds before they
seed; and allow the tap-root of folly to go as deep as it may. A fire
cannot have done much damage if it can be quenched with one bucket of
water. ‘Luke’ is ‘to pull up.’ Many methods are adopted to prevent the
tap-root from growing deep into the ground; should such precautions
not be taken, the root descends to where the ground is cold, and no
fruit is borne. Hence the reason for desiring the ‘tap-root of folly’
to be allowed to grow deep into the ground.
_Good behav’o’r nivver needs a drain-pipe_; also, _good behav’o’r
nivver needs pruning_.
_He’s nobbut hauf rocked ’at believes ivverything, bud he’s cleean
oot ov his heead ’at believes nowt._ He is only a silly fellow who
gives credence to everything he hears, but he is a hopeless idiot who
believes in nothing.
_Laziness ruins mair lasses ’an love, fancying thersens mair an’
laziness; an’ swallering ivverything ’at a chap sez tiv ’em, mair ’an
baith putten tigither._ Laziness ruins more girls than love, vanity
more than laziness; and believing all that men flatteringly say, more
than both put together.
_Him ’at ’ez larl an’ could mannish wi’ less, is better off ’an him
’at ’ez mich an’ caan’t mak it fet._ He that has little and could
manage with less, is better off—richer—than he who has much and cannot
make it serve.
_Nivver judge a blade byv t’ heft._ Never judge a blade or knife by
the handle; or, never judge a person’s character by his clothes.
_Ya’ll ’a’e t’ crack t’ shells afoor ya can coont t’ kon’ls._ You will
have to crack the shells before you can count the kernels; or, you
must do your work before you can count your wages.
_Sho’t ez yan’s tahm is, it’s lang eneeaf foor sum ti ruin ther
characters, ther constitutions, an’ gan thruff all ’at tha ’ed at
startin’._ Short as one’s life is, it is long enough for some to ruin
their characters, their constitutions, and ’gan thruff,’ i.e. spend,
all they had to commence with.
_T’ furrows o’ repentance are ploughed i’ youth, and sow’d wi’ t’
seeds o’ pleasure, bud t’ harvest ’ez ti be reaped wiv a blunt sickle
when yan’s back is bent an’ yan’s gitten past wark._ The furrows
of repentance are ploughed during youth, and sowed with the seeds
of pleasure, but the harvest has to be cut with a blunt sickle and
gathered in when old age has made it impossible to repair the errors
of youth.
_Fooak ’at feight ower t’ reet road ti heaven, off’ns finnd oot ’at
t’ far end ’at they’ve deean t’ maist o’ ther jo’ney i’ t’ hedge
boddums._ People who quarrel over creeds and forms discover, when life
is drawing to a close, that often they have foolishly left the narrow
but sure path, to stumble and struggle amongst the thorns and briars
which overhang the ditch by the wayside.
_T’ loodist shooters i’ t’ fair off’ns ’ez bud larl o’ ther stalls._
The loudest criers in the fair often have the least on their stalls;
i.e. those who make the most noise in the world generally display the
least common sense.
_Muschief is a fruit ’at nobbut needs a sho’t summer ti repen ’t_,
i.e. Mischief speedily comes to a head.
_Ti stop lennin’, start borrerin’_, i.e. To prevent borrowers coming
to you, try to borrow from them.
_It’s better ’at fau’k s’u’d laugh at ya foor knowing larl aboot owt,
’an ya s’u’d loss yer brass byv pretending ti knaw owermich._ It is
better that people should laugh at your knowing little about anything,
than you should lose your money by pretending to know too much.
_When hooap dees, fear’s born._ When hope dies, fear is born.
_Yan’s nivver afeeard o’ stepping oot o’ t’ waay ti deea a good to’n,
if yan’s on t’ reet waay foor deeaing on ’t._ One is never afraid of
stepping out of the way to do a kindness, if one is in the right way
for doing it; i.e. we are never unwilling to step out of our way to do
a kindness, if we are sufficiently Christian to do what is right.
Since quite a boy I have jotted down any apt saying which I have heard.
Many such, however, are so common, that they daily pass the lips of our
country folk. These characteristic Yorkshire sayings, as already shown,
are worthy of greater consideration than they have hitherto obtained.
Why, I once heard an old Basedale man give a temperance lecture in a
few words; he put the whole thing into a nutshell. What he said was
terse, brief, full of sound common sense, and decidedly smart. _We took
it all away with us._ And just because it was what it was, we never
forgot it—we never wished to forget it—whilst often we have no desire
to remember the one-sided, long-winded, intemperate drivel we have to
listen to nowadays. Said he, ‘Drink, if nobbut weel followed up, awlus
diz yan o’ tweea things. If ya ’a’e gitten plenty o’ brass, it’ll kill
ya; if nut, it’ll beggar ya’; i.e. drink, if only well followed up,
always does one of two things. If you have plenty of money, it will
kill you; if not, it will beggar you.
‘Some fau’k knaw better ’an ti swing on ther awn yat,’ was said of
one, who was an inveterate borrower of certain articles, which it was
supposed he well could afford to buy for himself.
‘Sha nivver will larn ’at yan s’u’dn’t hug tweea eggs i’ yah han’,’ was
said of one who generally spoilt what she was doing by having too many
irons in the fire at one time.
‘Neeabody tries if a trap’s kittle wi’ ther finger.’ The application is
obvious.
To one who was in the habit of returning at a late hour from the weekly
market, and sometimes not quite sober, it was remarked, ‘Late yam fra
t’ market off’n spoils a good bargain,’ implying that that which had
been gained by the day’s bargaining had been foolishly spent in the
public-house.
‘He’s yan o’ them ’at nivver hauf diz owt, bud then Ah’ve notished ’at
them ’at leeavs t’ hoos deear oppen, maistly foorgit ti steck t’ yat.’
‘Mair kindness, less lip,
Mair corn, less whip,’
might well be hung up in every stable to-day, for certainly if our poor
dumb servants were treated a little more kindly, they would need less
shouting and bawling at, and when properly fed, the whip becomes but an
ornament.
‘Onny shufflin’ taal diz ti shak off a needy relation, bud it dizn’t
mak ’t reet foor ’em ti squander brass ti greease thersens wi’,’ said
an old body who had asked assistance from a well-to-do sister, but who
had been sent empty away with a most frivolous excuse. It seems her
sister had shortly afterwards given a handsome donation at the laying
of a foundation-stone upon which her name had been carved. ‘Shufflin’
taal’ is equal to ’half a lie,’ or, to put it in a milder form, ‘a poor
excuse.’ ‘To shak off’ is ’to refuse’; and ’to grease yersen’ is ’to
please oneself,’ ‘to satisfy one’s vanity.’ The saying might be put
this way: ‘By the rich, any poor excuse is considered good enough to
refuse help to a needy relation, but it is never just, whilst such are
in want, to spend money in tickling their own vanity.’
‘T’ week ’ez tweea Mundaays foor t’ hoss ’at ligs ower Sundaay,’
implies that a Sunday’s rest gives greater energy.
‘Nivver tackle what ya caan’t deea, bud allus deea what ya tackle,’
is certainly an aphorism we should all do well to mark; the caution
and advice which it contains, if acted upon, spells success in golden
characters. ‘Do not undertake anything beyond either your capabilities
or resources, but whatever you once set your hand to, carry it through.’
At a funeral feast where one individual was rather too ready in handing
the cake and wine round, one old body was overheard to say, ‘He mebbe
wadn’t ‘ been seea riddy wi’ t’ plate an’ bottle ’ed he been iv his
awn hoos, bud it maistly happens ’at them ’at’s seea free wiv uther
fau’k’s hay, are varra skinny wi’ ther awn corn.’ That many people are
exceedingly generous in dispensing the charity of others, and very
careful in parting with anything of their own, is a fact too patent to
dispute.
‘T’ chap ’at fishes for his breccus off’ns ’ez ti wait foor his
dinner,’ and ‘A blinnd chap owt nivver ti lake wiv a crab whahl it’s
boil’d,’ point their own moral.
At Great Ayton two neighbours were discussing one who had not long been
a resident. ‘Sha’s gitten a pianer noo, an’ it’s nobbut t’ other daay
’at sha bowt hersen new shades’ (blinds) ‘foor ivvery windther i’ t’
hoos. Wheer sha gits t’ brass ti pay foor all t’ new-fengl’d things ’at
cum up, Ah deean’t knaw, bud sha queerly cam, an’ sha’ll queerly gan;
an’ Ah’ll tell tha what, a hoos gitten tigither by habs an’ nabs, an’
yan’s sticks paid foor afoor they’re fetched in, is comfortabler ’an
yan filled wi’ flee-by-neet stuff;’ i.e. furniture, &c., got together
at odd times and in odd ways, and paid for at the time, affords more
comfort than possessing a houseful of things which possibly will have
to be removed during the night to escape the landlord.
‘T’ yard’s weel swept wiv a lent bizzum;’ or, one does not fail to get
the most out of any article which another has lent us. The following
doggerel gives a phase of human nature common to all mankind:—
Yan nivver thinks ’at t’ egg’s new laid
Yan’s nahbor kindly lent yan,
An’ t’ cream fra borr’ed milk is thin—
Deean’t len’, if you’d content yan.
‘Sha allus drives ivverything whahl t’ last bat. Ya caan’t insense it
intiv her ’at them ’at git ther traps tigither iv a hugger-mugger,
allus foorgits t’ main thing ’at tha’ll want.’ This is a truism the
world over. If we leave our packing to the last moment, we shall
probably discover the very thing we mostly need has been left behind.
Equally apt was the saying of one discussing a doubtful proceeding of
some comrade: ‘He’ll deea ’t whahl they catch him. It’s a mistak at
onny tahm ti sneeaf t’ cann’l ti cleease ti t’ wick.’ It is a mistake
to snuff the candle too close to the wick, for in so doing you may
extinguish the light; i.e. it is unwise to tempt Providence.
‘They’ve baith pulled yah road; he’s raxed an’ wrought, an’ sha’s
scratted an’ tew’d; what yan thowt t’ other did, whahl i’ t’ end tha
want foor nowt. Bud a breet shool an’ a well-worn thimm’l allus mak a
menseful hoos,’ ‘Raxed’ and ‘wrought’ are synonymous of working hard,
and to ‘scrat and tew’ is to be careful and ever toiling. ‘What one
thought the other did’ only strengthens the opening statement that
‘they both pulled one way.’ To ‘want for nothing’ is to possess all one
needs; and ‘a bright shovel and a well-worn thimble’ clearly show that
neither are allowed a lengthy rest.
‘It taks mair ti keep a pack o’ hounds ’an t’ damage t’ fox diz,’ can
be, and is, applied so variously that explanation is needless.
Deean’t be ti pawky.
Think on, thoo mun knaw
If thoo starts wiv a chirp
Thoo mud end wiv a craw,
Bud if thoo’s seea feealish
Ez ti be pawky an’ pert,
Maist leyke thoo’ll start wiv a craw
An’ end up wiv a chirp.
The Yorkshireman is not one who believes in luck. Hard work, toil from
early morn till night, is the daily lot of thousands. ‘Luck!’ said one;
‘ther is neea sike thing ez luck; what cums ti yan, ’ez ti be fetched.
Good luck’s t’ best gitten at wiv a wet sark,’ i.e. with a shirt wet
with perspiration through working hard. But hard work, if not applied
in a proper and sensible manner, will result in failure: brute force
is not everything. ‘T’ thickness gans for nowt if t’ roape isn’t lang
eneeaf;’ i.e. the strength of a rope goes for nothing if it is too
short.
Can better advice be given than is couched in the old saying of
‘Deean’t saay nowt on t’ deearstan at’ll rax ya ti preeave ower t’
thresho’d’? It is only one stride from the doorstep over the threshold,
therefore it will be wise at all times to say nothing which will cause
you infinite trouble to prove immediately afterwards.
The old saying, ‘Buckles borrow, brussen tag-holes beg,’ clearly points
that our fore-elders had a pretty correct notion of human nature in
their day. The short saying embodies much. If the status of those who
needed assistance was such that they could afford to wear nice buckles
on their shoes, such obtained help under the head of borrowing; but of
those whose lace-holes were burst, and buckles altogether wanting, it
was said they begged. Appearance goes a long way towards giving a name
to our actions.
Again, ‘Pull t’ bobbin wi’ joy, bud knock wi’ sorrow,’ and ‘Ill news is
shooted ti t’ reeaks, bud good news is whispered ti snahls[70],’ both
tell the same story. In olden days a bobbin, attached by a string to
the sneck within, hung outside every door. The saying urges us to haste
with all speed to pull the bobbin and enter if we have good news, but
with sorrow we are to be careful as to how we make it known. Again, an
evil report, it would seem, has ever been urged on its hurtful career.
The rook is a bird which is not only noisy, but flies far afield,
whilst, as every one knows, the snail is silent and slow; but the
truth of the old saying that ‘Evil news is shouted to the rooks, whilst
good tidings is only whispered to the snails,’ is, we fear, as true
to-day as when first uttered ages ago.
I will close this chapter with a few truisms, which fail to be hidden
in the doggerel:—
IF.
‘Twar a varra neyce wo’lld ’at wa live in,
An’ bonny it still mud be maad,
If prahd an’ au’d Harry wad give in,
An’ pafty fooak putten i’ t’ shaad.
If t’ pawky war nobbut all maastthered,
An’ swaimish fooak nut ower green,
Sum neeams wadn’t then be seea plaastered,
An’ things wad be mair what tha seeam.
If scann’l war shun’d leyke a hag-wo’m,
An’ fooak awlus thowt, ‘foor tha spak,
Wa s’u’d aim ti deea all a good to’n,
Whahl ill-will wad tak off iv a crack.
If ti illify, spite an’ sike uthers
C’u’d be deng’d cleean off t’ feeace o’ t’ yeth,
Wa sud live mair leyke sisters an’ bruthers,
An’ ‘ev mair ov innocent mirth.
CHAPTER XIV
CHILDREN‘S LORE
The North Riding is peculiarly rich in children’s lore. I remember when
a lad it was considered unlucky to hold a third place whilst crossing a
stream. To overcome the difficulty, two would walk abreast, rather than
cross last as third boy. A boy was not considered a true grammarian[71]
until he had been subjected to the orthodox rule of bumping; and any
boy appearing in a new garment had to submit to ’nips for new,’ each
one giving him a nip to ‘handsel’ the new garment. I remember, too,
it was considered unlucky to write one’s name in a new book with a
borrowed pen. And whilst any one had hold of wood, and cried ‘Queenie,’
or wet his finger, calling out ‘I’m wet,’ such for the time being was
secure from receiving the last tig (bat or touch) on parting for the
night—a most desirable point of vantage to gain in those days. But, be
it remembered, this last tig had to be given on the skin, not on the
jacket, or the boy would call out, ‘I wasn’t born with my clothes on.’
To possess a white ally-taw was considered most lucky, a considerable
number of marbles always being offered in exchange, though it was
only dire poverty which would render such a transaction possible. One
hears the same words and terms used now which thirty years ago came so
glibly from our own lips, and how long before that, goodness knows;
but old men tell us that they played the same games with the same
terms and laws which govern them now. I remember seeing the look of
astonishment which came into a South-country man’s face as some boys
rushed out of school to their usual ground, shouting at the top of
their voices, ‘Bags Ah fuggy, bags Ah seggy, thoddy thoddy’; and from
another, ‘Fowrt! fowrt! fowrt!’ whilst a small scrap of a mortal yelled
at the top of his voice, ‘An’ Ah bags laggy, Ah bags laggy.’ Then it
was demanded, ‘What’s t’ steeak?’ ‘Tweea a go,’ was the response, after
which the game commenced, only to be followed by such expressions
as—‘Backs neea flies;’ ‘Ah bags brush;’ ‘Ah sed neea brush;’ ‘Noo,
then, neea fullocking;’ ‘Here, thoo’ll ’a’e ti gan ower agaan, thoo
ramm’d.’ And then up crept a bully of a boy, who screamed ‘Brulley,’
snatching every taw out of the ring and running off with them. And
really, after all, one need not be very much surprised if a southern
visitor does fail to understand what the boys are talking about. But
then our lads would be equally at sea, and find it just as difficult to
understand such a sentence as the following:—‘Oi’ll ketch yer one on
yer blooming bouko, if yer deoun’t ’old yer bally reow.’ One is north,
the other south, that is all—at least, nearly all.
For what untold ages our children’s methods of counting-out have
existed, it would be difficult to say. Some owe their birth to the
times of the Reformation, when with a truly Christian spirit all
things Romish were consistently or otherwise jeered at[72]; others to
still earlier days, and a few to times remote. Take as an example the
following:—‘Ena, tena, tethra, pethra, pimps; sarfra, larfra, ofra,
dofra, dix; ena dix, tena dix, tethra dix, pethra dix, bumpit; ena
bumpit, tena bumpit, tethra bumpit, pethra bumpit, sigit—you’re out.’
Again it is repeated till another is out, and so on until only two
remain, and then the last one is counted out.
The above is not very common, but still it lives; it is perhaps one of
the oldest methods which has survived. Doubtless, during the centuries
through which it has lived, as might be expected, many of the words
have lost their original sound. It would seem to date from those days
when a mixed race had for some time lived peaceably together, if ever
such a thing did happen. The children know it, and that is all. Let us
take the first ten words; I will leave my readers to form their own
conclusions.
FROM ONE TO TEN IN VARIOUS LANGUAGES.
SIMILARITIES ONLY GIVEN.
_The
Children’s _Welsh._ _Anglo-Saxon._ _Old High _Modern _Gothic._
Form._ German._ German._
1. Ena ... ... Ein ... ...
2. Tena(1) ... Tu ... ... ...
3. Tethra Tair ... ... ... ...
4. Pethra Pedwar ... ... ... ...
5. Pimps Pump ... Finfe Funf ...
6. Sarfra ... ... ... ... Saihs
7. Larfra ... ... ... ... ...
8. Ofra ... ... Ohto ... ...
9. Dofra ... ... ... ... ...
10. Dix Deg ... ... ... ...
1: Probably this is the old form of two ones, for twice, hence _tuena_
or _tena_.
The comparative study of children’s lore proves, perhaps more
conclusively than that of anything else, how local circumstances in all
things compel both alteration and modification. Our American cousins
have retained with commendable accuracy most of the lore belonging to
the old country; but as in some cases the nasal twang has altered the
sound of words, so local and national peculiarities have influenced and
modified them in others; it must, however, be admitted not to any vital
extent. As an example of what I mean, take the following.
There is a very common girls’ game not only in the North Riding, but in
most parts of England, called ‘Jennie o’ Jones.’ It is a singing game.
One verse runs:—
Red is for the soldiers,
For soldiers, for soldiers;
Red is for the soldiers,
And that will never do.
Now, the American soldiers are not dressed in red coats, but some years
ago their firemen were; this fact enabled the American girls (God bless
’em!) to shape the song so as to meet their case. So, without any other
alteration worth noticing, they sing and act the song through just
the same as our English bairns, until they come to this verse, and
then, from one end of America to the other, where the Anglo-Saxon race
predominates, they sing—
Red is for the firemen,
For firemen, for firemen;
Red is for the firemen,
And that will never do.
But to return to our counting-out games, some of which, by-the-way,
originally were curses and anathemas, but as now sung by our children
the original is lost in a meaningless jargon, often being devoid of
rhyme, but always possessing rhythm. Many such are undoubtedly little
else than so much gibberish, but in a few cases the rhythm is hoary
with age, and possibly in the long past was listened to with awe and
trembling. A very old and widely spread counting-out rhyme runs as
follows:—
Eary, ory, hickory, on,
Philson, Valson, Dickson, John,
Squeaby, Squaby, Irishman,
Stiggerum, staggerum, buck[73].
The above is the North Riding version.
The American children sing:—
One-ery, two-ery, ickery, Ann,
Fillisey, fallisey, Nicholas, Jan;
Quiver, quaver, English Knave-a[74],
Stringleum, strangleum, Jericho Buck.
One other:—
Ena, mena, mina, mo,
Catch a beggar by the toe;
If he squeals, let him go,
Ena, mena, mina, mo.
Again notice the difference local circumstances give. The American
children sing:—
Ana, mana, mina, mo,
Catch a nigger by the toe;
When he hollers, let him go,
Ana, mana, mina, mo.
Of children’s games no further notice can be taken, interesting though
they be. To nursery stories, however, a short space must be devoted.
It is difficult now to discover in many of them any trace of religion,
stories of the gods, or witchcraft, but the roots from which many of
them spring were in existence thousands of years ago, and flourished in
far-off lands. The similarity these stories bear to the myths of other
countries greatly help in tracing that connecting link which shows the
relationship of one race to another, when nearly all other landmarks
and finger-posts have vanished[75].
Admitting the difficulty of assigning to every story its myth-root, it
is easy enough in most cases to see the moral.
THE LITTLE CROOKED OLD WOMAN AND THE PIG.
A little crooked woman had a little crooked broom,
She found a crooked sixpence when sweeping her little crooked room.
She set her off to market, which was a crooked mile,
Along a crooked pathway with a little crooked style;
With her little crooked sixpence a little pig she bought,
And with a band tied to its crooked leg, her homeward way she
sought[76].
All went well until she came to the bridge quite near to her own little
cottage, but this the pig refused to cross. At that moment a stick
came by, and the little old woman called out, ‘Stick, stick, beat the
pig; for the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get home
to get my old man his supper ready.’ The stick declined to help her,
leaning itself against the bridge end. Then came by a dog. To it she
cried, ‘Dog, dog, bite the stick; for the stick won’t beat the pig,
the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get home to get my
old man his supper ready.’ But the dog refused to do any such thing,
sitting down near by the stick. Just then a bull came along. ‘Bull,
bull,’ she shouted, ’toss the dog; for the dog won’t bite the stick,
and the stick won’t beat the pig, and the pig won’t go over the bridge,
and I shall never get home to get my old man his supper ready.’ But the
bull refused to give her any help, placing himself near to the dog.
From a butcher’s boy passing at the moment, she begged assistance,
urging him to kill the bull, telling him how the bull, dog, and stick
had all refused to help her to induce the pig to cross the bridge,
winding up with the sad assurance, that ’she would never get home to
get her old man his supper ready’; but the lad only laughed at her,
he taking his stand by the side of the bull, waiting to see how she
would manage. Next came along a horse, which she besought to kick the
boy, as the boy would not kill the bull, and the bull would not toss
the dog, &c.; but still she fared no better, the horse standing by the
side of the boy. Next a fire sprang up in the hedge bottom; this she
implored to burn the horse, as the horse would not kick the boy, and
the boy would not kill the bull, &c. The fire, like the rest, refused
all help, quietly burning where it was. Then she begged of the stream
to sleck the fire, as the fire would not burn the horse, &c.; but the
water ran peacefully on, heeding not her prayers. Then she heard in the
distance the sound of a mighty wind; to this she prayed, ‘O wind, dry
up the brook; the brook won’t sleck the fire, the fire won’t burn the
horse, the horse won’t kick the boy, the boy won’t kill the bull, the
bull won’t toss the dog, the dog won’t bite the stick, the stick won’t
beat the pig, the pig won’t go over the bridge, and I shall never get
home to get my old man his supper ready.’ Then came a voice amongst the
trembling leaves as the coming wind sighed through them, ‘I will dry up
the brook.’ Then said the brook, ‘Before I’ll be dried up I’ll quench
the fire.’ The fire at once cried out, ‘Before I’ll be quenched I’ll
burn the horse.’ The horse neighed, ‘I’ll kick the boy before I’ll be
burnt.’ The boy declared, ‘Before I’ll be kicked I’ll kill the bull.’
The bull said, ‘Before I’ll be killed I’ll toss the dog.’ The dog
declared, before it would be tossed it would bite the stick. The stick
at once offered to beat the pig, at which resolution on the stick’s
part the pig said, ‘Before I’ll be beaten I’ll go over the bridge’; and
so it did, and the old woman got home and made her old man his supper.
It was not until the old lady besought the aid of Woden, that her
petition was granted. Little doubt can exist that, as told in the
north, the approaching storm-wind represents that god[77].
The next story, under various garbs, is told to the little folks in
nearly every corner of the earth. The connexions between the various
forms and alterations (which different local peculiarities have
demanded) are not difficult to trace, as the connecting links are all
there. Possibly its root originated in the far East. Though our version
comes from the Scandinavian race, they learnt it from some other
nation, probably Germany.
NORTH RIDING VERSION OF THE BOY AND HIS WAGES.
A boy once had a very cruel step-mother; so cruel was she, that the
lad determined to run away. In the end he did so, and hired himself to
a farmer. Now when a year had passed, the kind farmer gave the lad for
his wages an ass which dropped gold. Off home went the boy, driving
his ass in front of him. On coming to a wayside inn, the landlord
asked him why he did not ride such a fine-looking ass. The lad in
reply foolishly told Boniface that his ass was much too valuable a one
to ride; adding, ‘Would you ride an ass that dropped gold?’ To this
the man asked him to make it drop gold where it stood. The boy wisely
explained that it was only when nature’s call had to be obeyed that
it did so, and quite beyond his power to command it. Whilst the boy
was having refreshment, the ass was put in the stable, the landlord
keeping his eye on it; before the lad had eaten and rested, evidence
was given that he had spoken nothing but the truth. It happened the
landlord had a very fine ass of his own; this he fetched from the
field, and whilst the lad slept he groomed it, trimmed its ears and
tail, and blacked its hoofs, till in the end it exactly resembled
the gold-dropping one. This he took away and hid, putting his own
ass in its place. The boy never noticed it was a changeling which
he was driving home. On his arrival he told his step-mother what a
treasure he had brought her. Hearing such good news, she received
him kindly, giving him a supper of fried eggs and bacon. For three
days he was, as she told him, treated like a prince; but the third
morning, instead of his breakfast, she gave him a worse thrashing than
ever, and turned him to the door, calling him all the names she could
lay her tongue to. He returned to his master, who kindly received
him, and on the completion of his second year’s labour, gave him for
his wages a hamper, which every day, on the command being given to
fill itself, would be found packed with choicest food, sufficient
to feed a large household. Again he stopped at the inn on his way
home; calling for a glass of beer, he ordered the hamper to fill. On
beholding such a wonderful hamper, the landlord determined to steal
that also, so whilst the lad slept, he took it away, replacing it
with one of his own exactly similar. To the lad’s discomfiture, the
fraud was discovered the moment he returned home. Once again he was
severely beaten and turned adrift. Again his kind master took him in,
and at the end of his third year gave him a bag containing a thick
stick, which on the command being given, ‘Come out, stick, and bend
yourself,’ would immediately leap out and unmercifully thrash the
individual who at the time was holding the bag. On his way home, the
landlord spied him approaching, and with smiles and kind words asked
him in. ‘And, pray, what does your bag contain?’ asked he, as soon
as the lad was seated. ‘The most wonderful thing you ever saw,’ said
he; ‘but let me have a good dinner, and then I will show you.’ The
landlord, thinking to have another good haul, served him with the best
of everything, going even so far as to give him a glass of wine. All
impatience, he waited until the repast was finished. ‘Now,’ said the
youth, smacking his lips, as he swallowed the last bite, ‘stand in the
middle of the room and hold the bag in your hand, and I’ll promise
you the biggest surprise you ever had in your life. That bag is just
wonderful.’ Before the lad had finished speaking, the landlord had
taken his place in the middle of the floor, holding the bag in his
hand. ‘Now open it,’ said the boy—which Boniface did. ‘Why,’ said
he, in a tone of great disappointment, ‘it is only a stick.’ ‘Yes,’
replied the boy, ‘but it is a wonderful stick. Now just watch what it
can do;’ and then he shouted, ‘Come out, stick, and bend yourself.’
Immediately the stick jumped out of the bag, and bent itself about
the back of the landlord until he howled with pain. Do what he would,
go where he might, the stick leapt after and beat him, till at last,
almost dead, he cried out, ‘Put it in the bag again; I will return
thee thy ass and hamper,’ which he did. On nearing home, the lad saw
his cruel step-mother waiting for him with a thick stick in her hand.
‘Wait a while,’ he called, ‘until you see what I have brought you in
my bag.’ Thinking it would be wiser to wait, she laid down her stick,
and let him enter. ‘Now, before I show to you what I have in my bag,
give me a good tea; you can thrash me afterwards quite as well as
now,’ said he. After his tea, he asked the cruel old dame to take hold
of the bag and open it. This she readily did, little dreaming of what
was to follow. Again he shouted, ‘Come out, stick, and bend yourself’;
and for once the old hag knew what a stick laid across the back meant.
She begged, she implored, she promised she would be good and kind to
him, if he would only call off the stick. At last, when he considered
she had been sufficiently punished, he ordered the stick back into the
bag. And from that day she behaved herself in a decent manner.
As has been said, there are many forms of this story. This one differs
slightly from that told in the West Riding, and considerably from that
of other countries, but one and all contain the same mythological
essentials.
The kind master is the all-ruling God. The ass is typical of spring,
yielding that which gives all good things. And the hamper undoubtedly
represents the earth, which is full of all things necessary for
our happiness and existence. But there comes a time when the gods,
displeased with our ungratefulness or other sins, permit evil spirits
to either steal or withhold the good blessings from us; then follows
a chastising of the evil spirits, who are driven away, and the earth
becomes once again plentiful.
The gold-dropping ass, and in some collateral form the hamper, bag, and
stick, are old friends in Eastern tales, which were told when the world
was very young. Possibly their radicals, if ever discovered, will be
found in some early religious creed.
Perhaps some student will work out the meaning and application of the
following; it is beyond me. An old servant of ours was taught it by her
grandmother:—
There was a man who lived in Leeds,
He set his garden full of seeds,
And when the seeds began to grow,
It was like a garden full of snow;
But when the snow began to melt,
It was like a ship without a belt;
And when the ship began to sail,
It was like a bird without a tail;
And when the bird began to fly,
It was like an eagle in the sky;
And when the sky began to roar,
It was like a lion at my door;
And when my door began to crack,
It was like a penknife at my back;
And when my back began to bleed,
I was dead, dead, dead in_deed_.
I remember, when this doggerel was repeated, we all sat round the
kitchen fire, the maid sitting by the table with her hand near the
lighted candle; towards the last few lines her voice would drop,
until, on repeating the last line, it almost became a whisper. With
ears strained, and eyes nearly out of our heads, we awaited the
dramatic _dénouement_, which most of us well knew; but in those days
the excitement never waned, always the same intensity of feeling was
duly worked up, as she repeated in a hoarse whisper, ‘dead, dead, dead
in_deed_,’ extinguishing the light, as she uttered the last syllable
with a fearful shriek, whilst we all yelled in one mighty chorus.
Houses in those days were built, not held together by the tacks in the
carpets and the paper on the wall; such a yell as we gave would have
shaken the ornaments from off every bracket nailed to the walls of a
whole row of modern blown-together domiciles.
THE STORY OF THE POOR OLD COBBLER AND THE WICKED KNIGHT.
There was once a poor old cobbler had twelve children, all girls. He
was quite broken down with the hard work of finding food and clothes
for them. One night, when he was working very late, he suddenly heard
a laugh, and on looking up, saw the queerest little man his eyes had
ever beheld sitting by the stove door. ‘And who may you be?’ inquired
the cobbler, resting from his work. But the queer little man did
nothing but laugh and shake his head. After a while, however, he said,
‘I have a bit of news for you.’ ‘Good, I hope,’ said the cobbler,
waxing a thread. ‘You won’t think so; there is another daughter
going to be added to your little family,’ chuckled the old chap. On
hearing this, the poor old cobbler fainted; the shock was too much
for him. He had hoped it would be a boy, who would in time grow up
and help him; but a girl! it was too much. However, when he came to
himself, the baby was born, and sure enough the queer little old man
had been right. It was a sweet babe, and when three years old the wee
thing showed promise of growing up to be a most beautiful maiden.
One day, whilst the little lass was playing about the shop door, a
knight rode by; seeing the child, he was struck with her marvellous
beauty. Never before had he seen such beauty and shapeliness of limb
in one so young. As he rode along, he consulted his book of fate, for
he was a wicked wizard knight, and discovered the child was fated
to be the bride of his own son. This he determined should not be.
Turning his horse about, he returned to the cobbler’s shop, and after
some conversation offered him a sum of money, and promised to take
the child along with him, adopt her, and leave her all his wealth.
To this the poor old man agreed, and away rode the knight with the
lovely child in his arms. Now, he dare not kill the child himself,
because the book of fate told him if any one did so before she had
been kissed by the man she would wed, the same should die that day.
So he determined her death should be an accident. Riding to the banks
of the Ouse, he jumped his horse off the bank, leaving hold of the
little lass as he did so. As they sank beneath the flood, she was
washed away, and the wicked wizard left her to her fate. Her clothes,
however, buoyed her up, and as she floated along, she heard a voice
call her by name, and a queer little old man, who was fishing, threw
his line over her, and dragged her to shore. Taking her to a cottage
near by, he gave her in charge of the good wife and her husband,
begging them to take great care of her until he came that way again;
placing a large sum of money on the table to pay for her keep, he
departed on his way. So she lived with these kind people, until she
was eighteen. At this time her many charms of form and face had
become the talk amongst the courtiers at York. To such an extent was
her wondrous beauty famed abroad, that she was even toasted in the
castle. A certain wizard knight, hearing her so extolled, rode out one
day to where she lived. Seeing her standing by the door, he passed
on, and again consulted his book of fate, and discovered she was the
very maiden he had looked upon as drowned years ago. Turning back,
he offered the good woman a large sum of money if she would permit
the maiden to carry a note to his brother who lived at Scarborough
Castle. The dame said it was too far for the maiden to walk; however,
just then a queer little old man drove by with an ass yoked to a cart,
and offered to give the maiden a lift most of the way, so she was
permitted to go. When the queer little old man and the maiden rested
for the night, he stole into her bedroom, and removed the note, which
she had pinned within her chemise for security; so gently was this
accomplished, that she never awoke. He broke the seal and read, ‘Let
the bearer see my son, command him to kiss her, and then cast her
into a dungeon, and let her starve to death.’ ‘I knew,’ muttered the
old man. Returning to the sleeping maiden, he gently pinned within
her chemise another note, with just the same seal on, and written in
exactly the same writing. But written in this note was a command that
the brother should at once marry his nephew to the bearer. In the
morning, when the girl arose, she found the ass, cart, and little old
man had left very early; however, she was quite near to Scarborough,
for never had an ass trotted like the queer little old man’s had done.
On arriving at the castle, she was speedily married to the wizard
knight’s son, and they were as happy as they could be. Two months
afterwards, the father-in-law came to stay at the castle. No sooner
did he behold the bride, than he saw that he had been baulked again,
but he held his peace. Early next day he met his daughter-in-law in
a wood: she had been seeing her husband off on a hawking expedition.
The wicked knight asked her to walk with him along the shore, and
when they came to a lonely place, he told her she must prepare to
die. Plunging his sword into the sand, he scratched a mark on the
beach, telling her that when its shadow reached that mark, he would
draw it from the sand and run it through her heart. So eloquently did
she plead, and her beauty was so great, that he relented so far as to
offer her her freedom if she would swear to go away and never see his
son again, until she wore upon her finger the ring which he held in
his hand. She swore she would do as he wished if he would only spare
her life. He then by magic art threw the ring into the very middle of
the sea, where it sank.
Broken-hearted, she left her cruel father-in-law, and wandered far
away, feeling that she would never see her husband again. For more
than a year she travelled from place to place. At last the poor young
wife was engaged as cook by a great baron’s lady. Some time afterwards
her father-in-law and her husband came to stay at the castle. The
very day they arrived, the queer little old man and his cart drew up
at the servants’ door, offering fish for sale. The cook purchased a
large turbot, and on opening it, she found inside it the very ring
which her wicked father-in-law had thrown into the middle of the sea.
She cooked the dinner so well, that the guests begged to see the cook;
to this end she dressed herself in her best gown, put the ring on her
finger, and appeared before them. The wicked knight recognized her at
once, and rushed forward to slay her with his uplifted sword. But the
delighted husband folded her in his arms, so that his father must have
slain both had he dared to strike. Freeing herself from her husband’s
loving embrace, she held up her hand. The knight saw the ring. He then
knew she was guarded beyond the reach of any machinations of his; so
he gave them his blessing, and they all lived happily ever afterwards.
Although in another form the same story is told by Grimm, and is known
to-day in every country in Europe, originally it was two separate
stories, which have grown into each other. The first part is closely
related to a Swedish and Norwegian story, whilst the second is from a
different root, which is common to many others. One having a strong
resemblance is that of ‘Mageloné,’ and of mythological signification.
Regarding the story itself, I dare not venture an opinion. But the
guardian spirit, in the form of the little old man, comes out much
more strongly in the North Riding version than in that of any other.
Again, the act of throwing the ring into the sea, which was followed by
total darkness being cast over two lives, may be typical of the sun[78]
sinking into the middle of the universe. And the fish bringing it to
light may be symbolical of its rising again; anyway, the act brought
light, life, and hope for the future. I leave it with you—I have only
suggested, not laid my ideas before you as the opinion of one able to
give an _opinion_ on a question of this kind.
The story of the ‘Golden Ball’ and others are common with us; but they
must be passed by, as space only remains for one other.
THE CRUEL STEP-MOTHER AND HER LITTLE DAUGHTER.
Once upon a time, years and years ago, when animals possessed the
power of speech, a cruel woman lived with a son of her own, and a
little step-daughter of her husband’s whom she hated—but then she was
a wicked step-mother. This poor little girl never knew what it was to
have a kind word spoken to her, though she tried in all things to win
her step-mother’s love, but it was a hopeless task. One day she was
sent to the neighbouring village for some candles, her step-mother
giving her a silver piece, telling her to be sure and bring the change
back. On returning home, she had a stile to climb, and it was such an
awkward stile. There was no other way but to push the candles under
the lowest bar, and then climb over; this she attempted to do, but
when on the topmost rail, a black dog snatched up the candles and ran
off. In great trouble she returned to the grocer’s, and with some of
the remaining money bought another pound of candles; but this time,
when she came to the stile, a white dog ran away with them. Again she
went to the grocer’s, and found she had just sufficient money left
to purchase a third pound. This time she was wiser, and balanced the
candles on the topmost rail; but just as she did so, a great black
bird swooped down and flew away with them. On her return home she told
her cruel step-mother all that had happened. Instead of scolding and
beating her, she told the child to come and rest her head on her knee
whilst she combed her hair; and the cruel woman’s heart was filled
with envy and hatred when she saw the wealth of golden hair which fell
about the child, hiding her from view. ‘Your head tires my knee,’ said
she; ‘fetch in the stick-block, and rest your head upon it whilst I
comb out the cotters[79].’ There really wasn’t a cotter in her hair,
it was only a wicked excuse. Whilst the child was gone for the wooden
block, she took a sharp axe from its nail and hid it under her apron.
‘Put your head on the block, my dear,’ said she—oh, so kindly—and the
little child, never dreaming what her cruel step-mother contemplated,
laid her head upon the block. Then the cruel woman brought out the
bright sharp axe, and with one blow severed the head from the body.
This wicked step-mother then tore the child’s heart from her little
breast, put it in a pan, and set it upon the fire to boil, whilst
she buried the body. On the father’s return home, she said that his
daughter was chopping sticks. She then offered the father some of the
broth she had made from his own dear child’s heart. He tasted it, but
said he did not like the flavour, and would not drink any more; her
own son refused even to taste it. Next evening, when the father asked
for his little daughter, the woman lied again. She made the excuse
that she had sent her with the carrier to stay with her grandmother, a
great way off, declaring that she would not return for a whole year.
In a short time, on the very spot where she had buried the child,
there sprang up a most wonderful rose-tree, which bore one large
bud; this presently bloomed into a lovely white rose, when lo! from
its petals, there flew forth a little bird as white as the purest
snow. The bird did not stay in the garden, but flew into the town,
and alighting on the window-sill of a toy-maker, at once commenced
to sing more sweetly than he had ever heard a bird sing before. So
charmed was he that he begged of it to sing again. ‘I will,’ said the
bird, ‘if you will give me the best toy sword you have,’ which he
gladly promised to do. So the bird sang again, and flew away with the
sword to the door of a watchmaker. Here again it sang: this time it
received a gold watch and chain. With this and the sword it flew to
where some stone-masons were working; to them it promised to repeat
its song if they would tie to its neck a large round stone which they
had just finished making. This they readily did, and away it flew,
alighting on the chimney of its former home. After resting awhile, it
rattled the stone against the chimney side, which sounded in the house
like thunder. ‘It thunders down the chimney,’ said the mother; so
the little boy thrust his head under the chimney, to hear better. No
sooner had he done so, than the bird let the sword drop, the leather
belt falling round his neck. ‘See,’ cried the lad, ‘what the thunder
has sent me,’ jumping about with joy. Again the bird rattled the
stone against the brickwork. ‘It thunders again,’ said the father,
thrusting his head into the chimney, when round his neck fell a gold
chain with a beautiful watch attached. ‘And see what the thunder has
sent me,’ said the father, removing the chain from his neck, and
admiring his present. A third time the stone was shaken against the
chimney side. Pushing the other two aside, the cruel step-mother
cried, ‘It is my turn this time.’ So saying, she thrust her head up
the chimney, when the bird let the stone ball drop, which falling on
her head crushed her skull, and she fell back dead on to the kitchen
floor. Such was the sad end of the cruel step-mother.
The variety of forms which this story has taken, and its wide
distribution over perhaps the greatest area of any of our early-life
stories, gives it a prominence and distinction second to none. In
many of the stories of other places, the stone ball is described as a
millstone. Possibly this is nearest to the original, as in many early
fables the millstone figures as thunder. But to the eminently practical
mind of the Yorkshire folk, it has been discarded, owing possibly to
the unlikelihood of finding a chimney big enough to admit of its being
dropped down. If its mythological root is somewhat obscure, its close
relationship to other stories hoary with age is as clear as the noonday
sun.
Passing on to other branches of childhood’s lore, we call to mind the
many charms of our youthful days. Were we stung with a nettle, we at
once searched for a dock-leaf, and rubbing the part stung, repeated
with all due solemnity:—
Docken in drahve t’ nettle oot,
Just leyke an au’d dishcloot;
or,
In docken, oot nettle,
Deean’t let t’ warm blood sattle.
The snail-charm is as follows:—
Sneeal[80], sneeal, shut oot yer horn,
Or Ah’ll kill yer feyther an’ muther ti morn;
or,
Snahl[80], snahl, cum oot o’ yer shell,
Or Ah’ll bray yer flat wiv a wooden mell.
The crow-charm, as sung by the bairns, is:—
Craw, craw, flee oot o’ seet,
Or else Ah’ll eat yer liver an’ leet.
The rain charm is:—
Raan, raan, go away,
Cum agaan anuther daay;
or,
Raan, raan faster,
T’ bull’s in t’ pastur.
It is curious how spitting has come to play such a prominent part as
it has. In certain games of catching, a boy may be quite securely
caught, so far as actual grip is concerned; but until he has been hit
three times on the back, and the operation of spitting over his head
duly carried out, the capture is not fully concluded. Again, when two
boys quarrel, one will be asked if he dare give the other ‘his buff.’
This is a slight blow, struck on any part of the opponent’s person.
Virtually, it is a challenge. Up to this point, however, the actual
fight may or may not come off. The opponents, if left to themselves,
are still open to arrange matters amicably. But if some boy hold his
finger under the chin of one of them, and ask him ‘if he dare spit
over,’ and some lad make the same demand of the other, and both spit
over, then utter disgrace and obloquy would for ever cling to the boy
who, after the performance of such a sacred rite, dare refuse to do
battle.
What boy does not yet fully believe that a horsehair, either pushed up
the cane or held in the hand, will split it, so as to render it useless
as a means of correction? And which of us in our younger days did not
accept in full faith the belief that horse-hairs steeped in water
turned to eels. Why, I can well remember the time that every man jack
of us, when we passed Sharrow Cross, always touched the old stone and
wished, and many a pin have I dropped into St. Helen’s Well and done
the same.
Rob a Robin,
Go a-sobbing,
so we used to say, and for that reason we never stole their eggs—that
is, we did not actually take them out of the nest with our fingers. No,
to save ourselves from sobbing, we poked one out with a stick, and then
picked it up—under such conditions, we found it lying outside. Don’t
smile, please. Grown-up people nowadays round the corners of their
consciences in quite as barefaced a manner, and with fewer qualms.
Other children’s lore must with reluctance be omitted. May what has
been written be acceptable to them.
CHAPTER XV
ODD SCRAPS OF OLD YORKSHIRE, ETC.
SONG. [_Published at Bedale, 1800-1815._]
When Ah war a wee lahtle tottering bairn,
An’ ‘ed nobbut just gitten sho’t frocks,
When ti gan[81] Ah at fo’st war beginnin’ ti larn,
O’ mah bru[82] Ah gat monny hard knocks;
Foor sae waak an’ sae silly an’ helpless war Ah,
Ah war awlus a tumm’ling doon then,
Whahl mah muther wad twattle ma gently, an’ cry,
‘Honey, Jenny, tak care o’ thisen.’
Bud when Ah grew bigger an’ gat ti be strang,
‘At Ah cannily toddled aboot
Byv mysen wheer Ah leyked, then Ah awlus mud gan
Wivoot being tell’d aboot owt.
When hooivver Ah cam ti be sixteen year au’d,
An’ rattl’d an’ ramp’d amang t’ men,
Mah mother wad call o’ ma in, an’ wad scaud,
An’ cry—‘Huzzy! tak care o’ thisen.’
Ah’ve a sweetheart cums noo upo’ Seterdaay neets,
An’ he sweears ’at he’ll mak ma his weyfe;
Mah mam graws seea stingy, sha scauds an’ sha fleets,
An’ twitters ma oot o’ mah leyfe.
Bud sha may leeak soor, an’ consate hersen wise,
An’ preeach ageean leyking young men—
Sen Ah’s a woman, her clack Ah’ll dispise,
An’ Ah s’ marry! tak care o’ mysen!
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO YORKSHIRE FARMERS, ON THE INDECENCY OF DRESS
ADOPTED BY FASHIONABLE LADIES.
[_Date about 1800-15. Published at Bedale._]
_Simon._
Good morrow, Johnny, hoo d’ye deea?
If ya’re ganning mah road, Ah’ll gan wi’ ya.
Hoo cau’d this mornin’ t’ wind diz blaw—
Ah think wa seean s’all ’a’e sum snaw.
_Johnny._
Aye, Simon, seea wa s’all ere lang.
Ah ’s Bedale wards; Ah wish ya’d gan,
Foor Ah’ve a dowter leeatly deead—
Ah’s boon ti git her coffin meead.
_Simon._
Heigh! Johnny! deead? Wha, seear, thoo’s wrang,
Foor sha war wiv uz e’er seea lang.
An’ oft wiv her i’ yonder booer
Ah’ve joked and laugh’d full monny an hoor.
Bud fo’st, good Johnny, tell ma this,
What maad her dee? what’s been amiss?
_Johnny._
Ti tell tha, Simon, noo Ah’s boon.
Thoo sees, Ah sent her ti yon toon
Ti skeeal, an’ next ti larn a traad
Byv which sha war ti arn her breead.
Bud when sha fo’st cam yam ti me,
Sha ’ed neea petticoats, ya see.
Ah fan sha’d larl on bud her smock,
An’ ower that a tawdry frock.
Sike wark ez that, it raised my passion,
An’ then sha telt ma it war t’ feshion.
* * * * *
Her hat sa fine to’n’d up afoor,
It made her leeak just leyke—Oh lor!
_Simon._
Wha, Johnny, stop, thoo’s oot o’ breeath.
Bud hoo cam sha ti git her death?
_Johnny._
Whya, ho’d a bit, an’ thoo s’all heear.
I’ t’ next pleeace, mun, her breasts war bare;
Her naaked airms, teea, sha mun show,
E’en when t’ cau’d bitter wind did blaw.
Her clock’d hose, ez ower t’ street
Sha tripp’d, sha show’d, a sham’ful seet.
An’ when Ah spak aboot it, then
(Ya see, Ah’s awlus by mysen)
Her muther maistly leean’d her waay—
It matter’d nowt what Ah’d ti seeay.
Ah tell’d mah deeam hoo it wad be,
An’ seea sha caan’t lig t’ blaam o’ me:
Sez Ah, ‘Afoor sha’s twice ten au’d,
Sha’s seear ti git her deeath o’ cau’d.’
* * * * *
Ah’s seear it’s all t’ gert fau’ks’ pursuit
Ti ’ev, like Eve, a birthday suit.
_Simon._
Thoo’s reet good, Johnny; reet, Ah saay.
That Ah’ve obsarved afoor ti-daay;
Foor t’ maist o’ wimmin nooadaays
Nobbut put on ther goon an’ staays.
An’ noo i’ t’ toon, ez each yan passes,
Ya caan’t ken deeams fra sarvint lasses.
* * * * *
_Johnny._
Aye, Simon, thoo sez reet, Ah sweear;
Bud noo, ez Bedale’s drawing near,
Deean’t let on wiv owt Ah’ve sed
Aboot mah dowter ligging deead.
* * * * *
_Simon._
Neea, that Ah weean’t; but whahl Ah’ve breeath,
Ah’ll nobbut saay ’sha starved ti deeath.’
NOTE. Much of the above has had to be suppressed.
SONG.
T’ LASS FRA LUNNON.
Yan nivver ’ed seean sike a yan
Foor dhriss an’ feathers spik an’ span;
Sha war maistly t’ match foor onny man,
War t’ lass fra Lunnon.
Sha c’u’d raffle on, an’ tell a taal
‘At put i’ t’ shaad Jonah an’ t’ whaal;
Bud sha wadn’t hug a hauf-filled paal,
That lass fra Lunnon.
Sha c’u’d slather oot a bit o’ Frinch,
An’ sit an’ swing her legs on t’ binch;
Sha warn’t partic’ler tiv a pinch,
Warn’t t’ lass fra Lunnon.
Sha c’u’d sing yan comic songs byv t’ year—
Sike songs yan dizn’t offens hear—
Bud sha wadn’t scrub a kitchen fleear,
That lass fra Lunnon.
A bisittle sha’d larnt ti rahd;
When dancing, wha, sha seeamed ti glahd;
A chap sha wad ’ev byv her sahd,
Wad t’ lass fra Lunnon.
Her waist war nobbut bud a span;
Sha c’u’d ommaist cum roond onny man,
Bud sha wadn’t cleean a pot or pan,
That lass fra Lunnon.
Sha c’u’d plaay t’ pianner, sing an’ all;
Sha’d read all t’ luv taals gert an’ small;
Sha war sharp eneeaf foor yan an’ all,
War t’ lass fra Lunnon.
A leet daay’s wark sha wadn’t start,
Ti muck hersen sha ’edn’t heart,
An’ sha c’u’dn’t bake a leeaf or tart,
That lass fra Lunnon.
Sha’d lig back iv a basket cheear,
An’ fairly cap yan wiv her hair—
Ah’ve seen mah missus stan’ an’ stare
At t’ lass fra Lunnon.
Sha wad laak at crickets leyke a lad,
An’ carry on leyke yan ’at’s mad,
Bud sha wadn’t mend a thing sha ’ed,
That lass fra Lunnon.
Ah’ve seean her smeeak a larl cigar,
An’ sha didn’t seeam a bit the war,
Bud then sha war a mo’tal star,
War t’ lass fra Lunnon.
Her shoon war oppen doon ti t’ teeas,
Her hat stuck on all macks o’ waays,
Bud sha wadn’t wesh her mucky cleeas,
That lass fra Lunnon.
Sha’d row on t’ pond just leyke a chap,
An’ iv a net sha’d tak a nap—
Sha didn’t seeam ti mahnd a rap,
That lass fra Lunnon.
Foor fun an’ gam sha seeam’d fair rife,
Bud wark sha wadn’t thruff her leyfe—
Sha’d nivver mak a poor man’s weyfe,
Wad t’ lass fra Lunnon.
B——.
THA‘RE KITTLISH THINGS TI DEEA.
Deean’t aim ti stop a bull by t’ e’e,
Deean’t gan far up a rotten stee,
Deean’t ho’d i’ t’ han’ a bumm’l bee—
Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.
Deean’t tak a straange dog byv its taal,
Deean’t mak yer naabor’s pigs ti squeeal,
Deean’t call yer maaster’s lad a feeal—
Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.
Deean’t aim ti alter wimmin’s waays,
Deean’t conterdict what t’ maaster saays,
Deean’t hark him back tiv uther daays—
Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.
Deean’t saay ti t’ muther t’ babby’s plaan,
Deean’t tell a chap his lass is t’ saam,
An’ nivver saay ’at t’ weyfe’s ti blaam—
Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.
Deean’t drahve a lent hoss ower fast,
An’ when ya’ve wo’ds, deean’t try foor t’ last
Wi t’ weyfe, or else sha’ll ommaist brast—
Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.
Deean’t gicken when yer betters slip,
Deean’t be ti pawky wi’ yer lip,
An’ frev anuther’s glass deean’t sip—
Tha’re kittlish things ti deea.
B——.
SONG.
A BLIGHTED YOUNG MAN.
Noo stan’s afoor ya a blighted young man
Wheeas leyfe is fast slithering awaay;
Ah’s dowly an’ dwining, an’, deea what Ah mud,
Ah caan’t lig mah troubles awaay.
_Chorus._
Yance Ah war happy, leetsome, an’ gaay;
Bud Ah gat wed, an’, varra sad ti saay,
Ah seean fan t’ mistak oot, an’ noo ivvery daay
Ah wish Ah war a sing’l young man.
Ah offens calls ti mahnd noo when Ah war a lad
T’ fussack Ah rade on ti skeeal;
Ah nivver thowt i’ them daays ’at woman sae coy
C’u’d ivver mak a man sike a feeal.
_Chorus._
Aa, bud Ah’s dowly an’ stalled o’ mah leyfe,
Ther’s nowt noo bud waiting for t’ end,
Ah ’livvers up my wages Ah arns ivvery week,
An’ fow’pence sha gi’es me ti spend.
_Chorus._
Ah weshes all t’ taters, Ah maks all wer beds,
Ah fetches all t’ coals in, an’ t’ hearth Ah cleans up;
Ah peeals ivvery onion, an’ monny a tear Ah sheds
Ez Ah sups fra leyfe’s bitter cup.
_Chorus._
Ah diz all t’ possing, Ah hings oot all t’ cleeas,
Ah hugs in all t’ watter, an’, ez ya maay suppose,
Ah meng’ls, Ah irons, Ah diz all ’at Ah can,
Bud Ah’s nowt na mair ner a poor wedded man.
_Chorus._
When Ah went a-courting, sha seeam’d ti be
Ez meek an’ ez mild ez meek an’ mild can be;
Bud ther’s tweea sahds tiv a woman—deea what ya can,
T’ Missus will be t’ maastther of a poor married man.
B——.
NOWT BUD LUV COULD BE.
T’ meean war leeaking doon on t’ yeth
Leyke a silver ball yah neet,
An’ stars war twinkling ivver seea,
Whahl t’ sky war all aleet
Wi’ t’ gems ov Heaven up aboon.
Seea gran’ tha leak’d ti t’ e’e,
Yan felt fair capp’d ti think doon there
‘At owt bud luv c’u’d be;
Foor t’ beetles hum’d ez round tha swirl’d,
An’ t’ crake call’d foor its maate,
An’ t’ bleeat o’ monny lambs yan heeard,
An’ t’ moths can oot ti late
Ther suppers fra some neetly bloom,
An’ t’ wo’lld war fair ti see,
Whahl sumhoo yan felt bet ti knaw
Hoo owt bud luv c’u’d be.
A twittering noos an’ thens yan heeard
Fra t’ larl bo’ds i’ ther nist,
Ez croodled under t’ muther wing
Tha teeak ther neetly rist.
T’ noisy creeaks ’ed geean ti reeast,
Ther war nowt yan c’u’d see
Ti mak it hard upon this yeth
Foor owt bud luv ti be.
Bud whahl yan tried ti mak it oot,
A flittermoose fligg’d by,
An’ t’ ullot’s shadow darken’d t’ grund,
An t’ neet-jar gav its cry,
An t’ fox yapp’d wiv its neease ti t’ grund,
Whahl t’ rezzel slank alang,
An’ t’ rabbit’s squeeal tell’d plaan eneeaf
O’ parlous deed amang
T’ weeak critters, whahl yan ’s forced ti awn
It’s seeam amang wersels—
I’ t’ heart, wheer nowt bud luv s’u’d be,
Unkindness offen dwells.
B——.
* * * * *
Yan better wed when t’ glamour’s on
Ez wait whahl t’ heart graws cau’d;
It’s better deean i’ t’ spring o’ leyfe
Ez when yan’s grawing au’d.
Yan better wed foor luv ez brass,
Just when oor een is breet;
Yan better wed when toilsome wark
Upon yan’s rig ligs leet.
Yan better fetch wer baans all up,
Whahl ivvery gam tha plaay;
Baith them an’ uz can laak ti t’ end—
It’s better mich that waay.
Yan owt ti be just gahin’ doon t’ hill
Ez tha tak frev uz t’ pleeaf,
An’ if thruff leyfe yan’s deean yan’s best,
Yan’s awlus deean eneeaf.
B——.
* * * * *
Nivver belder at yer bairns,
Whisht wo’ds is awlus t’ best;
An’ nivver let a tear-drop damp
Ther een when gahin ti rist.
Deean’t let ’em doot yer larlest wo’d,
Bud let ’em ho’d ti be
Nowt else bud t’ trewth iv all ya saay,
An’ let ’em awlus see
‘At ivverything ya daily deea
Thersels mud pattern tak—
I’ deeaing this, ya’re deeaing mich
Bonny bairns ti mak.
B——.
THE BALLOON.
_From the Author’s series of Yorkshire Sketches._
‘What is ’t, mun?’
‘It’s t’ b’loon.’
‘Is ’t t’ thing ’at tha gan up inti t’ sky wiv?’
‘Aye.’
‘Hoo deea tha mannish ’t?’
‘Naay, that licks ma; bud it gans up leyke all that.’
‘What’s ho’ding ’t up noo?’
‘Ah deean’t reetlings knaw. Ah ax’d t’ chap ’at awns ’t, an’ he tell’d
ma ’at it war thrussen up wi’ gas.’
‘Aye, an’ what did thoo saay ti that?’
‘Whya, Ah tell’d him ’at Ah’d cutten my back teeth.’
‘An’ what did he saay then?’
‘Nowt; he nobbut ax’d ma if Ah’d leyke ti gan up wiv him, an’ Ah
tell’d him ’at he wadn’t catch me sailing thruff t’ cloods sitting on
t’ top ov a gert blether, an’ he did nowt bud laugh at ma.’
‘Ah didn’t knaw ’at tha sat on t’ top; Ah awlus thowt ’at tha gat
insahd t’ b’loon. Bud Ah deean’t see hoo tha’d git inteea ’t. Ah’s t’
maist capped ti knaw what ho’ds ’t up.’
‘Aye, bud what diz ta mak on ’t gahin up byv itsen, when tha let it
off?’
‘Ah deean’t knaw, that’s a capper. An’ thoo sez ’at it gans up leyke
all that?’
‘Seea fau’k saay. Think on, Ah’ve nivver seen yan git awaay wiv itsen.’
‘Ah saay, efter tha’ve gitten ’t up, hoo deea tha mannish ti fetch ’t
doon agaan?’
‘Ah nivver thowt o’ that. Ah wunner hoo tha deea deea ’t. Bud Ah s’u’d
think ’at tha mebbe fling a roap oot an’ swarm doon ’t.’
‘Mebbe, bud Ah’s leathered ti knaw what ho’ds ’t up.’
‘Whya, Ah s’u’d think ’at ther’s mebbe a chap insahd ho’ding it up wiv
a powl’ (pole).
‘Aye, mebbe seea; Ah nivver thowt o’ that. What’s that thing; is ’t a
bee-skep?’
‘It leeaks despert leyke yan.’
‘It’s a varra gert un. Mah wo’d, what a swarm it wad ho’d.’
‘Sitha, mun! if tha ar’n’t tying t’ bee-skep ti t’ b’loon; an’ ther’s
a lass gitting insahd.’
‘Ther is, hooivver. Ah nivver seed sike a thing i’ mah leyfe; it
waggles aboot sairly.’
‘Leeaks, ta! Ther’s a chap gitting in noo; depend on ’t, tha’re foor
off.’
‘Tha’re larl better ’an tweea feeals. Ah wadn’t leeave t’ grund tied
tiv a thing leyke that; neea, nut foor a ransom.’
‘Whativver are tha efter noo?’
‘Ah caan’t mak oot.’
‘Bless mah leyfe, tha’re lowsing t’ thing.’
‘Tha are, hooivver. Tha’re gahin’ ti let it off.’
‘Ther’s na doot aboot it.’
‘Well, ov all t’ crack-brained undertakkings ’at ivver Ah’ve clap’d
mah een on, this carrying on licks au’d Mother Shipton.’
‘T’ Queen owtn’t ti ’low this.’
‘Sitha, tha’re gahin’ up.’
‘Sha owtn’t. It’s nut reet, a-gahin’ on leyke this; neeabody ’ez onny
reet ti start foor heaven, owther insahd or ootsahd a b’loon, wivoot
tha’ve deed fo’st. It’s warse ’an t’ tooer o’ Babel.’
‘It seeams ti gan stiddy, Ah will saay that.’
‘That’s nowt; tha’re nut i’ t’ reet on ’t.’
‘Tha’ll ’ev a gran view, onny road.’
‘Thoo dizn’t meean ti saay, John, ’at thoo’d leyke ti gan, diz ta?’
‘Whya, mebbe Ah wad! sha’s a neycish leeaking lass.’
‘Whya, then, Ah’ll tell tha what, if ivver Ah catch thee gahin’ inti
t’ cloods, dengling belaw a b’loon iv a bee-skep wiv a straange lass,
thoo’d better stop up wiv her altigither, foor thoo’ll ’a’e larl peace
if thoo ivver darr’s ti cum doon agaan. Beear i’ mahnd, noo, when thoo
leeaves ma for t’ cloods, it’ll ’a’e ti be ez an angel, or thoo’ll rue
’t.’
_Mrs. Waddleton travels by train for the first time to see her
daughter, residing at Whitby, to whom she gives a full description of
her journey._
Whya, noo, Ah’ll tell tha all aboot it reet away fra t’ starting. Thoo
knaws Ah went ti what they call t’ station, an’ Ah seed a young chap
stannin’ at t’ back ov a thing leyke a ratten trap, an’ Ah sez tiv
him, ‘Noo, then, what’s thoo been efter ti git thisen stuckken theer
foor?’ An’ he sez, ‘Naay, nowt; Ah’s nobbut here ti sell t’ tickets,
that’s all.’ ‘Oh, whya,’ sez Ah, ‘if that’s all, let’s be ’evving
ho’d o’ yan.’ An’ he sez ti me, ‘All reet, wheear are ya gahin’?’
‘Stop a bit,’ sez Ah; ’that’s neea business o’ thahn.’ ‘Whya,’ sez he,
‘Ah caan’t gi’e ya a ticket if ya deean’t tell uz wheear ya gahin’
tul.’ ‘Well,’ sez Ah, ‘Ah s’all deea nowt o’ t’ sort; an’ if Ah’ve
onny mair o’ thi impidence, Ah’ll tak tha byv t’ hair o’ thi heead
an’ Ah’ll pull tha thruff t’ larl hoal—that’s what Ah’ll deea.’ An’
then a young lady cam up, an’ sha sez, ‘If Ah war yow, Ah’d tell t’
young chap wheear ya’re gahin’ tul, an’ it’ll mense things up a bit,
an’ ya’ll git yer ticket an’ git awaay neycely.’ ‘All reet,’ sez Ah.
‘Noo, then, cu’ thi waays back, impidence; Ah’s gahin’ ti Whidby ti
see my dowter. Sha lives on t’ cliff, an’ sha’s gitten a pianner, an’
bowt a pig, an’—— ’ ‘Naay, what!’ sez he; ‘Ah deean’t want ti knaw
all t’ family history, hooivver.’ ‘Well,’ sez Ah, ’thoo seeam’d that
’quisitive aboot it, ’at Ah thowt Ah’d best tell tha t’ lot whahl Ah
war at it.’ ‘Whya, noo then,’ sez he, ’theear’s yer ticket, an’ it’s
yan an’ fow’pence.’ ‘Whya,’ sez Ah, ’thoo needn’t be seea chuff aboot
it; theer’s thi yan an’ fow’pence.’ ‘That’s reet,’ sez he; ‘an’ ya mun
tak care on ’t.’ ‘Thoo gert dunder-nowle!’ sez Ah; ‘Ah’s nut gahin’ ti
fling ’t awaay when Ah git ootsahd. Ah s’all tak care on ’t ti t’ end
o’ mah daays.’ ‘Naay,’ sez he, ‘bud ya weean’t.’ ‘What foor?’ sez Ah.
‘‘Coz theer’s a chap ’at t’ tother end ’ll want it.’ ‘Oh, is theer?’
sez Ah; ‘whya, then, he weean’t git it.’ ‘He’ll tak it fra ya,’ sez
he. ‘Nut if he’s leyke what thoo is,’ sez Ah, ‘or hauf a dozen on
’em.’ An’ then Ah went ootsahd, on ti what tha call t’ platform.
‘Noo, then,’ sez Ah, ‘is this t’ traan thing?’ An’ a porter chap sez,
‘Aye, that’s it.’ ‘Oh! an’ wheer’s t’ hoss?’ sez Ah. ‘What hoss?’ sez
he. ‘Whya, t’ hoss ’at’s gahin’ ti drag t’ thing ti Whidby?’ ‘Bud,’
sez he, ‘it dizn’t gan wiv a hoss.’ ‘Then what diz it gan wiv?’ sez
Ah. ‘Whya, that thing ’at’s at t’ front end on ’t.’ ‘Hoo can a thing
leyke yon knaw t’ road ti Whidby? Ger away wi’ tha.’ ‘Oh,’ sez he,
‘ya’re gahin’ ti Whidby, are ya?’ ‘Ah is,’ sez Ah; an’ wi’ that he gat
at t’ back o’ mah, an’ afore Ah knew wheer Ah war, Ah war hauf lifted
an’ hauf thrussen inti ti carridge. An’ ther war nowt bud a young chap
sitting up i’ t’ far corner; an’ Ah sez tiv him, ‘Ah, saay, ’ev yow
ivver been iv a train afoor?’ ‘Aye, monny a tahm,’ sez he. ‘Is this
all reet?’ sez Ah. ‘Aye, it’s reet eneeaf,’ sez he. An’ seea Ah sat
ma doon. Ah thowt it ’ud be seea neyce ti leeak oot o’ t’ winder an’
see Tom Robison’s coddy fooals an’ John Williams’s pigs, bud it’s ez
trew ez Ah’s sitting byv thi fire-sahd, t’ fo’st thing ’at Ah seed war
a chetch run reet across a field, an’ t’ next minit ther war tweea
coos, three pigs, a man, an’ a haystack flew past that quick, whahl
ya c’u’dn’t keep yer e’es on ’em at all, an’ then ivverything went ez
pick dark ez neet. ‘Noo, then,’ Ah shooted, ‘what’s up noo?’ ‘Naay,
nowt,’ sez he; ‘wa’ve nobbut gane insahd ov a funnel, that’s all.’
‘Insahd ov a funnel!’ sez Ah; ’then s’all wa be dragged oot o’ t’
narrer end on ’t?’ ‘Noo, it’s all reet,’ sez he. ‘Ah deean’t knaw sae
mich aboot its being all reet,’ sez Ah. ‘Ah’ve neea reet ti be locked
up i’ t’ dark wiv a young chap ’at Ah’ve nivver seen afoor.’ ‘Whya,
noo, sit ya still,’ sez he; ‘Ah isn’t gahin’ ti mell on ya.’ ‘Thoo’d
better nut,’ sez Ah, ‘or else tho’ll git thi hair combed foor nowt.’
An’ then wa flew inti dayleet, afoor Ah knew wheer Ah war. Efter a
bit wa began ti slack up a piece. ‘Noo, then,’ sez Ah, ‘what’s up
noo?’ ‘Nowt,’ sez he; ‘wa’ve nobbut gitten ti Whidby, that’s all.’
‘Oh! well,’ sez Ah, ‘if that’s all, that’s wheear Ah want ti be.’ An’
Ah oppen’d t’ deear an’ stepped oot, an’ afoor Ah knew wheer Ah war,
Ah war laid flat o’ mah back on t’ platform. When Ah’d gitten mysen
upended agaan, Ah seed a chap at t’ far end o’ t’ station clicking
ther tickets frev ’em leyke all that, an’ Ah thowt ti mysen, ‘Thoo’ll
finnd thisen wrang when Ah cum up.’ Hooivver, he nobbut tried ti git
hauf o’ mahn, an’ seea it didn’t matter; bud Ah’ve ta’en ’em in, foor
all that. Ah wadn’t ’a’e deean ’t if they’d nobbut behaved thersens,
bud tha didn’t, chucking yan in an’ potching yan oot. What diz ta
saay, thoo wants ti knaw hoo Ah’ve mannished ti tak ’em in? Whya, noo,
Ah’ll tell tha—Ah’ve bowt a return ticket, an’ Ah isn’t gahin’ back.
Tha caan’t git t’ best o’ me.
WENSLEYDALE NICKNAMES.
Ov all the straange plaaces ’at ivver wur knawn,
Wensleydale bangs ’em all, ez noo s’all be shown,
Fur naams ’a’e been gi’en ti women an’ men—
Yow’d wunner hooivver tha gat ’em, an’ when.
‘Drummer Tom’ is t’ naame ’at’s sattled o’ yan,
An’ ‘Sheggy’ is t’ naame o’ ‘Mary Toms’’ son;
Ther’s ‘Bell Taylor Johnny’ ‘at lives up at Gayle,
An’ ‘Brissy’ ‘s a man bred an’ born iv oor dale.
‘Cobbler Jack’ drahves a bus fra Leyburn ti Hawes,
An’ ‘Wingy’ uz sartinly been i’ the wars;
Ah caan’t tell hoo ‘Hiapath’ cam byv his naame,
An’ ti call a man ‘Shinnock’ is sewerly a shaame.
‘Ball Joan’ is a chap ya’d awn ti be tall;
His weyfe, ‘Lile Bella,’ is sartinly small;
Her brother-i’-law is called ‘Peggy Tom,’
An’ ‘Pop’ ‘s a chap Ah knaw nut wheer from.
‘Tom Kiss’ is a tailor, a scheealmaister ‘Paul,’
Whahl ‘Jeff Boat,’ a cobbler, wurks hard wiv his awl;
‘Jim Nip’ is a good un wi’ pickaxe or speead,
An’ ‘Shetty’ maks brass i’ t’ grossery traade.
‘Spinner Niddy’ an’ ‘Chapir’ wurk up at t’ au’d mill,
‘Arry Ann’ uz a doctor is faam’d fur her skill,
‘Sailor Jack’ Ah wad sweear nivver hann’l’d an oar,
Bud ‘Planks,’ the young joiner, ’ll mak ya a doour.
‘Dicky Flesk’ is a grosser, an’ ‘One Boy’ maks shoes,
An’ ‘Snegram’ ‘s a naame ’at Ah wadn’t choose;
‘Sophy John’ keeps a lodging-hoos noo at t’ Toon foot,
An’ tweea uther chaps are called ‘Puin’ an’ ‘Put.’
My frien’s ’at are left Ah’ll clap iv a lump,
Fur wa’ve ‘Gaggon’ an’ ‘Crackon’ an’ ‘Bridney’ an’ ‘Stump.’
The above would be written about twenty-five years ago. The verses
were given to me by my old schoolfellow, T. Fairbank King, Esq., West
Witton. The two following verses are the sole remains of a much older
rhyme, probably about 1800, and may have suggested the idea to the
author of the above, whose name is unknown.
Ther’s ‘Jack’s lass wi’ cauves’ an’ ‘Sally wi’ Shanks’;
Ther’s ‘Miss Nancy Prim,’ an’ young ‘Tommy Pranks,’
An’ ‘Mucky stee Tom,’ an’ ‘Hopplin’ Bill’;
Ther’s ‘Mary wi’ t’ scar’ an’ ‘Au’d Muther Dill’;
Ther’s ‘Tommy wi’ t’ warts,’ an’ ‘Sticker Bull Coo,’
An’ ‘Sniftering Tom lass,’ an’ ‘Ugger-a-boo’;
Ther’s ‘Snouty’ an’ ‘Corker,’ an’ ‘Annie fra Gayle,’
Wheeas legs caan’t be matched iv all Wensleydale.
The symmetry of Annie’s legs must have been quite phenomenal, as my
informant gravely told me that ‘A chap cam all t’ waay fra Lunnon ti
tak t’ pattern on ’em fer a statta’ (i.e. statue) ‘he war makking fur
sumbody.’
* * * * *
Nicknames are quite common in Yorkshire. Take the following (some I
do not know the surnames of, though well knowing the persons):—Jamma,
Mucaduck, Midge, Boxer, T’ au’d bo’d, Blash, Tarra, Au’d Willie, Bunks
Canary, Black Jack, Coy Duck, Calcraft, Fishy, Tankard, Trucky, Radden,
Shut, Moudy, Tramp, Slackbags, Jump a Bush, Dog Tom, &c.
A COMPARISON OF TWO LANGUAGES AS SPOKEN AT THE PRESENT DAY.
Ther war a chap fra Lunnon cam—
Fau’k said he war a swell.
He mebbe war; yah thing Ah knaw,
He did his varra best ti draw
T’ soft oot o’ yan.
He cam ti me yah daay an’ sez,
‘Oi sai, old chep, look h’yar,
Oi’ve lorst my bally self, yew kneow,
End jest which wai I orter gou
To me aint cleah.
‘Deoun’t cher kneow, ’pon my word!
A fellah feels a fool;
Oi sai, look h’yar, I want to kneow,
Old cheppy, the best wai to gou
To—er—the hall?
‘Oi kneow yew Johnnies kneow a lot,
Beout land end worms end grubs;
Yew’re beastly clevvah, deoun’t cher kneow?
But deoun’t yew find it bally sleow,
This sort of life?’
‘Noo, then,’ Ah sez, ‘ho’d on a bit,
Deean’t ramm’l on seea fast;
Thoo sez thoo’s lost, an’ wants ti knaw
T’ gainest road foor thoo ti goa
Ti git ti t’ hall.
‘Noo, if thoo aims that road ti gan,
Just to’n thisen aboot,
Thruff t’ staggarth tak an’ to’n ti t’ reet,
Mak foor t’ larl yat thoo’ll finnd i’ seet,
Nigh hand t’ faud-yard.
‘Thoo maun’t gan thruff ’t, bud to’n agaan,
Keep t’ muckheap weel ti t’ reet,
Tak t’ pastur path, deean’t laak wi’ t’ steg,
Foor he’s neean ower neyce wheea’s awe t’ leg—
He’d neb thi breeaks.
‘Ah mak na doot aboot this tahm
Thoo’ll sairly daffled be,
Bud theer ’s a lad theer flaying creeaks;
Thoo’d best ass him, an’ when thoo speeaks,
Talk plaan.’
‘Thenks, awf’ly, but deoun’t cher kneow,
Deah cheppie, ’pon my word,
Oi deoun’t quite ketch what yew do sai,
The fect is, Oi hev lorst my wai—
Yew understend?’
‘Ah understand tha hard eneeaf,
Bud leeaks ta, mun, Ah s’u’dn’t,
Bud a frien’ o’ mahn fra Lunnon cums,
An’ just leyke thee, he ’aws an’ ‘ums,
Whahl Ah caan’t bahd.
‘Noo, if thoo aims Ah ’s gahin’ ti try
Ti scrape mah tongue, thoo’s wrang;
Thoo cums an’ slaps yan on yan’s back,
An’ eggs yan on ti talk, ti mak
Nowt else bud gam.
‘Ah’ve tell’d tha t’ road ez plaan ez nowt,
An’ Ah’ll tell tha summat else—
Deean’t aim at t’ reeaks an’ shut a craw,
Deean’t slavver fau’k thoo dizn’t know;
Noo off thoo gans.’
B——.
THE SELL IN THE CELLAR.
Being fond o’ sweets ov ivvery kahnd,
Nut lang sen, mun, Ah ’ed a mahnd
Ti help mysen tiv a lahtle teeaste
O’ summat neyce i’ puffy peeaste.
Thieves, thoff, awlus ’ev a fear,
Seea Ah lissen’d, an’ Ah fan t’ road clear;
Seea being a sharpish soart o’ feller,
Ah teeak mysen reet doon i’ t’ celler,
An’ theear on shelves afoor my een
War pies an’ tarts fit foor a queen.
Ho’d on a bit! what’s this Ah see?
A pankin full o’ rich jelly.
Ah war fairly capp’d at fo’st ti see
Seea gert a bowl full ov jelly;
But theear it war, ez plaan ez daay,
An’ tempting teea. Ah’ve heeard fau’k saay
When t’ divil maks ya try yer luck,
He awlus leeaves ya stuck i’ t’ muck.
He ’ez a waay, he ’ez, by gock!
O’ makking plother leeak leyke rock.
Whether ’t be wenches, drink, or money,
T’ divil daubs ’em all wi’ honey,
Or summat else ’at catches t’ e’e.
Noo Ah war ’ticed wi’ that jelly,
Seea wi’ mah whittle a shive o’ keeak
‘At ’ed been cutten, Ah did teeak.
Theer’s a saying, mun, which rhymes wi’ rhahm,
It’s ’yah good thing tak at a tahm’;
Bud t’ lump o’ keeak Ah felt wad be
Nowt mich bidoot Ah ’ed t’ jelly.
Seea Ah laid a lump on t’ top o’ t’ keeak,
An’ sed, by gum! hoo neyce ya leeak!
Mah mooth war wattering foor a teeast,
An’ Ah just war gahin’ ti start mah feeast,
When Ah thowt Ah heeard sumbody cumin’—
Mah fo’st thowt war ov up an’ runnin’.
Inti mah gob Ah cramm’d all t’ lot,
Then nut a minit did Ah stop;
Up t’ cellar steps Ah quickly flang,
Thruff t’ kitchen deear went wiv a bang,
Whahl t’ garden roond Ah madly rushed,
An’ plants an’ shrubs Ah sairly crushed
Wi’ baith mah stamping feet;
Foor t’ stuff ’at Ah’d thowt foor ti eat,
Oha! war nut it a sell!
Tak mah wo’d for ’t, Ah scarce da’st tell.
Ti think o’ t’ trouble ’at Ah teeak
Ti git that jelly an’ that keeak,
An’ efter all mah langing hoap,
Ti finnd Ah’d gitten nowt bud soap.
Ya tumm’l teea ’t; Ah needn’t saay,
Sum stuff they’d made foor t’ weshing daay.
B——.
A SPECIMEN OF YORKSHIRE FOLK-SPEECH, AS SPOKEN IN THE NORTH RIDING.
A SKETCH. ONE OF THE ‘WADDLETON’ SERIES, BY THE AUTHOR.
_Mrs. Waddleton goes to Stockton Races, and her friend Mrs. Bubbles is
told all about it._
Sit tha doon, Mary, an’ Ah’ll tell tha all aboot it reet awaay fra t’
starting. It war leyke this, thoo knaws. Ah sed tiv oor John yah daay
when he cam in; Ah sez tiv him, ‘Noo, then!’ an’ he sez ti ma, ‘Noo,
then!’ An’ Ah sed, ‘Whya, noo, Ah’ll tell tha what; what diz ta think
if wa gan ti Stockton Races?’ An’ he sez, ‘Wha, Ah s’u’d think ’at wa
war daft—that’s what Ah s’u’d think.’ Ah seed ’at he war t’ wrang sahd
oot, an’ seea Ah sed nowt neea mair just then. Bud bliss yer leyfe, Ah
’evn’t been wed tiv a man fahve an’ twenty year nut ti knaw t’ reet
end o’ yan, ez a body might saay; seea Ah let things bahd whahl he
cam intiv his supper, an’ Ah’ gat him a neyce bit o’ liver an’ bacon
riddy. Ah seed him soffen t’ minit ’at he clapp’d his een on ’t. Bud,
what! ya can ommaist awlus tattle onny man thruff his stomach. Ah
waited a larl bit, whahl he’d gitten a mouth or tweea full, an’ then
Ah sat ma doon on t’ cheer-airm, an’ started ti git ower him wi’ mah
au’d cunnin’ waays, leyke what Ah used ti deea i’ daays geean by. Ah
put mah airm roond his neck, an’ sed, ‘Noo, that’s a bit o’ neyce,
isn’t it?’ An’ he sez, ‘Aye, lass.’ An’ Ah sed, ‘Aye, it is; ther’s
neeabody else wad ’a’e bothered to ’a’e gitten tha sike a neyce bit o’
supper riddy.’ An’ then Ah ran mah fingers thruff his hair. ‘Neea,’
sez he, ’ther’s nut.’ An’ then efter a bit, he sez, ‘Ah’ll tell tha
what, lass; if thoo wants ti gan ti t’ races, whya, what, Ah s’all
’a’e ti tak tha.’ ‘Nut if ya doan’t want ti go, mah luv,’ sez Ah. Bud
Ah maad up mah mahnd ’at he s’u’dn’t back oot on ’t then. ‘Bud Ah’ll
tell tha what,’ sez Ah, ‘if thoo wants ti gan, Ah’ll gan wi’ tha.’
Thoo knaws it’s best foor t’ men ti deea ez t’ weyfe wants ’em at t’
fo’st, acoz thoo knaws wa awlus deea git wer awn way owther thruff
t’ yat or ower t’ hedge. Bud ez he’d sattled ti gan, theer war nowt
neea mair ti saay aboot it. An’ seea when t’ morning cam, wa gat up a
bit seeaner, an’ set off foor Guisborough Station—ma, Sairy Jane, an’
Jimmey, an’ oor John, wi’ t’ ten pund ’at mah aunt Martha ’ed left uz
ti buy a bit o’ betterly furniter wi’.
Weel, thoo knaws, when wa gat ti t’ station, oho—oo! Ah think ’at
Ah nivver war i’ sike a hubbleshoe i’ all mah leyfe. Ah sed ti
Sairy Jane, ‘Noo, thoo mun tak ho’d, an’ keep ho’d o’ thi feyther’s
coat-taal; an’ thoo, Jimmey, lig ho’d o’ mah sket, an’ see ’at nowther
on ya leeaves go whahl wa’re all safely inti t’ carridge.’ Wa ’ed
nobbut been studden that waay hauf a minit, when oor Sairy Jane let
oot t’ gertest skrike ’at Ah’ve ivver heeard; an’ when Ah leeaked
roond, if sha warn’t i’ the cruel clutch ov a bobby. ‘Noo, then,’ sez
Ah, ‘what’s up wi’ t’ lass?’
‘Ah’ve catched her i’ t’ act,’ sez he.
‘I’ t’ act o’ what?’ sez Ah.
‘O’ picking this chap’s pocket,’ sez he.
‘Thoo gert dunderknowle!’ sez Ah. ‘Thoo’s deean nowt o’ t’ sooart;
that’s her feyther, an’ sha’s nobbut ho’ding on tiv his coaat-taals,
seea ez sha dizn’t git hersen lost amang all this thrang. Leeave
lowse, an’ let her gan, an’ mak a shift ti leet o’ sumbody ’at’s up
ti neea good; or else thoo’ll finnd thysen i’ t’ wrang box, Ah can
tell tha.’ An’ wi’ that, Ah marched all t’ three on ’em inti t’ traan,
which ’ed just puff’d itsen inti t’ station. Sitting reet i’ t’ front
o’ ma, war a young chap wiv a rug ower his knees, potching three cards
aboot maist miracklous leyke.
‘What are ya trying foor ti deea?’ sez Ah.
‘Whya, it’s a trick,’ sez he.
‘Whya,’ sez Ah, ‘Ah deean’t see mich ov a trick i’ owt ’at ya’ve deean
up ti noo; onny bit baan could hann’l three cards i’ that road. What
is ’t ya’re efter?’
‘Whya,’ sez he, ‘it’s a trick ’at Ah seed a chap deeaing yesterdaa,
bud Ah’s nut weel up in ’t yet. Ah’s trying ti thraw ’em doon seea ez
ya weean’t ken wheer t’ pictur-card tumm’ls.’
‘Oha, that’s it, is’t?’ sez Ah. An’ then Ah sez, ‘Ah’ll tell tha what,
thoo’ll ’a’e ti lig ’em doon vastly different ti what thoo ’ez deean
up ti noo, afoor thoo’ll mannish ti deea ’t, foor Ah’ve seen wheer
it’s tumm’l’d ivvery tahm.’
‘Maist leykely,’ sez he; ‘bud ya knaw it’s ez Ah sed—Ah’s nut t’
maaster on’t yet.’
‘Neea,’ sez Ah, ‘Ah seear thoo isn’t.’
‘Whya, noo,’ sez he, chucking ’em doon agaan, ‘which on ’em’s t’
pictur-card this tahm?’
‘T’ far ended!’ sez Ah. An’ Ah lifted it up, an’ o’ course it war,
’coz Ah’d seen it tumm’l theer.
‘Aye, ya’ve mannished it this tahm,’ sez he.
‘Aye, an’ ivvery uther tahm!’ sez Ah, ‘if ta caan’t deea ’t neea
better ’an that!’
‘Whya, noo then,’ sez he, chucking ’em doon agaan. ‘Deean’t touch ’em,
bud tell uz which on ’em is ’t this tahm?’
‘T’ middle yan!’ sez Ah, ez bou’d ez brass.
‘Whya!’ sez he, ‘mebbe it is. Ah deean’t knaw neea mair ’an what ya
deea, but Ah’s yan o’ them ’at backs mah fancy, an’ Ah’ll bet yer a
suverin ’at it’s nut it.’
‘Young man!’ sez Ah, solembly, ‘diz yowr muther knaw ’at ya cum’d
awaay wiv a suverin, foor ya’re gahin’ on iv a straange leykely way
foor lossing on ’t.’
‘Nivver ya mahnd,’ sez he; ‘Ah’ll bet a suverin ’at it’s nut it. Ah’ve
gitten mah idea, an’ ya’ve gitten yowrs—will ya bet?’
‘Well!’ sez Ah, ‘Ah deean’t ho’d wi’ betting, an’ Ah nivver at neea
tahm did; bud if so be ez hoo an au’d boddy leyke mysen can larn ya
hoo easy a suverin can be slithered awaay by backing up sike consate
ez ’ez gitten ho’d o’ ya, whya, here gans.’ An’ Ah pulled mah pess[83]
oot, teeak t’ on’y suverin ’at Ah ’ed, and handed it tiv a chap ez
war sitting byv his sahd; t’ young chap handed him yan an’ all, an’
then Ah lifted t’ card up, an’—oho—— o! Ah nivver war seea capped iv
all mah leyfe—it warn’t it. Ah trimm’l’d an’ dithered fra t’ top ti
t’ boddum o’ ma; Ah felt just ez if mah back war stuffed wiv aspen
leeaves.
‘John!’ Ah gasped, ‘it’s a swinn’l, it’s a swinn’l; keep thi han’ i’
thi pocket, or thoo’ll be lossing t’ ten pund ’at mah aunt Martha
left uz ti buy a bit o’ betterly furniter wi’. An’ deean’t let on ’at
thoo ’ez ten pund aboot tha,’ sez Ah, foorgitting ’at Ah war letting
ivvery yan on ’em i’ t’ carridge knaw ’at he’d gitten seea mich on
him. Hooivver, Ah hedn’t neea tahm ti saay owt else, foor just then
wa gat ti Stockton, an’ Ah think ther war a warse hubbleshoe on i’
Stockton Station ’an what ther war i’ Guisborough. ‘Noo, then!’ sez
Ah tiv a gert fat woman ’at cam thrussin’ up agaan ma, ‘deean’t ya
cum shuvvin’ ma aboot i’ that road.’ ‘Noo, then, Victoria!’ sez sha,
‘what’s t’ matter wi’ thoo?’ ‘Ah’s nut Victoria!’ sez Ah; an’ leeak
ya, Ah deean’t think sha thowt ’at Ah war. Just ez Ah sed that, ther
war anuther woman stood hersen reet on t’ top o’ mah pet bunion. ‘Oh
deeary ma, missus!’ Ah skriked oot, ‘Ah cannut bahd this, hooivver,
ya’re laaming ma sadly; deea tak yer foot off.’ ‘Noo, then,’ sez she,
’t’ station isn’t yowrs!’ ‘Neea,’ sez Ah, ‘bud t’ bunion is.’ An’
wi’ that Ah tell’d John an’ t’ childer ti follow cleease at t’ back
o’ ma, an’ Ah boudly pushed mah waay oot o’ t’ station. Neea seeaner
’ed wa gitten ootsahd, ’an Ah seed clagg’d on a wall a gert big bill,
wi’ theease we’ds printed on ’t, ‘BEWARE O’ PICKPOCKETS.’ An’ what
d’ye think? Ah felt i’ mah pocket, an’ mah pess, eight-an’-six, an’
mah railway ticket ’ed all geean, geean ez cleean ez a whistle. Ah
didn’t tell John; Ah just sed, ‘Thoo mun keep thi han’ i’ thi pocket,
or else sumbody ’ll be takking t’ ten pund fra tha, if thoo dizn’t
mahnd.’ He sez ti ma, ‘Tha weean’t git nowt oot o’ mah pockets, if
tha deea shuv ther han’s in.’ Ah sez, ‘Thoo dizn’t meean ti saay ’at
tha’ve gitten ’t fra tha alriddy, diz ta?’ ‘Neea,’ sez he, ‘Ah ’evn’t
gitten t’ brass i’ mah pocket—Ah’ve putten ’t i’ mah hat.’ An’ then
Ah notished ’at he ’ed his hancutcher tied ower his hat an’ unner his
chin, leeaking foor all t’ wo’lld leyke yan ’at war iv an extremity
wi’ t’ teeth wark; bud Ah thowt it war t’ capitalist idea ’at
onnyboddy could ’a’e thowt on. Ah didn’t saay seea tiv him, acoz if
yer praise t’ men tha seean git past thersens—bud ya knaw that bidoot
ma telling ya. Hooivver, Ah did wish ’at Ah’d putten mah pess i’ mah
bonnet, an’ then Ah s’u’dn’t ’a’e lost it an’ all ’at war iv it.
‘It’ll be t’ best,’ Ah sez, ‘foor uz ti finnd wa waays ti t’ course,
git summat ti eat, see a race, buy t’ furniter, an’ gan yam ageean.’
Noo, hoo can Ah picter ti tha a race-course? If yer can ’magine all t’
rackapelts an’ raggamuffins gedered tigither i’ yah crood, shooting
men an’ screeaming women, wi’ rows o’ carridges filled wi’ lords an’
ladies stuffing thersens wi’ pies an’ pop, ya can ’ev summat ov a idea
what a race-course is leyke. Whahl wa war stannin’ fair capped wi’
t’ carryings on, whau s’u’d cum up bud t’ varra seeam young chap ’at
Ah’d lost t’ pund teea i’ t’ carridge. ‘Ah’s glad ’at Ah’ve tumm’l’d
across ya ageean,’ sez he. ‘Mebbe ya may be,’ sez Ah. ‘Ya see, ya
wan t’ pund an’ Ah lost it, an’ that maks all t’ difference i’ being
glad ti see onnybody.’ ‘Aye, bud that’s nut it; Ah’ve gitten a gert
frien’ o’ yer muther’s wi’ ma,’ sez he. ‘Oh, indeed,’ sez Ah. ‘An’
whau may that be?’ ‘This is the gentleman,’ sez he; ‘let ma mak him
knawn ti ya. This is Lord Swin’lton, whau knew yer muther varra weel.’
‘Ah didn’t knaw ’at mah muther ivver war acquainted wiv a lord,’ sez
Ah, leeaking t’ chap ower; bud ther war neea doot aboot his being
a lord—Ah seed that t’ minit Ah clapped mah een on him. Oh yes,
he war all there—ulster, eye-glass, di’mon’ pin, an’ ivverything.
Ther’s no mistakking a lord when ya see yan, tha’re good eneeaf ti
challenge. ‘This is yer husband?’ sez his lordship, leeaking at John.
‘Got t’ feeace-ache?’ sez he. ‘Noa, mah lord,’ sez Ah, ‘it’s nut t’
feeace-ache ’at he’s suffering fra. It’s leyke this, doan’t yer see,
mah lord: mah aunt Martha left us ten pund ti buy a bit o’ betterly
furniter wi’, an’ seea ez neeabody ’ll finnd oot wheer it is, he’s
tied it up iv his hat, foor safety leyke, ez a body might saay, ez ya
may term it so ti speeak.’
‘An’ a varra good plan an’ all,’ sez he.
Just at that minit t’ young chap whau Ah’d lost t’ pund teea teeak a
fit, an’ fell wiv his han’s roond oor John’s neck, an’ doon tha baith
went tigither, an’ ez tha tumm’l’d on ti t’ grand, Lord Swin’lton
swiped oor John’s hat off wiv his stick, an’ next minit Sairey Jane
beald oot, ‘Oha, muther! Lord Swin’lton’s off wi’ mah feyther’s hat,
an’ it’s gitten t’ ten pund in ’t.’ Ah didn’t stop ti think, thoo
knaws, bud just off efter him ez hard ez ivver Ah could gan. Ah heard
a man saay ’at he’d nivver seen a woman leg it leyke what Ah did. Ah
s’u’d ’a’e catch’d him an’ all, bud just when Ah war gahin’ ti click
ho’d ov his coat taals, Ah catched mah foot iv a tent-roap, an’ afoor
Ah knew wheer Ah war, Ah war laid wi’ mah heead iv a box o’ cokernuts.
‘Noo, then,’ shooted t’ man ’at awn’d ’em, ‘cum oot o’ that. Deean’t
ya cum cracking mah cokernuts, an’ sucking t’ milk oot; ther’s neea
free sucks here.’ Ah gat up, an’ Ah let that man ’ev t’ length o’ mah
tunge—Lord Swin’lton ’ed ta’en hissel off by that tahm. Ther war nowt
else for ’t bud ti git wersens heeam ez best wa could. An’ when Ah’d
putten Sairey Jane an’ Jimmy ti bed, Ah sed tiv oor John, Ah sez,
‘Noo, John, Ah deean’t want ti upbraad tha—it’s been a sad daay foor
uz—bud efter all’s sed an’ deean, thoo owt ti be asham’d o’ thisel
foor ivver letting a woman ’tice tha inti takking her ti sikan a
blackguardy pleeace ez Stockton Races.
NOTE.—Wensleydale and Swaledale readers will find it both interesting
and instructive to compare the above sketch, which is given in the
Clevelandic speech, with the folk-speech as spoken in their own
dale, which to a slight degree in pronunciation tends toward that of
Lancashire in one direction and to that of Cumberland and Westmoreland
in the other. The two latter, however, on all counts, bear a closer
relationship to our North Riding speech than either that of the West
Riding or South Lancashire.
It must always be borne in mind that the dialect along the north-east
coast of Yorkshire approaches nearer to its original source than that
of any other, and especially so may this be said of Cleveland.
A HUNDERD YEARS HENCE.
[_Date about 1800._]
A hunderd years hence
What a chaange ’ll be maade
I’ politics, morals, religion an’ traade.
I’ statesmen whau wrang’l
Or rahd upo’ t’ fence
Maist things ’ll be diff’rent
A hunderd years hence.
T’ heeads ov oor lasses
Sike changes ’ll show;
It’s nut ov ther mahnds
‘At wa aim ti speeak noo,
Bud ov three-bishel bonnets,
Ther gypsies an’ flats,
Ther scoops, navarinoes,
Ti snug lahtle hats
Wi’ furs an’ wi’ ribbons,
Wi’ feathers an’ flooers,
Sum feshioned byv artists
An’ sum plucked fra t’ booers.
Bud heeads ’ll be chaang’d teea,
Far larnt an’ i’ sense,
Afoor wa’ ‘ev coonted
A hunderd years hence.
Oor laws ’ll be then
Nivver maade, mun, by feeals,
An’ prisons Ah aim
‘Ll be to’n’d inti skeeals;
Foor t’ pleasurs o’ vice
Are a feealish pretence,
Bud Ah doot if tha’ll awn it
A hunderd years hence.
Noo vice ’ll be kenn’d,
When at last fau’k awakken,
Ti be t’ warst kind o’ daftness,
Or else Ah ’s mistakken.
T’ lawyers an’ t’ doctors
And t’ parsons wi’ sense
Will ’ev altered ther waays
A hunderd years hence.
An’ you an’ me, reader,
Wheer s’all wa be fund?—
It’s wer souls ’at Ah meean,
Nut wer bodies i’ t’ grund.
S’all wa be wheer it’s joy,
Or i’ sorrow intense?
Wa s’all all on uz knaw
A hunderd years hence.
_Anon._
THE SWEEPER AN’ THIEVES.
BY D. LEWIS.
[_Date about 1800-15. Published at Bedale._]
A sweeper’s lad war late o’ t’ neet,
His slaape-shod shoon ’ed leeam’d his feet;
He call’d ti see a good au’d deeam
‘At monny a tahm ’ed trigg’d his wame[84]
(Foor he war then fahve mile fra yam).
He ax’d i’ t’ lair[85] ti let him sleep,
An’ he’d t’ next daay the’r chim’lies sweep.
Tha supper’d him weel wi’ country fare,
Then show’d him tul his hoal i’ t’ lair.
He crept intul his streahy[86] bed,
His pooak o’ seeat[87] beneath his heead;
He war content, ner cared a pin,
An’ his good frien’ then lock’d him in.
T’ lair fra t’ hoos a larl piece stood,
Atween ’em grew a lahtle wood.
Aboot midneet, ur nigher morn,
Tweea rogues brak in ti steeal ther corn.
‘Eving a leet i’ lantern dark,
Tha seean ti winder fell ti wark;
An’ wishing tha’d a lad ti fill,
Young brush (wheea yet ’ed ligg’d quite still),
Thinkin’ ‘at t’ men belang’d ti t’ hoos,
An’ that he noo mud be ov ewse,
Jump’d doon directly on ti t’ fleear,
An’ t’ thieves then baith ran oot o’ t’ deear,
An’ stopp’d at nowther thin na thick—
Fully tha aim’d it war Au’d Nick.
T’ sweeper lad then ran reet seean
Ti t’ hoos, an’ tell’d ’em what war deean.
Maister an’ men then quickly raase,
An’ ran ti t’ lair wi’ hauf ther clais[88];
Tweea hosses, secks, an’ leet tha fand,
Which ’ed been left by t’ thievish band.
Theease all roond t’ countrysahd tha cry’d,
Bud nut an awner e’er apply’d,
Foor neean dast t’ hosses awn na t’ secks,
Tha war seea freeten’d o’ ther necks.
Yah hoss an’ seck war judged ez t’ sweeper’s share,
Acoz he’d kept baith t’ farmer’s corn an’ lair.
The following note is appended to the original:—‘This tale is founded
on fact, and happened at Leeming Lane a few years ago.’
The student will find the above and four following pieces interesting,
as showing the alteration in the pronunciation of certain words which
has locally taken place during the last eighty years in the Bedale
district.
DARBY AN’ JOAN AN’ THEIR DAUGHTER NELL.
A DIALOGUE BY W. HIRD.
[_Date 1800-15. Published at Bedale._]
_Darby._
Joan! Ah noo ’ev thowt seea mich about it,
Ah seearly nivver mair s’all doot it;
At moorn an’ neet, an’ neet an’ moorn,
Ah sumtahms wish Ah’d ne’er been born.
_Joan._
Whya, Darby, prethee, let ma see,
Ah whoap it’s nowt ’at’s bad o’ me.
_Darby._
Thee, Joan! neea, marry, neea sike thing.
Think bad o’ thee! ’twad be a sin.
Ah think, indeed, Ah war a feeal
Ti send oor Nell ti t’ Boordin’-skeeal.
Sike mauky feeals ez them, Ah think,
‘Ev filled her heead wi’ prahd an’ stink,
Foor, sin’ sha went, sha’s grown seea fine,
Sha caan’t deea nowt wi’oot her wine,
When t’ dinner’s owered, an’ sha’s seea neyce,
Sha weean’t eat puddin’ meead o’ rice,
Thoff when at skeeal an’ put ti t’ pinch,
Fra sike good stuff sha’d nivver flinch.
An’ all her notions are seea raased,
It’s fit ti to’n her feyther crazed,
Fer leyke a toon wench, Ah declare,
Sha walks abroad wi’ breasts all bare—
To show her shoon, an’ hosen clocked,
Sha lifts her sket whahl Ah’s fair shocked;
Nut ’at Ah care aboot t’ fond lass,
Neea mair ’an this—it taks mah brass,
An’ wiv her fine lang labbering tail,
Sha’ll git her fathther inti jail.
_Joan._
Whya, Darby, bud thoo knaws ther ’s t’ Squire,
An’ he, mayhap, will Nell admire,
An’ efter all ther noise an’ strife,
Thoo knaws t’ young Squire he wants a weyfe.
Then let ’s be seear ti mak her smairt,
An’ teeach her hoo ti plaay her pairt;
Sha seean ’ll mak him towards her leean,
An’ then thoo knaws ’at t’ wark is deean.
Ez fer her breasts an’ bare at t’ airms,
It’s feshion noo ti show yan’s chairms.
Men leyke ti knaw, Ah’ve heeard it sed,
What’s real an’ fause afoor they wed;
Hoose’er, Ah’ll try an’ deea mah best,
An’ leeave ti thee ti mannish t’ rest.
_Darby._
Bud, then, suppooase oor plot s’u’d fail,
An’ me foor debt be sent ti jail,
Poor Nell wad nivver be a weyfe,
An’ ‘ev ti laabur all her leyfe;
Foor efter sha’s seea browten up,
Hoo can sha ivver bahd ti stoop
Ti gan ti sarvice, ur ti spin,
Or ivver ti deea onnything?
_Joan._
Whya, Darby, leeave it all ti me,
Ah’ll mannish ’t weel, an’ that thoo’ll see;
Ah’ll be her pilot all mah leyfe,
An’ mak her sum rich farmer’s weyfe.
Then ez tha gan ti chetch, doon t’ toon,
Ah’s seear thoo’ll saay, ‘Weel deean, oor Joan.’
T’ DEEATH OV AWD DEEASY.
AN ECLOGUE.
GEOORGY AND ROBIN.
[_Date about 1800._]
_Geoorgy._
Weel met, good Robin. Seed ya my au’d meer?
Ah’ve laated her an hoor i’ t’ looaning here,
Bud hoosumivver, spite ov all mah care,
Ah caan’t spy her, nowther heead na hair.
_Robin._
Whah, Geoorgy, Ah’ve ti tell ya dowly news,
Sike ez varra leyke ’ll mak ya muse.
Ah just this minit left yer poor au’d tike,
Deead ez a steean, i’ Johnny Dobson’s dyke.
_Geoorgy._
Wheer! What’s that, Robin? Tell uz ower agaan.
Thoo’s jokin’—ur ya’ve mebbe been mistaan.
_Robin._
Neea, marry, Geoorgy; Ah’s seear Ah caan’t be wrang.
Ya knaw Ah’ve kenn’d au’d Deeasy noo seea lang.
Her breead-ratch’d feeace, an’ tweea white hinder legs
Preeav’d it war her, as seear ez eggs is eggs.
_Geoorgy._
Poor thing! What, deead then? ’ed sha ligg’d theer lang?
Wheeraboot is sha? Robin, will ta gan?
_Robin._
Ah care nut, Geoorgy; Ah ’a’en’t mich ti deea—
A good hoor’s laabor, or mayhappen tweea;
Bud ez Ah nivver leyke ti hing behinnd
When Ah[89] can deea a kahndness tiv a frinnd,
An Ah[89] can help ya wi’ mah hand or teeam
Ah’ll help ti skin her, ur t’ fetch her heeam.
_Geoorgy._
Thank ya, good Robin. Ah caan’t think, belike,
Hoo t’ poor au’d creature tumm’l’d inti t’ dyke.
_Robin._
Ya mahnd, sha’d fun hersel just boon ti dee,
An’ seea laid doon byv t’ sahd (ez ’t seeams ti me),
An’ when sha felt, mun, t’ paans o’ deeath wi’in,
Sha stakker’d, tumm’l’d, fick’d, then toupled in.
_Geoorgy._
Maist leykly—bud—what, war sha deead ootreet
When fo’st thoo fand her, when ta gat t’ fo’st seet?
_Robin._
Ya s’ hear, ez Ah war gahin doon t’ looan, Ah spy’d
A scoore or mair o’ creeaks byv t’ gutter sahd,
All seea thrang, hoppin’ in an’ hoppin’ oot,
Ah wunder’d what i’ t’ wo’lld tha war aboot.
Ah leeaks, an’ then Ah sees t’ au’d yode[90] leead,
Gaspin’ an’ pantin’ sair, an’ ommaist deead.
An’ ez tha pick’d it een, an’ pick’d ageean,
It just could lift it leg, an’ give a greean;
Bud when Ah fand au’d Deeasy war ther prey,
Ah wav’d mah hat, an’ shoo’d ’em all awaay.
Poor Deeas’! Ya mahnd, sha ’s noo worn fairly oot,
Sha’s lang been quite hardset ti traail aboot—
Bud yonder, Geoorgy, leeak ya, wheer sha’s leead,
An’ tweea ’r three nanpies chatt’rin’ ower her heead.
_Geoorgy._
Hey, marry! This Ah nivver wished ti see;
Sha’s been seea good—seea trew a frinnd ti me.
An’ ‘ez ta cum’d ti this, mah poor au’d meer?
Thoo’s been a trusty sarvant monny a yeear;
An’ better treeatment thoo ’s desarv’d fra me,
‘An thus neglected iv a dyke ti dee.
Monny a good day’s wark wa’ve wrowt tigither,
An’ bodden monny a blast o’ wind an’ weather;
Monny a lang dree mahle, ower moss an’ moor,
An’ monny a hill an’ deeal wa’ve toddled ower.
Bud noo, wae’st[91] me! thoo’ll nivver trot neea mair,
Ti nowther kirk, na market, spoort, na fair;
An’ noo foor t’ futur’, thoff Ah’s au’d an’ leeam,
Ah s’all be forced ti walk, ur stay at heeam.
Neea mair thoo’ll bring ma cooals fra Blakey-Broo,
Ur sticks fra t’ wood—Ah s’ ‘a’e ti drag ’em noo.
Ma poor au’d Deeas’! afoor Ah dig thi greeave,
Thi weel-worn shoon Ah will foor keepseeaks seeave;
Thi hide, poor lass! Ah’ll ’ev it tann’d wi care,
‘T’ll mak a cover ti mah au’d airm-cheer,
An’ pairt an appron foor mah weyfe ti weear
When cardin’ woul ur weshin’ t’ parlour fleear.
Deep i’ t’ cau’d yeth Ah will thi carcase pleeace,
‘At thi poor beeans maay lig an’ rist i’ peeace;
Deep i’ t’ cau’d yeth, ’at t’ dogs mayn’t scrat tha oot,
An’ rahve thi flesh an’ trail thi beeans aboot.
Thoo ’s been seea faithful foor seea lang ti me,
Thoo s’annot at thi deeath neglected be.
Seldom a Christian ’at yan noo can finnd,
Wad be mair trusty ur mair trew a frinnd.
_Anon._
THE INVASION.
AN ECLOGUE.
[_Date_ 1810.]
A wanton wether had disclaimed its bonds
‘At kept him cleease wivin Au’d Willie’s grunds,
Brakt thruff t’ hedge an’ wander’d far astraay,
He kenn’d nut whither, alang t’ au’d to’npik waay.
Ez Willie wrowt wi’ neea larl care
T’ fence wi’ stake an’ thorns t’ gap ti repair,
His neighbour Roger, heeam fra t’ fair reto’n’d,
Then cam i’ seet, i’ rahding graith[92] weel don’d[93],
Wheea seean ez Willy, fast drawing nigh he spies,
Thus tiv his frinnd fra t’ back o’ t’ hedge he cries.
_Willy._
Noo, then; what, Roger! ‘ ya been ti t’ fair?
Hoo gans things? Maad ya onny bargaans theer?
_Roger._
Ah knaw nut, Willy, things deean’t leeak ower weel;
Coorn sattles fast, thoff beeas ’ll fetch a deeal.
Ti sell t’ au’d intak barley, Ah desaund[94],
Bud c’u’dn’t git a bid ti suit mah mahnd[95].
What wi’ rack rents, an’ sike a want o’ traad,
Ah knawn’t hoo yan’s ti git yan’s landloord paad;
Mairower an’ that, tha saay i’ t’ spring o’ t’ year
T’ Franch is intarmin’d[96] ti ’tack uz here.
_Willy._
Yea, mun! What are tha cummin’ hither foor?
Depend on ’t, they’d far better nivver stor.
_Roger._
True, Willy—nobbut Inglishmen ’ll stand
By yan anuther; o’ ther awn good land
Tha’ll nivver suffer, Ah s’ be bun ti saay,
T’ Franchmen ti tak a sing’l sheep awaay;
Feightin’ foor heeam upo’ ther awn fair field,
All t’ poo’r o’ France c’u’d nivver mak ’em yield.
_Willy._
Whya, seear yan cannot think, when put ti t’ pinch,
‘At onny Inglishmen ’ll iwer flinch.
If t’ Franch deea cum, wha, Roger, Ah’ll be hang’d,
An tha deean’t git thersens reet soondly bang’d,
Ah can’t bud think—thoff Ah may be misteean—
Nut monny on ’em ’ll git back ageean.
_Roger._
Ah think nut, Willy; bud sum fau’k ’ll say
Oor Inglish fleet let t’ Franch ships git awaay
When tha war laid—thoo knaws—i’ Bantry Bay,
‘At tha c’u’d nivver all ’a’e gi’en ’em t’ slip,
Bud t’ Inglish wanted nut ti tak a ship.
_Willy._
Eah! that ’s all lees!
_Roger._
Ah dunnot saay it’s trew,
It’s all unknawn ti sike ez me an’ yow.
Hoo deea wa knaw when t’ fleets deea reet ur wrang?
Ah whooap it ’s all on ’t fause[97]—bud seea talks gan.
Hoosivver, this Ah knaw, ’at when tha pleease,
Oor sailors allus beeat ’em upo’ t’ seeas,
An’ if tha nobbut sharply leeak aboot,
Tha needn’t let a sing’l ship cum oot;
At leeast, tha’ll drub ’em weel, I dunnot fear,
An’ keep ’em fairly off fra landing here.
_Willy._
Ah whooap seea, Roger; bud an’ if tha deea
Cum ower, Ah then s’all sharpen mah au’d leea[98].
What thoff Ah can bud ov a lahtle boast,
Ya knaw yan wadn’t ’a’e that lahtle lost.
Ah s’ send oor Molly an’ all t’ bairns awaay,
An’ Ah mysen ’ll byv t’ au’d yamsteead staay.
Ah’ll feight, if need; an’ if Ah fall, wha, then
Ah s’ suffer all t’ warst mishap mysen.
War Ah bud seear my weyfe an’ bairns war seeaf,
Ah then s’u’d be ti dee content eneeaf.
_Roger._
Reet, Willy, mun! What an tha put uz teea ’t,
Ah will mysen put forrad mah best feeat;
What thoff Ah ’s au’d, Ah ’s nut seea easily scar’d—
On his awn middin, an au’d cock feights hard.
Tha saay a Franchman ’s to’n’d a different man,
A braver, better sojer ten ti yan;
Bud let t’ Franch be to’n’d ti what he will,
Tha’ll finnd ’at Inglishmen are Inglish still—
O’ ther awn grund tha’ll nowther flinch na flee,
Tha’ll owther conger, or tha’ll bravely dee.
_Anon._
COMIC SONG.
A BEAUTIFUL BOY.
[_Date about 1750._]
‘Twar yance on a tahm, aboot six i’ t’ morn,
When fo’st Ah saw leet—Ah meean, Ah war born.
Ther war t’ doctor an’ t’ nuss, an’ a gert monny mair,
Bud neean on ’em ’ed seen sike a babby afoor.
Ah’d t’ neease o’ mah dad, an’ t’ een o’ mah mam,
Seea wi’ sleet alterations Ah varra seean cam
Wivoot onny doot or the sleetest o’ sham
Ti be a maist beautiful boy.
Ti mak ma a beauty, skriked oot Mrs. Sneer,
‘He’ll be t’ taal end o’ nowt, bidoot a sweet leer.’
Seea ti gi’e ma this leer, yan on ’em shoots oot,
‘When he’s tumm’l’d asleep, lig a weight on his snoot.’
Which maad ma ti wink an’ ti blink O!
Whahl t’ ladies kenn’d nut what ti think O!
Bud tha mannish’d ti gi’e ma a squint O!
An’ maad ma a beautiful boy.
Ti finish ma off, Ah needed yah thing.
My gob ower-straight war—Ah meean for ti sing—
Seea ti lug it an’ tug it all t’ lot on ’em tried,
Whahl they stritched mah poor gob ommaist hauf a yard wide,
Shooting, ‘Pull awaay, noo, Mrs. Ryder,
It’s stritching a lahtle bit wider,’
An’ Dolly, wheea stood just ashad her,
Sed, ‘Oh! what a beautiful boy!’
When they’d finish’d ma off, tha sent ma ti skeeal.
T’ lads an’ t’ lasses all gen’d ez Ah sat o’ mah steeal,
An’ when they went yam tha sed ’at tha’d seen
T’ fresh lad at skeeal wi’ sike beautiful een.
‘He can leeak onny road, an’ that’s handy,
His gob ’s reetly shapp’d ti suck candy,
Whahl his legs are what tha call bandy—
Gocks! bud he’s a beautiful boy!’
T’ uther daay Ah war ax’d i’ t’ city ti dine,
When t’ lasses i’ rapters all thowt ma divine;
An’ t’ lot, whahl admiring mah elegant grace,
Let ther dinners aleean ti gaze i’ mah feeace,
Then sigh’d, ‘Ah s’all swound wi’ surprise O!
T’ sunleet caan’t match his dear eyes O!
He’s sike a neyce mooth foor mince-pies O!
Oh! kiss uz, you beautiful boy!’
Ah sed, ‘Lasses, beware o’ love’s piercing darts,
Foor feearful Ah be Ah s’all steeal all yer hearts;
An’ then, mah deear lasses, ya’ll sob an’ ya’ll sigh,
When you think o’ mah charms, whahl ya’ll langwish an’ dee.
Ah can kiss, bud Ah caan’t wed ya all,
Bud Ah wad if Ah mud, gert an’ small;
Ah lang for ti cuddle ya all,
For, ya ken, Ah’s a beautiful boy.’
Mr. Fossick, of Carthorpe, kindly gave me the above (and several
others). He tells me it was sung when his grandfather was a boy. As
Mr. Fossick was born in the early years of this century, I am not in
the least antedating it. Though turned eighty, the last time I saw Mr.
Fossick, for two hours he recited poetry without having to halt for a
single word. It is in a great measure owing to the wonderful memories
possessed by our old people that I have been able to collect the matter
for this work.
CHAPTER XVI
A FEW SIMPLE HINTS ON THE GRAMMAR OF THE FOLK-SPEECH
THE ARTICLE.
There is no variation in the usage of the indefinite article, save that
it still retains its place before participles and the adjectives _few_,
_many_, and _great many_.
Ex.—‘He started a calling o’ ma, an’ Ah started a genning at him, an’
then wa set ti wark a lethering yan anuther,’
Educated people do not nowadays say, ‘I sat a sipping of my tea, and a
smiling at the kettle a singing on the hob,’ No, it sounds quaint. And
to those who know as little of their Shakespeare as they do of their
Bibles, such speech is put down to ignorance, or a lack of education,
when in point of fact they are listening to an echo of that old-time
speech which was in full swing long before their great grandmothers
were born, and used by really quite respectable people; e.g.—
‘As he was yet _a_ coming’ (Luke ix. 42).
‘I go _a_ fishing’ (John xxi. 3).
‘While the ark was _a_ preparing’ (1 Pet. iii. 20).
‘His greatness is yet _a_ ripening’ (_Henry VIII_).
‘There is some ill _a_ brewing towards my rest’ (_Merchant of Venice_,
Act ii. Sc. 5).
In such cases, however, ‘a’ cannot be parsed as an article. Many
opinions have been given, but perhaps Cobbett, who holds it to be an
abbreviation for ‘at,’ meaning ‘without doubt,’ has gained the most
supporters. In the _Spectator_, No. 86, we find, ‘Socrates’ disciples
burst out _a_ laughing,’ and in No. 420, ‘The spirits which set the
springs _a_ going.’ Such are by no means archaic forms of speech in the
North Riding, ‘bud ez common ez pigs _a_ grunting at yan anuther.’
The definite article, as mentioned elsewhere, is ‘t’.’ To this rule
there are very few exceptions. Before certain letters it is almost
inaudible; nevertheless, it is always there. It may be said, and with
truth, that a perfect mastery of the definite article, both in speaking
and hearing it spoken, has advanced those desirous of knowing something
of our folk-speech—rather more than half of their journey. I know many
people who are fluent speakers of the dialect, but who read it, even
when in printed form, with the greatest difficulty; others who can read
fairly well, but so far as understanding the dialect when spoken, might
as well listen to a batch of Chocktaw Indians, as two or three good old
Yorkshire dames when fairly letting out.
A Frenchman once said to me, ‘I could understand you English people,
if you did not speak so quickly.’ Aye, just so, and so would many
another body from other counties understand a great deal of what our
country folk say if each word was uttered separately, but with us, as
in standard English, very frequently no pause is made between commas;
so the difficulty increases tenfold, when a stranger strives to follow
a fairly classical dalesman or woman. Take, for instance, a few words
which the other day I heard a woman shout across a village street to
her daughter. Firstly, as they sounded when uttered, then the same as
they would be written, and thirdly, the translation.
_As spoken._ Teggattenlaadsitwinner.
_As written._ T’ egg at t’ ‘en laad’s i’ t’ winner[99].
_Standard English._ The egg (that) the hen laid is in the window.
NUMBER.
This, with only a few exceptions, follows the ordinary rule of grammar.
CASE.
The possessive case is noted elsewhere.
GENDER.
The same as in standard English, with this slight deviation: many
things which are neuter are spoken of as being of the feminine gender.
Ex.—‘Sha’s a fine stack;’ ‘Sha’s a bit rough ti-daay,’ speaking of the
sea; ‘Sha’s gitten a fine bole on her,’ speaking of an oak. There can
be no rule given for guidance, because in a compound sentence the same
noun is sometimes both feminine and neuter. A man speaking of his
watch said, ‘It’s yan ov t’ best ’at Ah ivver ’ed; sha’s a good un,’
i.e. ‘It is one of the best that I ever had; she is a good one.’
ADJECTIVES.
Adjectives which in standard English are compared by the addition of
_more_ and _most_ to the positive, generally form their degrees of
comparison by the addition of _er_ or _r_ for the comparative, and
_ist_ or _st_ for the superlative; e.g.—
POSITIVE. COMPARATIVE. SUPERLATIVE.
True truer truist
Expensive expensiver expensivist.
Dangerous dangerouser dangerousist.
Okkad (awkward) okkader okkadist.
Forrad (forward) forrader fo’derist.
Though it is quite common to hear such expressions as ‘mair okkader’ or
‘t’ maist okkadist,’ and the like, with other adjectives, it is also
not uncommon for the adjective to be used as an adverb, as ‘It’s easy
deean.’
PERSONAL PRONOUNS.
FIRST PERSON.
_Nom._ _Poss._ _Obj._
{I, thou, he, she, it. {I mine me.
SING. {Ah, thoo, tha, _or_ ta, SING. {Ah mahn ma.
{ he, sha, it, ’t.
PLU. {We you they us. PLU. {Thou thine thee.
{Wa ya tha uz. {Thoo thahn thee.
There is no rule to guide the student in the use of _thoo_, _tha_,
_ta_. In a general way _ta_ follows an auxiliary verb, and _thoo_, used
in the accusative case, is definite in its application. ‘He’s shooting
o’ thoo,’ and ’he’s shooting o’ tha,’ have a well-marked distinction
of meaning. ‘He’s shooting o’ thoo’ implies that the person told of
the fact is the actual person being shouted of; not only does it point
him out from amongst many, but the fact that _thoo_ was used further
implies that the shouting had better be attended to at once. ‘He’s
shooting o’ tha,’ is merely certain information given, making known to
some other person that he was being called for without regard to others.
RELATIVE PRONOUNS.
Who which that.
Wheea _or_ whau which that _or_ ’at[100].
_Who_ and _which_ are declined as follows. _That_ and _what_ as in
standard English.
SINGULAR AND PLURAL.
STAND. ENG. NTH. RIDING. | STAND. ENG. NTH. RIDING.
_Nom._ Who whau, | Which which.
wheea. |
_Poss._ Whose whaus | Whose wheeas,
wheeas. | whaus.
_Obj._ Whom whaum. | Which which.
The compound relatives are formed by the addition of _ever_ and
_soever_; _’at_ forming the compound _’ativver_, i.e. _whatever_.
POSSESSIVE PRONOUNS and the compound personal and possessives are
formed as under:—
STAND. ENG. My mine thy thine his her
NTH. RIDING. Mah mahn {thah} thahn his her
{thi }
STAND. ENG. Its our your their own
NTH. RIDING. Its oor _or_ wer yer ther awn
STAND. ENG. Myself thyself himself herself
NTH. RIDING. {Mahsel thisel hissel hersel
{Mahsen thisen hissen hersen
STAND. ENG. Itself ourselves yourselves
NTH. RIDING. {Itsel oorsels _or_ -sens yersels
{Itsen wersels _or_ -sens yersens
STAND. ENG. Theirselves ownselves.
NTH. RIDING. {Thersels awnsels
{Thersens awnsens.
DEMONSTRATIVE PRONOUNS.
_This_ and _that_ are used as follows:—
_This_ refers to an object near at hand, _that_ is rarely used, _yon_
being almost universal, e.g. ‘Yon man ower theer ’ll tell tha.’ _Q._
‘Which is Mister Thompson?’ _A._ ‘Yon chap’s him,’ i.e. ‘That man is
Mr. Thompson.’
INDEFINITE PRONOUNS.
Any both some other another one none such
Onny beeath sum uther anuther yan neean sich, sike
_Yan_ and _yah_ are noticed elsewhere, also _vide_ Glossary.
ADVERBS.
Adverbial peculiarities are fully noticed in the Glossary.
The PREPOSITIONS and ADVERBS mostly in use are:—
About, _aboot_.
Above, _aboon_.
Across, _quarrelled_. ‘Him an’ me’s gitten across.’
After, _efter_ or _efther_[101].
Against, _ower agaanst_, near to.
Among, _amang_. Amongst, _amangst_.
Before, _afoor_. ‘For afore the harvest, when the bud is perfect’
(Isa. xviii. 5).
Behind, _ahint_.
Between, _atween_.
Betwixt, _atwixt_.
Beyond, _ayont_, _beyont_.
By, _byv_ or _by_, pronounced _be_.
From, _fra_ before a consonant, _frev_ before a vowel.
In, _i’_.
Into, _intiv_, _inti_, _intil_.
Near, _near-hand_.
Nigh, _near_, _ommaist_, also _nigh_.
Of, _ov_ and _foor_.
Over, _ower_ and _aboon_.
Beyond, _past_. ‘He did entreat me _past_ my saying nay’ (_Merchant of
Venice_, Act iii. Sc. 2).
Too, _ower_.
With, _wi’_, _wiv_.
_Until_ is never used, _whahl_ always taking its place: no exception to
this rule.
It may be noted this peculiarity extends to the south of
Northamptonshire.
THE VERB.
It will only be possible to note one or two of the more striking
peculiarities.
TO BE.
_Indicative Mood._
Has two forms of the present tense.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah is, _or_ Ah’s. _I am_, &c. Wă } {Wa’re, _we are_.
Thoo is, _or_ Thoo’s. Yă } are, _or_ {Ya’re.
He, Sha, _or_ it is. Thă} {Thă’re.
Also the older form is quite common—
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah be. _I am_, &c. Wă }
Thoo beest _or_ byst. Yă } be.
He be. Thă}
Examples:—
‘Ah be gahin’ ti morn.’
‘Thoo byst efter neea good.’
‘We be twelve brethren’ (Gen. xlii. 32).
‘If thou beest he’ (_Paradise Lost_, Bk. i. 84).
‘If thou beest death’ (_Henry VI, Part II_, Act iii. Sc. 3).
‘If thou beest rated by estimation’ (_Merchant of Venice_, Act ii. Sc.
7).
IMPERFECT.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah war, wur, _or_ wuz. _I was_, &c. Wa }
Thoo war, wur, _or_ wast Ya } war, wur, _or_ wuz
He war, wur, _or_ wuz. Tha}
PERFECT.
‘Ev _or_ hev. The aspirate is rarely heard.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah ’ev been. _I have been_, &c. Wa }
Thoo ’est been. Ya } ’ev been.
He’s _or_ he ’ez been. Tha}
PLUPERFECT.
Ah hed _or_ ’ed been, &c.
FIRST FUTURE.
Ah s’all _or_ will be, &c.
SECOND FUTURE.
Ah s’all _or_ will ’ev been, _or_ Ah s’all ’a’e been.
_Imperative Mood._
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Let ma be. Let uz be.
Be thoo. Be ya.
Be he, let him, her, _or_ it be. {Let ’em be.
{Be tha.
_Subjunctive Mood._
SINGULAR.
Ah be, _or_ Ah maay _or_ can be.
Be thoo, _or_ thoo mayest _or_ canst be.
He be, _or_ he may _or_ can be.
PLURAL.
Wa }
Ya } may _or_ can be.
Tha}
IMPERFECT.
SINGULAR.
Ah war, mud, c’u’d, wad, _or_ s’u’d be }
Thoo wert, mudst, c’u’dst, wadst, _or_ s’u’dst be} loved.
He war, mud, c’u’d, wad, _or_ s’u’d be }
PLURAL.
Wa war, }
Ya war, } wur, mud, c’u’d, wad, _or_ s’u’d be loved.
Tha war,}
PERFECT.
Ah maay _or_ can ’ev }
Tho maayst _or_ canst ’ev } loved.
Tha may _or_ can ’ev }
PLUPERFECT.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah mud, &c. Wa mud, &c.
_Infinitive Mood._
PRESENT. PERFECT.
Ti be. Ti ’a’e _or_ ’ev been.
_Participles._
PRESENT. PERFECT. COMPOUND PERFECT.
Being. Been. ‘Evin’ been.
TO HAVE.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah’ve, Ah ’a’e, _or_ Ah ’ev. _I
have_, &c. Wa’ve, ‘, or ’ev. _We have._
Thoo’s _or_ thoo ’ez. Ya’ve, ‘, _or_ ’ev.
He’s _or_ he ’ez. Tha’ve, ‘, _or_ ’ev.
PERFECT.
Ah’d, Ah ’ed. _I had._ Wa’d, wa ’ed.
Thoo’d, thoo ’ed. Ya’d, ya ’ed.
He’d, he ’ed. Tha’d, tha ’ed.
_Affirmative._
Ah’ve, _or_ Ah ’ev tă’en. Wa’ve, _or_ wa ’ev tă’en.
_I have taken._ _We have taken._
Thoo’s tă’en. Ya’ve, _or_ ya ’ev tă’en. _You have taken._
He’s tă’en. Tha’ve, _or_ tha ’ev tă’en.
_They have taken._
_Negative._
Ah ’evn’t, _or_ Ah ’a’en’t ta’en. Wă ’evn’t, _or_ wă ’a’en’t ta’en.
_I have not taken._ _We have not taken._
Thoo’s nut, _or_ thoo ’ezn’t [102]Yă’ve nut, _or_ yă ’a’en’t
ta’en. ta’en. _You have not taken._
He’s nut, _or_ he ’ezn’t ta’en. [102]Thă’ve nut, or thă ’a’en’t
ta’en. _They have not taken._
_Interrogative._
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
‘Ev Ah ta’en? _Have I taken?_ ‘Ev wă, _or_ ‘ wă ta’en?
_Have we taken?_
‘Ez tă ta’en? ‘Ev yă, _or_ ‘ yă ta’en?
‘Ez ă[103] ta’en? ‘Ev thă, _or_ ‘ thă ta’en?
IMPERFECT TENSE.
Ah’d, _or_ Ah ’ed. _I had._ Wa’d, _or_ wa ’ed. _We had._
Thoo’d, _or_ thoo ’ed. _Thou hadst._ Ya’d, _or_ ya ’ed. _You had._
He’d, _or_ he ’ed. _He had._ Tha’d, _or_ tha ’ed. _They had._
_Imperative Mood._
‘A’e _or_ ’ev (have).
_Infinitive Mood._
Ti ’ev, _or_ ti ’a’e. _To have._
_Participles._
PRESENT. PAST.
‘Evin’, _having_. ‘Ed _or_ ’ad, _had_.
TO DO.
_Indicative Mood._
PRESENT TENSE.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah deea, diz, _or_ duz. _I do._ Wă }
Thoo diz _or_ duz. Yă } deea _or_ div.
He diz _or_ duz. Thă}
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah deean’t. _I do not._ Wa deean’t _or_ divn’t[104].
Thoo dizn’t _or_ deean’t. Ya deean’t _or_ divn’t.
He dizn’t. Tha deean’t _or_ divn’t.
MAY.
Ah maay. Wa }
Thoo maayst. Ya } maay.
He maay. Tha}
IMPERFECT TENSE—Might.
Ah mud _or_ might. Wa }
Thoo mud. Ya } mud _or_ might.
He mud. Tha}
Must. Must not.
SINGULAR. PLURAL. SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah } Wa } Ah } maun’t Wa } maun’t
Thoo} mun. Ya } mun. Thoo} _or_ Ya } _or_
He } Tha} He } munnot. Tha} munnot.
TO GO.
ACTIVE VOICE.
_Indicative Mood._
PRESENT TENSE.
SINGULAR. PLURAL.
Ah gan, _or_ goa. Wa }
Thoo’s gahin’ _or_ gannin’. Ya } gan _or_ goa.
He gans. Tha}
INDEFINITE—I was going.
Ah war, wur, _or_ wuz} gahin’ Wa war, wur, _or_ wuz } gahin’
Thoo wast _or_ wart } _or_ Ya war, wur, _or_ wuz } _or_
He war _or_ wuz } gannin’. Tha war, wur, _or_ wuz} gannin’.
INDEFINITE PERFECT—I have gone.
Ah ’ev _or_ Ah’ve } Wa ’ev _or_ wa’ve }
Thoo’s _or_ thoo ’ez} gane _or_ Ya ’ev _or_ ya’ve } gane _or_
He’s _or_ he ’ez } geean. Tha’ev _or_ tha’ve} geean.
_Infinitive Mood._
PRESENT. PROGRESSIVE.
Ti gan. _To go._ Ti be gahin’ _or_ gannin’. _To be going._
PERFECT. PROGRESSIVE.
Ti ’ev gane _or_ ti ’a’e geean. Ti ’ev been gahin’.
_To have gone._ _To have been going._
PRESENT.
Gahin’ _or_ ganning. _Going._
PERFECT.
Geean _or_ gane. _Gone._
COMPOUND.
Having geean _or_ gane. _Having gone._
Observe _is_ and _be_ generally take the place of _are_ and _am_. In
fact, the latter word is very rarely heard amongst the country people.
‘Are you Tom?’ in the folk-speech, would be, ‘Is ta Tom?’—the answer
would not be ‘Ah am!’ but ‘Ah is!’
_Q._ ‘Is ta gahin’ wiv uz[105]?’ i.e. ‘Are you going with me?’
_A._ ‘Neea, Ah’s nut,’ or ‘Neea, Ah isn’t,’ i.e. ‘No, I is not’ (I am
not).
_Nobbut_, as a sign of the conditional mood, is quite as general as
_if_.
_Q._ ‘Will ta cum?’ Will you come?
_A._ ‘Nobbut it be owt leyke, an’ nobbut I git deean;’ i. e. ‘If it be
anything like’ (as to weather), ‘and if only I finish my work.’
It is not uncommon to hear the future tense used for the present, and
in many instances the country people, as it were, confuse the perfect
tense and perfect participle. ‘Ah’ve chose t’ whip ’at Ah want.’ ‘I
have chosen the whip I want (_or_ like).’
‘’Ez ta broke t’ winder?’ would be asked in a whisper, but ‘Aye, he’s
brokken ’t,’ would certainly be the form in which it would be shouted
to the other boys. ‘Ah’ve spoke tiv him mair ’an yance,’ would be the
form such a declaration would take from one confiding to another the
hopelessness of making any further entreaties; but ‘Ah’ve spokken tiv
him ower an’ up agaan,’ would be the language used when temper was
in the ascendent. Nevertheless, those who would consider vulgar such
sentences as have been given, are apt to forget that the accepted rules
which govern the speech of to-day are only correct because they are of
to-day. The rules which were once accepted may have been laid aside in
favour of others; but the country people move slowly—their speech is
that of their grandparents, and it is what they have been used to all
their lives. They know nothing of the new order of things. And again,
they keep very good company.
Examples:—
‘I have already _chose_ my officer.’
_Othello_, Act i. Sc. 1.
‘Methought this staff, mine office badge in court, was _broke_ in
twain.’—_Henry VI, Part II_, Act i. Sc. 2.
‘By what yourself too late have _spoke_ and done.’
_King Lear_, Act i. Sc. 4.
‘Why was this _forbid_?’—_Paradise Lost_, Bk. ix. 703.
‘Waiting desirous her return, had wove
Of choicest flowers a garland.’
_Paradise Lost_, Bk. ix. 839.
Steele, in the _Spectator_ (No. 344), has, ‘I have _wrote_ to you three
or four times.’ And he is generally acknowledged to have been a fairly
good scholar, but then his writings go back a hundred years, and they
spoke differently then. Our people speak very much like it now.
The formation of the perfect and of the participle vary considerably
from that of ordinary grammar. As a rule the past participle is formed
by the addition of _en_. There are other striking peculiarities in the
vowel changes. A list of some of the leading ones is here given.
_Present._ _Perfect._ _Participles._
Build Belt Belt
Beeat (beat) Bet Betten
Bid Bad Bidden, bodden
Binnd (bind) Bun _or_ bund Bun, bund, _or_ bunden
Bleead (bleed) Bled, blaad Bledden
Break, breek (break) Brak Brokken
Brust (burst) Brast Brussen, brossen
Cast Kest Kessen
Cheease (choose) Choaze Chozzen
Coss (curse) Coss’d Coss’d, cossen
Cost Cost Cossen
Creeap (creep) Crep _or_ crop Croppen
Cum (come) Cam, com Cum’d
Cut (cut) Cut Cutten
Darr (dare) Dast Darrd
Drahve (drive) Drave Drovven _or_ druvven
Felt (hide) Felt Felted
Feyght (fight) Fowt Fowten
Finnd (find) Fan Fun
Flig (fly) Fligg’d Fligg’d
Fling (fling) Flang Flung
Flit (to change
one’s abode) Flitted Flitten
Freeze (freeze) Fraze Frozzen
Gi’e (give) Gav or ga Geen[106]
Git (get) Gat Gitten, getten, _or_ gotten
Greeap _or_ group
(grope) Grape Groupen _or_ groppen
Grund, grahnd
(grind) Grund Grun _or_ grunded
Ho’d (hold) Ho’ded Ho’dden
Ho’t (hurt) Ho’t Ho’tten
Kep (catch) Kept Kept, keppen
Lap (wrap) Lapt, lapp’d Lappen _or_ lappen’d
Let (let) Let Letten
Lig (lay) Lig’d, lihd Lihn
Lig (lie) Lig’d Liggen _or_ lig’d
Leet (light) Let Letten
Loose (loose) Lowse Lowsen
Loss (lose) Lost Lossen
Preeave (prove) Preeav’d Provven _or_ pruvven
Put (put) Put Putten
Rahd (ride) Rade Ridden _or_ rodden
Rahse (rise) Roase Risen _or_ rosen
Rahve (tear) Rave Rovven
Set Set Setten
Shak (shake) Shak’t Shak’t _or_ shakken
Shed (shed) Shed Shedden
Shoe (shoe) Shod Shodden
Shut (shut)
_or_ shoot Shut Shutten
Sit (sit) Sat Setten
Slet (slit) Slet Slitten
Smit (infect) Smitted Smittel’d
Snaw (snow) Snew Snawn _or_ snaw’d
Speeak (speak) Spak Spokken
Splet (split) Splet Spletten
Spreead (spread) Sprade Sprodden
Stan (stand) Steead Stooden
Stick (stick) Stack Stucken
Straad (stride) Stroade, straad,
_or_ strahd Strodden
Strahve (strive) Strahve _or_
stroave Struvven _or_ strovven
Strike (strike) Strake, strak Strukken
Tak (take) Teeak, teuk Ta’en, takken, _or_
tuckken
Tell Tell’d, tell’t Tell’d, tell’t
Thrahve (thrive) Throv, thrahve Throvven
Thrust (thrust) Thrast, throst Throssen _or_ thrussen
Treead (tread) Trade, tred Trodden
Wet (wet) Wet Wetten
Win (win) Wan Won
Worrk (work) Wrowt, wark’d Wrowt _or_ wrowten
Wreyte (write) Wrate Written
CONJUNCTIONS.
Some of those generally in use will be found contained in the following
request:—
‘Tommy’s cum’d, _an’_ Jimmy _an’ all_. Noo, _if so be as hoo ’at_ wa
caan’t finnd hoos-room for baith _on_[107] ’em, could thoo, _wivoot_
putting thisen aboot, mannish ti tak Jimmy in? _Bud, hooivver_, thoo
knaws _if in case ’at_ thoo caan’t mannish ti deea ’t foor all t’
tahm tha’re here, can ta _whahl_ t’ daay efter ti morn? Tha’ve cum’d
_for ti_ see Mary. _Nowther_ on ’em’s clapt ees on her _sen_ sha went
ti pleeace, _an’ seeaner ’an_ tha s’u’dn’t ’a’e seen her, Ah wad ’a’e
geean ti my aunt Martha; bud Ah’d better stop at yam _ez_ gan theer,
_if so be ’at_ thoo can mannish ’t onny road. _Besides, thoo knaws_
thi larl Lizzie could cum _an’_ lig wiv oor Freddy, _bidoot_ thoo
_ligs_ her on t’ sōfy. Ah think _’at_ that wad be t’ better waay; noo,
what diz ta saay?’
_Key._
‘Tommy has come, _and_ Jimmy _as well_. Now, _if_ we cannot find room
for both on them, could you, _without_ inconveniencing yourself,
manage to take Jimmy in? _Still, if_ you cannot manage to do so for
all the time they are here, can you _until_ the day after to-morrow.
They have come to see Mary, _neither_ of them having seen her _since_
she went to place—i.e. situation. _And rather than_ they should have
missed seeing her, I would have gone to my aunt Martha; but I had
better stay at home _than_ go there, _if_ you can manage it anyway.
_Besides_, your little Lizzie could come _and_ sleep with our Freddy,
_unless_ you _lay_ her on the sofa. I think _that_ would be the best;
now, what do you say?’
In reading the key over, it will be found, in several instances, that a
single word does duty for several. This tendency towards redundancy is
very common, e.g. ‘If so be as how ’at wa cannot,’ simply means ‘If we
cannot’; and ‘Besides, thoo knaws,’ is ’besides.’ Instead of the last
word, ‘besides,’ the usage of ‘An’ moreover ’an that’ is very common.
The rule that prepositions govern the objective case, expressed or
understood, the conjunction never, holds good in the folk-speech.
The conjunctions in italics are very rarely used, those in brackets
commonly taking their place.
‘Ah s’all be theer (an’ all),’ _as well_.
‘(Bud hooivver) thoo mun cum,’ _still_.
‘(Wivoot) Ah cum, deean’t start,’ _unless_.
‘(Ez) stop wiv him, Ah’ll cum,’ _rather than_.
‘Ah’ve cum (for ti) see Tom,’ _in order to_.
‘Deean’t leeave t’ hoss (bidoot) he gi’es tha t’ brass,’ _unless_.
‘Thoo wait (whahl) Ah cum,’ _until_.
There are many who consider the folk-speech of our country people
little better than a mixture of about equal parts of bad grammar and
mispronunciation. Such a notion, I feel sure, can only have arisen from
either a lack of information or undue haste. From such I would humbly
crave a reconsideration of the case.
I can well understand those who know little of the various sources
through which the standard English of to-day has come down to us,
considering such words as those contained in the following list as
being vulgar—_backerly_, _balk_, _belly-wark_, _botch_, _cant_,
_chaamer_, _clag_, _cleg_, _drukken_, _flacker_, _flit_, _fra_, _lake_,
_lang_, _leck_, _lig_, _lop_, _lown_, _luke_, _mirk_, _neeaze_,
_owerwelt_, _raun_, _roke_, _rud_, _scraffle_, _shive_, _snite_,
_steg_, _stob_, _stower_, _sump_, _theeak_, _thrave_, _till_, &c.
Though some words in the list may be new to the reader, they are
in common usage amongst our people. And what is much more to their
credit, every one of them were doing duty hundreds of years ago. And
as in many cases the pronunciation is identical with that of their
Danish relations, we have grounds for assuming that not only has
the word itself been preserved, but the actual sound in which it was
formerly uttered, though the spelling often differs greatly in the two
countries. Take, as a single example, the North Riding word ’stower’;
the Danish word is spelt ’staver,’ but the pronunciation is exactly the
same in both countries. Therefore, as Angus says, if the sound rather
than the spelling be taken, the similarity of the languages will be
found to be much more striking. A few so-called vulgar words and their
respectable relations are given in the following list.
NOTE.—Scandinavian in this list must be taken in its widest sense, as
including Old Norse, Frisian, Swedish, and Danish.
_North Riding._ _Scandinavian._ _Anglo-Saxon._ _English._
Backerly Bagerlig ... Late
Backstan Bage-sten ... A stone for baking
cakes on
Balk Balk Balca Beam
Band Baand (O. N.) ... String
Belly-wark Bælg-værk Bælig-wærc Stomach-ache
Bid Byde Beōdan To invite
Bor Borre ... Seed of the burdock
Blendcorn Blandkorn ... Mixed corn
Botch Bota Botian To mend clumsily
Brave Brav ... Goodly
Brede Bredde Bræd Breadth
Cant Kante, Kanta ... To tilt on end
Calf Kalve, _v._
to calve ... Calf
Chaamer Kammer ... Chamber
Clag Klæg Clæg To stick
Clap Klap ... To pat
Cleg Klæge ... Horse-fly
Clovver Klaver Klaver (Dutch) Clover
Clip Klippe ... To clip
Drukken Drukken ... Drunken
Eaves Ovs Efesse The eaves
Fau’k, Folk,
Fooak Folk ... People
Felt Fela, fiæle Feolan To hide
Flacker Flagre ... To flutter
Flittermouse Flaggermus ... The bat
Flit Flytte ... To remove to another
house
Fore-elders Forældre ... Forefathers
Fra Fra Fra From
Gimmer Gimmer ... Ewe lamb
Glooar Gloe ... To stare
Gob Gab ... Mouth
Havermeal Havre mel ... Oatmeal
Handsel Handsel Handselen First money received
Holm Holm ... Low-lying land
Hoos Hus ... House
Humble-bee Humlebi ... Humble-bee
Kist Kiste Cist A chest
Laat, lait Lait ... To seek
Lake, laak Leka Lacan To play
Lake, laak Leg, lec Lac A game
Lang Læng ... Long
Leck Lække Leccan To leak
Lig Ligge Liggan To lie down
Lop Loppe ... A flea
Lown Luun ... Calm, still
Luke Luge ... To weed
Middin Modding Midding A dunghill
Mirk Mork Mirc Dark
Neeaze Nyse Niesan To sneeze
Owerwelt Awvælt ... To lie on the back
as a sheep
Raun Rawn ... Fish-spawn
Riggintree Rygtræ ... The topmost spar in
the roof
Roke Rok ... A misty rain
Rud Rod[108] ... Red ochre
Scraffle Scravle ... To walk in a feeble
way
Shive Skive ... A slice
Suite Snyde ... To blow the nose
Steg Steggi ... A gander
Stob Stub ... The stump of a tree
Stower Staver ... A stake, a rung
Sump Sump ... Boggy place
Theeak Tække ... Thatch
Thrave Trave ... A number of sheaves
of corn
Till Til ... To
Yule keeak Yule kage ... Yule cake
This list might have been greatly extended, but the above suffices for
the purpose of proving that many of the words considered vulgar are
simply venerable through age. If we inquire a little further, we shall
find not only the words, but the form of speech used by our people,
which so often seems ungrammatical, is actually that of the best
writers of bygone ages. The fact is, as has been already stated, our
vocabulary and mode of speech is not of to-day, but belongs to the time
of long ago.
From Spenser’s _Faerie Queen_ take as examples the following words and
grammatical forms, which are quite common with us to-day:—
That seemed both shield and plate it would have _rived_.
_For to_ avenge that foul, reproachful shame.
To lose long _gotten_ honour with one evil hond.
Much greater grief and _shamefuller_ regret.
In hope her to attain by _hook or crook_.
To _tossen_ spear and shield.
_Me leifer_ were with point of foeman’s spear be dead.
... how stout Deborah _strake_.
Inglorious now lies in senseless _swownd_.
But _lapped_ up her silken leaves most _chare_.
Fast _bounden_ hand and foot with cords of wire.
But, glancing on the tempered metal, _brast_.
And ever and anon, when none was _ware_.
And from her head oft rent her _snarled_ hair.
In _Piers Ploughman_, 1362, by R. Langton:—
Under a brood bank—By a _burn’s_ side.
* * * * *
Some _putten hem_ to the plough.
_The Parsone’s Tale_:—
And _axeth_ of the old ways.
... ought to _plain_.
Wicliff, 1380:—
And he eat _honeysoukis_.
_The Prodigal Sone_, 1380:—
Tweie sonnes. And the younger of _hem_.
A ryng on his hond, and _schoon_ on his feet.
And when he _cam_.
Tyndale, 1534:—
And not long after the younger sonne _gaddered_ all that he had
_togedder_.
And when he _cam_.
And _axed_ what these things meant.
From the Epistle to the Romans.
Also—_Geven_, _goven_, _moun_, _quyt_ (quit = to repay), _stakker
trone_[109] (throne), and scores of others are quite common with us.
The following past tenses are given by Angus as obsolete, and as having
been so for long:—_fand_, _flang_, _slang_, _stang_, _wan_, _wrang_,
every one of which are in frequent use.
In Wicliff’s edition of the Bible we have:—
‘The keperis weren _afeered_.’ ‘And _brak_.’ ‘The wisdom of this world
_fonned_.’ ‘Clensed with _besyms_.’ ‘Mayster Moses seide if _ony_
man.’ ‘_Twey_ men.’ ‘_Ridile_ as whete,’ ‘Joseph _lappide_ it’ (St.
Matthew). ‘_Moun_ comprehende with alle seyntis which is _breed_’
(Eph.). ‘He _concitide_’ (St. Luke). ‘And _telde_ him’ (Acts). ‘It
schal not _rewe_ Him’ (Hebrews).
Such words, when uttered by our country people, are not vulgar, though
they may sound odd, but that is because they are old fashioned and
unfamiliar; and if their utterance has no charm for you, then it is
music you never heard in your youth, and which your ear can never
rightly appreciate. So that you may see at a glance to what extent
the language has altered, and how the folk-speech has remained almost
stationary during the last three or four hundred years, let us compare
a few of the commonest North Riding words of to-day with the standard
English of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries.
_Words of the 13th, _Standard English as pronounced
14th, and 15th _Common North in 1898, or giving
centuries, taken Riding words, the word which has supplanted
from the best 1898._ the older one._
authors._
Afeered Afeeard Afraid
Axed Axed Asked
Besyms Bizzums, buzzums Broom
Bounden Bounden Bound
Brak Brak Broke
Brast Brast Burst
Breede Breed Breadth
Burn Burn Stream
Cam Cam Came
Chare Chare Carefully
Concitide Consated Imagined, opinionated
Fain Fain Gladly
Fand Fand Found
Flang Flang Flung
Flig Flig To fly
Fonned Fond Foolish
Gaddered Gaddered Gathered
Geven Geven(1) }
Goven Govven(1)} Given
Gotten Gotten Got
Lapped Lapped }
Lappide Lapp’t } Wrapped
Laverock Lairock _or_ laverock The lark
Leifer Leif _or_ leifer Soon, willingly
Moniment Moniment Monument
Mown Mun Must
Ony Onny Any
Partinge Parting Division
Plain Pleean Complain
Putten Putten Put
Quyt Quit To repay
Rewe Rewe Repent
Ridile Ruddle _or_ riddle To sift
Shamefuller Shamefuller Very disgraceful
Snarled Snarled Knotted
Stakker Stakker Stagger
Strake Strake Struck
Swownd Swound _or_ soond To faint
Telde Tell’d _or_ tell’t Told
Threpe Threeap Argue, contend
Togedder Togedder Together
Tossen Tossen To throw
Twey Tweea Two
Ware Ware Beware
Wrack Wrack Destruction
By hook or crook By hook or crook By any means
(1) ‘Gi’en’ is by far the most general. Still, amongst the older
people, one often hears ‘geven’ and ‘govven.’
Need I add more to prove my case? I think not.
Those interested are requested to read the concluding remarks at the
end of the Glossary.
GLOSSARY
OF ABOUT FOUR THOUSAND NORTH RIDING WORDS
_Giving only those daily in use at the present time, 1898, together
with more than 1000 sentences as examples of the dialect._
FOR RARE AND OBSOLETE WORDS, SEE OTHER GLOSSARIES.
N.B.—Some words as we pass from east to west of the North Riding
differ slightly in pronunciation; such, when established over a
sufficiently wide area, have been included in the Glossary. It is
owing to this that the spelling of the same word varies throughout
the work, as in all cases the dialect has been given in accordance
with the pronunciation of the locality in which the incident or
word uttered occurred. As a single example, take ‘fau’k,’ which is
universal along the coast; further inland, in the Great Ayton and
Stokesley district ‘fau’k’ and ‘fooak’ are equally common, whilst in
Wensleydale and Swaledale ‘fooak’ is only heard.
ABBREVIATIONS.
abv. = abbreviated.
_adj._ = adjective.
_adv._ = adverb.
_conj._ = conjunction.
_pron._ = pronoun.
ex. = example.
_intj._ = interjection.
_n._ = noun.
N.R. = North Riding.
_v._ = verb.
_part._ = participle.
_pp._ = past participle.
_prep._ = preposition.
_pret._ = preterit.
_num._ = numeral.
A.
+A+ or +Eh+, _p._ _pr._ He. _Vide_ footnote, p. 326. [TN. Footnote 103]
+A+, _num._ _adj._ One. _Vide_ +Yah+, +Yan+.
+A’+, _adj._ All.
+Aa!+ _intj._ Exclamation of surprise, admiration.
+Aa+, but. +Aa+, but +Ah saay!+ _intj. of comparison_.
Ex.—_Aa, but Ah saay!_ _Ah aim ’at yon pig’s better ’an oors._
+Aback+, _adv._ Behind.
+Aback o’ beyont+, _adv._ Out of sight, out of the way.
Ex.—_Them things is sadly i’ t’ road. Ah wish thoo’d git ’em aback
o’ beyont._
+Abeear+, _v._ To endure.
Ex.—_Ah caan’t abeear t’ seet o’ yon lass._
+Aboon+, _prep._ Above.
+Aboon-heead+, _adv._ Overhead.
Ex.—_It leeaks a bit blackish aboon-heead._
+Abraid+, _v._ To wake, to stir up.
+Abrede+, _adv._ Width.
+Accorn+, +Yackron+, _n._ The acorn.
+Acoz+, _conj._ Because; often abv. to ‘’coz.’
+Actilly+, _adv._ Actually.
+Addle+, _adj._ Barren.
+Addle+, _v._ To earn.
+Addlin’+, _n._ A term of contempt.
Ex.—_Thoo larl addlin’, ger awaay wi’ tha._
+Addlin’s+, _n._ Wages.
+Admire+, _v._ 1. To approve, to like.
2. To wonder.
Ex.—1. _Ah deean’t admire a job o’ that soart._ _Ah admire t’ maist
o’ what he did._
2. _Ah caan’t bud admire at t’ waay he did it._
+Adreead+, _adj._ In a state of fear.
+‘A’e+, +‘Ev+, _v._ Have.
+Aether+, +Owther+, _conj._ Either.
+Afeear’d+, _adj._ and _part._ Afraid, seized with fear.
+Afoor+, +Afur+, _prep._ Before.
+Afoor+- or +Afur-lang+, _adv._ Before long, very shortly.
+After+- or +Efter-birth+, _n._ Placenta.
+Afterwit, Efterwit+, _n._ An idea which strikes one often when too
late to remedy a mistake.
+Agaan+, +Ageean+, _prep._ Again.
+Agaanst+ or +Ageeanst+, _prep._ Against.
+Agaate+, +Ageeat+, _adv._ 1. On the way.
2. Begun; also used as a _part._
3. To disturb.
4. To set going.
Ex.—1. _Wa s’all git agaate ti morn at morn._
2. _Ah’s agaate wi’ ‘t noo._
3. _Naay, what! Ah’d gitten all sattled peeacably, an’ thoo gans an’
sets ’em all agaate agaan._
4. _Ah’ve putten a new pin in, an’ sha’s agaate agaan noo._
+Agee+, _adv._ Askew.
+Ah+, _per. pron._ I.
+Ah’ll+, I will.
+Ah’ll awaand+, I will warrant.
+Ah’ll be bun+, I will be bound, I am sure.
+Ahint+, _adv._ and _prep._ Behind.
+Aiblings+, _adv._ Maybe, perhaps.
+Aim+, +Aam+, +Yam+, _v._ 1. To intend. 2. To be under the impression.
_Vide_ chapter on ‘Idioms.’
Ex.—1. _Wa aim ti start ti flit ti morn fust thing_, i.e. ‘We intend
to remove our goods first thing to-morrow.’
2. _Ah yam’d ’at he war Tommy’s bairn_, i.e. ‘I thought that he was
Tom’s bairn.’
+Airm+, _n._ Arm.
+Airt+, _n._ Point of the compass.
Ex.—_What airt is t’ wind in? Whya, sha’s nobbut iv a bad airt; Ah
doot ’at it’s nut gahin’ ti tak up._
+Al+, +Yal+, _n._ Ale.
+Alaane+, +Aleean+, _adj._ Alone.
+Aliments+, _n._ Elements.
+All of a heh+, _adj._ Inclining to one side.
+All out+, _adv._ Altogether, absolutely.
+All ti nowt+, Gone to nothing, dwindled away.
+Ally+, +Ally-taw+, _n._ A boy’s taw of white marble, distinct from
either a stony or glassy.
+Along of+, _prep._ Owing to, in consequence of.
+Amaist+, +Omaist+, _adv._ Almost.
+Amang+, _prep._ Among.
+Amang-hands+, Implies the doing of certain work coincidently with
other labour.
+Amell+, _prep._ In the midst, between.
+Ance+, _Vide_ +Yance+.
+An’+, _conj._ And.
+‘An+, _conj._ Than.
+An’ all+, _conj._ and _adv_. As well as, besides, truly.
+Ane+, _num. adj._ One, usually followed by ’ither,’ i.e. other.
Ex.—_If Ah’ll tak t’ ane, will thoo tak t’ ither? Vide_ +Yan+.
+Anew+, _adj._ Enough in number.
+Angry+, _adj._ Inflamed.
+Anotherkins+, _adj._ Different altogether.
Ex.—_Sha sartinly raffled on tiv a gert len’th, bud sha nivver
tell’d ma ’at Willie hed offered ti gi’e ma summat—that’s
anotherkins, thoo knows._
+Anters+, _conj._ For fear, lest.
+Any+, +Onny+, _adv._ At all, in the least.
Ex.—_Ah doan’t aim ’at he’ll help onny_, i.e. ‘I do not think that
he will help at all.’ _He teeak ho’d, bud he didn’t lift onny_,
i.e. ‘He took hold, but he did not lift in the least.’
+Apace+, +Apaace+, _adv._ With great speed.
Ex.—_He’s gitten tweea mair lads; he’ll git on apaace noo._
+Appron+, _n._ The fat covering the belly of ducks and geese.
+Arf+, +Arfish+, _adj._ 1. Timid, fearful.
2. Unwilling.
Ex.—1. _He wur a bit arfish when t’ dog boonced oot._
2. _Naay, Ah deean’t think he’ll cum, he seem’d a bit arfish when
Ah ax’d him._
+Argify+, _v._ To argue.
+Arn+, _v._ To earn.
+Arr+, _n._ A scar.
Ex.—_Ah’s afeear’d he’ll be arr’d sairly on his feeace, he gat sae
badly bo’nt._
+Arran web+, _n._ A cobweb.
+Arridge+, _n._ The rough edge left after either sawing or filing;
the edge of a squared stone, of furniture, &c.
+Arse-end+, _n._ The end of a stook which rests upon the ground.
+Arsey-varsey+, Upside down, great confusion.
+Ashads+, _prep._ Beside.
+Asher+, _adj._ Ashen.
+Ask+, +Esk+, _n._ The newt.
+Aslew+, _adj._ Not perpendicular.
+Ass+, _v._ _Vide_ +Ax+.
+Asseer+, _v._ To assure, _adv._ Instead, in the place of.
+Assel-tree+, _n._ Axle-tree.
+Ass-hoal+, _n._ A hole with a grate over it, usually under the
kitchen fire, to hold the fine ash.
+Assil-teeath+ or +-tewth+, _n._ A molar, a back tooth.
+Ass-manner+, _n._ Manure obtained from the ash-midden.
+Ass-midden+, _n._ The place in which ashes and other refuse is
thrown.
+Asteead+, _adv._ Instead.
+As tite+, +Ez tite+, _adv._ As soon, rather, readily.
Ex.—_Ah’d ez tite gan ez stop_, i.e. ‘I would as soon go as stay.’
_Ah’d ez tite kiss t’ dowter ez t’ muther_, i.e. ‘I would rather
kiss the daughter than the mother.’
+‘At+, _rel. pron._ and _conj._ 1. Who.
2. That.
3. Which.
Ex.—1. _Him ’at tell’d tha, tell’d tha wrang_, i.e. ‘He who told
you, told you wrongly.’
2. _Ah caan’t saay ’at ivver Ah did_, i.e. ‘I cannot say that ever
I did.’
+At+, _prep._ 1. To.
2. Also used in a verbal sense of to worry.
3. To attack.
4. To bother.
Ex.—1 and 3. _What’s he deean at tha ’at thoo s’u’d at him leyke
that?_ i.e. ‘What has he done to you that you should attack or
illuse him like that.’
2 and 4. _Ah s’all ’ev ti let her ’ev t’ pup, ska’s awlus at ma
aboot it._
+Atefter+ or +Atefther+, _adv._ Afterwards.
Ex.—_Whya, noo, Ah’ll see tha atefter aboot it. Aye, that’s what
he sed at fo’st, bud he tell’d a different taal atefter._
+Athout+, _prep._ and _conj._ Without, unless.
+Atop o’+, _prep._ On the top of.
+Atter+, _n._ Matter, mucus.
+Atween+, _prep._ Between.
+Au’d-feshioned+, _adj._ Precocious, antique.
+Au’d-leyke+, _adj._ Aged.
+Aught+, _n._ Anything.
+Aund+, +Awned+, _pp._ Possessed.
+Aw+, _adj._ All.
+Aw+, _intj._ Oh.
+Awaay+, _intj._ Go on, continue doing the same thing.
Ex.—_It maay scream awaay foor owt ’at Ah care_, i.e. ‘Scream on.’
‘Fight away, my lads.’ ‘Shout away, my boys.’
+Awaay-gannin’ crops+, _n._ The crops an outgoing tenant sows and
reaps on the farm he is leaving, in consideration of certain other
land which he has fallowed and manured.
+Awanting+, _adj._ 1. Needed.
2. Lacking sense.
Ex.—1. _T’ land’s vastly awanting a sup o’ rain._
2. _That bairn’s a bit awanting._
+Awe+, _Vide_ +Owe+.
+Awhahl+, _conj._ Awhile. _Vide_ +Whahl+.
+Awkward+, _Vide_ +Okkad+.
+Awlus+, +Allus+, _adv._ Always.
+Awm+, _n._ The elm.
+Awn+, _v._ 1. To own.
2. To admit.
Ex.—1. _Ah awn t’ dog_, i.e. ‘I own the dog.’
2. _Did ta awn tiv owt?_ i.e. ‘Did you admit anything?’ _Neea, Ah
awned ti nowt_, i.e. ‘No, I admitted nothing.’ _Ti awn ti_, is
‘to confess.’
+Ax+, +Ax’d+, +Ass+, or +Ast+, _v._ To ask.
Ex.—_Ah ax’d him, bud he wadn’t ’a’e neea truck. Ah’s ast oot ti
tea ti morn at neet._ _Ah wadn’t ax him owt_, or _ass him_.
+Ax’d at chetch or chŭch+ } Publishing the banns.
+Ax’d oot+ }
Ex.—_Tha’ll be ax’d at chetch o’ Sunday; he’s putten t’ spurrings
in._
+Aye+, +bairn+. Assent.
+Aye+, +foor seear+. Aye, for sure.
+Aye+, +marry+, _adv._ Certainly, yes.
Ex.—_Diz ta believe what sha’s sed aboot Hannah? Aye, marry, that
Ah deea—Hannah war sadly flowtered t’ other daay, when Ah plump’d
her wi’ ‘t._
B.
+Bab+, +Babby+, _n._ A baby.
+Babbles an’ Saunters+, 1. Wearying repetitions.
2. Unreliable information.
Ex.—1. _T’ sarmon war larl better ’an babbles an’ saunters._
2. _Tak neea notish ov owt ’at sha sez, all ’at sha knaws is babbles
an’ saunters._
+Back+, _v._ _Vide_ +Backen+.
+Back-bearaway+, _n._ The common bat.
+Back-burden+, _n._ A load carried on the back.
+Backen+, _v._ 1. To retard.
2. To hold in check.
Ex.—1. _T’ frost ’ll backen things a gay bit._
2. _Wa did all ’at ivver wa c’u’d, bud wa c’u’dn’t backen t’
inflammation; ’t ’ed gitten past deeaing owt, afoor t’ doctor
cam._
+Back-end+, _n._ The time following harvest.
+Backendish+, _adj._ Winterly.
Ex.—_It’s cau’d, an’ begins ti feel a larl bit backendish._
+Backerly+, _adj._ and _adv._ Late, backward.
+Backly+, _adv._ Late, backward.
+Backreck’nin’+, _n._ A misunderstanding.
Ex.—_Noo Ah’ve maad it plaan, ’evn’t Ah? foor Ah deean’t want
neea backreck’nin’ at efter._
+Back-talk+, _n._ Impudently answering again.
+Back-side+, _n._ 1. The back of the house.
2. That part which is opposed to the front of anything.
Ex.—1. _Put t’ barrer at t’ back-side._
2. _It’s at t’ back-side o’ t’ barn._
+Backstan+, _n._ A sheet of iron, sometimes a stone, having an iron
hoop to hang it over the fire by, used to bake cakes upon.
+Back up, To get one’s+, To make angry.
+Back-word+, _adv._ To countermand, to decline.
+Bad+, _adj._ 1. Difficult.
2. Unwell.
Ex.—1. _Ah finnd it varra bad ti deea._
2. _Ah feel ez bad ez ivver Ah can._
+Bad+, +Bod+, _pret._ of ’to bid.’
Ex.—_Ah bad, an’ sha bod, an’ Tommy gat it._
+Badger+, _n._ A huckster.
+Badger+, _v._ To beat down in a bargain.
Ex.—_Thoo mun ass him a lump mair ’an what thoo wants, foor he’s
a despert yan at badgering._
+Badly+, _adv._ 1. Sickly, ill.
2. Very much.
Ex.—1. _Mah wo’d, bud Ah is badly._
2. _Ah’s badly i’ want ov a self-binnder. It badly wants leeaking
teea._
+Badness+, _n._ Wickedness.
Ex.—_He’s full o’ nowt bud badness._
+Bags Ah fuggy+, ‘I claim the first,’ whether it be innings or
first place in a game, &c.
+Bahd+, _Vide_ +Bide+.
+Bainest+, _adj._ The nearest.
Ex.—_It’s t’ bainest waay ti gan byv t’ pastur._
+Bairn+, +Barn+, +Baan+, _n._ A child.
+Bairn-birth+, _n._ Lying-in.
+Bairnish+, _adj._ Childish.
+Bairn-lakings+, _n._ Playthings.
+Bakin’+, _n._ The whole of the bread baked at one time.
+Bakus+, +Bakehoos+, _n._ The bakehouse.
+Balk+, +Bawk+, _n._ A beam, also a worthless corner of a field.
+Ball+, _n._ The palm of the hand, or sole of the foot.
+Bally-bleeazes+, _n._ A bonfire.
+Bam+, _n._ and _v._ 1. A cheat, a joke, to cheat.
2. To play a joke.
Ex.—1. _He bamm’d ivvery hand he played._
2. _He went all t’ waay ti Stowsla ti see her, an’ sha nivver
cam oot; it war nowt bud a bam o’ Jack’s._
+Band+, _n._ String, twisted straw used by the harvesters to bind
sheaves with.
+Band-maker+, _n._ A maker of bands in the harvest-field.
+Bang+, _v._ To thrash.
+Bangs all+, _v._ Surpasses everything.
Ex.—_He bangs all, yon youth. That’s a capper; it bangs all, it
diz._
+Bank up+, _v._ To collect in masses, as clouds.
+Banky+, _adj._ Hilly, applied to road or land.
+Bar+, _adj._ Bare.
+Barfan+, _n._ A horse-collar.
+Bargh+, +Barugh+, +Barf+, _n._ A hill forming part of a low ridge,
as Lang Barugh, Great Ayton.
+Bargollies+, _n._ Young birds before they are feathered.
+Barguest+, _n._ An apparition, applied to ghosts in general.
+Barken’d+, _v._ Encrusted.
+Barley-bairn+, _n._ A child born shortly after marriage.
+Barm+, _n._ Yeast.
+Barren+, _n._ The external part of the sexual organ of a cow.
+Barrow+, _n._ The flannel in which a newly-born child is wrapped.
+Bass+, _n._ Any kind of matting made from reeds or grass.
+Bat+, _n._ 1. A blow.
2. A condition.
3. A small amount of work.
Ex.—1. _Ah gav’ him sike a bat ower t’ lug._
2. _He’s awlus at that bat_, i.e. ‘game.’
3. _Ah’ve nut deean a bat sen yesterdaay._
+Bate+, _v._ To reduce in price.
Ex.—_Thoo’ll ’a’e ti bate summat afoor wa can barg’in._
+Bath+, _v._ To wash a child; to foment with hot water.
+Batten+, _n._ Two sheaves of straw.
+Batter+, _n._ An inclination inwards, a narrowing towards the
summit. A wall which is wider at the base than at the summit is
said to ‘batter.’
Ex.—_Thoo’ll be leyke ti gi’e it a bit mair batter, foor if
t’ bank at t’ back gi’es waay, it’ll nivver bahd it thrussin’
agaan ’t._
+Batter-fanged+, _adj._ Beaten and scratched by a woman.
Ex.—_He nobbut sed tweea wo’ds ti Ann, when sha batter-fang’d
him sairly._
+Battin+, _n._ A rafter of any length, 7 × 2½ in. thick.
+Baufy+, _adj._ Strong.
+Bavin+, _n._ A bundle of sticks.
+Bawks+, _n._ The yoke.
+Bazzak+, _v._ To strike with force.
+Beck+, _n._ A small stream.
+Bedfast+, _adj._ Confined to bed.
+Bed-happings+, _n._ Bedclothes.
+Bed-heead+, _n._ The pillow end.
+Bedho’dden+, _adj._ _Vide_ +Bedfast+.
+Bedoot+, +Beoot+, _prep._ 1. Without.
2. Unless.
Ex.—1. _He’s gahin’ ti gan bedoot tha._
2. _Bedoot thoo cums an’ all, Ah saan’t gan, soa thoo knaws._
+Bedstock+, _n._ The wooden frame of a bed.
+Bed-twilt+, _n._ Bed-quilt.
+Beeaf+, _n._ The bough of a tree. _Vide_ also Bugh.
+Beeak+, _v._ To bake.
+Beeal+, _v._ 1. To roar as an animal.
2. To cry out in pain.
3. To shout loudly.
Ex.—1. _He beeal’d leyke a bull when tha catch’d him._
2. _Ah nivver heeard a lass beeal oot leyke what sha did when
t’ doctor cut her wicklow._
3. _When he calls o’ yan, he beeals ez if yan war deeaf; he
ommaist deavens yan._
+Beean+, _n._ A bone.
+Beean’t+, Be not (am not).
+Beearer+, _n._ Martingale.
+Beeas+, +Beeos+, +Beeast+, _n._ An animal of the ox kind.
+Beeaslings+, _n._ The first milk drawn from a cow after calving.
+Beeldin’+, _n._ A building.
+Bee-skep+, _n._ A straw hive.
+Behappen+, _v._ To happen to, perhaps.
+Behauf+, _n._ Behalf, sake.
+Beho’dden+, _pp._ To be indebted to.
+Belang+, _v._ To own, to belong to.
+Belder+, _v._ To bellow as a bull, to cry out loudly.
+Beleyke+, _adv._ Probably.
+Belk+, _v._ To belch.
+Bellacing+, _part._ A sound thrashing.
+Belly-cheer+, _n._ Good cheer.
+Belly-glut+, _n._ A greedy glutton.
+Belly-timber+, _n._ Food.
+Belly-wark+, _n._ A pain in the stomach.
+Belt+, _pp._ of ‘Build.’
+Bensil+, _n._ A blow.
+Bensiling+, _n._ A sound chastisement.
Ex.—_Ah’ll gi’e tha sike a bensiling if ivver thoo cums that
gam agaan._
+Benty+, _adj._ Wiry, blue-looking, applied to pasture herbage.
+Berry-tree+, _n._ The gooseberry tree.
+Bessy-babs+, _n._ One who behaves like a child.
+Bessy-bainworts+, _n._ Daisies.
+Bessy-ducker+ or -+douker+, _n._ The water-ousel.
+Best leg first, To put one’s+ = To hurry.
Ex.—_If ya aim ti catch t’ traan ya’ll ’a’e ti put yer best leg
fo’st._
+Best+ and +Bested+. Used in a verbal sense—1. To get the better of.
2. To overcome.
Ex.—1. _Ah bested him_, i.e. ‘I got the better of him.’
2. _Ah can seean best yon youth_, i.e. ‘I can soon vanquish that
fellow,’
+Bethink+, +Bethowt+, _v._ To recollect.
Ex.—_Ah caan’t bethink ma ov hauf o’ what sha sed. When Tom ga’
ma a inklin’ Ah bethowt ma ov ivverything ’at ’ed ta’en
pleeace; aye, all ’at t’ ane ’ed sed ti t’ other, thoff afoor
that all t’ lot ’ed cleean slipped fra mah mahnd._
+Better+, _adj._ and _v._ 1. More.
2. To gain by.
3. Improved in health.
Ex.—1. _It’s better ’an a month sen._
2. _Ah s’ better mysel by changing pleeaces._
3. _Ah’s a lot better ti-daay._
+Bettering+, _n._ An improvement.
+Bettermy+, _adj._ 1. Used to denote those in a higher position.
2. Polished.
Ex.—1. _T’ bettermy fau’k ’ez their waays, an’ wa’ ‘ev oors;
bud when onny on ’em cums inti mah cottage, Ah awlus puts on
mah bettermy manners, an’ Ah can scrape mah tongue an’ knack
a bit wi t’ best on ’em._
+Beyont+, _prep._ Beyond.
+Bickerin+’, _n._ A wordy conflict, quarrelling.
Ex.—_Tommy an’ Mary’s at it agaan; Ah nivver heeard sike
bickerin’ deed ez yon tweea ’ev, tha’re awlus at it._
+Bid+, _v._ To invite to a funeral.
+Bidder+, _n._ The person deputed to bid guests to a funeral.
+Bide+, +Bahd+, _v._ 1. To endure.
2. To wait.
3. To dwell.
Ex.—1. _Ah caan’t bahd yon chap._
2. _Ah’ll bahd here whahl ya cum._
3. _Wheear did ta bahd afoor thoo cam ti live here?_
+Big+, _adj._ Strong—of the wind.
Ex.—_It war a fairly big wind last neet._
+Bigg+, _n._ Barley having four rows of ears on one stalk.
+Bike+, _n._ The nest of the wild bee.
+Bile+, _n._ A boil.
+Binch+, _n._ A bench to work upon.
+Bink+, _n._ A long seat of either stone or wood.
+Binnd+, _v._ To bind.
+Binnder+, +Binndther+, _n._ The tier-up of sheaves.
+Birk+, _n._ The birch-tree.
+Birr+, _n._ Rapid motion accompanied with a sound like whirr-r-r.
Ex.—_T’ bo’ds gat up an’ went wi’ sike a birr, ’at Ah aim he war
ti freet’n’d ti shut at ’em._
+Bishel+, _n._ A bushel.
+Bishopped+, _Vide_ Set on.
+Biv+, +Byv+, _prep._ By.
+Bizzum+, +Buzzum+, _n._ A broom.
+Bizzum-heead+, _n._ A person who is equally foolish and stupid.
+Bizzum-+ or +Buzzum-heeaded+, _adj._ Stupid and foolish.
+Black-clocks+, _n._ Black beetles.
+Blacking+, _n._ A severe scolding.
+Bladdry+, +Blathery+[110], _adj._ Muddy, applied to soft splashy
mud.
+Blaeberry+, _n._ The bilberry.
+Blair+, _v._ To roar loudly, to shout loudly.
+Blake+, _adj._ Of a light golden hue, pale.
Ex.—_Noo, that’s a bit o’ neyce blake butter. Thoo nobbut leeaks
blakeish._
+Blake+, _v._ Intoxicated.
Ex.—_Jim war fairly blake last neet._
+Blane+, _n._ A small boil.
+Blash+, _v._ 1. To splash with water.
2. _adj._ Nonsense, idle talk.
+Blashment+, _n._ Melted snow or soft mud.
+Blashy+, _adj._ Applied to wet weather. The roads are said to be
‘blashy’ when the snow melts.
+Blather+, _adj._ and _n._ Nonsense.
+Bleb+, _n._ A blister, a small bubble.
+Bleck+, _n._ The dirt and oil worked together on a machine.
+Bleea+, _n._ The inner bark of a tree.
+Blendcorn+, _n._ A mixture of wheat and rye.
+Blendings+, _n._ A mixture of peas and beans.
+Blether+, _n._ Noisy foolish talk.
+Bletherheead+, _n._ One full of silly talk.
+Blew milk+, _n._ Skim milk.
+Blind-worm+, _n._ A non-venomous snake.
+Blirt+, _v._ To tell anything suddenly.
Ex.—_Yan caan’t trust Sally wi’ nowt, sha blirts oot all sha
knows._
+Blish-blash+, _n._ Tittle-tattle.
+Blo’+, _n._ Bloom.
+Blob+, _v._ To bubble, as air rising in water.
Ex.—_He tumm’l’d blob inti t’ beck_ is quite a common form of
speech. The original meaning may have been that the falling
in caused many bubbles.
+Bloss+, _v._ and _n._ 1. To make ugly, to disfigure.
2. A dowdy.
Ex.—1. _Her feeace war bloss’d wi’ blebs an’ blanes._
2. _Sha is a bloss is yon lass._
+Blotch+, _n._ A blot, a spot.
+Blubber+ or +Bluther+, _v._ To cry.
+Blur+, _v._ To blot or smear.
+Blurt+, _v._ To suddenly weep.
+Blustery+, _adj._ Squally.
+Blutherment+, _n._ Puddle, slush of any kind.
+Bobblekins+, _n._ The water buttercup.
+Bodden+, _v._ 1. To impose too heavy a task.
2. To accuse, to charge with.
Ex.—1. _He’s bodd’n’d t’ lad wi’ mair an’ a day’s wark._
2. _Well, an’ thoo’d ’a’e slapt her a feeace an’ all if sha’d
bodd’n’d thee wi’ t’ seeam ez sha plump’d me wi’._
+Bodden+, _pp._ of ‘to bide.’
+Boddum+, _v._ To thoroughly investigate.
Ex.—_Ah’ll boddum ’t if it cost ma fahve pund._
+Boddums+, _n._ and _adj._ Lowest, lowest ground.
+Boddy+, _n._ A person.
Ex.—_Sha’s a deeacent boddy, is ‘Liza._
+Boggart+ } _n._ A ghost.
+Boggle+ }
+Boggle+, _v._ To jib, to frame badly; also a _n._ inaptitude.
Ex.—_He’ll mak nowt bud a boggle on ’t._
+Boiling+, _n._ The whole lot, whether of persons or things.
+Bolden+, _v._ To encourage, to incite.
Ex.—_Yance ower Ah felt a larl bit fearsome, bud he bolden’d ma
ti deea ’t, seea Ah bunched him._
+Boll+, _n._ The trunk of a tree.
+Bonny+, _adj._ 1. A large quantity or number.
2. Strange.
3. Good-looking.
Ex.—_Aye, ther’ wur a bonny lot on ’em, a vast mair ’an Ah’d
aim’d ti see._
2. _Ther’ll be bonny deed i’ Bedale a week cum Mundaay._
3. _It’s a bonny-leeaking meer._
+Bon’t!+ _intj._ Bother it (literally, burn it).
+Bo’nt+, _pp._ Burnt.
Ex.—_Sha’s bo’nt her pinny wiv a cat’ren wheel._
+Booak+, +Bowk+, _v._ To retch, to vomit.
+Book+, +Bouk+, _n._ Bulk.
+Bool+, _v._ To trundle a hoop.
+Booler+, _n._ A child’s hoop.
+Bor+, _n._ The seed of the burdock.
+Borril+, _n._ The gadfly.
+Bost+, _v._ To burst or break in small pieces.
+Botch+, _v._ To repair in an unworkmanlike manner.
+Botchet+, _n._ Mead, made from honey.
+Bottery+, +Bore-tree+, +Bur-tree+, _n._ The alder-tree.
+Bottom+, _Vide_ +Boddums+.
+Boult+ or +Bou’t upright+. Upright, erect.
+Boun+, +Bun+, _adj._ Going, on the point of.
Ex.—_Ah’s bun ti deea’t t’ next job. Ah doot t’ au’d thing’s
boun ti dee. Ah war just boun ti pop ower, if thoo ’edn’t
dropt in._
+Bound+, +Bun+, _adj._ Compelled.
Ex.—_Ah’s ’a’e ti gan, in fact Ah’s bound ti gan._
+Bounder-marks+ or +-steeans+, _n._ Stones erected to mark
boundaries.
+Bow-bridge+ or +-brigg+, _n._ A one-arched bridge, several of
which still exist.
+Bowdykite+, _n._ An impudent child.
+Boxin+, _adj._ Buxom.
+Brack+, _pret._ of ‘to breke,’ ‘breck,’ or ‘breeak.’
+Bracken+, _n._ The common fern (_Pteris aquilina_).
+Brade+, _v._ To spread abroad.
+Brading aboot+, _part._ Gossiping.
+Brae+, _n._ The overhanging portion of the bank of a river.
+Braeful+, _adj._ Bankful.
+Brag+, _v._ To boast.
+Brahdal-bands+, _Vide_ +Bridal-bands+.
+Brahd-wain+, _n._ A wagon laden with furniture, &c., taken
from the home of the bride.
+Braid-band+, _n._ A sheaf of corn laid out to dry.
+Bramlings+, _n._ The red worms used as bait for trout.
+Bramm’l+, _n._ The bramble.
+Brander+, _n._ An arrangement varying in design—often in the shape
of a tripod—fixed over the fire to support pans, &c.
+Brander+, _v._ To cook over the fire.
+Brandery+, _n._ A wood frame used in making wells.
+Bran-new+, +Brander spander new+, _adj._ Quite new.
+Brant+, _adj._ Steep.
Ex.—_Thoo’ll ’a’e ti put t’ skid on, its varra brant._
+Brash+, _n._ Useless refuse, a rising of acid into the mouth.
+Brashy+, _adj._ Worthless.
+Brass+, _n._ 1. Money.
2. Impudence.
Ex.—1. _Brass nivver chinks sae sweetly ez when t’ soond cums
fra yan’s awn pocket._
2. _If he’d nobbut hauf ez mich brass iv his pocket ez he ’ez iv
his feeace, he nivver need deea a hand stroak._
+Brassend+, +Brazzend+, _adj._ Impudent. When applied to a female,
immoral.
+Brat+, _n._ A child.
+Brattice+, _n._ A wooden partition dividing two rooms.
+Bratty+, _adj._ Applied to cream or milk when turning sour.
+Brave+, _adj._ Good in quality as well as in appearance.
+Bravely+, _adj._ and _adv._ Exceeding, exceedingly well.
+Bray+, _v._ 1. To thrash, flog.
2. To overcome.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll bray tha when thoo cums in._
2. _Ah can bray yon chap wi’ yah han’ i’ mah pocket._
+Brazent+, +Brazened+. Impudent. _Vide_ +Brassend+.
+Breaks+, +Brooks+, _n._ Boils.
+Breeath, To take away one’s+ = To overcome.
Ex.—_It teeak mah breeath away when tha tell’d ma ’at he’d deean
foor hissen_, i.e. ‘It filled me with surprise when they told
me that he had _deean for hissen_,’ i.e. committed suicide.
+Brede+, _n._ Breadth.
+Bree+, +Breece+, _n._ The gadfly.
+Breer+ }
+Breear+ } _n._ The briar, the dog-rose.
+Breeacus+, +Breckus+, _n._ Breakfast.
+Breead leeaf+ or +loaaf+, _n._ A bread loaf.
+Breead meal+, _n._ Flour from which brown bread is made.
+Breead-ratched+, _adj._ Broad-striped.
+Breeak+, +Breek+, +Brek+, _v._ To break.
+Breeak one’s day, To+ = To fail to keep an appointment; to spoil
a day’s employment by having to attend to some trivial duty.
+Breeam+, _n._ The broom (_Genista scoparia_).
+Breed+, _n._ A brood, a litter.
+Breekin’+, _n._ That part of a tree where the stem breaks into
branches.
+Breekless+, _adj._ Without breeches.
+Breeks+, _n._ Breeches.
+Breke+ or +Breear+, _v._ To break.
+Bridal-band+, _n._ The name given to the bride’s garter
(_obsolete_).
+Bride-ale+, _n._ Another form of hotpot. _Vide_ chapter on
‘Customs.’
+Bride-wain+, _n._ _Vide_ +Brahd-wain+.
+Brief+, _n._ A begging letter.
+Brigg+, _n._ A bridge; a natural bed of rocks standing
considerably out of the water and projecting into the sea.
+Briggsteean+, _n._ Flags or stones covering a culvert in front of
a gateway, or in other places, so as to serve the purpose of a
bridge in miniature.
+Brim+, _v._ Applied to a sow when inclined to the boar.
+Brissling+, _adj._ A slight gale of wind.
+Brock+, _n._ The badger; the frog-hopper or cuckoo-spit
(_Aphrophora spumaria_).
+Brog+, _v._ To feed on the young hedge-shoots.
+Brokken-bodied+, _adj._ Suffering from hernia.
+Brole+, +Browl+, +Brul+, _n._ An impudent, saucy girl.
+Bru+, _n._ The brow, forehead.
+Bruff+, +Bluff+, _adj._ Fresh-complexioned, rough in speech,
brusque.
+Brully+, _n._ A squabble amongst neighbours, a broil, a storm at
sea of short duration.
+Brully+ }
+Brullier+ } _n._ A stealer of marbles.
+Brully+, _v._ To steal marbles (taws) from the ring whilst a game
is in progress, by some bully having no part in the game.
+Brumm’l-neeased+, +-nooazed+, +-noased+ } _adj._ Rubicund.
+Brumm’l-snouted+ }
+Brumm’ls+, _Vide_ +Bramm’l+.
+Brunt+, _Vide_ +Brant+.
+Brussel+, +Brissel+, _v._ To hector, swagger, show off.
Ex.—_He went bruss’ling aboot ez if t’ field war hisen, bud when
Jack’s lad offered him oot ti feight, he ’edn’t a wo’d ti saay
foor hissel._
+Brussen+, _pp._ of Burst.
+Brussen-hearted+, _adj._ Broken-hearted.
+Brussen oot+, _adj._ Covered with blotches or sores.
+Brussen+ or +Brusten up+, _adj._ Burst, broken into small pieces.
+Buckheeads+, _n._ The living stump of a thorn hedge left to grow
after slashing.
+Budge+, _v._ To move, to give way in a bargain.
Ex.—_Ah weean’t budge an inch foor neeabody. Ah weean’t budge a
farden._
+Buer+, _n._ The gnat.
+Buff+, _n._ The blow given as a challenge to fight.
+Bugh+, +Bew+, _n._ A bough.
+Bull+, _v._ To serve a cow.
+Bullace+, _n._ Wild plum, of a green colour when ripe.
+Bull-feeaces+, +Bull-fronts+, _n._ The hair-grass (_Aira
caespitosa_).
+Bull-heead+, _n._ A small flat-headed fish found under stones,
the miller’s thumb.
+Bullock+, _v._ To bully, to be overbearing.
Ex.—_If thoo aims ’at thoo can cum a bullocking o’ ma, thoo’s
wrang, sae thoo’d better off wi’ thisel._
+Bulls+, _n._ Bulrushes, also the cross-beams of a harrow which
carry the tines.
+Bulls and segs+, _n._ The name often given to the stalk and
seed-head of the bulrush, the leaves being called ‘segs’; hence
‘bulls and segs.’
+Bull-seg+, A bull castrated in its prime.
+Bull-spink+, _n._ The chaffinch.
+Bull-stang+, +Bull-teng+, _n._ Dragon-fly.
+Bull-steean+, _n._ A stone used for sharpening tools.
+Bullyrag+, _v._ To be exceedingly overbearing.
+Bum-bailiff+, _n._ A bailiff.
+Bumm’l-barfan+, _n._ A horse-collar made of reeds.
+Bumm’l-bee+, _n._ The humble-bee.
+Bumm’l-kites+, _n._ The fruit of the bramble.
+Bumper+ } _Vide_ { +Thumper+.
+Bumping+ } { +Thumping+.
+Bumping+, _n._ An initiating ceremony at some schools of bumping
a new boy on a stoop or otherwise.
+Bunch+, _v._ To kick with the foot, or violently bump with the
knee. N.B.—‘To bunch’ is ‘to kick,’ ‘to punch’ is ‘to hit.’
+Burden+, +Bod’n+, _n._ Anything one has to bear, whether mentally
or physically.
+Burden-band+, _n._ A hempen band used to bind hay, to be carried on
the back.
+Burdened+, _adj._ Insane.
+Burn+, _n._ A brook.
+Burr+, _n._ Anything used to prop a wheel from running backwards
downhill. A burr proper is a round cylinder of wood with a loose
iron pin through it; this is so fixed that it runs on the ground
behind the wheel, and automatically prevents the wheel running back.
+Burr-thistle+, _n._ The spear-headed thistle.
+Busk+, _n._ A small bush.
+Bustard+, _n._ A witch bereft of power to work ill (_obsolete_).
_Vide_ chapter on ‘Witchcraft.’
+Butch+, _v._ To kill as a butcher.
+Butt+, _n._ The halibut.
+Butter-fingered+, _adj._ Applied to one who lets things
drop.
+Butter-mouthed+, _adj._ Flattery.
+Butter-scotch+, _n._ A superior kind of toffee.
+Buzzard+, _n._ A large moth.
+Buzznacking+, _part._ Gossiping.
+By mich+, _adj._ By a good deal.
+By noo+, _adj._ By now, by this time.
Ex.—_Thoo owt ti ’a’e lap’t t’ job up by noo._
+Byre+, _n._ A cow-house.
C.
+Caan’t+, pronounced ‘carnt,’ _v._ Cannot, must not.
Ex.—_You caan’t do that_, i.e. ‘You must not do that.’
+Cabbish+, _n._ Cabbage.
+Cade+, _n._ A sheep-tick. _Vide_ +Kead+.
+Cadge+, _v._ To beg.
+Cadger+, _n._ A carrier, a beggar.
+Caff+, _n._ Chaff.
+Caffed+, _adj._ Cowed, dispirited.
+Caff-hearted+, _adj._ Nervous, cowardly, unprincipled.
+Caffy+, _adj._ Worthless.
+Caggy+, _adj._ Touchy, disposed to quarrel.
+Cagmag+, _adj._ and _n._ Worthless.
+Caingy+, _adj._ Fretful, peevish.
+Cake+, _v._ To cackle.
+Caling+, _v._ To gossip.
+Call+, _n._ Occasion, necessity, reason.
Ex.—_Ah’s nut gahin’, Ah’ve neea call ti gan_, i.e. ‘I am not
going, I have no occasion to go. _Ther wur neea call for tha
ti deea that._
+Call+, _v._ 1. To scold.
2. To quarrel.
3. To call to or for.
Ex.—1. _Sha’s nobbut calling o’ ma ti call ma_, i.e. ‘She is only
shouting for me to (give) me a scolding.’
2. _Tha’re calling yan anuther leyke all that_, i.e. ‘They are
quarrelling with one another like anything.’
3. _Ah’ll call on him ti cum_, i.e. ‘I will shout for him to
come.’
+Callet+, _n._ A scold, a railing woman.
+Callet+, _v._ To scold.
+Callety+, _adj._ Scolding, nagging.
+Call of+, +Call on+, _v._ To cry to.
+Calven-coo+, _n._ A cow recently calved.
+Cam+, +Camside+, _n._ A raised earthen bank, the sloping bank from
a hedge bottom.
+Cambril+, +Caumbril+, +Caum’ril+, _n._ The notched wooden bar
which is thrust through the tendons of the hind legs of a
slaughtered beast to suspend it by.
+Can+, _v._ May. ‘Can’ is commonly used for ‘may.’
Ex. Q. _Can I smoke here?_ Ans. _No, you caan’t_, i.e. ‘No, you
may not.’
+Canker+, _v._ To rust.
+Cankery+, _adj._ Cross, rotten.
+Cannily+, _adv._ Wisely, with subtility, nicely.
+Canny+, _adj._ Pleasing, judicious, skilful, considerable as to
number.
Ex.—_Sha’s a canny lass_, i.e. ‘pleasing.’ _Thoo fraam’d varra
cannily wiv him_, i.e. ‘You set to work very judiciously with
him.’ _He did it varra cannily_, i.e. ‘He did it very
skilfully.’ _Whya, ther wur a cannyish few on ’em_, i.e. ‘Why,
there were a considerable number.’
+Cant+, _v._ To raise one end.
+Canty+, _adj._ Full of spirits, lively.
+Cap+, _v._ To fix a piece of leather over the toe of a boot; to
surprise, bewilder, excel.
Ex.—_Ah nivver war sae capped i’ mah leyfe_, i.e. ‘I never was
so surprised in my life.’ _Ah caan’t tell hoo he mannish’d ti
deea ’t, he capped me_, i.e. ‘I cannot say how he managed to
do it, he bewildered me.’ _Yon caps ’em all_, i.e. ‘That one
over there excels them all.’
+Capper+, _n._ Something which surpasses all others.
+Caps all+ = Exceeds in everything.
+Capster+, _n._ A piece of wood roughly shaped like the bridge of a
bagatelle board, each arch being numbered, the boy winning by
that number placed over the arch he shoots through; should he not
succeed in passing through any arch, he loses his taw.
+Card up+, _v._ To sweep and tidy up the fireside.
+Cark+, _v._ To be careful, anxious.
+Carlings+, _n._ Peas cooked in butter, prepared for Carling Sunday.
+Carneyed+, _pp._ Flattered, coaxed.
+Carp+, _v._ To doubt without reason.
+Carr+, _n._ Low-lying boggy land.
+Carryings on+, _n._ Lively, disorderly proceedings.
+Cassen+, _Vide_ +Kessen+.
+Cast down, To be+, _v._ To be downhearted, dispirited.
+Cast+, +Kest+, _adj._ Not straight, warped.
+Cast+, +Kest+, _v._ To cease wearing.
Ex.—_Ah kest yan o’ my petticoats, and Ah’ve catch’d my deeath
o’ cau’d._
+Cast, To be+, _v._ To be bent, warped.
+Cast up+, _v._ 1. To twit a person with some past failing.
2. To happen unexpectedly.
3. To come to light.
Ex.—1. _Ah think ’at Ah wadn’t kest that up at him._
2. _Well, it caps yan when a thing leyke that kests up._
3. _Ah thowt ’at Ah’d lost it, but it kest up i’ yan o’ ma au’d
coats._
+Catch it+, _v._ To be reprimanded, punished.
Ex.—_Thoo’ll catch it when thi mudher sees tha._ I heard a woman
say to her daughter, when giving the child a jug of milk to take
to a neighbour’s, _If thoo lets it drop, thoo’ll catch it_.
+Cat-collop+, _n._ Cat’s-meat.
+Cat-gallows+, _n._ Two upright forked sticks upon which a
cross-bar rests as an obstacle for boys to jump over.
+Cat-haws+, _n._ The fruit of the hawthorn.
+Cat-jugs+, _Vide_ +Dog-choops+.
+Cats and eyes+, _n._ Seeds of the ash-tree.
+Cat-trail+, _n._ The root of valerian.
+Cau’d+, _adj._ and _n._ Cold.
+Cauf+, +Cauff+, _n._ A calf.
+Cauf-heead+, _n._ A stupid fellow.
+Cauf-lick+, _n._ A tuft of hair on the forehead which cannot be
parted or made to lie flat.
+Cauf-riddling+, _Vide_ chapter on ‘Superstition.’
+Caul+, _n._ _Vide_ +Keld+.
+Causer+, +Caus’ay+, _n._ A causeway, a paved footpath.
+Cess+, _n._ A rate for parish relief;
the amount paid to the poor by the overseer.
+Cess+, _n._ 1. Extra effort.
2. Punishment.
Ex.—1. _Gi’e ’t cess, an’ thoo’ll seean ’a’e ’t deean_, i.e.
‘Give it an extra effort, and you will soon have it done.
2. _Ah’ll gi’e tha cess when Ah git ho’d on tha._
+Cess getherer+, _n._ Rate collector.
+Chaff+, _v._ To tease by using playful but provoking language.
+Chaff+, +Chafts+, _n._ The jaw, generally that of a pig.
+Chaffer+, _v._ 1. To banter or beat down in a bargain.
2. An interchange of provoking remarks.
Ex.—1. _He chaffered that mich, whahl Ah ax’d him if he wanted
t’ meer foor nowt?_
2. _Dolly’s chaffering wi’ Sally agaan._
+Chaff-fallen+, _adj._ Dejected.
+Challenge+, _v._ To recognize.
Ex.—_Ah c’u’d challenge oor bitch among all t’ dogs i’ t’ show.
Sha’s good ti challenge onnywheer._
+Chamber+, +Chamer+, _n._ A room above the ground-floor.
+Champ+, +Champion+, _adj._ Excellent, very well.
+Chance bairn+, _n._ An illegitimate child.
+Chander+, _n._ A chaldron.
+Change+, _v._ To turn sour.
+Channely+, _adv._ Grandly.
+Chanter+, _n._ A chorister.
+Chare+, _adv._ Careful, doubtful.
+Chass+, _n._ Haste. _v._ To follow quickly.
+Chatt+, _n._ A fir cone.
+Chatter+, _v._ To make an uneven surface;
to shake, as machinery running unevenly.
+Chaudy-bag+, _n._ The stomach of an animal.
+Chaudy-guts+, _n._ A greedy, gluttonous fellow.
+Chavel+, _v._ To chew as one without teeth, to gnaw.
+Cheean+, _n._ A chain.
+Cheeany+, The common pronunciation of ‘chinaware.’
+Cheeat’ll chow+, _Lit._ ‘Cheating will show itself.’
Ex.—In a dispute boys will say, _Let him ’ev anuther goa,
cheeat’ll chow_.
+Cheek by chowl or jowl+ = Close together.
Ex.—_Theer tha gan, cheek by chowl_;
_Ah doot tha’re up ti neea good._
+Cheep+, _n._ The cry of a young bird, generally a chicken,
partridge, or grouse.
+Cheeper+, _n._ A young partridge or grouse.
+Chesfat+, _n._ A press used for extracting the whey from the
curds.
+Chetch+, +Chŭch+, _n._ A church.
+Chetch+ or +Chuch priest+, _n._ A Church of England clergyman.
+Chevin+, _n._ The chub.
+Childer+, _n._ Children.
+Chimbler+, +Chim’ly+, _n._ A chimney.
+Chip+, _v._ To chip anything; to crack an egg when boiled, or
when hatching commences.
+Chip up+, _v._ To trip up by holding the foot out in front of
any one running past.
+Chisel+, +Chizzel+, _n._ Bran, husks of grain.
+Chissel+, _v._ To cheat, to impose upon.
+Chist+, _n._ The chest, a chest of drawers.
+Chitterlings+, _n._ The small entrails of a pig.
+Chitty+, _adj._ Childish.
+Chock-full+, _adv._ Full to overflowing.
Ex.—_Thoo caan’t git neea mair in, it’s chock-full noo._
+Cholter-headed+, _adj._ Thick-headed.
+Chop+, _v._ To trade by exchanging.
+Chops+, _n._ The jaws. _Vide_ +Chaff+.
+Chow+, _v._ To chew.
+Chucky+, _n._ A hen, a term of endearment applied to a child.
+Chuff+, _adj._ Healthy-looking, pert, determined.
+Chunter+, _v._ To mutter in a complaining tone.
+Churlish+, +Chollus+, _adj._ Bad-tempered.
+Churr+, _v._ The murmuring sound made by birds when roosting.
+Clack+, _n._ Lit. the tongue, scolding, advice.
+Clack+, _v._ To admonish, to talk much.
+Clag+, _v._ To stick to or on.
+Claggum+, _n._ Any sticky mass, applied generally to sweets.
+Claggy+, _adj._ Sticky.
+Clam+, _v._ 1. To climb.
2. To squeeze, to nip as a vice.
3. To adhere to, stick to, owing to moisture.
Ex.—1. _Ah clam up t’ tree an’ gat t’ nist an’ t’ eggs an’
all._
2. _Ah gat mysen clamm’d atween t’ wall an’ t’ wagon._
+Clam+, +Clem+, _v._ To faint for want of food.
Ex.—_Ah’s fair clamm’d foor a bit o’ summat ti eat._
+Clam+, _n._ Damp, sticky moisture.
+Clame+, _v._ To smear with anything sticky.
Ex.—_Tha saay what it’s t’ chaange o’ watter what’s deean ’t.
That maay be; onny road sha’s a perfect picter noo, covered wi’
watter-blebs an’ larl reead spots ivvery bit ower her; an’ t’
doctor’s clamed her all ower wi’ sum soart o’ clarty, bladdry,
muckment stuff, whahl sha kittles that bad ’at sha dizn’t knaw
wheear ti put hersel._
+Clammy+, _adj._ Parched with thirst, sticky, moist, adhesive.
+Clamoursome+, _adj._ Noisy.
+Clamper+, _v._ To make a loud noise with the feet when walking or
running.
+Clampers+, _n._ Feet or claws of any metal object, also the
fingers and claws of things animate.
+Clap+, _v._ 1. To pat a dog.
2. To sit down, or set anything down.
Ex.—2. _Clap yersel i’ that cheer._ _Clap it doon onnywheear._
+Clap back+, _v._ To encore.
+Clapt een on+, _v._ To see. Really _part._, saw.
+Clart+, _v._ To smear, to flatter.
Ex.—_Ah’ve gitten mysen clarted all ower wi’ t’ bladdry
blashment. Noo, then, deeant cum clarting ma up leyke that;
gan thi waays an’ clart Mary ower. Whya, he clarted her up
whahl he’s fair to’n’d her heead._
+Clarty+, _adj._ 1. Sticky.
2. Untrustworthy.
Ex.—2. _Deean’t len’ him owt, his nobbut a clarty customer._
+Clash+, _v._ To hurry work, to close a door with force, to bring
together suddenly.
+Clat+, _Vide_ +Clack+.
+Clatter+, _n._ A blow, a noise.
Ex.—_Ah’ll gi’e tha a good clatter if thoo clatters on leyke
that._
+Clavver+, _n._ A rowdy rabble.
+Clavver+, _v._ To clamber like a child.
+Clawt+, _v._ To attack with the nails.
+Clear up+, _v._ To become fine after rain.
+Cled+, _adj._ Clothed.
+Cleean+, _v._ To tidy oneself.
+Cleean+, _adj._ and _adv._ 1. Right.
2. Quite.
3. Well, adroitly, completely.
Ex.—1. _He flang t’ steean cleean thruff t’ winner_, i.e. ‘He
threw the stone right through the window.’
2. _Ah cleean foorgat all aboot it_, i.e. ‘I quite forgot all
about it.’
3. _Ah’ve nivver seed a chap sae cleean deean iv all my leyfe_,
i.e. ‘I never saw a fellow so completely taken in.’
+Cleean up+, _v._ To tidy the house.
+Cleeas+} _n._ clothes
+Clais+ }
+Cleease+, _adj._ Near, close, greedy.
+Cleease-fisted+, _adj._ Greedy.
+Cleeat+, _n._ A piece of iron or wood used to add strength.
+Cleg+, _n._ The horse-fly, a begging friend.
+Clem+, _Vide_ +Clam+.
+Cletch+, _n._ A brood of young birds.
+Cleugh+, _n._ The race of a mill, terminating often at one end by
cleugh-gates or gate, or door, which winds up and down by means
of a wheel and ratchet, admitting more or less water according to
the height it is lifted.
+Clever+, _adj._ Well done or made.
+Clever-headed+, _adj._ Wise beyond his fellows.
+Click+, _v._ To snatch, to snatch quickly.
+Click-hooks+, _n._ Three or four hooks joined together and
attached to a rope, used to drag ponds or a river with in search
of a body, &c.
+Clim+, _v._ To climb.
+Clinch+, _v._ To grasp tightly with the hand.
+Clink+, _n._ A stinging blow.
+Clinker+, _n._ A heavy blow.
+Clinking+, _adj._ Very good, first-class.
+Clip+, _v._ To shear sheep.
+Clipping tahm+, _n._ Shearing time.
+Cloam+, +Clooam+, +Claum+, _v._ To grasp with both hands at the
same time, to pull about not only roughly but rudely.
+Clock+, _n._ Black clocks, black beetles.
+Clock-seves+, +Bulrush+. The names not only vary in different
localities, but are given first to one and then another of the
water-side flags, rushes, and seves or seaves. _Vide_ +Bulls and
segs+.
+Clog+, _n._ A log of wood.
+Clogged+, _adj._ Asthmatical (of people), stopped by bleck (q.v.)
or other filth (of machinery).
+Clooase+, _Vide_ +Cleease+.
+Clooased+, _part._ Closed up, as in a cold in the chest.
+Clooase-neifed+, _adj._ Niggardly, greedy.
+Closing+, _n._ A difficulty in breathing.
+Clot+, _n._ A clod of earth, a portion of blood when set.
+Clot bur+, _n._ The burdock.
+Cloth, To draw the+ = To remove the white tablecloth on the meal
being concluded.
+Clotter+, _v._ To make thick or lumpy.
+Clout+, _n._ An old piece of cloth, a patch.
+Clout+, _n._ A blow.
+Clout+, _v._ To strike at.
+Clow-clags+, _n._ Dried dung adhering to the hind parts of animals;
in the case of sheep they are termed ‘doddings.’
+Clow-clash+, _n._ Things all in confusion.
+Cloy+, _v._ To eat until sick at the sight of the same dish.
+Clubster+, _n._ The stoat.
+Cludder+, +Cluther+, _v._ To huddle together.
+Clue+, _n._ A ball of cotton or string.
+Clum+, _adj._ Sodden, heavy; generally applied to clayey land.
+Clunter+, _v._ To go heavily on the feet.
+Cob+, _n._ A small-sized horse, a small bread bun.
+Cobble+, +Cobble-steean+, _n._ A small paving-stone.
+Cobble+, _v._ To pelt with stones, to mend anything roughly to
serve for the time being.
+Cobble-tree+, _n._ The wooden bar which connects the swingle-trees
with the beam of the plough.
+Cobby+, _adj._ Lively, brisk, stout, decent.
+Cōble+, _n._ A fishing-boat.
+Cocker+, _v._ To fondle, to indulge.
Ex.—_Thoo’ll spoil t’ bairn if thoo cockers it i’ that road._
+Cocker+, _n._ Conceit.
+Cockerate+, _v._ To boast.
+Cookeration+ }
+Cockle-spell+ } _n._ Uncertainty.
+Cockertraps+, _n._ Traps to catch cockroaches.
+Cockle+, _v._ To be unsteady, to curl when drying.
+Cockle boat+, _n._ A small pleasure boat.
+Cock-leet+, _n._ The dawn of day.
+Cockly+, _adj._ Unsteady, insecure, likely to fall over.
+Cock o’ t’ middin+, _n._ The one who claims supremacy.
+Cock-shot+, _n._ The boy who chances being caught in a certain
game.
+Cockshut+, _n._ Twilight.
+Cock-sure+, _v._ To be quite certain.
+Cocky+, _adj._ Self-assertive, domineering.
+Cod+, _n._ The cod or pod of peas, beans, &c.
+Cod+, _v._ To impose upon, to stuff with nonsense.
+Coddle+, +Couther+, _v._ To indulge oneself, to use unnecessary
wraps.
+Collar+, _n._ A horse-collar.
+Collar+, _v._ To lay hold of.
+Collier+, _n._ The swift.
+Collop+, _n._ A slice of bacon.
+Collop Monday+, _n._ Monday before Shrove Tuesday.
+Colly+, _adj._ Curly.
+Come[111] again+, _v._ To appear after death.
+Come by+, _v._ To stand aside.
+Come by chance+, _Vide_ +Chance bairn+.
+Come fra+, _v._ To come from.
+Come on+, _v._ To improve, to grow.
Ex.—_Thi cabbishes is cummin’ on champ._
+Come round+, _v._ 1. To recover from fainting.
2. To reconsider.
3. To agree with.
Ex.—1. _Slap her han’s, an’ sha’ll seean cum roond._
2. _Tak neea notish o’ what he sez, i’ t’ end he’ll cum roond
an’ foorgi’e ya baith._
3. _Whya, Ah’ve cum roond ti thi way o’ thinking._
+Come to+, +Cum teea+, _v._ To regain consciousness.
Ex.—_When Ah cam teea, Ah didn’t ken wheear Ah war._
+Come-to+, _n._ Place of abode.
Ex.—_Maist fooak ’ev a cum-teea o’ sum soart._
+Commin’s+, _n._ Barley-sprouts formed during fermentation.
+Comp’ny+, _n._ Several people gathered together with one object.
Ex.—_Ther war a fairish comp’ny geddered up ti lissen ti t’ new
parson._
+Con+, _v._ To scan, to observe critically.
Ex.—_Efter Ah’d conn’d it ower, Ah thowt varra larl aboot it._
+Conceit+, +Consate+, _n._ Imagined.
Ex.—_He consated hissen ’at he knaw’d a lot, bud it wur all
blather when he wur oppen’d oot._
+Conger+, _v._ Conquer.
+Conny+, _adj._ Neat, nice; when applied to things, ‘little.’
+Conquerors+, _n._ Horse-chestnuts when dried, or even freshly
gathered, are so called when used by boys to play the game of
conquerors with. The game consists of threading a chestnut on a
string and striking it against a similar one held by an
opponent—the one breaking the other, conquers.
+Consarn+, _n._ Business, the object or matter seen or discussed.
Ex.—_It’s a gert consarn yon_, i.e. ‘A big affair or undertaking.’
_Ah’ve nowt ti deea wi’ ‘t, it’s neea consarn o’ mahn_, ‘No
business of mine.’
+Consumpted+, _part._ Suffering from phthisis or consumption.
+Continny+, _v._ Continue.
+Cook thi goose+ = To completely vanquish.
+Cool+, _Vide_ +Coul+.
+Coom+, _n._ Dust. +Sawcoom+, sawdust.
+Coo-tie+, _n._ A band, usually made of hair, used to secure the
hind legs of a cow.
+Cop+, _v._ 1. To be caught.
2. To be punished.
Ex.—1. _He’ll cop uz if wa deean’t leeak sharp._
2. _Thoo’ll cop it when thoo gans yam._
+Corker+, _adj._ Large of its kind. _n._ A lie.
Ex.—_Ah saay, bud that’s a corker._
+Corn-creeak+, _n._ Field-crake.
+Corr’n-berries+, _n._ The red or white currant.
+Cossen+, _v._ 1. To cost.
2. To inconvenience.
Ex.—2. _It wadn’t ’a’e cossen him mich_, i.e. ‘It would not have
inconvenienced him much.’
+Cot+, _n._ One who manages his domestic affairs without any female
help, an effeminate fellow.
+Cott+, _n._ A tangled mass of wool or hair.
+Cotten+, _v._ 1. To have a liking for.
2. To discover.
Ex.—1. _Ah cotten’d tiv him fra t’ fust._
2. _He cottened ti what sha wur efter afoor sha’d ommaist gitten
started._
+Cotter+, _v._ To work hair or wool into knots. _Vide_ +Felter+.
+Cottered+, _pp._ Entangled, knotted.
+Coul+, +Cool+, _n._ A weal or swelling caused by a blow.
+Counting+, _n._ Arithmetic.
+Coup+, _v._ To exchange in barter, to empty a cart by tilting.
+Coup ower+, _v._ To fall over.
+Couther+, _Vide_ +Coddle+.
+Cout+, _n._ A colt.
+Cow-+ or +Coo-byre+, _n._ A cow-house.
+Cow-+ or +Coo-clags+, _n._ Dung adhering to the buttocks of cattle.
+Cow-+ or +Coo-footed+, _adj._ Awkward in gait.
+Cow-+ or +Coo-gate+, +Coo-yat+, +Cow pastur+, _n._ Cow pasture.
+Cow-+ or +Coo-grip+, _n._ The channel to carry off the urine.
+Cow-+ or +Coo-leech+, _n._ A cow-doctor.
+Cowdy+, _adj._ Lively, pert, active.
+Cower+, _v._ To crouch in fear.
+Cowl+, _v._ To scrape together towards one.
+Cowler+, _n._ A scraper.
+Cowl-rake+, _n._ A small scraper used to rake ashes together.
+ ‘Coz+, _Vide_ +Acoz+.
+Crab+, _v._ To vex.
+Crabbed+, _adj._ Peevish, in a bad temper.
+Crack+, _n._ A loud noise like thunder.
+Crack+, _v._ 1. To boast.
2. To praise.
Ex.—1. _He crack’d a deeal aboot it._
2. _Ah crack’d it up fur tha. He cracks a seet ti mich ov his
awn deeds._
+Crack+, _n._ and _v._ A chat, to chat. _Vide_ +Rap+.
+Crack+, _n._ A short space of time, immediately.
Ex.—_Ah s’all be deean iv a crack._
+Crack’d+ and +Cracky+, _adj._ Not quite _compos mentis_.
+Crafty+, _adj._ Skilful, original.
+Crake+, +Creeak+, +Cruke+, _n._ A carrion crow.
+Crake+, _Vide_ +Corn-creeak+.
+Crake+, _v._ To speak hoarsely.
+Cramm’l+, _v._ To walk haltingly, tottery.
+Cramm’ls+, _n._ The gnarled and twisted boughs of trees.
+Cramped+, _part._ Perplexed.
+Cramper+, _n._ Any matter difficult of settlement or solution.
Ex.—_Noo, that’s a cramper fur tha._
+Cramp-ring+, _n._ A charm-ring made from coffin tire, and worn as
a preventive against cramp, &c.
+Cramps+, _n._ The term given to the playing of either the octave
or the scales.
+Cranch+, _v._ To grind the teeth together when eating.
+Cranky+, _adj._ Idiotic, able to move with difficulty through
stiffness, likely to overbalance, insecure.
+Cranky+, _n._ A checked material, usually of blue and white checks,
used for aprons. Often called ‘Kinky-cranky.’
+Craps+ or +Crappin’s+, _n._ The pieces left after rendering fat
into lard.
+Crashes+, +Creeases+, _n._ Watercress.
+Craw+, _v._ To crow. _n._ A crow.
+Crazed+, _pp._ In a violent passion.
+Creckits+, _n._ The game of cricket.
+Cree+, _v._ To soak grain in water.
+Creeak+, _Vide_ +Crook+ and +Cruke+.
+Creel+, _n._ The wooden frame pigs are laid upon after
slaughtering.
+Creepin’s+, _n._ A shivering sensation usually foretelling a cold.
+Cricket+, _n._ A small four-legged stool.
+Crook+, +Creeak+, +Crewk+, _n._ The hinge upon which a gate swings,
a bent piece of iron to hang anything upon.
+Crook+, +Crewk+, _n._ An abrupt corner in a field.
+Crooked+, _adj._ Bent.
+Crowberries+, _n._ The crowberry fruit (_Empetrum nigrum_).
+Crowdy+, _n._ Oatmeal porridge.
+Crow-ling+, _n._ The heath (_Erica cinerea_).
+Crown+, _n._ Top of the head.
+Crowp+, _v._ To croak like a toad.
+Crowse+, _adj._ Lively. _n._ A drinking bout.
+Cruddle+, _v._ To curdle.
+Cruds+, _n._ Curds.
+Cruke+, +Crewk+, +Creeak+, _n._ The rook. _Vide_ +Reeak+.
+Crunkle+, +Crinkle+, _v._ To crease, rumple.
+Crush+, _n._ A great crowd.
+Cuddle+, _v._ To fondle by embracing.
+Cuddy+, _n._ A donkey, a hedge-sparrow.
+Culler’d+, _pp._ Blushed.
+Cum+, _n._ Sweepings of sawdust.
+Cum+, _v._ Come.
+Cumber-ground+, _n._ Any thing or person of no value.
+Cumly+, _Vide_ +Comely+.
+Cummer+, _v._ To encumber.
+Cummersome+, _adj._ Burdensome.
+Cungle+, _v._ To influence by charms or prayers.
+Cup-rose+, _n._ The common poppy.
+Cushat+, _n._ Ring-dove.
+Cush-pet+, _n._ Pet name for a crow; also +Cushy-Cushy+.
+Cut+, _v._ Be off.
+Cut and run+ } _v._ To retire hurriedly.
+Cut wer sticks+ }
+Cutter+, _v._ To whisper.
+Cuvvins+, _n._ Periwinkles.
+Cuz+, _n._ Cousin.
D.
+‘D+, Would, had.
+Daam+, +Deeam+, _n._ A lady, the wife, an aged person.
+Dab+, _adj._ Dexterous, skilful, _n._ A blow.
Ex.—_He’s a dab hand at t’ job_, i.e. He is skilful at the
business. _Catch him a dab on t’ feeace._
+ ’Dacity+, _n._ 1. Ability to accomplish.
2. Presumption, impudence.
Ex.—1. _He’s gitten ’dacity fur owt, ’ez that lad._
2. _Ah didn’t aim ’at he ’ed t’ ‘dacity ti ’a’e spokken ti
t’ parson i’ that waay, hooivver._
+Daddle+, _v._ To walk unsteadily, to trifle.
+Daff+, _n._ A coward, a fool.
+Daffle+, _v._ To confuse, to bewilder with noise.
+Daffly daffled+, _pp._ Bewildered.
+Daffy-down-dilly+, _n._ The daffodil.
+Daft+, _adj._ Foolish, lacking common sense.
+Daftish+, _adj._ Foolish, like a fool.
+Dagg+, +Deggle+, _v._ To sprinkle with water.
+Dainish+, +Densh+, _adj._ Over particular.
+Daized+, _pp._ Stupefied, suffering from the effect of cold.
+Dakky+, _n._ A pig.
+Dale+, _n._ A valley varying in extent. ‘Dale’ is usually
pronounced ‘deeal’.
+Dale-end+, _n._ The end or widest part of a dale.
+Dale-heead+, _n._ The upper and narrowest portion of a dale.
+Dander+, _n._ Rage, temper.
+Dander+, _v._ To tremble, to vibrate.
+Danger+, _n._ Risk, probability, doubt.
Ex.—1. _He’s lost hauf on ’em, an’ ther’s a danger ’at other
hauf ’ll dee an’ all._
+Dangerous+, _adj._ Doubtful, risky.
Ex.—_It’s nobbut a dangerous consarn ti sink yan’s brass in._
+Dangle efter+, _v._ To follow as a lover.
+Danglements+, _n._ Superfluous trinkets, trimmings of beads, &c.
+Dank+, _adj._ Damp, moist.
+Dapper+, _adj._ Sharp, active, nimble.
+Dappers+, _n._ Birds ready to leave the nest.
+Dark+, _v._ To follow or move slily about, to listen unperceived.
+Darkening+, _n._ Twilight.
+Darrn’t+, _v._ Dare not.
+Darr+, _v._ To dare.
Ex.—_Ah darr tackle yon job._ To tell any one they dare not do a
certain thing, is to dare them to it, e.g. _He darrn’t jump
whahl Ah darr’d him ti ’t, an’ then he went that cauf-hearted
at it, whahl he tumm’ld blob in._
+Dased+, +Deeased+. _Vide_ +Daized+.
_Datherin’._ _Vide_ +Ditherin’+.
+Daul’d+, _pp._ Tired, weary.
Ex.—_Ah daul’d on ’t_, i.e. ‘I tired of it.’
+Daul’d oot+, _part._ Tired out.
+Daupee+, _n._ The grey-headed crow.
+Daytal+, _adj._ By the day.
+Daytalman+, _n._ A farm labourer hired by the day.
+Deaf+, +Deeaf+, _adj._ Lacking a kernel, barren.
+Deaf+ or +Deeaf nettle+, _n._ The blind or hemp nettle.
+Deary+, _adj._ Puny, lovable.
Ex.—_Sha’s a deary larl honey._
+Deave+, +Deeave+, _adj._ Deaf.
+Deaven+, _v._ To deafen.
+Decoy-duck+, _n._ A by-name given to one who leads others astray.
+Dee+, _v._ To die.
+Deea+, _v._ 1. Do.
2. To swindle.
Ex.—2. _He’ll deea him if he dizn’t watch him_, i.e. ‘He will
swindle him if he does not take care.’
+Deead+, _adj._ Dead.
+Deeafly+, +Deavely+, _adj._ Alone, by oneself.
+Deeak+, _n._ Duke.
+Deean+, _pp._ of Do. Also swindled overmatched.
Ex.—_Ah’ve deean him neycely_, i.e. ‘I have taken him in nicely.’
+Deean’t+, +Doan’t+, _v._ Do not.
+Deear+, +Doour+, _n._ Door.
+Deearstan+, _n._ _Vide_ +Doorstan+.
+Deearsteead+, _n._ The framework of the door; also +Doourstead+, &c.
+Deeatchess+, _n._ Duchess.
+Deeath+, _n._ Death.
+Deeath-smear+ }
+Deeath-clam+ } _n._ The clammy sweat of death.
+Deeath-sweeat+ }
+Deeazment+, _n._ Chilled to the bone.
+Deed+, _n._ Doings, applied indiscriminately to events of a joyous
or sorrowful nature.
Ex.—_Ther war straange deed at Willie’s wedding. Ah nivver seed
sike deed ez ther war at Ann’s funeral._
+Deedless+, _adj._ Useless, helpless.
+Deggle+, _Vide_ +Dagg+.
_Deft_, _adj._ Quick, clever, neat.
+Delf-rack+, _n._ An arrangement of wooden bars to hold plates and
dishes.
+Dempt+, _pp._ Deemed, thought.
+Deng+, _v._ To knock off with violence, to throw down, to wrench
off.
+Densh+, _Vide_ +Dainish+.
+Deny+, _v._ To refuse.
Ex.—_Ah’ll see Tommy mysel, he’ll nut deny me. Ah weean’t deny
tha fishing, hooivver._
+Despert+, _adv._ Exceedingly, used as an augmentative.
Ex.—_Ther war despert grand deed at ’t Squire’s dinner._
+Dess+, _n._ A mass built up by degrees; a block cut out, as a
dess of hay.
+Dessably+, _adj._ Orderly.
+Devil-screamer+, _n._ The swift.
+Dhriss+, _Vide_ +Dress+.
+Dib+, _v._ To dip.
+Dibbing+, _v._ To dip, as with a fly on the top of the water.
+Dice+, _n._ A small portion, as a dice of cheese; a square piece
of anything.
+Dicky+, _adj._ Doubtful.
Ex.—_It nobbut leeaks a bit dicky._
+Dicky+, _n._ A louse.
+Dicky-ass+, _n._ A donkey.
+Didder+, _Vide_ +Dither+.
+Differ+, _v._ To quarrel.
+Differing bout+, _n._ A wordy quarrel.
+Dike+, _n._ A ditch.
+Dike-back+, _n._ The bank forming one side of a ditch.
+Dike-cam+, _n._ The bank-side of a ditch.
+Dildering+, +Dilder+, _v._ To shake, unstable, silly.
+Dill+, _v._ To lessen, to deaden.
Ex.—_Clap a plaaster on, it’ll dill ’t paain._
+Dilldam+, +Dilldum+, or +Dilldrum+, _n._ A loud noise, boisterous
merry-making.
+Dindle+, _v._ To have a tingling sensation after a fall or blow.
+Ding+, _Vide_ +Deng+.
+Dingle+, _v._ To tingle after a blow.
+Dint+, _n._ Energy, force, power.
Ex.—_By dint an’ sticking ti ’t, he’ll mannish ’t._
+Dither+, _v._ To shiver, to shake with fear.
+Doan’t+, +Deean’t+, = Do not.
+Docken+, _n._ The dock plant. Also denotes of little value.
Ex.—_Ah wadn’t ’a’e gi’en a docken for ’t._
+Dodded+, _adj._ Hornless.
+Dodderums+, _n._ Shaking violently, unnerved.
+Doddery+, +Dothery+, _adj._ _Vide_ +Dither+.
+Doddings+, _n._ Matted wool on the hind quarters of sheep.
+Doff+, _v._ 1. To remove the garments.
2. To raise the hat.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll doff mah duds iv a crack._
2. _Ah doff’d mah cap tiv her._
+Dog+, _v._ To set a dog to drive sheep.
+Dog+, _n._ A piece of iron fitted within the fire-grate, thereby
reducing its size, so as to save coal.
+Dog-choops+, _n._ Hips, the fruit of the dog-rose.
+Doggers+, _n._ Nodules containing a fossil, and used in the
making of Roman cement.
+Dog-jumps+, _Vide_ +Dog-choops+.
+Dog one’s footsteps, To+, _v._ To persistently follow any one.
+Doit+, _n._ A small portion.
+Dole+, _n._ The distribution of money left to some charity, or
that given at a funeral.
+Dole out+, _v._ To give in small quantities.
+Dollop+, _n._ A clumsy person or badly-formed thing, a number or
quantity of persons or things.
+Dolly-stick+, _n._ A handle to which is affixed an arrangement
like a small four-legged stool, being used to give a
half-circular motion to the clothes in the tub, which is termed
dollying.
+Dolly-tub+, _n._ A round tub used to wash clothes in.
+Don+, _v._ and _adj._ 1. To put on one’s better attire.
2. Clever.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll don mysel up a bit, ez Janey’s cumin’ ti tea._
2. _He’s a don hand at deeaing owt o’ that sooart._
+Donk+, _Vide_ +Dank+.
+Donnot+, _n._ An immoral female.
+Doody-cow+, _n._ The ladybird beetle.
+Door+, +Deear+, +Doour-cheek+, _n._ Sidepost of a door.
” ” ” +sill+, _n._ The threshold of the door.
” ” ” +stan+, _n._ The flagstone in front of the
doorway, often mistaken as meaning the doorstep.
+Door+, +Doour+, +Deear+, +To get to the+ = Able to walk abroad.
+Doory+, _adv._ Very little, a trifle.
+Dordum+, _n._ A dreadful uproar.
+Dorse+, +Duzz+, _v._ To shake out from the ear by reason of
over-ripeness.
+Dossel+, _n._ A bunch of wheat, the finest ears being selected to
be used as an ornament; formerly such bunches were fixed on the
top of corn-pikes.
+Dossel-knob+, _n._ The straw knob at the top of a stick which
terminates the thatch.
+Dothering-grass+, _Vide_ +Trimm’ling-gess+.
+Dotteril+, _n._ A dotard.
+Douk+, _v._ To duck under, to dive as a water-fowl.
+Doup+, _Vide_ +Daupee+.
+Dou’t+, +Doot+, _v._ Almost certain.
Ex.—_Ah doot he’s laam’d fur leyfe. Ah doot wa saan’t git it._
+Dow+, _v._ To thrive.
+Dowdy+, _n._ An untidy woman.
+Dowled+, _adj._ Flat, said of long-drawn beer.
+Dowly+, _adj._ Sad, poorly, downhearted.
+Down+, _v._ To knock or throw down.
Ex.—_Ah’ve doon’d tha yance, an’ if Ah ’ev onny mair o’ thi lip,
Ah’ll doon tha ageean._
+Down-come+, _n._ A spout at the side of the house, a heavy
downpour of rain.
+Down-dinner+ = Afternoon allowance.
+Dowse+, _n._ A blow from the fist.
Ex.—_Ah’ll catch tha a dowse on t’ sahd o’ t’ heead._
+Dowse+, _v._ To wet to the skin.
Ex.—_He dowsed t’ lot on uz wi’ t’ hose. Ah gat sike a dowsing_,
said one who fell into a stream.
+Dozzen’d+, _adj._ Withered, blighted.
+Drab+, _n._ A dirty slut.
+Drabbletail+, _Vide_ +Flappy-sket+.
+Draff+, _n._ Refuse from a brewery for pigs, grains.
+Draker-hen+, _n._ Corn-crake.
+Drape+, +Dreeap+, _n._ A cow not giving milk.
+Drate+, _v._ To drag one’s speech, to drawl.
+Draught+, _n._ A team of horses, not less than three.
+Draw up+, _v._ To gather together.
Ex.—_Thoo mun ring t’ bell an’ call oot, an’ they’ll seean draw
up._
+Drazzle+, _n._ A shower of fine rain and mist.
+Dree+, _adj._ Tiring, weary.
Ex.—_It’s nobbut a dree job this._
+Dree+, _adv._ Slowly.
+Dree+, _v.a._ To deliver tediously.
+Dreeap+, _Vide_ +Drape+.
+Dreep+, _v._ Drop by drop.
+Dress+, +Dhriss+, _v._ 1. To tidy up.
2. To correct, to punish.
Ex.—1. _Ah s’all ’a’e ti dhriss things up a bit afoor sha cums._
2. _Thoo impident young raggel, thi fatther owt ti dhriss thi
jacket weel foor tha_, i.e. ‘Your father ought to chastise you.’
+Dressin’+, +Dhrissin’+, _part._ and _n._ 1. Preparing.
2. Chastisement, severe scolding. The use of this word is
peculiar.
Ex.—1. _Things ’ll want dhrissing up a bit afoor Ah start ti
wark_, signifies that a certain amount of work not actually
connected with the ‘thing’ itself must be done or prepared
beforehand, such as tidying up the bench, or rough planing
before marking out. _He nivver gits neea fother ’an dhrissing
things afoor he starts o’ summat else._
2. _He’ll nut foorgit ma, Ah nivver gav onnybody sike a dhrissing
afoor._
+Dribblet+, _n._ A small quantity at a time.
Ex.— _He’ll pay ma back, Ah’ve neea doot, bud Ah s’all ’a’e ti
tak ’t noos an’ agaains i’ dribblets._
+Drinch+, _n._ An aperient drink for a cow.
+Drinching+, _part._ To be drenched.
+Drinkin’ tahm+, _n._ The usual extra allowance during hay or
harvest time.
+Drippling+, _adj._ Weak, small.
Ex.—_Sha’s nobbut a drippling bairn._
+Drive+, +Dhrive+, _v._ To procrastinate.
Ex.—_Thoo dhrives ivverything whahl t’ last bat, an’ then thoo
nivver gits nowt deean._
+Droll on+, _v._ To half promise, to lead one to believe.
Ex.—_Ah nobbut drolls him on a bit, Ah saan’t tell him nowt
’at’s owt._
+Drolly+, _n._ _Vide_ +Capster+.
+Droothy+, +Drouthy+, _adj._ Suffering from excessive thirst.
+Drooty+, _adj._ Very dry, a long continuance of fine dry weather.
+Drop+, _v._ 1. To lose.
2. To fell with a blow.
3. To kill a bird on the wing.
Ex.—1. _He’d drop a canny bit ower that last bargain._
2. _He up wi’ his neeaf an’ dropped him leyke an ox._
3. _He fired in amang ’em an’ dropped three._
+Drop-dry+, _adj._ Water-tight, as of a roof.
+Drop in+, _v._ To pay a casual visit.
+Drop it+ or +that+, _v._ To cease doing.
Ex.—_Noo drop it_, i.e. ‘Discontinue the act.’ _Drop that racket_,
i.e. ‘Cease that noise.’
+Drop on+, _v._ 1. To surprise.
2. To discover.
Ex.—1. _Ah nivver wur seea dropped on afoor_, i.e. ‘Never so
surprised,’ or ‘suddenly caught in the act.’
2. _Ah dropped on it all at yance_, i.e. ‘I discovered it all at
once.’ It also implies a sense of shame, e.g. _Ah did feel dropped
on when he catched ma_.
+Droppy+, _adj._ Applied to rain long continued.
Ex.—_It’s nobbut a droppy tahm._
+Drubbin’+, _n._ A thrashing.
+Dub+, _n._ A large pond.
+Dubbin’+, _v._ and _n._ 1. To lower one’s dignity.
2. A thrashing.
Ex.—1. _He’s ti clivver by hauf is yon youth, he wants dubbin’
a bit._
2. _Ah’ll gi’e tha sike a dubbin’ ez thoo ’ezn’t ’ed ov a piece,
if thoo dizn’t mahnd thisel._ ‘Dubbing’ originally meant
cutting the comb and wattle of a gamecock.
+Duck+, _v._ To drop the head so as to evade a missile.
+Ducks and drakes+, _v._ A stone thrown so as to skim with short
leaps along the water.
+Duds+, _n._ Clothes, usually applied to old garments.
+Dulbert+, _n._ A stupid fellow. Also +Dullard+.
+Dump+, _Vide_ +Dub+.
+Dunderheead+, +Dunderknowle+, _n._ A blockhead.
+Dundy-cow+ or +Dowdy-cow+, _n._ The ladybird.
+Dwine+, _v._ To pine away, to fade.
+Dwinn’l+, _v._ To decrease.
+Dwiny+, _n._ and _adj._ Fading, small.
+Dwiny-voiced+, _adj._ Weak-voiced.
+Dwizzend+, _adj._ Thin, wrinkled, shrunk.
E.
+Ĕ+, _per. pron._ I. The short sound of ‘Ah,’ as _Mun ĕ cum?_
i.e. ‘Must I come?’ Although rarely used by writers, it must be
admitted, when speaking the dialect, it is as commonly used as
‘Ah.’
+Eak+, _n._ The oak.
+Earan+, _n._ An errand.
+Earnest+, _n._ A sum of money paid to bind a bargain.
+Earning+, _Vide_ +Yearning+.
+Ease+, _v._ To spatter with mud, to accede to the demands of
nature, to obtain ease from pain.
+Easement+, _n._ Alleviation from pain, the remedy applied.
+Easings+, _n._ The eaves.
+Easter-shells+, _n._ The periwinkle.
+E’e+, _n._ The eye, that part of a potato from which the sprout
leads.
+Een+, _n._ The eyes.
+Een+, _n._ 1. The evening, as ‘yester een.’
2. The eve of any fast-day, as ‘All Hallows’ Een.’
+Een-holes+, _n._ The eye sockets.
+Efter+, +Efther+, _prep._ After. ‘Efther’ becomes general as we
approach the East Riding.
+Efterneean+, _n._ Afternoon.
+Egg on+, _v._ To incite, to urge.
Ex.—_It wer yowr Tom ’at egg’d him on ti kiss ma. Ah nivver
s’u’d ’a’e set mysel ti loup t’ beck if he hedn’t egg’d ma on
and darr’d ma tiv it._
+Eldin+, _n._ Firewood of any kind.
+Eller+, _n._ The alder-tree.
+Elsin+, +Alsin+, _n._ A shoemaker’s awl.
+‘Em+, _pro._ Them.
+End-board+, _n._ The tail-board of a cart.
+Endeavouring+, _adj._ Striving, industrious.
Ex.—_Sha’s a fendy endivering lahtle body. He’s a varra
endivering young chap, an’ he’ll mak a man ov hissel._
+End, Girt+, _Vide_ +Gret end+.
+End na sahd+, 1. Nothing.
2. Not understandable.
Ex.—1. _Ther’s nowther end na sahd tiv owt ’at he diz_,
i.e. ‘Neither beginning nor end,’ nothing.
2. _Ah c’u’d nowder mak end na sahd ov owt ’at t’ chap war
raffling on aboot._
+End, Reet upon+, _adv._ Upright.
Ex.—_Let’s git it reet upon end fust, an’ then wa s’all mannish._
+Enoo+, +Enew+, _n._ 1. Enough in number.
2. Sufficiently cooked.
Ex.—1. _Thoo wants neea mair, thoo’s gitten mair ’an enew ez it
is._
2. _It owt ti be enew by this, it’s been i’ t’ yewn ower an hoor._
+Enow+, _Vide_ +Inoo+.
+Entry+, _n._ The passage within the house, or small entrance hall.
+Ept+, _adj._ Handy.
+Esh+, _n._ The ash-tree.
+Ewse+, _n._ Use.
+Expect+, _v._ 1. To imagine, to suppose.
2. Not quite certain.
Ex.—1. _Ah expect it war him ’at did it._
2. _Yan nivver can saay, bud Ah expect sha’ll win t’ prize. Sha’s
neea waays sure, sha nobbut expects seea._
+Extremity, To be in an+ = To be at the far end.
Ex.—_Ah war in an extremity a’ paain. Nowt c’u’d ’a’e been warse,
sha war in a complete extremity._
+Ez+, as. +‘Ez+, has.
F.
+Fadge+, _v._ Between a walk and a trot.
Ex.—_T’ au’d meer an’ me, wa’ve fadged along monny a mahl
tigither._
+Fadgy+, _adj._ Fat, unwieldy.
Ex.—_Buxom at twenty, fadgy at fo’tty._
+Faff+, _v._ To blow in puffs.
+Faffle+, _n._ A light intermittent wind.
+Faffle+, _v._ To flap gently, as a ship’s sail.
+Fahve o’ clocks+, _n._ Ripe seed-heads of the dandelion, which
children blow at to ascertain the time.
+Fail+, _v._ To show signs of growing weakness day by day.
+Fain+, _adv._ Gladly.
+Fair+, _adv._ Altogether, absolutely.
Ex.—_Ah’s fair bet wi’ t’ lad. Ah nivver war sae fairly takken
in wiv a lass ez Ah ’a’e been wi’ Tom’s weyfe._
+Fairish+, _adj._ Just moderate.
+Fairlings+, _adv._ Clearly, distinctly.
Ex.—_Naay! he fairlings gat t’ best a’ thah that tahm._
+Fair to see+, Easy to see or understand.
+Fair up+, _Vide_ +Clear up+.
+Fairy butter+, _n._ A yellow fungus found growing on dead wood.
+Fairings+, _n._ Presents bought at a fair.
+Fall+, _v._ 1. To happen.
2. To become finely divided, as lime when slaked.
Ex.—1. _Whya, it mebbe mud fall i’ that road_, i.e. ‘Why, it
maybe might happen in that way.’
+Fallen away+, _v._ To have decreased in bulk, to grow thin.
Ex.—_Whya, it’s fallen awaay ti nowt._
+Fall in+, _v._ To meet accidentally.
Ex.—_Oor Martie war pleased ti fall in wi’ John an’ Annie at
Bedale._
+Fall out+, _v._ To quarrel, to have a misunderstanding.
Ex.—_Tha’re nut kind noo, tha fell owt ower Tommy’s pig. Ah
nivver knew sike nibors ez them tweea, tha’re awlus quarting
an’ fratching, an’ falling oot t’ ane wi’ t’ uther._
+Fall teea+, _v._ To commence.
Ex.—_Noo all t’ lot on ya fall teea an’ set ti wark._
+Fan+, +Fand+, +Fun+, +Fund+, _part._ and _pp._ of ‘to find.’
+Fangle+, _v._ To seize, to entrap.
+Fangled+, _pp._ Caught.
+Fantickle+, _n._ A freckle.
+Far+, _adj._ Further, more distant than.
Ex.—_Ah ligg’d it doon i’ t’ far sahd o’ yon field._
+Far an’ awaay+, _adv._ Much, decidedly.
Ex.—_Sha’s far an’ awaay t’ best-leeaking lass aboot here_;
often +Far awaay+.
+Farantly+, _adj._ Decent, well behaved; neat, nice, orderly.
+Fardel+, _n._ A small bundle.
+Farden+, _n._ Farthing.
+Fare+, _v._ 1. To approach, to draw nigh to.
2. To seem.
3. To succeed.
4. To conduct oneself, to behave.
Ex.—1. _Sha fares o’ cauvin’._
2. _Yon lass fares dafter na Sally Ridge._
3. _Thoo’s gahin’ ti fare t’ warst wi’ t’ cauves, Ah think; thoo
mun git sum keeak intiv ’em._
4. _He fares foor gitting t’ sack._
+Far end+, The close of anything, almost _in extremis_.
Ex.—_Tell her Ah’ll cum when Ah’ve deean; Ah saan’t be lang;
Ah’ve ommaist gitten ti t’ far end. Ah’ve just left him; Ah
deean’t aim ’at he’ll see t’ neet throw, he’s ommaist at t’
far end noo._
+Far-fetched+, _adj._ Unlikely, improbable.
+Farness+, _n._ Distance.
Ex.—_T’ farness on ’t taks all t’ profit awaay, gahin’ an’
cumin’._
+Farrish+, +Fairish on+, _adj._ Considerably advanced.
Ex.—_He mun be gitting fairish on i’ years noo. He gat farrish
on at t’ dinner, did Tommy, afoor he gat to’n’d ti t’ doour._
+Far-side+, _n._ The further side, the right-hand or off side; the
+Nar-side+ being the left-hand.
+Fash+, _v._ 1. To worry.
2. To inconvenience oneself.
Ex.—1. _Just thee tak thi awn gate, an’ deean’t fash thisen aboot
nowt._
2. _Ah wadn’t fash mysel a larl bit fur owther him or her._
+Fast+, _adj._ 1. At a standstill.
2. In a fix.
Ex.—1. _Ah caan’t deea nowt, Ah’s fast foor a sup o’ wet._
2. _Ah think ’at Ah nivver war sae fast iv all my wick._
+Fasten+ or +Fass’n oot+, _v._ Said of sheep when turned from the
grass on to the moor for the season.
+Father+, _v._ 1. To impute.
2. To bear witness of itself, as an illegitimate child.
Ex.—1. _He’s awlus tryin’ ti father his misdeeds o’ sumbody. Ah
wadn’t let him father his lees o’ me._
2. _Ther’s neea call ti mak t’ poor lass gan afoor her betters,
t’ bairn sha hugs fathers itsel._
+Fatrascal+, _n._ A cake made with butter, flour, and currants; a
rich kind of small tea-cake.
+Faugh+, +Fauf+, _n._ Fallow land.
+Fause+, _adj._ False.
+Fayther+, +Fadder+, _n._ Father.
+Fear’d, To be+, _v._ To be apprehensive of, to be afraid.
Ex.—_It’s to be fear’d t’ warst’ll happen._
+Fearful+, _adv._ Exceedingly, used as an augmentative.
+Fearsome+, _adj._ Awful, terrifying.
+Feather-fallen+, _adj._ Crestfallen.
+Feather-fowl+, _n._ Birds.
+Featly+, _adv._ Dexterously.
Ex.—_Noo, he lapp’d that job up weel. Aye, it war varra featly
deean._
+Feck+, _n._ Ability, quantity, mass.
+Feckless+, _adj._ Lacking management, wanting ability to provide
for oneself.
Ex.—_Sha’s a feckless miss, is yon; sha’s up ti nowt, good ti
nowt, an’ warse ’an nowt._
+Feeal+, _n._ A fool.
+Fegs+, _n._ Dead grass-stems, anything of small value.
+Fele+, +Felt+, _v._ To hide.
+Fell+, _v._ To knock down.
+Fell+, _n._ An undressed hide or skin, a moorland summit, a hill.
+Fell+, _adj._ Keen, striving.
+Fell’d+, _v._ To be prostrate, knocked down.
+Felon bone+, _n._ An abscess on the finger or some other part of
the hand, from which, during suppuration, small pieces of rotted
bone are ejected.
+Felon o’ t’ yuer+, A disease the cow’s udder is liable to.
+Fellow-fond+, _adj._ Wild after the men. A girl is said to be
‘fellow-fond’ when her arts and guiles to gain a lover are too
plainly manifest.
+Felt+, _Vide_ +Fele+.
+Felter+, _n._ One who hides things.
+Felter+, _v._ To entangle, to twist, to clot. NOTE.—+Cotter+ is
much more commonly used now.
+Feltrics+, _n._ A disorder horses are liable to.
+Femmer+, _adj._ Slight, light, weak.
+Fend+, _v._ To provide, to be able to do.
+Fendable+, +Fendy+, _adj._ Capable of doing.
+Fengle+, _Vide_ +Fangle+.
+Fent+, _n._ A vent or slit in a garment.
+Fent+, _v._ To bind the edge of anything.
+Fer+, +Foor+, +Fur+, _prep._ For.
+Fest+, _v._ To bind an apprentice.
+Fet+, _v._ To last out, serve round, to serve.
Ex.—_It’ll fet uz ower Sunday. It’ll fet t’ lot on uz if Tom
carves._
+Fetch+, _n._ A stitch or catch in the side, difficulty in
breathing.
+Fetch+, _v._ To give, to bring.
Ex.—_Ah’ll fetch tha yan ower t’ feeace._ _Ah’ll fetch tha ’t
when Ah cum fra t’ market._ _Fetch t’ barrer ower here_,
i.e. ‘Bring the barrow over here.’
+Fettle+, _v._ 1. To repair.
2. To put in order.
3. To be in good order.
Ex.—1. _Thoo mun fettle t’ au’d cart up a larl piece_, i.e. ‘You
must repair the old cart a little,’
2. _Ah’ll fettle things up a bit afoor ya cum back_, i.e. ‘I will
put things in order by the time you return,’
3. _T’ machine’s i’ grand fettle._
+Few+, _n._ Amount, generally used with some qualifying adjective,
as ‘a good few,’ ‘a larl few,’ ‘a gay few.’
+Fick+, _v._ To struggle under restraint.
+Fik+, _v._ 1. To strive.
2. To obtain.
Ex.—1. _He fick’d on whahl he gat it._
2. _He fick’d it i’ t’ end._
+Find heart, To+, _v._ To make up one’s mind.
Ex.—_Sha’s blinnd, bud Ah can’t finnd heart ti put t’ poor au’d
critter oot o’ t’ road._
+Finnick+, _v._ To be over-particular in doing things.
+Fire-flaught+, _n._ and _adj._ A lighted coal which leaps from the
fire, a meteor; passionate.
+Fire-smatch+, _Vide_ +Stithe+.
+Fire-steead+, _n._ Fireplace.
+First-foot+, _Vide_ +Lucky bird+.
+Fisk+, _v._ To dance about.
+Fit+, _adj._ 1. Equal to.
2. Ready.
3. Inclined.
Ex.—1. _Ah’s fit foor that job, hooivver._
2. _T’ meer’s fit onny tahm._
3. _Ah’s ommaist fit ti gan._
+Fizzle+, _v._ To fidget.
+Flabbergasher+, _n._ A poser. _Vide_ +Cramper+.
+Flacker+, _v._ 1. To flutter.
2. To flicker.
3. To waver.
Ex.—1. _T’ au’d bo’d flackered ower t’ hedge._
2. _T’ cann’l flackered whahl Ah thowt it ’ud gan oot._
3. _Ther’s neea dependence on him, he flackers aboot sae._
+Flag+, _n._ A snow-flake.
+Flags+, _n._ The yellow iris.
+Flam+, _v._ To flatter, to make believe.
+Flappers+, _n._ Young birds nearly ready to fly.
+Flappy+, _adj._ Unstable.
+Flappy-sket+, _n. and adj._ An immoral woman; untidy.
+Flappy-tongue+, _n._ One whose word cannot be relied upon.
+Flatch+, _n._ A flatterer, also used as a _verb_.
+Flather+, _Vide_ +Blether+.
+Flaum+, _v._ 1. To blaze, to burst out in flame.
2. To demonstrate great affection so as to gain some advantage.
Ex.—1. _It flaum’d up leyke all that, bud then it war ez dry ez a
kex._
2. _Sha flaum’d aboot ma that mich, whahl i’ t’ end Ah ’ed ti
gi’e waay an’ let ’em git wed._
+Flaumy+, _adj._ Common, tawdry, _n._ Fulsome caresses.
+Flaun+, _n._ A custard tart.
+Flaup+, +Flauping+, _n._ +Flaupy+, +Flaupish+, _adj._ Senseless
talk.
+Flawter+, +Flowter+, _v._ To unnerve, to flurry.
Ex.—_Ah war sairly flowtered when Ah heeard o’ Jimmy’s deeath._
+Flay+, _v._ To frighten. Also +Fley+.
+Flay-boggle+, _n._ A ghost.
+Flay-craw+, +-creeak+, or +-cruke+, _n._ A scarecrow.
+Flaysome+, _adj._ Causing fear.
+Flee+, _n._ A fly.
Ex.—_Ah deean’t meean fleas ’at’s fleas, bud flees ’at flee_,
i.e. ‘I do not mean fleas that are fleas, but flies that fly.’
+Fleead+, _n._ A flood.
+Fleead+, _v._ To flood.
Ex.—_Ah’s gahin’ ti let t’ dam off an’ fleead t’ boddums._
+Fleear+, _n._ A floor.
+Fleece+, _n._ Obesity.
Ex.—_Wait whahl he gans throw all ’at Ah’ve gane throw, an’ he
weean’t hug sike a fleece._
+Fleece+, _v._ To take all that a man has.
Ex.—_Oh, sha’s a rank bad un; tha saay ’at sha’s fleeced him ov
ivvery haupenny he ’ed._
+Fleeing-aither+ or +-ask+, _n._ The dragon-fly.
+Fleer+, _v._ To laugh at, to ridicule.
+Flesh-fly+, _n._ The common bluebottle.
+Flesh-meat+, _n._ Butcher’s meat, not pork.
+Flick+, _n._ A flitch of bacon.
+Flick+, _v._ To remove any light dust or thing with a rapid motion,
as with a duster or whip-lash.
+Flicker+, _v._ and _n._ To exist for an instant, as a smile; the
action of a dying flame.
+Flig+, _v._ To fly.
+Fligged+, _part._ Having left the nest.
+Fliggers+, _Vide_ +Flappers+.
+Flipe+, _n._ The brim of a hat.
+Flipe+, _v._ To remove dust by any quick, light motion, as with a
handkerchief. _Vide_ +Flick+.
+Flisk+, _n._ A light tap.
Ex.—_Sha nobbut flisk’d him wi’ her larl finger._
+Flit+, _v._ To remove to another house.
+Flite+, +Fleeght+, _v._ 1. To scold with many words.
2. To quarrel.
Ex.—1. _Sha nivver lets ma be, sha’s awlus fliting at ma._
2. _Tha’re fliting t’ ane agaain t’ ither that mich whahl Ah’ve
cum’d awaay._
+Flither+, _n._ The common limpet.
+Flittermouse+, _n._ The common bat.
+Flitting+, _v._ The act of removing.
+Flity+, _adj._ Unstable.
Ex.—_Ah wadn’t trust her, nowder yah waay ner anuther, sha’s
sike a flity body._
+Flobbed up+, _part._ Swollen.
+Flop+, _v._ To sit down with a sudden drop, to set things down of
a sudden and carelessly.
+Floss-docken+, +Fox-docken+, _n._ The foxglove (_Digitalis
purpurea_).
+Floss-seave+, _n._ Cotton-grass.
+Flowtered+, _part._ Upset, nervous.
+Flowterment+, _n._ Excitement in speech and behaviour.
+Flowtersome+, _adj._ Excitable, tomboyish.
+Fluff’d+, +Fluff’d up+, _adj._ Conceited.
+Fluffy+, _adj._ Covered with down, light, feathery.
+Fluke+, +Fleeak+, +Fleuks+, _n._ A small maggot found in the liver
of sheep.
+Fluky+, +Fleeaky+, +Fleuky+, _adj._ Maggot-eaten, fly-blown.
+Flushy-feeaced+, _adj._ Red complexioned.
+Fluster+, +Flusterment+, _n._ A state of being heated by
excitement, agitation.
Ex.—_What a flusterment that bairn ’ez putt en uz all inteea! wa
thowt ’at he’d gitten hissel lost._
+Fly, To let+, _v._ To strike with force.
+Foal’s-foot+, _n._ Coltsfoot (_Tussilago farfara_).
+Fod+, _n._ A small bundle of straw.
+Fodder-hoos+, _n._ A barn for storing fodder.
+Fog+, _n._ The grass which grows after the hay has been removed.
+Fog-field+, _n._ A field left for the second growth of grass to
spring up after haytime.
+Foisty+, _adj._ Musty, damp, mouldy.
+Fold-+ or +Fod-garth+, +Fod-yard+, _n._ The farmyard where the
beasts are fed.
+Folk+, +Fau’k+, +Fooak+, _n._ The people, often used with and
generally qualified by a prefix, as _T’ au’d folk_, _T’ young
fooak_, _Chetch-fau’k_, _Chapel-fau’k_.
+Fond+, _adj._ Silly.
+Fond-head+, _n._ A silly fellow.
+Fondness+, _n._ Nonsense.
+Fondy+, _n._ A simpleton.
+Foor+, +Fur+, +Fer+, _prep._ For.
+Foorced+, _part._ Compelled.
Ex.—_Ther’s neea waay o’ gittin oot on ’t, Ah s’ be foorced ti
gan._ _He’ll foorce tha ti deea ’t._
+Foot, The length of my+ = A kick.
Ex.—_If thoo isn’t off iv a quickstick, Ah’ll gi’e tha t’ len’th
o’ mah foot._
+Foot, To get or take the length of one’s+ = 1. To judge a person
accurately.
2. To have completely won another’s confidence.
Ex.—1. _He’ll nut best ma, weean’t yon; Ah teeak t’ len’th o’ his
foot lang sin._
2. _Sha lets him deea just what he leykes wiv her brass; he’s
gitten t’ len’th ov her foot, an’ ther’s nowt aboot that._
+Footing+, _n._ Money claimed from a new apprentice on commencing
his apprenticeship, commonly called paying his footing; the sum
paid is always spent in drink.
+Footings+, _n._ The lowest foundations.
+For+, +Fur+ = In what direction.
Ex.—_Noo, then, wheear’s thoo for? Ah’s for Ayton, is thoo for
Stowsla?_
+Fore+, _prep._ Before. +Afoor+ is much more general.
+Fore-elders+, _n._ Forefathers.
+Fore-end+, +Forr-end+, _n._ 1. The beginning of a season or time.
2. The springtime.
Ex.—1. _At t’ forr-end he war ez reet ez a trivet, bud he maad a
varra poor finish on ’t._
2. _If t’ back-end be owt leyke t’ forr-end wa s’all mannish
grandly._
+Forking-robin+, _n._ The earwig.
+Forks, A pair o’+, _n._ The centre timber of a roof.
+For-wandered+, _adj._ Bewildered.
+Fo’st+, +Fust+, _adj._ First.
+Fo’ther+, _adv._ Further.
+Foul-fingered+, _adj._ Given to stealing.
+Foul-lipped+ }
+Foul-mouthed+ } _adj._ Given to swearing or lewd talk.
+Foulmart+, +Fumart+, _n._ The polecat.
+Foupe+, _v._ To drive sheep, &c., too quickly.
Ex.—_Thoo’ll ’a’e sum o’ them sheep deead beeat if thoo foupes
’em i’ that road._
+Fou’t+, _n._ A fault.
+Fou’ty+, _adj._ Badly made, ill fitting.
+Fowt+, _part._ Fought.
+Fowt+, +Fout+, _n._ An idiot, a spoiled child.
+Foxy+, _adj._ Cunning.
+Fra+, +Frav+, +Frev+, _prep._ From, ‘Fra’ is used before a
consonant, ‘frav’ and ‘frev’ before a vowel.
+Fraby+, +Frebby+, _prep._ 1. Beyond.
2. Compared with. Still common in parts of Cleveland.
Ex.—1. _‘T’ll be fraby ten mahl ti Yarm._
2. _Thahn frebby mahn’s t’ best o’ t’ tweea on ’em._
+Framation+, _n._ Dexterity, ability, skill shown at the
commencement of any work.
Ex.—_Noo, yon chap hez a bit o’ framation aboot him._
+Frame+, _v._ To show good management, contrive well.
Ex.—_T’ lass frames weel ti milk._
+Fratch+, _v._ To quarrel.
+Fraunge+, _v._ To play a joke.
+Fresh+, _adj._ Intoxicated.
+Fresh-wood+, _n._ The threshold of a doorway.
+Fridge+, _v._ To rub against so as to cause a sore.
+Frightened+, +Freetened+, _adj._ and _part._ 1. Doubtful as to.
2. Apprehensive of.
3. Bashful.
Ex.—1. _Ah’s freetened he weean’t mannish ti cum._
2. _Sha war despert freetened ’at he war gahin’ ti splet aboot
what tha’d deean._
3. _Gi’e t’ lass a kiss, deean’t be freetened._
+Frog-fry+, _n._ Frog- or toad-spawn.
+Fromward+, _prep._ Away from.
+Frough+, _adj._ Soft, spongy.
+Frow+, _n._ An untidy person, generally a female.
+Frowsy+, _adj._ Applied to a forbidding countenance, untidy,
musty.
+Frutas+, _n._ A kind of tea-cake made of batter and fruits fried
in butter on Ash Wednesday.
+Fuggy+, _adj._ First. _Vide_ +Laggy+.
+Full+, _adv._ An intensive, as ‘Full seean,’ i.e. ‘full soon.’
Ex.—_Ah’ll be on full seean efter dinner_, i.e. ‘very soon.’
+Full-fligged+, _adj._ Full-feathered.
+Fullock+, _v._ To shoot a marble with force, and by unfairly
overreaching the line; to do anything with considerable force.
Ex.—_He went at it wi’ sike a fullock._
+Full-up+, _adv._ Quite full.
+Fun+, _pp._ of Find.
+Fur+, For.
+Furmety+, +Frummety+, _n._ Creed-wheat boiled in milk, thickened
with lithing, sweetened, and flavoured with cloves, nutmeg, &c.,
only eaten at Christmas time.
+Furrh+, _n._ A furrow.
+Fustilugs+, _n._ A low fellow.
+Fuzzack+, _n._ A donkey.
+Fuzz-ball+, _n._ The common field-fungus which, when ripe, on
being nipped emits a cloud of brown dust-spores.
+Fuzzle+, _v._ To intoxicate.
G.
+Ga’+, _v._ Gave.
+Gaa+, _v._ To go.
+Gab+, _n._ Senseless chatter.
Ex.—_Ho’d thi gab_, i.e. ‘Cease your foolish talk,’ or ‘hold your
tongue.’
+Gabber+, _v._ To talk foolishly.
+Gabriel-ratchet+ or +T’ Gabby-ratch+. A sound heard overhead in
the still hours of the night, somewhat resembling the yelping of
dogs; generally thought to be due to a flock of geese. When heard
by the country folk it is looked upon as an omen of death.
+Gad+, _n._ A pointed rod, a whip-stock fitted with a thong. To
guard against the power of witches the whip-stock was often made
of rowan-tree wood.
+Gad+, +Gadder+, +Gadabout+, _n._ A gossip.
+Gadding+, _part._ Gossiping.
+Gaddish+, _adj._ Inclined to gossip.
+Gadling+, _adj._ Applied to a gossiping person.
+Gae+, _Vide_ +Gaa+.
+Gaed+, _pret._ of +Gae+.
+Gaffer+, _n._ The master.
Ex.—_Leeak oot, here’s t’ gaffer cumin’._
+Gag-bit+, _n._ A powerful bit used when breaking horses.
+Gah+, _v._ To go.
+Gahins on+, Doings, festivities, proceedings.
Ex.—_Ther’s been straange gahins on at Bessy’s sen Martha cam
yam._ _Noo, wa ’ed grand gahins on at t’ Jubilee._
+Gahlfat+. _Vide_ +Gilevat+.
+Gain+, +Gainest+, _adj._ Shortest, quickest, easiest.
Ex.—_It’s t’ gainest waay ti gan byv t’ wood_, i.e. ‘It is the
shortest way,’ &c. _Ther’s a gainer way ti deea’t ’an that_,
i.e. ‘There is a quicker or easier plan to do it than that.’
+Gainable+, _adj._ Obtainable.
+Gain-hand+, _adj._ Easily reached.
+Gainly+, _adv._ Easily gained, of access.
+Gains+, _n._ An advantage.
+Gainstrive+, +Gainstand+, _v._ To oppose.
Ex.—_Yan caan’t gainstrive owt o’ that soart. Neeabody can
gainstand thersens agaain t’ railway cump’ny._
+Gain-way+, _n._ A shorter path.
+Gairn+, +Garn+, _n._ Worsted, yarn.
+Gaitings+, _n._ Bundles of clover tied at the top and left to dry.
+Gallac-handed+, _adj._ Left-handed.
Ex.—_Fau’k ’at’s gallac-handed’s awlus a larl bit tricky, Ah
think._
+Gallivant+, _v._ To flirt, to be continually in the society of
ladies.
+Galloway+, _n._ One of a small breed of horses.
+Gallowses+, +Gallasses+, _n._ Trouser braces.
+Gally-bauk+, _n._ An iron bar attached to the rann’l bauk, from
which pans are hung either on or off the fire.
+Galore+, _n._ A superabundance.
+Gam+, _n._ 1. A game.
2. Fun.
3. Ridicule.
Ex.—1. _Wa’d a rare gam at creckets last neet._
2. _He’s a grand hand at makking gam._
3. _Ah thowt sha was deeaing nowt bud mak gam o’ ma._
+Gamashes+, _n._ Gaiters, leggings, now applied to all kind of
leg-coverings.
+Gammer+, _v._ To waste time, to be slow.
+Gammer-stag+ or +-stang+, _n._ An immodest female.
+Gammish+, _adj._ Lively, full of frolic, plucky.
+Gan+, +Gang+, _v._ To go, to go on foot. ‘Gang’ is often added to
the direction pointed out.
Ex.—_Thoo’d best tak by t’ mill gang_, i.e. ‘Go by the mill way,’
or ‘go by the mill,’ or ‘by t’ stell gang,’ ‘up gang,’ &c.
+Gane+, _v._ Gone.
+Ganger+, _n._ A goer, usually applied to a horse.
Ex.—_Sha’s nut mich ov a ganger._ _That’s a good ganger_,
i.e. ‘A good goer.’
+Gangeril+, +Gangril+, _n._ A worthless fellow, a vagrant, a toad.
+Gannings on+, _Vide_ +Gahins on+.
+Gans+, _v._ Goes.
+Gant+, _adj._ Thin, puny, half-fed.
+Gantree+, _n._ A low wooden stand for barrels to rest on.
+Gap+, _n._ An opening in a hedge through which sheep may stray, a
rift in the hills.
+Gape+, +Gaape+, +Geeap+, _v._ To bawl loudly, to stand
open-mouthed.
+Garb+, _v._ To dress vulgarly, or in tawdry finery.
+Garfits+, _n._ Entrails. In some parts goose giblets are known as
‘garfits.’
+Garland+, _v._ A white glove decorated with ribbons and carried at
funerals. _Vide_ Chap. VIII, on ‘Customs.’
+Garsel+, _n._ Rotten sticks, last year’s undergrowth.
+Garth+, _n._ A small enclosure of land.
+Gate+, +Geeat+, _n._ A way, road, street; there is also a secondary
meaning of ‘manner.’ Adverbially as ‘all gates,’ ‘onny gates.’
Ex.—_What gate mun Ah tak ti Easby?_ i.e. ‘Which road must I take
to Easby?’ _If he gans on i’ yon gate, he’ll seean lap t’ job
up_, i.e. ‘If he goes on in that manner, he will soon end the
business.’ _Leeak at what he’s deean onny gate an’ all gates,
an’ yan’s boun ti awn he’s been a feeal all roads_, i.e. ‘Look
at what he has done any way and all ways, and one is compelled
to admit he has been a fool every way.’ _Thoo diz things all
gates an’ onny gates, an’ it’s neea gates i’ t’ end._
+Gate+, _n._ An acquired right or privilege of pasturage for cattle.
+Gate+, _v._ To arrange clover in small bundles to dry.
+Gauk+, +Gawk+, _n._ A stupid fellow, the cuckoo.
+Gauky+, _adj._ Clumsy, idiotic.
+Gaum+, _v._ To pay attention intelligently.
+Gaumish+, _adj._ Intelligent.
+Gaumless+, _adj._ Lacking intelligence.
+Gaup+, _v._ To stare and gape with astonishment.
+Gauve+, _v._ To stare vacantly.
+Gauvison+, _n._ Silly of either sex. Usually applied to a female.
+Gauvy+, _n._ A silly fellow.
+Gavelock+, _n._ A crowbar.
+Gay+, +Gayish+, _adj._ 1. Considerable in number.
2. Nice, pleasing.
3. Fairly good, both as to size, quality, and number.
Ex.—1. _Ther war a gay few fau’k gethered up. Ah gav a gayish bit
mair ’an that for ’t._
2. _It’s a gay bit o’ stuff._
3. _It’s a gayish field o’ to’nips._
+Gayly+, _adv._ 1. First-class.
2. Exceedingly well as to health.
Ex.—1. _Ah’s gittin’ on gayly_, i.e. ‘first-class.’
2. _Sha war nobbut dowly a piece sen, but sha’s gayly noo._
+Gear+, +Gearing+, _n._ That part of a machine which alters the
speed of running, harness.
+Gear+, _n._ Worldly possessions, raiment.
+Geb+, _Vide_ +Gib+.
+Geck+, _n._ A stupid oaf. _Vide_ also +Goffen+.
+Geean+, _part._ Gone.
+Geeaping+, _pp._ Gaping, staring.
+Gecken+, _v._ _Vide_ +Goffen+.
+Gee+, _v._ The wagoner’s command for the horse to take the
right-hand side of the road.
+Geen+, +Gi’en+, +Gi’n+, _v._ Given.
+Geld+, _adj._ and _n._ Barren; single unmated birds, as of
partridges.
+Gell+, _n._ Girl.
+Gen+, +Girn+, _v._ To grin.
+Genning+, _adj._, also _part._ of _Gen_. 1. To grin.
2. To find fault.
Ex.—1. _Thoo genning munkey, Ah’ll gi’e tha summat ti gen at if
thoo dizn’t shift thisel._
2. _Sha’s awlus genning an’ fliting at yan._
+Gep+, _v._ To eavesdrop.
+Ger+, _v._ To get, go.
Ex.—_Ger ho’d on ’t._
+Gert+, +Gret+, +Greeat+, _adj._ Great.
+Gesling+, _n._ Gosling.
+Gess+, +Gerse+, _n._ Grass.
+Geesing-land+, +Gersing-land+, _n._ Grass-land.
+Get+, _v._ Beside being used in the ordinary sense there are
several curious usages. 1. To get to.
2. Is called.
3. To come.
Ex.—1. _Ah aim ti gan ti Brotton when Ah git to Boosbeck._
2. _T’ chap ’at ’ed it afoor called it Jack, bud it awlus gits
Flip wiv uz._
3. _Wa thowt ya warn’t gahin’ ti mannish ti get._
+Get, Able to+, _Vide_ +Yabble+.
+Get agate+, _v._ To commence.
+Get away with, To+, _v._ To push forward work.
Ex.—_Noo ’at t’ wood’s cum’d wa s’all be yabble ti git awaay wi’
t’ job at yance._
+Get on+, _v._ To succeed.
Ex.—_He’s sartin ti git on, is yon chap._
+Get the length of+, _v._ To get as far as, either of place,
distance, or work.
+Getherer+ or +Gedderer+, _n._ A collector of taxes, one who gathers
the corn into bundles.
+Gether+ or +Gedder up, To+, _v._ To collect together.
+Getten+, +Gitten+, +Gotten+, _part._ To get.
+Gew-gaws+, _n._ Jewellery, &c.
+Gew-gow+, _n._ A Jew’s harp.
+Gib+, _n._ The hooked handle of a stick.
+Gib-+ or +Geb-stick+, _n._ A hooked stick.
+Gicken+, _Vide_ +Goffen+.
+Gi’en+, _Vide_ +Geen+.
+Giglet+, _n._ A giggling girl.
+Gilder+, _n._ A horsehair snare.
+Gilevat+, _n._ The vat or tub in which ale is stood to ferment.
+Gill+, _n._ A half-pint.
+Gill+, _n._ A narrow rock valley, a ravine.
+Gillifer+, _n._ An immodest woman; one who pretends to good looks,
or dresses younger than her years.
+Gilt+, _n._ A young sow.
+Gimmal+, _n._ A narrow passage between two houses.
+Gimmer+, _n._ A young female lamb.
+Ginger-heead+, _adj._ and _n._ One having red hair.
+Gingerly+, _adv._ Cautiously, ticklish to do.
+Ginnel+, _Vide_ +Runnel+.
+Ginner+, _adv._ Rather, quite as soon as.
Ex.—_Ah’d ez ginner gan ez stop._
+Girt+, _adj._ Great. _Vide_ +Gert+.
+Girt shakes, Neea+, Nothing to boast of.
+Gissy-gissy+, _n._ The call for the young pigs to be fed.
+Git+, _Vide_ +Get+.
+Give+, _v._ To stretch, to give way, to yield to force, to thaw.
+Give agaan+, _v._ To thaw, to return something when bargaining for
luck.
+Give back+, _v._ To recede, to yield through lack of courage.
+Give in+, _v._ To tender an estimate, to give notice to a landlord
of intention to quit his farm or house, to admit being
vanquished.
+Give out+, _v._ To fail in supply.
+Give ower+, _v._ Leave off, desist, cease.
Ex.—_Gi’e ower at yance_, i.e. ‘Cease at once.’
+Gizzen+, _n._ The gizzard.
+Glazzen+, _v._ 1. To glaze a window.
2. Become glassy.
Ex.—2. _It’ll seean be deead, its een ’s glazzen’d noo._
+Glease+, +Gleeaze+, _v._ To run swiftly.
+Gleasing+, _n._ A race after, the cost of a suit at law.
+Gleen+, _v._ To shine.
+Gleg+, _v._ To peep slyly, to cast one’s eyes about furtively.
+Glent+, _v._ To glance off at an angle.
+Gliff+, +Glift+, _n._ A passing glance, a glimpse.
+Gloaming+, _n._ Twilight.
+Gloor+, +Gloar+, _v._ To stare intently.
+Glorr+, _n._ Soft, fat.
+Glow+, _Vide_ +Low+.
+Glump+, _v._ To sulk.
+Glumpy+, _adj._ Sulky.
Ex.—_If he’s glumpy, let him glump._
+Glut+, _n._ A wooden wedge used to split timber with.
+Gnag+, _v._ To weary one with reproaches, to continually assail
one with remarks of an irritating nature.
+Gnaggy+, _adj._ Bad tempered, continually scolding.
+Gnarl+, _v._ To gnaw, as rabbits do trees during a hard winter.
+Gnarr+, _Vide_ +Knar+.
+Gnarr+, _v._ To growl.
+Gnatter+, _v._ To find fault of a petty nature continuously.
+Gnattering+, +Nattering+, _adj._ Fault-finding on all occasions.
Ex.—_Oh, sha’s a gnattering au’d thing, sha’s nivver off his
beeans._
+Gnipe+, _Vide_ +Knep+.
+Go+ or +Goa+, _n._ 1. Attempt, try.
2. Event, circumstance.
Ex.—1. _Cum by, an’ let me ’ev a go at it. He fetched yan doon
fust go. All t’ three on uz ’ed a go, bud neean on uz hit it._
2. _Well, this is a go; it beeats ivvery go, diz this._
+Gob+, _n._ The mouth.
+Gobble+, _v._ To reply in a sulky, indistinct manner.
Ex.—_Noo, git thisel oot o’ t’ glumps, an’ deean’t gobble i’ that
road when Ah ass tha owt._
+Gob-string+, _n._ A bridle.
+God’s penny+, _n._ A sum of money paid by the master when hiring
a servant to bind the transaction.
+Goffen+, +Gecken+, +Gicken+, +Geck+, _v._ To laugh like an idiot.
+Goings on+, _Vide_ +Gahins on+.
+Goke+, +Gowk+, +Gooak+, _n._ The core of an apple, the hard part
of a boil or ulcer; also used to denote the centre of many things,
as ’t’ gowk o’ t’ stack.’
+Goldens+, _n._ The charred stems of burnt ling.
+Goldie+, _n._ The yellow-hammer.
+Golly+, _n._ A newly-hatched bird.
+Gomerill+, _n._ A born idiot.
+Gone away+, _Vide_ +Fallen away+.
+Good+, _adj._ 1. Considerable.
2. Easy.
3. Well.
4. Almost.
5. Kind, obliging.
Ex.—1. _Whya, noo, ther war a good few on ’em._
2. _That’s good eneeaf ti deea._
3. _Yan mud ez good talk tiv a yat-post ez yon lad._
4. _Ah’ve ez good ez deean noo._
5. _Ya’ll mebbe be seea good ez ti fetch ma a bit o’ bacca back
wi’ ya?_
+Good+, _adv._ Altogether, entirely.
Ex.—_Wa’d gi’en ya up foor good, wa thowt ya warn’t gahin’ ti
mannish to get._
+Goodies+, _n._ Sweetmeats.
+Good-like+, _adj._ Of pleasing appearance.
+Goodman+, _n._ The husband.
+Good riddance+, Lit. Very pleased you have gone away.
+Good-stuff+, _n._ Sweets.
+Good-woman+, _n._ The wife.
+Goose-+ or +Geeasegogs+, _n._ Gooseberry.
+Gorpie+, _n._ _Vide_ +Golly+.
+Gossamer+, _n._ Fine cobwebs found during dry weather, either on
the herbage or floating in the air. _Vide_ +Musweb+.
+Gote+, _n._ A narrow passage often running between two rows of
houses, a rent in rocks sufficiently wide to admit the passage
of one man at a time, a natural narrow ravine. A mill-race is
often called a ‘mill-gote.’
+Goupen+, _n._ A handful.
+Goupenful+, _n._ A double handful.
+Gowden+, _adj._ Golden. The ‘ow’ is pronounced as in ‘show.’
+Gowk+, _n._ A fool, a clumsy fellow.
+Gowky+, _adj._ Clumsy.
Ex.—_A gret gowky good ti nowt._
+Gowland+, _n._ The corn marigold.
+Grace+, _n._ Advantage, benefit.
Ex.—_Ther weean’t be mich grace i’ deeaing a thing leyke that._
+Graft+ or +Graff+, _n._ A spade depth.
+Grain+, _v._ To grumble.
+Graining+, _n._ The fork, the division into branches.
+Grains+, _n._ Branches.
+Graithing+, _n._ Clothes.
+Grapplement+, _n._ A grasping in a struggle.
+Grass widdy+, _n._ An immoral woman.
+Grave+, _v._ To dig.
+Grawn up+, _adj._ Grown up, adult.
+Greean+, +Girn+, +Gairn+, _v._ To groan, as when lifting a heavy
weight.
Ex.—_Thee lift, an’ Ah’ll deea t’ gerning._
+Gree+, _v._ To agree, to assent.
+Greease-horn+, _n._ A toady, a sycophant.
+Greease in+, _v._ To win over by flattery.
+Greed+, _n._ Avarice.
+Greet+, _v._ To weep silently.
+Grenky+, _adj._ Complaining, unwell, irritable.
+Gret+, _Vide_ +Gert+.
+Gret end+, _adv._ Almost.
Ex.—_Ther’ll be t’ gret end o’ fowr scoore. Whya, Ah gav’ t’ gret
end o’ twenty pun for ’t._
+Gret likelihood+, Almost a certainty.
Ex.—_Tha’ve been keeping cump’ny foor sum tahm, ther’s gret
likelihood ’at tha’ll be gittin’ wed afoor lang._
+Griff+, _n._ A small ravine.
+Grime+, +Grahm+, _n._ Soot.
+Grime+, +Grahm+, _v._ To black with soot.
+Grime ower+, _v._ To spread a light covering of dust or other
light matter.
+Griming+, _n._ A light covering of snow.
+Grip+, _n._ A narrow trench.
+Gripe+, _n._ A pronged fork for digging.
+Grip ho’d+, _n._ A handle. _v._ To take hold of firmly.
+Grissy+, _adj._ Damp and warm, of the weather.
+Grob+, _n._ An undersized, badly-built man.
+Grob+, _v._ To search with the hand under conditions where the
eyes cannot assist.
+Grobble+, _v._ To grope, to search for with a stick or hand, as
under a stone for fish.
Ex.—_Ah’s grobbling unner t’ steean foor a treeat_, i.e. trout.
+Gross+, +Grossy+, _adj._ Rapid growth, plants too close together,
fat.
+Growt-heead+, _n._ A blockhead.
+Grozy+, _adj._ Well-to-do.
+Grue+, _adj._ Sullen, lowering, dismal, also applied to discontent
freely expressed.
+Gruff+, _adj._ Brusque.
+Gruff+, _v._ To express dissatisfaction, to grunt, to snort in
temper, to snore.
+Grump+, _v._ To sulk.
+Grumps+, _n._ _Vide_ +Brully+.
+Grumpy+, _adj._ Bad tempered, sulky.
+Grund+, _n._ Ground.
+Grundage+, _n._ Ground rent.
+Grun’lstan+, +Grunstan+, _n._ Grindstone.
+Gruntle+, _v._ To give low grunting sounds of discontent.
+Grutch+, _v._ To envy, to grudge.
Ex.—_Ther’s nowt ’at he dizn’t grutch yan. He mud ’ev ’ed t’
tweea pigs, bud Ah did grutch him t’ coo._
+Gulch+, _v._ To swallow like a dog.
Ex.—_Thoo gulches thi puddin’ doon warse ’an a dog._
+Gumption+, _n._ Tact, general capability.
Ex.—_He’ll nowther fick na fend, foor he wants baith mense an’
gumption._
+Gush+, _n._ A rush of air, a gust.
+Gutter+, _v._ To waste, as a candle in a draught.
Ex.—_Put t’ deear teea, t’ cann’l’s sweealing an’ guttering
awaay leyke all that._
+Gutter eaves+, _n._ The gutter which carries the water from off
the roof.
H.
+Hack+, _n._ A small pickaxe.
+Hackle+, _n._ The natural covering of an animal, or the clothes
of man.
+Hackle+, _v._ 1. To dress, to put on one’s best attire, to make
smart.
2. To turn the soil lightly.
Ex.—1. _Sha’s hackled hersel wiv all t’ gew-gaws ’at sha’s
gitten._
2. _Thoo mun just hackle aboot t’ reeats._
+Had away+, A corruption of the Scotch ‘haud awa.’ It is quite
common, and used in the sense of ‘come or go quickly.’
+Haffle+, _v._ 1. To hesitate when speaking, to stammer, to appear
desirous of keeping something back.
2. To exhibit indecision of character.
3. To quibble.
Ex.—1. _Deean’t haffle leyke that, bud speeak plain._
2. _Naay, what! he’s lost t’ job, he haffled seea; fust he wad
an’ then he wadn’t, whahl t’ gaffer gav it ti sumbody else._
3. _He awlus haffles on that mich, whahl neeabody ho’ds ti owt
he sez._
+Hag+, _n._ A thick white fog which, when followed by a frost,
forms frost-hag; a coppice, such as often grows on a rough bank
or broken ground; a broken rugged bank.
+Hag-berry+, _n._ The fruit of the bird-cherry (_Prunus padus_).
NOTE.—In many parts of the North Riding Bug-berry is the common
name, _bägg_ being the Swedish for the same.
+Hag-clog+, _n._ A wooden block, varying in size, used as a
chopping block.
+Haggle+, _v._ To chop or cut anything unevenly, to tease, to beat
down in a bargain, to argue in a contentious spirit.
+Haggy+, _adj._ Rough, boggy, always applied to land.
+Hag snars+, _n._ The stubs left standing after the chopping down
of young trees.
+Hag-worm+, _n._ The viper or adder (_Pelias berus_). The name is
never applied to the blind-worm.
+Hair-breed+, _n._ 1. By little and little.
2. Slow degrees.
3. The narrowest margin.
Ex.—1. _Wa’re bodduming what tha did byv hair-breeds_, i.e. ‘We
are finding out what they did little by little.’
2. _Willie mends, bud it’s nobbut byv hair-breeds._
3. _He ’scaped wiv his leyfe, bud it war nobbut byv a hair-breed_,
lit. ‘A hair’s breadth.’
+Hairy-worm+, _n._ Any caterpillar of a hairy kind.
+Hake+, _n._ An importunate beggar, not necessarily a pauper; a
greedy, grasping person.
+Hake+, _v._ To be pertinacious, to weary with importunities.
+Hale+, _v._ To empty a vessel by inclining it to one side.
+Hales+, _n._ The handles of a plough.
+Half-marrow+, _n._ One considered as but a youth at his calling,
half-grown.
+Half nowt+, Beneath consideration, either as to money or character.
Ex.—_Ah gat it foor hauf nowt. Its nobbut a hauf-nowt when it’s
deean. T’ father’s i’ prison an’ t’ lad’s a hauf nowt._
+Half-rocked+ or +-baked+, _adj._ Half-witted, foolish.
Ex.—_He knaws nowt, he’s nobbut hauf-rocked. It’s nobbut a
hauf-rocked thing foor onnybody ti deea._
+Hallock+, _v._ To wander aimlessly about.
Ex.—_If he isn’t risting up agaain a wall, he’ll be hallocking_
_sumwheear. If thoo aims ’at hallocking aboot ’ll finnd tha a
job, thoo’s grandly mista’en._
+Hames+, +Heeams+, _n._ That part of a horse’s collar to which the
traces are fixed.
+Hammer+, _v._ To stammer.
+Hampered+, _adj._ 1. Hindered by difficulties.
2. Overrun by vermin or insects.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ve been hampered wi’ all maks an’ manders o’ things._
2. _T’ farm’s fairly hampered wi’ rabbits an’ rats._
3. _Them to’nips leeak a bit hampered wi’ t’ fly._
+Ham-sam+, _v._ To pack or hurriedly put away things anyhow so as
to get them out of sight, to throw together anyhow.
+Ham-shackle+, _v._ To tie the head to one of the fore feet to
prevent driven cattle from running away.
+Hanch at+, _v._ An attempt to bite from behind.
+Hand, To bear at+. _v._ 1. To blame.
2. To blame with a feeling of resentment.
Ex.—1. _Ah beear him at hand foor all sha knows aboot what wa
did at Sally’s._
2. _It war nowt bud a dirty trick, an’ Ah s’all awlus beear him
at hand for ’t._
+Hand-clowt+, +Han’-cloot+, _n._ A towel.
+Hand-ho’d+, _n._ That which admits of being firmly gripped, the
act of gripping.
Ex.—_It ’ez a good hand-ho’d ti ’t. Ah gat a good hand-ho’d, an’
Ah nivver let go._
+Handle+, +Hann’l+, _v._ 1. To treat.
2. To manage.
Ex.—1. _Tha hann’ld t’ lad varry badly._
2. _Sha’s varra kittlish an’ bad ti hann’l._
+Hand-running+, _adv._ In regular succession.
Ex.—_He’s ta’en fowr prizes han’-running._
+Handsel+, +Han’sel+, _n._ and _v._ 1. The money received on or
before the commencement of any work so as to make the agreement
binding.
2. To give something on using a thing for the first time.
3. The act of using a thing for the first time.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll pay tha summat noo ti han’sel t’ job._
2. _Whya, thoo’ll be leyke ti han’sel t’ new hoss, wa s’ want a
glass apiece._
3. _Ah’ve han’sel’d t’ new reaper ti-daay._
+Hand-staff+, _n._ The handle of a flail.
+Hand-turn+, _n._ A small amount of work.
Ex.—_Sha’s that lazy ’at sha weean’t deea a hand-to’n foor hersen,
let aleean foor onnybody else._
+Handy+, _adj._ 1. Skilful, apt, clever with one’s hands.
2. Useful, just the very thing needed.
Ex.—1. _He’s a varra handy chap._
2. _It’s yan o’ t’ maist handy things ’at Ah’ve ivver clap’t my
een on._
+Hang-dog+, _adj._ Sullen.
Ex.—_Deean’t gan aboot wiv a hang-dog leeak o’ thi feeace leyke
that._
+Hang-dog+, _n._ A worthless fellow.
+Hangedly+, _adv._ Without heart, despondent.
+Hank+, _n._ A latchet or loop of band or rope used to secure a
gate; a skein of wool or string, &c.
+Hank+, _v._ To hang the bridle to a hook, gate, &c.; to fasten,
as a gate.
+Hank, To get things in a+ = To get one’s circumstances involved.
+Hankle+, +Henkle+, _v._ 1. To become entangled.
2. To greatly desire, used in a very wide sense.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ve gitten t’ kite band sadly hankled_, i.e. entangled.
_He’s gitten hankled on wi’ yon chap, an’ he’ll deea him neea good.
Ah weean’t be hankled on wi’ neea sike leyke carryings on_,
i.e. mixed up with.
2. _Ah awlus hed a hankling foor Tom’s meer. Neea, wa didn’t
bargain, bud Ah’ve a gert hankling foor ’t._
+Hant+, _v._ To frequent.
Ex.—_He fairly hants t’ hoos sen Polly cam._
+Hanted+, _v._ 1. Frequented by a ghost.
2. To be always at one’s heels.
Ex.—1. _Ah wadn’t gan neear t’ pleeace at neet, tha saay it’s
hanted._
2. _He’s awlus sumwheear nigh at hand, Ah’s fairly hanted wi t’
lad sen Ah gat t’ larl pony._
+Hap+, _v._ 1. To cover over.
2. To wrap up.
3. To bury.
4. To discontinue.
5. To happen, chance, befall.
Ex.—1. _Thoo mun hap t’ strawberries up wi’ a bit o’ streah._
2. _Noo ya mun hap up well, it’s a cau’d neet._
3. _Ah’ve just happ’d Willie’s grave up._
4. _Let’s hap t’ job up noo an’ saay neea mair aboot it._
5. _If nowt s’u’d hap ti stop ma, Ah s’ cum._
NOTE.—Lap is often used instead of ‘hap’ in 2 and 4.
+Happen+, _v._ 1. Possibly.
2. To meet with.
3. Perhaps.
Ex.—1. _Will ta cum? Happen Ah maay._
2. _He’s happen’d a bad accident._
3. _Ass him, an’ happen he’ll gi’e tha ’t._
+Happing+, _n._ Covering of any kind, usually bed-clothes.
+Haps+, _n._ Any covering which may be used over the ordinary
clothes.
Ex.—_‘A’e ya browt plenty o’ haps wi’ ya?_ meaning topcoats,
jackets, rugs, &c.
+Harbour+, _n._ Shelter, lodging.
Ex.—_Wa mun finnd a harbour sumwhere whahl t’ shooer’s ower’d.
Seea lang ez it’s cleean Ah deean’t mahnd, bud Ah mun ’ev a
harbour foor t’ neet._
+Harbour+, _v._ To shelter, to hide, generally used in a derogatory
sense.
Ex.—_Sha’s neeawaays neyce whaw sha harbours_, i. e. ‘She is not
particular what kind of people she takes in, shelters, or lets
her rooms to.’ _Tha’d harbour t’ devil if tha thowt tha c’u’d
mak owt byv it._
+Hard+, _adj._ Sour, said of beer; difficult to do or manage, close,
much.
Ex.—_He’s a hard un ti bargain wi’. It ficked that hard, whahl
Ah c’u’dn’t ho’d it_, i. e. much. _He awlus drahves a hard
bargain_, i. e. close. _It’s ommaist neea ewse assing him; he
said he wadn’t, an’ he’s hard ti to’n._
+Hard eneeaf+, _adv._ Without doubt, certainly, of a truth.
Ex.—_Ah’ll deea ’t, hard eneeaf. He’ll tell tha what he thinks,
hard eneeaf._
+Hard, To look+, _v._ To pay great attention, to observe closely.
Ex.—_Thoo mun leeak hard at it, an’ then thoo’ll seean git thi
task off. Ah hed ti leeak hard at him afoor Ah kenn’d whaw it
war._
+Harden+, _v._ 1. To bring oneself to do a thing.
2. To clear up after rain.
Ex.—1. _Ah deean’t leyke t’ job, bud Ah s’all ’a’e ti harden
mysel ti ’t._
2. _It’s neea ewse to’ning t’ hay, whahl it hardens up a bit._
+Harden-feeaced+, _adj._ Threatening, lowering—of the sky or weather.
+Harding+, _n._ A coarse kind of material for making aprons or
wrappers of.
+Hardlings+, _adv._ Not quite, scarcely.
+Hard o’ hearing+, _adj._ More or less deaf.
+Hardset+, _adv._ With difficulty able.
Ex.—_Sha’s hardset ti mak ends meet. Ah wur hardset ti git t’ job
deean i’ tahm._
+Hark back, To+, _Vide_ +Harp+.
+Hark ya+, _intj._ Hear you! listen!
+Harled+, _adj._ Mottled.
+Harn+, _n._ _Vide_ +Harding+.
+Harp+, _v._ To continually refer to some annoying circumstance,
some mistake, or disgrace.
Ex.—_Sha nivver lets t’ thing dee, sha’s awlus harping on aboot
it._
+Harr+, _n._ A thick fog inclining to rain.
+Harrish+, _n._ Worry, annoyance, trouble.
Ex.—_It’s a bit of a harrish, bud then wa s’ git ower ’t sumhoo._
+Harrish+, _v._ To be worried owing to some misadventure,
distressed through not knowing how some undertaking may turn out.
+Harrow, To trail a light+ = To have a small family, to have few
worries or difficulties.
+Hartree+, _n._ The tail-piece of a gate.
+Harv+, _v._ The word for a horse to turn to the left hand.
+Hasky+, +Hask+, _adj._ Dry, rough, coarse.
+Hat up, To hang one’s+ = To be quite at home, welcome.
Ex.—_Ah can hang mah hat up yonder when Ah’ve a mahnd teea._
+Hatter+, _v._ To mix or confuse things, to knot, to throw in
disorder. _See also_ +Hotter+.
+Hause+, _n._ The throat or neck.
+Hauve+, _v._ To stare stupidly.
+Hauvey-gauvey+, _n._ A stupid fellow, a lout.
+Hauvish+, _adj._ Lacking common sense, stupid.
+Havver+, _n._ Oats; hence +Havver-cake+.
+Havver-meal+, _n._ Oatmeal.
+Hay-bauks+, _n._ Poles or sticks so arranged to hold hay for
cattle to feed from.
+Hay-bay+, _n._ A wild uproar.
+Hay-chat+, _n._ The whitethroat.
+Hasel+, _Vide_ +Hezzle+.
+Hazled+, _adj._ An intermixture of red and white hairs. When the
red preponderate, the beast is dark hazled; when white, vice
versa. Often designated roan or roaned.
+Head+, _n._ The upper part of a dale.
+Head-gear+, _n._ 1. The blinders and bit, &c.
2. Head-dress.
3. Good sense, brain power.
Ex.—1. _He’s putten t’ heead-gear on afoor t’ barfan._
2. _Did ti notish her heead-gear? It wur grand._
3. _Ez far ez a bit o’ heead-geear gans, he’s ez sharp ez onny
on ’em._
+Head-rigg+, _n._ That part of a field on which the horses and
plough are turned about.
+Head screwed on the right way+, Knowing what is best to be done,
sensible, having good judgement.
+Head-stall+, _n._ A halter, usually made of hemp.
+Head-tire+, _n._ Head-dress.
+Heap+, _n._ In measure a quarter of a peck.
+Heart-brussen+ or +Brussen-hearted+, _adj._ Heart-broken.
+Heart-bun+, +Heart-grown+, _adj._ Strongly attached to a place;
also having a great desire to accomplish something in the future.
+Heart-eased+, _adj._ Freed from pain or distress.
+Hearten+, _v._ To encourage, to give hope.
+Heart-sick+, _adj._ Without hope, despondent.
+Heart, Soft at+ } _adj._ Easily appeased, kindly disposed.
+Heart, Warm at+ }
+Heart-whole+, _adj._ 1. True-hearted.
2. Fancy-free.
Ex.—_Tak him all ends up he’s a heart-w’oll, canny chap. Ah’s
heart-w’oll yet; ther’s nowt aboot here ’at’s ta’en mah fancy_,
i. e. not in love.
+Heave+, _v._ To scatter corn, to winnow it.
+Heave and throw+, To retch and vomit.
+Heave up+, _v._ To retch.
+Heck+, _n._ The upper part, containing the latch, of a door made
in two parts. A rack for fodder; hence Stand-heck.
+Heckling+, _n._ Being much questioned whilst being scolded.
+Heckling+, _v._ To pester with many pertinent and impertinent
questions.
+Hedge-dike+, _n._ A bank with a hedge on it, forming a fence.
+Hedge-dike-side+, _n._ The part of the hedge-bank on the
water-channel side.
+Heead-wark+, _n._ Headache.
+Heeaf+, _n._ and _v._ Home, an abode; to abide.
+Heeak+, _v._ To loiter, to hang about with intent to eavesdrop.
+Heeal, Yal+, _adj._ Whole.
+Heeam, Yam+, _n._ Home. Also pronounced Whoam.
+Heeat, Yat+. Pronunciations of Hot.
+Heed+, _v._ To concern oneself, to mind, to pay proper and
thoughtful attention to.
Ex.—_Ah deean’t heed mich ov ’at he sez. Nivver heed, cum on. He
nivver heeds what onnybody sez._
+Heegh+, High.
+Heeze+, _v._ To breathe hoarsely.
+Heeze+, _n._ A disease incident to pigs, and when so afflicted
they breathe with difficulty.
+Heezy+, _adj._ Wheezing, hoarse.
+Heft+, _v._ To fit a handle to.
+Heft+, _n._ 1. A handle.
2. Not all, only part.
Ex.—1. _T’ knife’s gitten a grand heft tul ’t._
2. _Thoo’s nobbut gitten a heft on ’t, sha’s kept t’ main on ’t
back._
+Heigh-how+, _v._ To yawn.
+Held+, _v._ 1. A condition of finance.
2. Inclination.
Ex.—1. _Ah’d ’a’e lent tha t’ brass leyke all that, bud Ah’s
badly held mysel just noo._
2. _Ah war gretly held i’ t’ seeam waay_, i. e. ‘I was greatly
inclined the same way.’
+Helm+, +Hellum+, _n._ A rough shed or shelter away from the farm
buildings.
+Helter+, _n._ A halter.
+Helter-skelter+, _n._ A wild rush of people or animals.
Ex.—_When he seed ma he went helter-skelter doon t’ lonnin’
leyke a scopperil._
+Hemmel+, _n._ The handrail of a wooden bridge.
+Hempy+, _adj._ Mischievous, even to breaking the law, malicious.
+Hen-bauk+, _n._ The beam for fowls to roost on.
+Henkle+, _Vide_ +Hankle+.
+Hennet+ = Have not. Should be written ‘’ae‘ nut.’
+Henpen+, _n._ The manure of fowls.
+Hen-scrats+, +Hen-scrattings+, _n._ Light, streaky, fleecy clouds,
often called +Fillytails+.
+Heron-sew+, _n._ The heron.
+Heap+, _n._ The catch which fastens gates, doors, &c.
+Hezzle+, +Hezzling+, +Heshing+, _v._ To beat, to thrash soundly.
+Hide+, _v._ To flog, to chastise.
+Hig+, _n._ Offence taken of a petty nature, to be offended for the
time being.
Ex.—_Tak neea notish, sha’s nobbut ta’en t’ hig._
+High-larn’d+, _adj._ Highly educated.
+High up+, _adj._ A good position in society, rank, or office.
+Hind+, _n._ The head farm servant, who is hired by the year, and
has a house provided rent free, with sundry other perquisites; a
sort of bailiff, in fact, but of a lower degree.
+Hinder-ends+, _n._ The poorer corn left after threshing.
+Hing+, +Heng+, _v._ 1. To hang.
2. To cling.
3. To continue.
Ex.—1. _Hing thi coaat up._
2. _He’s treated her warse ’an a dog, bud sha still hings tiv him._
3. _If t’ droot hings on, to’nips’ll be ti neea good ti year._
+Hing for rain, To+, A common phrase used when rain is more than
probable.
+Hipe+, _v._ To push with the horns, to make grimaces.
+Hiper+, _n._ A mimic.
+Hipping-steeans+, _n._ Stepping-stones.
+Hippings+, _n._ Baby’s napkins.
+Hipple+, _n._ A small bundle of half-dried hay.
+Hiring penny+, _n._ A sum of money, generally half a crown, paid
as earnest money by a master on hiring his farm servant.
+Hirings+, _n._ A statute fair, at which servants are hired.
+Hirp+, +Hirple+, _v._ To stick the back up with cold.
+Hiss+, _Vide_ +Siss+.
+Hissel+, +Hissen+, _pro._ Himself.
+Hitch+, _v._ To hop.
+Hitch, strahd, an’ jump+ or +loup+. Hop, stride, and jump.
+Hoavish+, _adj._ Stupid, idiotic.
+Hobman+, The name of an elf-man, at one time very generally
believed in, doubtless akin to, if not the same as, Danish
_Nisses_. Each elf-man or hobman had his habitation, to which he
gave his name, as Hob Hill, Upleatham, Hob Green, near Ripon, Hob
o’ t’ rush Rook, on the Farndale moors, &c. There must have been
both kindly natured and malicious hobmen, as stories are
plentiful in proof of both.
+Hobble+, _v._ To move along with difficulty or from age.
+Hobble+, _n._ Trouble, perplexity.
Ex.—_Throw what Ah’ve tell’d Bob Ah’ve gitten mysel intiv a gret
hobble. He’s tell’d what Ah sed, an’ sha’s letten oot what he sed,
an’ noo wa’re all iv a hobble tigither._
+Ho’d+, _v._ 1. To hold.
2. To keep.
3. To maintain.
4. To keep in employment.
5. To remain with.
Ex.—1. _Thoo mun ho’d fast._
2. _Thoo mun ho’d ti what thoo’s sed. If t’ daay ho’ds fair wa
s’all git wer hay._
3. _Ah ho’d ’at he’s i’ t’ wrang._
4. _T’ job at t’ chuch ’ll ho’d him foor long eneeaf._
5. _He’s laam’d foor leyfe; ’t’ll ho’d him ti t’ end ov his
daays._
+Ho’d+, _n._ 1. Possession.
2. Tenure.
Ex.—1. _When he gits ho’d he’ll keep ho’d._
2. _If thoo dizn’t mak thi ho’d paay thoo owt._
+Ho’d fair+, _v._ To keep fair.
+Ho’d off+, _v._ To hold off, to keep off.
Ex.—_Ah think t’ rain’s gahin’ ti ho’d off. If he can nobbut
ho’d off fra drinkin’ he’ll cum roond._
+Ho’d on+, _v._ 1. To retain one’s grip.
2. Also used in the sense of to stop, wait a moment.
Ex.—1. _Ho’d on tiv its heead, Ah’s cummin’._
2. _Ho’d on a bit, deean’t thoo slavver on seea fast_,
i.e. ‘Wait a moment, don’t you talk so fast.’
+Ho’d talk+, _v._ To gossip, also as a noun.
Ex.—_Sha’ll ho’d talk wi’ onnybody; aye, sha’s a champion at
ho’ding talk._
+Ho’d teea+, _v._ To agree to, to carry out, to uphold.
+Ho’d up+, _v._ To keep one’s head up, to fight against despondency.
Ex.—_Noo deean’t gi’e waay, thoo mun ho’d up; things isn’t seea
bad, noo ho’d up._
+Ho’d wi’+, _v._ To agree with.
Ex.—_Whya noo, Ah ho’d wi’ t’ main o’ what thoo sez._
+Hoffle+, _Vide_ +Hobble+.
+Hog+, _n._ A male pig, a sheep of a year old.
+Hoidle+, _v._ To idle.
+Hoit+, _v._ To act like a fool. _n._ A fool.
+Hoity-toity+, _intj._ An exclamation of surprise, carrying with
it slight indignation. _adj._ Somewhat ruffled in temper.
+Holl+, _n._ A narrow deep depression in the face of the land,
varying in length, but never extensive; the dead of night.
+Hollin+, _n._ The holly.
+Holm+, _n._ Land by the side of a stream, low-lying and subject
to being flooded.
+Holy+ or +Lemmel steean+, _n._ Any water-rolled stone of small
size having a hole through, once valued as a charm against
witches.
+Home-coming+, _n._ The return home of an absent one, the
festivities on such an occasion after a wedding or long absence.
+Honey+, A term of endearment, often preceded or followed by some
other word to add greater force. Little conception can be formed
of the love and tenderness which is thrown into and expressed by
this word; it must be heard as coming from a mother’s lips.
Ex.—‘_Oh, mah sweet honey bairn!_’ said as a mother picked up a
fallen child. ‘_Thoo little honey!_’ as the baby was clasped
to its mother’s breast. ‘_Gan thi ways, honey dear; Cu’ thi
ways, mah honey pet_,’ &c.
+Honey-fall+, _n._ A piece of rare luck, money left from some
unexpected quarter.
+Honeysouk+, _n._ Honeysuckle.
+Hoo+, _adv._ How.
+Hood-end+, _n._ The flat portion found on either side of old-style
fire grates, upon which a kettle or pan may be placed.
+Hoos+, _n._ House. _Vide_ +House+.
+Hooze+, _Vide_ +Heeze+.
+Hopper+, _n._ The basket or skep containing the seed corn when
sowing, usually suspended by a strap over the shoulders.
+Hopple+, _v._ 1. To tie the legs of an animal so as to prevent
its running away.
2. To hinder.
Ex.—2. _It’s neea ewse his endivering when he’s hoppled wiv a
weyfe leyke yon; sha’s nowt bud a clog tiv his foot_, i.e. ‘It
is no use his striving when he is hindered or tied to a wife like
that; she is nothing but a drag on him.’
+Hork+, _v._ To trail about.
+Horry+, _v._ To hurry.
+Horse-gogs+ or +Hoss-gogs+, _n._ A common, astringent, purple
brown plum.
+Hoss-steean+, +Hoss-block+, +Hossin’-steps+, _n._ A stone or
steps used to stand upon when about to mount a horse.
+Hosses together, They deean’t put ther+ = Not friendly.
+Hoss-teng+, _n._ The common dragon-fly.
+Hoss-trod+, _n._ A bridle-road.
+Hostle+, _v._ To put up at an inn. ‘Hostle’ is only used in
connexion with an inn. We ‘put up’ and ‘hostle’ at an inn, and
‘lowse out’ at a friend’s.
Ex.—_Ah can lowse oot at thi pleeace, caan’t Ah?_ or _Ah’ll put
up at t’ Black Swan. Ah hostles at t’ Blew Pig._
+Ho’t+, Pronunciation of +Hurt+.
+Hotch+, _v._ To botch, to bungle.
+Hotch+, _n._ A mismanaged affair.
+Hot-pots+, +Heeat-+ or +Yat-pots+, _n._ _Vide_ ‘Wedding Customs.’
+Hotter+, _v._ To jolt, to bump as in a cart over a stony road.
+Hottery+, _adj._ Broken, rough, uneven road.
+Houe+, _n._ A hill of considerable size: Houe Hill, near Ripon.
A tumulus.
+Houl+, _n._ _Vide_ +Holl+.
+Hound+, _v._ 1. To incite.
2. To give an opportunity.
Ex.—1. _Them ’at hounded him on war t’ fo’st ti bleeam him._
2. _Neeabody’s hounded him on mair ’an what Ah ’ev, an’ yet he
wadn’t stick up tul him._
+House+, _n._, pron. _hoos_. With our country folk, ‘hoos’ is not
the whole building, but the one room in which the family usually
dwell; the other rooms are spoken of as the parlour, back room,
and the chambers, &c.
Ex.—_Deean’t set it doon i’ t’ hoos, tak it inti t’ parlour._
+House-fast+, _adj._ Confined to the house through illness.
+House+ or +Hoos fau’k+ or +fooak+, _n._ The people of the house.
+House-kept+ or +-held+, _adj._ Confined to the house owing to
some preventing cause other than illness.
+Housin’ stuff+ or +sticks+. Household goods, furniture.
+Hout+, _intj._ Expressing incredulity or dissent.
+Hover+, _v._ 1. To hesitate.
2. Inclined for.
Ex.—1. _Ah hovered a larl bit afoor Ah bowt it._
2. _Ah doot it’s hovering foor raain._
+Howk+, _v._ 1. To dig.
2. To lift or push with some force.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll howk t’ grund foor tha. He gat at t’ back o’ ma
an’ howk’d ma inti t’ carridge afoor Ah ken’d wheear Ah war._
+Howly+, _n._ A boys’ game.
+Howse+, _v._ To bale out water, &c.
+Howsomivver+, +Howsumivver+, +Hoosivver+, _conj._ Howsoever,
however.
+Hubble-shoo+, _n._ An excited, noisy crowd.
+Huckle+, _n._ The hip.
+Huff+, _n._ Offence taken.
Ex.—_He’s ta’en huff, an’ sha’s ta’en t’ hig, an’ tha’ve baith
gitten t’ hump tigither._
+Huff+, _v._ To puff or swell up, as after a blow.
+Huff’d+, _p._, _a._ Offended.
+Huffil+, _n._ A finger-stall.
+Hug+, _v._ To carry, whether in the arms or on the back.
+Hugger-mugger+, _n._ Everything in disorder.
+Huke-bone+, _Vide_ +Huckle+.
+Huker+, _v._ To barter.
+Hull+, _v._ To remove the pod or outer covering of peas, beans, &c.
+Hulls+, +Hullin+, _n._ The pods or outer covering of many fruits
and grain.
+Hummel+, _v._ To break off the awns of barley.
+Hummel’d+, _adj._ Without horns.
+Hummeller+, _n._ The instrument used to hummel with.
+Humped+, _adj._ Sulky.
+Hunger+, _v._ and _n._ 1. To suffer from the pangs of hunger.
2. To withhold food, to provide insufficiently.
Ex.—1. _Ah war hungered past my bahdings._
2. _He hungers ivverything aboot t’ pleeace._
+Hussocks+, _n._ Coarse tufts of grass.
+Hutter+, _Vide_ +Hotter+.
I.
+I’+, _prep._ In. ‘I’’ is used before a consonant, ‘iv’ before a
vowel.
Ex.—_I’ t’ boddum o’ t’ box_, i.e. ‘In the bottom of the box.’
_Iv all manner o’ waays._
+Ice-shoggles+, +Ice-shogglins+, _n._ Icicles.
+Ickles+, _n._ Icicles.
+If+, Is often used for ‘whether,’ _Vide_ ex. +Nither+.
+If in case+, +If so be as how+. Redundancies for ‘+if+.’
+If no more+ = If not more.
+If so be that+, _Vide_ +If in case+.
+Ill+, _adj._ Bad, evil dispositioned or intentioned.
Ex.—_He’s queer, bud sha’s an ill un._
+Ill+, _n._ Harm.
Ex.—_Thoo’s warked him all t’ ill ’at ivver thoo c’u’d._
+Ill-deed+, _n._ Evil proceedings, ill-luck.
Ex.—_Ill-deed nivver thrives. He’s ’ed nowt bud ill-deed fra t’
startin’._
+Ill-fare+, _v._ To fail through ill-luck, often used in reversed
order, as +Fare-ill+.
Ex.—_Ah ’ed it fetch t’ meer yam agaan, Ah nobbut fared ill wi
’t, ez sha brak baith her knees cumin’ doon t’ bank._
+Ill-favoured+, _Vide_ +Ill-thriven+.
+Ill-gaited+, _adj._ Awkward in action.
+Ill-hap+, _n._ Misfortune.
+Illify+, _v._ To speak disparagingly of, to defame.
Ex.—_Sha illifies onnybody an’ ivverybody, sha spares nowt na
neeabody._
+Ill-put-on+ or +-putten+, _adj._ Shabby, applied to clothes.
+Ill-ta’en+, _adv._ To take anything with bad grace.
Ex.—_It war nobbut ill-ta’en what thoo sed._
+Ill-tented+, _adj._ Neglected, badly cared for or looked after.
+Ill-thriven+ or +-throven+, _adj._ Having a weakly, ill-fed
appearance, unhealthy.
+Immense+, _adj._ Exactly, precisely the thing required.
+Imp+, _n._ An extra ring, usually made of straw, used for
enlarging the size, by insertion beneath the beehive.
+In+, +Un+. One. _Vide_ +Un+.
+Incomin’+, _n._ Entrance, the taking possession by a new tenant.
+Inear+, _n._ The kidney.
+Ing+, _n._ A low-lying pasture.
+Ingle+, _n._ 1. Fire, flame.
2. The fireside, when used with the definite article.
Ex.—_Ah tell’d my taal o’ luv byv t’ ingle glow._
+Ingle-neuk+, _n._ The corners by the fireside within the
old-fashioned open chimneys.
+Inkle+, _n._ A kind of tape.
+Inkle+, _v._ 1. To arrange plans.
2. To have a desire for.
Ex.—1. _He’s awlus inklin’ summat, bud it nivver cums ti nowt._
2. _He maistly inkles efter what he can’t git._
+Inkle-weavers, As thick as+, In the weaving of inkle the workers
were enabled to sit quite close together, the width of the
fabric being so narrow; hence arose the saying, ‘As thick as
inkle-weavers.’ The phrase also carries the idea of great
friendship.
+Inklin’+, _n._ A hint, an idea, a guess.
Ex.—_Ah’ve gi’en her a bit ov an inklin’ o’ what’s gahin’ on.
It’ll nut be lang afoor he finnds ’em oot, he’s gitten an
inklin’._
+In-meats+, _n._ The viscera of any animal which is considered
edible.
+Innards+, _n._ One’s inside, bowels, entrails, &c.
+Innerly+, _adv._ More within.
+Inoo+, +Inow+, _adv._ Presently, shortly.
+Insense+, _v._ 1. To inform.
2. To make clear beyond all doubt.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll insense him inti ’t when Ah see him._
2. _Ah varra seean insens’d it intiv him._
+Insides+, _n._ Viscera.
+Intak+, _n._ Land enclosed from a common or road for cultivation.
+Inti+, +Intil+, +Intiv+, +Intul+, _prep._ Into.
+In wi’, To be+ = To be on good terms with.
Ex.—_Jack’s weel in wi’ t’ Squire._
+Iv+, _Vide_ +I’+.
+Ivvery+, _adj._ Every.
+Ivvery like+, _adv._ Every now and then.
J.
+Jab+, _v._ To crush.
Ex.—_Ah’ve gitten mah finger sadly jabbed wi t’ yat._
+Jack+, _n._ Quarter-pint measure.
+Jacket, To warm one’s+ = To beat, to chastise.
Ex.—_If thoo gans theear onny mair, Ah’ll warm thi jacket for
tha._
+Jacketed, To be+, _v._ To hear a charge, or bear reproof having
first been arraigned before one’s superiors; to be closeted with.
Ex.—_He’s been jacketed wi’ t’ gaffer i’ t’ parlour ower an hoor
noo. Ah’ll lay he’s gi’en him t’ lines properly._
+Jaded+, _adj._ To be almost overcome with difficulties.
+Jangle+, _v._ To jingle.
+Jannock+, _adj._ Fair, honourable, just.
+Jar+, _v._ To quarrel.
+Jar on+, _v._ To be continually at variance.
+Jarring+, _n._ Quarrelling, squabbling.
+Jaup+, _v._ 1. To strike together.
2. To shake any liquid in a vessel.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll jaup tha eggs_, i.e. boys jaup their Easter eggs
by striking them one against the other; the one succeeding in
breaking the other’s egg claims it as victor.
2. _If thoo jaups t’ milk leyke that, thoo’ll finnd butter i’
t’ can when thoo gits yam._
+Jaupin’+, +Jaupen+, _adj._ Gaping, wide.
+Javver+, _n._ Silly talk, foolish prating.
+Jealous+, +Jillous+, _adj._ Suspicious. _v._ To anticipate.
Ex.—_Ah war a bit jillous ’at he wad splet on uz. Ah jillous’d
Jim all t’ tahm._
+Jert+, _v._ To project a stone by catching the hand against the
side.
+Jill+, _v._ To drink continuously but in small quantities.
Ex.—_Neeabody ivver sees him tak a gert quantity, bud then he
gans jilling aboot seea._
+Jimp+, _adj._ 1. Smart in figure, slight.
2. Short measure.
Ex.—1. _Sha’s gitten ez jimp a waist ez onny lass._
2. _It’s jimp i’ t’ paper, an’ jimp i’ pot_, i. e. ‘Light both
as to weight and measure.’
+Jin+, Jane.
+Jinny-spinner+, _n._ The crane-fly, or any of the genus _Tipula_.
+Jinny-ullot+, +Jenny Howlet+, _n._ The tawny owl (_Syrnium
siridula_).
+Job+, _v._ To trade in.
Ex.—_He jobs iv ommaist owt_.
+Joblijock+, _n._ The name of the cock turkey, a domestic trouble
or discomfort.
+Jodder+, +Jother+, _n._ A shaking, as one gets in a springless
cart, a trembling.
Ex.—_It joggled an’ Ah jothered, whahl Ah felt leyke tumm’ling
ti bits._
+Jodder+, +Jother+, _v._ To shake like jelly, to tremble.
+Jodderum+, _n._ A trembling, shaking mass.
+Joggle+, _v._ To shake, to be unsteady in motion.
+Joggly+, _adj._ Shaky, unsteady.
+Joggle-stick+, _n._ The bar which secures the shafts to the body
of the cart.
+Jollous+, _adj._ In good condition, healthy, well-fed.
+Jolt-heead+, _n._ A clumsy fellow.
+Jorum+, _n._ A pitcher-like vessel of considerable size; the
whole lot, a considerable crowd of people.
+Joskin+, _n._ A country lad.
+Joul+, +Jowl+, _n._ The jaw; fat hanging cheeks.
+Joul+, +Jowl+, _v._ To jolt or hit against.
Ex.—_Ah laamed mahsen sadly, Ah jowl’d my heead up agaainst t’
deear._
+Jowls+, _n._ A kind of hockey played by boys.
+Judy-cow+, _Vide_ +Doody-cow+.
+Jumm’lment+, _n._ 1. A confusion.
2. Things of many kinds.
Ex.—1. _Thoo’s gitten things intiv a straange jumm’lment._
2. _Ah nivver clapt my een on sike a jumm’lment o’ trash ez he’s
gitten geddered tigedder._
+Jump with, To+, _v._ To meet or to find.
Ex.—_Ah jumped wi’ Betty at t’ lonnin’ end. Efter leeaking all
ower foor t’ lad, Ah jumped wiv him at skeeal yat._
+June bug+, _n._ The ladybird (_Coccinella punctata_). _Vide_
+Doody-cow+.
+Junters+, _adj._ Sulks, bad temper.
K.
+Kaimt+, _adj._ Not straight.
+Kale+, +Keeal+, _n._ Porridge, broth.
NOTE.—If for other than domestic use, it is specialized as
‘Keeal for t’ pigs,’ ‘flour keeal,’ &c.
+Kale-pot+, +Keeal-pot+. An iron pot having three short iron feet,
used for cooking kale in.
+Kalīver+, _v._ To dance about excitedly.
+Kame+, +Keeam+, _n._ A comb. Also as a _verb_.
+Kane+, +Keean+, _v._ To bring fermentation to a head.
+Kave+, +Keeave+, _v._ To rake the ’pulls and caff’ from corn when
thrashing.
+Kavings+, _n._ The short straws, &c., as above.
+Kead+, +Ked+, _n._ The sheep-tick (_Melophagus ovinus_).
+Keck+, +Kecken+, _v._ To make a noise whilst coughing, as if
something was fast in the throat; to have a loathing for;
fastidious.
+Kecken-hearted+, _adj._ Nauseated, fanciful.
+Keckle+, _v._ To laugh heartily.
+Kedge+, _n._ A glutton.
+Kedge+, _v._ To set the teeth on edge, to eat and drink like a
glutton.
+Kedging+, _n._ Food.
+Keeak+, _n._ Cake.
+Keeak+, _v._ To cake, to form a hard scum. _Vide_ also +Keek+.
+Keeaky+, _adj._ Brisk, lively.
+Keeave+, +Kauve+, _v._ To paw the ground impatiently, as a horse.
+Keeaving-rake+ } _n._ The rake and riddle used during thrashing.
+Keeaving-riddle+ }
+Keek+, +Keeak+, _v._ To lean towards, or tilt up.
Ex.—_Keeak t’ cart a larl bit mair._
+Keek+, _v._ To pry or peep into, to observe unawares.
Ex.—_Sha’s nowt na better ’an a keyhooal keeker, sha’s allus
keeking._
+Keen+, _adj._ Eager, energetic, desirous.
Ex.—_Ah nivver seed neeabody sae keen afoor. He’s ez keen ez a
tarrier. Ah war a bit keen ti git it._
+Kegged+, _adj._ Offended, inclined to be spiteful.
Ex.—_He gat hissel sairly kegg’d ower t’ job._
+Keld+, +Kell+, +Caul+, _n._ The membrane enveloping the foetus in
the womb, and occasionally found adhering at birth.
+Kelk+, _n._ Fool’s parsley (_Aethusa cynapium_), a heavy blow, a
single ovum of the spawn of a fish.
+Kelps+, _n._ The iron hooks hanging from the gally-bauk.
+Kelter+, _n._ Circumstances of any kind; wealth, or rather the
condition of wealth as vested in property.
+Kelter+, _n._ To go full speed.
Ex.—_Ah nivver cam sike a kelter i’ mah leyfe._
+Keltering+, _adj._ Almost beyond comparison.
Ex.—_Mah wo’d, bud yon is a keltering good un._
+Kelterment+, _Vide_ +Ketterment+.
+Kemps+, _n._ Hairs mixed with wool.
+Kempt+, _pp._ Combed.
+Ken+, _v._ To know.
+Ken+, +Kern+, _v._ To churn. _n._ A churn.
+Ken-cruddle+, _n._ A churn staff.
+Ken-milk+, _n._ Churn-milk, i.e. butter-milk.
+Kennigood+, _n._ A reminder.
Ex.—_Tak that ez a kennigood_, said a man, boxing a boy’s ears.
+Kenning+, _n._ 1. Knowledge.
2. Recognition.
Ex.—1. _Ther’s a gay bit o’ kenning i’ t’ lad._
2. _T’ lass ’ez waxed that mich whahl ther’s neea kenning her._
+Kenspak+, +Kenspeckle+, _adj._ Easily known or recognizable,
conspicuous.
+Kent+, _pp._ Knew.
+Kep+, _v._ To catch.
Ex.—_Ah’ll potch an’ thoo kep._
+Keslip+, +Keslop+, _n._ Rennet.
+Kessen+, _part._ Cast, bent.
+Kess’mas+, +Kess’nmas+, +Kessamas+, _n._ Christmas.
+Kess’n+, _v._ To christen.
+Kess’nen+, _n._ A christening.
+Kess’n up+ = To be found, to turn up.
Ex.—_Ah thowt it ’ed geean foor good, bud it’s kess’n up agaain
ez good ez ivver._
+Kest+, _adj_. Bent, not straight, out of truth.
+Kest+, _v._ To cast off.
+Ket+, _n._ Filth, tainted meat, carrion.
+Ketlock+, _n._ Charlock. _Vide_ +Runch+.
+Ketterment+, _n._ Rubbish.
+Ketty+, _adj._ 1. Nasty.
2. Disagreeable.
Ex.—1. _Oh, what ketty stuff! Ah caan’t eat it._
2. _It’s nobbut a ketty gahin’ on_, i.e. a disagreeable
proceeding.
+Kevel+, _n._ A strong, fairly long ash handle, to which is fixed
a steel hammer-head of curious shape, used as a hammer in quarry
work.
+Kevel+, _v. and n._ Both the working of the stone and the swinging
of the hammer.
Ex.—_Ah’ll kevel mair flints iv a daay ’an he can_, i.e. dress
more flints. _He mannishes varra weel foor a new starter, an’
when he’s larnt t’ knack o’ takking a larl bit wider kevel,
he’ll chip all t’ easier foor ’t_, i.e. ‘When he has learnt
the trick of taking a little bit wider sweep or swing, he will
chip all the easier for it.’ In some way difficult to define,
both the noun and verb, +Kevel+, relate to the handle and its
action as well as to the head.
+Kex+, _n._ Dried stem of fool’s parsley.
+Kick+, _v._ To object.
Ex.—_Ah s’all kick neea lahtle if he cums that gam on ma._
+Kicky-wicky+, _adj._ Disdainful.
+Kin+, _n._ 1. Kind, generally of species.
2. Sort, relationship.
3. A chilblain, a chap or crack in the skin.
Ex.—1. _What a-kin is he ti Tommy?_ 2. _What kin o’ yan
is ’t he’s gitten?_
+Kin+, _v._ To chap, as one’s hands in frosty weather.
+Kin-cough+, _n._ Whooping cough.
+Kind+, _adj._ On friendly terms.
Ex.—_Tha’ve gitten kind agaan. Wa’ve been kind sen wa wur lads._
+Kindling+, +Kinlin’+, _n._ Firewood, small twigs suitable for
lighting a fire.
+Kink+, _n._ A twist in a rope or line, stiffness of the limbs,
a stiff neck.
+Kink+, _v._ To laugh wildly, hysterically; to laugh until one
labours for breath.
+Kinlin’+. _Vide_ +Kindling+.
+Kinn’l+, +Kinnle+, _v._ To set and light the fire; to bring forth
young, applied to a rabbit.
+Kipper+, _adj._ Nimble, in good and lively spirits.
+Kirk+, _n._ A church.
+Kirk-garth+, _n._ Churchyard.
+Kirk-warner+, _n._ Churchwarden.
+Kissing-bush+, _n._ The mistletoe.
+Kist+, _n._ A chest.
+Kit+, _n._ A small pail with one of the staves longer than the
rest, to serve as a handle.
+Kite+, _n._ The belly.
+Kith+, +Kyth+, _n._ Friends, acquaintances.
+Kitlin’+, _n._ A kitten.
+Kittle+, +Kittlish+, _adj._ 1. Easily moved or upset.
2. Nice, delicate.
3. Ticklish, easily tickled.
Ex.—1. _Keep off; its nobbut a varra kittle consarn, varra
larl’ll touple all t’ lot ower_, i.e. ‘Stand clear; it is only
a very unsteady concern, a slight shock or touch will knock it
over.’
2. _Ah’d a seet reyther thoo’d tell him thisel; it’s a kittlish
thing foor me ti deea when Ah’s gahin’ ti wed his sister._
3. _Deean’t touch ma unner t’ airms, Ah’s that kittlish whahl Ah
caan’t bahd it._
+Kittle+, _v._ 1. To bring forth young, said of a cat.
2. To excite, to stir up, to awaken.
3. To tickle.
Ex.—2. _Ah’ll tell him a few things ’at’ll kittle him up a bit.
If that weean’t kittle him up a bit, Ah knaw o’ nowt ’at will._
3. _T’ mair Ah scrat an’ t’ mair Ah kittle._
+Kitty-keis+, _n._ Seeds of the ash-tree.
+Kity+, _adj._ Having a protuberant stomach.
+Kizzen’d+, _pp._ of +Kizzen+, _v._ Dried up, over-cooked, parched.
Ex.—_Thoo’s kizzen’d it whahl Ah caan’t eat it._
+Knab+, _v._ To gnaw as a mouse.
+Knack+, _n._ Adroitness, skill, aptness.
Ex.—_Ah tried an’ oor Jack tried, bud wa c’u’d mak nowt on ’t;
bud Tom teeak ho’d an’ did it iv a crack, bud then he’s gitten
t’ knack on ’t._
+Knack+, _v._ To talk affectedly, to mince one’s speech.
+Knackish+, _adj._ Knavish.
+Knap+, _v._ To give a slight tap, to knock, so as to break.
Ex.—_Ah’ll knap thi knuckles foor tha. Ah’ve knapped a piece off
t’ jug spoot._
+Knappish+, _adj._ Snappy.
+Knapper+, _v._ To talk finely. _Vide_ +Knack+.
+Knapper+, _n._ A door-knocker.
+Knappers+, _n._ Leather flaps to shield the thighs when using the
turf spade.
+Knappery-ware+, _n._ Crockery.
+Knar+, +Knor+, +Knur+, _n._ A ball of wood, a hard knot.
+Knarl+, _v._ To run in knots, as a skein of wool or twine.
+Knaw+, _v._ Know.
+Knee-bass+, _n._ A straw cushion to kneel on when washing steps,
a church hassock.
+Knep+ or +Nipe+, _v._ To bite off in small pieces.
+Knodden+, _pp._ Knead.
+Knoll+, +Knowl+, _n._ A stroke of a bell.
Ex.—_Whisht! it gav six knowlls; it’ll be foor a woman, mebby
Betsy Parkin._
+Knoll+, _v._ To toll, generally applied to the passing bell.
+Knop+, _n._ A knob.
+Knucks+, +Knacks+, +Knuckles+, _n._ A game very commonly played
in the North Riding, several holes being made in the ground some
inches apart, the object being to shoot a marble from one to the
other.
L.
+Laan+, _n._ A loan.
+Labber+, _v._ 1. To play with water or soft mud.
2. To struggle after falling into water.
3. To plod through wet grass or turnips.
Ex.—_T’ barn labbers aboot i’ yon slap hoal whahl sha’s drinch’d
thruff an’ clarted an’ labbered fra heead ti foot wi t’
blathery slathery muckment._
+Labbered+, _pp._ To be splashed or daubed with soft mud.
+Laboursome+, _adj._ Laborious, tiring.
+Lace+, +Leeace+, _v._ 1. To thrash soundly.
2. To add spirits to tea or coffee.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll lace tha soondly when Ah catch tha._
+Lacer+ or +Leeacer+, _n._ Any person or thing larger or taller
than usual.
+Lad-louper+, _n._ An impudent forward lass, one who makes the
first advances.
+Lady-cow+, _Vide_ +Dundy-cow+.
+Lae+, +Leea+, _n._ A scythe.
+Lae-sand+, _n._ A sandstone used for sharpening scythes.
+Lafter+, _n._ The whole of the eggs laid before sitting, the eggs
being sat upon.
+Lag+, _n._ A single wooden division in a cask.
+Lag+, _v._ To loiter, to hang behind.
+Lagged+, _pp._ Tired out, wearied.
+Laggy+, _adj._ Last. A boy shouts ‘Laggy,’ or ‘Bags Ah laggy,’
when he desires to take the last turn in any game. ‘Bags Ah
fuggy’ is, I claim first, ‘seggy’ second, ‘thoddy’ third.
+Lahk+, _Vide_ +Like+.
+Lahtle+, +Larl+, _adj._ Little.
Ex.—_Thoo’s nobbut a larl un, bud if thoo nobbut wurks hard an’
eats plenty o’ pudden thoo’ll stritch oot a gay bit._
+Laid-off+, _adj._ Incapable of work through illness or other causes.
+Laid out+, _v._ Prepared like, got up, looked like.
Ex.—_Ah caan’t saay what it war, bud it laid out leyke rice an’
soapsuds; sum on ’em gulched it doon leyke all that._
+Laid out+, _v._ 1. To arrange.
2. To attend to the body immediately after death.
3. To spend money.
Ex.—1. _Sha laid t’ table oot varra neycely._
2. _Hannah an’ Jane’s laid him oot, poor things an’ tha’re
gahin’ ti sahd him by o’ Tho’sday._
3. _Ah’ve spent all mah brass, bud Ah’ve laid it oot weel._
+Lairock+, _n._ The lark (_Aluda arvensis_).
+Lait+, +Late+, +Leeat+, _v._ To seek.
Ex.—_Ah awlus ’ev ti late that lass ivvery tahm Ah want her.
Ah’ve lated high an’ low foor ’t, bud Ah caan’t finnd it
neeawheear._
+Lake+, +Laak+, +Leyak+, _v._ To play, in a modified sense often
used as tease, e.g. _Tho’ll lake on wi’ t’ dog whahl it’ll bite
tha._
+Lakings+, _n._ Playthings.
+Lalder+, _Vide_ +Lalling+.
+Lalderish+, _adj._ Lazy, listless.
+Lall+, _v._ To sing and shout excitedly.
+Lalling+, +Lolling+, _v._ To wander idly and aimlessly about, to
lazily lean up against a wall for support.
Ex.—_He gans lolling aboot an’ maks ’at he’s badly; a good day’s
work ’ud deea him t’ maist good ov owt._
+Lallops+, +Lollops+, _n._ A lazy lounging fellow.
+Lallopy+, +Lollopy+, _adj._ Idle, untidy, slovenly.
+Lam+, _v._ To beat.
+Lame+, +Laam+, _v._ 1. To hurt.
2. To injure.
Ex.—1. _Let go, thoo’s laming my airm._
2. _Whya, onny road he’s lam’d t’ lad foor leyfe._
+Lammace+, _v._ To beat with heavy blows.
+Lammacing+, _n._ A beating, a good thrashing.
+Lamming+, _n._ A beating.
+Land+, _n._ Space between two furrows.
+Land+, _v._ To arrive, to give a blow.
Ex.—_Ah set off efter tea an’ landed a bit efter darkening. Ah’ll
land tha yan ower t’ gob if thoo dizn’t shut up._
+Landlouper+, _n._ One who runs away to escape paying his debts,
&c.
+Lang+, _adj._ Long.
+Lang first+, _adv._ Long before.
+Lang last+, _adv._ At last.
+Lang length+, _adv._ Full length.
Ex.—_Ah slipped, an’ Ah war laid ma lang len’th on t’ grund i’
a crack. Ah’ll gi’e tha t’ lang length o’ my hand._
+Lang sen+, +Lang sin+, _adv._ Long since.
+Lang settle+, _n._ A long wooden seat with a high back and an arm
at each end.
+Langsome+, _adj._ Long, tedious, troublesome.
+Lang tongued+, _adj._ An exaggerator.
+Lang waay+, _adv._ Much, certainly.
Ex.—_It’s a lang waay t’ best deeaing it this waay. Aye, byv a
lang waay_, i.e. ‘yes, certainly.’
+Lang-waays+, _adv._ Lengthways.
+Lantern-leet+, +Lant’n-leet+, _n._ Lantern-light, often used to
denote late in the evening.
Ex.—_Ah doot Ah s‘an’t be wi’ y a whahl efter lantern-leet._
+Lap+, _v._ 1. To wrap.
2. To have done with, usually followed by ‘up.’
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll lap a bit o’ clowt roond it, an’ it’ll be all reet._
2. _Ah’ve nowt else ti saay; Ah s’all lap t’ job up noo, an’ seea
ther’s an end on ’t._
+Lap-band+, _n._ Hoop-iron.
+Lap-cock+, _n._ A small bundle of hay twisted in the arms and laid
to dry.
+Lapling+, _n._ A vicious fellow.
+Lap up+, _v._ and _n._ To wrap up, to finish; an end.
+Lapwing+, _n._ The plover.
+Lark-heeled+, _adj._ Having heels turning outward.
+Larn+, _v._ To teach.
Ex.—_Will ta larn me hoo ti deea ’t? Ah’s larning mysel ti plaay
t’ fiddle._
+Lash oot+, _v._ To kick, as a horse.
+Lashin’ oot+, _v._ Extravagance, showing off.
Ex.—_Deean’t ya think t’ young doctor’s lashin’ oot mair ’an
what he can stand teea?_ i.e. ‘Don’t you think the young
doctor is showing off (buying horses, &c.) more than he will
be able to pay for?’
+Lashing+, _adj._ Large, either of persons or things.
Ex.—_By goa! bud he’s a lashing young chap; he mun stan mair ’an
six foot._
+Lasty+, _adj._ Durable.
+Late+, _v._ To seek.
+Lated+, _pp._ Sought.
+Lated+, _adv._ Belated.
+Later+, _n._ A seeker.
Ex.—_Ah fan him, bud Ah’s a good later._
+Latt+, _n._ A lath.
+Latty+, _adj._ Thin.
+Lawk+, _intj._ Lo!
+Lax+, _n._ Diarrhoea.
+Lay+, _v._ To be certain, of that opinion, to bet or wager; also
to levy a rate.
Ex.—_Thoo aims ’at he weean’t, bud Ah lay ’at he will. Ah’ll lay
tha what thoo leykes._
+Lay on+, _v._ To use extra exertion. Cattle ‘lay on fat’ when
specially fed.
+Laylac+, _n._ The lilac.
+Laze+, _v._ To live idly.
+Lead+, _n._ Direction, way.
+Lead+, _v._ To carry goods or hay in a cart or wagon.
+Lead-eater+, _n._ India-rubber.
+Leaf+, _n._ Fat round the kidney of an animal.
+Leafs+, _n._ Fat along a pig’s nose.
+Leam+, _v._ To drop or fall out when ripe, as nuts from the husks.
+Leamers+, _n._ Nuts quite ripe, which fall from the husks.
+Leasing+, _n._ The separating of differing kinds of grain.
+Leather-head+, _n._ A dull, stupid fellow.
+Leathered+, _pp._ 1. Beaten, overcome, mastered.
2. Puzzled.
Ex.—1. _Ah’s leathered wi’ this job hooivver_, i.e. overcome.
_He’s leathered him soondly_, i.e. thrashed.
2. _Ah’s leathered ti knaw wheea’s ti blaam_, i.e. puzzled.
+Leave loose+, To let go, to cease from detaining.
+Leavlang+, _adj._ Oblong.
+Leck+, _v._ To escape by drops, to leak.
+Lee+, _n._ The watery discharge from a wound, a lie.
+Leeak for+, _v._ To expect.
Ex.—_Ah s’all leeak foor ya a week cum Mondaay. Ah’s glad ya’ve
fetched it, Ah’ve been leeaking for it cumin’ ivvery daay._
+Leeak ya+, _intj._ Look you!
+Leear+, _n._ Learning.
+Leef+, +Leave+, +Lief+, _adj._ Willingly, just as soon as.
+Leet+, _n._ A light.
+Leet+, _v._ To alight, to settle upon.
+Leet, I’ that+ = In that way, like that.
Ex.—_Ah ’grees wi’ tha, when thoo puts it i’ that leet. Thoo
s’u’dn’t tak ’t i’ that leet._
+Leet on+, _adj._ Unbalanced.
Ex.—_Sit a bit forrad, wa’re a larl bit leet on._
+Leets+, +Leeghts+, _n._ Lungs, lights.
+Leetsome+, _adj._ Lightsome, cheerful.
+Legs, A pair of+, _n._ Stockings.
Ex.—_Sha’s gitten a gran’ pair o’ legs foor t’ wedding._
+Leg up, A+, _n._ Assistance.
Ex.—_Ah’ll cum an’ gi’e tha a leg up mysel._
+Leister+, +Lyster+, _n._ A three-pronged fork for striking salmon.
+Lemmel-steean+, _n._ A stone with a hole through it, formerly used
to ward off witches.
+Len+, _v._ To lend.
+Length+, +Len’th+, _n._ Stature. The ‘g’ is always silent in
_length_, _strength_, _kingdom_, and usually the final ‘g’ also.
+Length of, The+, The distance or limit of anything.
Ex.—_Ah efter it t’ len’th o’ t’ paddock._
+Lenny+, _n._ The linnet.
+Let+, _v._ 1. To light.
2. To alight on.
Ex.—1. _Ah let t’ cann’l._
2. _Ah tumm’ld off t’ stack, bud Ah let o’ mah feet._
+Let drive+, _v._ To strike or kick with force.
+Let on+, _v._ To admit.
Ex.—_Ah didn’t let on ’at Ah knew owt._
+Let on+, +Lite on+, +Leet on+, _v._ To meet, usually followed by
‘with.’
Ex.—_Where did ta lite on wiv him?_
+Let wit+, _v._ To disclose.
Ex.—_Ah let wit ’at Ah knew summat._
+Letten+, _pp._ of ‘to light’ and ‘to let.’
+Leve+, _v._ To raise by leverage.
+Leyke+, _Vide_ +Like+.
+Lib+, _v._ To castrate lambs.
+Liberty+, _n._ The parish or township.
+Lick+, _adj._ Swift, at a great speed.
Ex.—_He did gan wiv a lick roond t’ corner._
+Lick+, _v._ To thrash, to surpass. _Vide_ +Leathered+.
+Lick+, _n._ Just a slight wipe with a damp cloth; hence the saying,
when anything is only half cleansed, _Ah’ve deean ’t wiv a lick
an’ a promise_.
+Lie on+, _Vide_ +Lay on+.
+Lift+, _v._ To help, to render assistance.
Ex.—_Ah aim’d ti gi’e him a bit ov a lift mysel._
+Lig+, _v._ To lay down, to put down.
Ex.—_Thoo mun lig it doon a bit. Ah’ll lig it doon on t’ swab._
+Lig+, _v. i._ To lie down, to be near to or situate.
Ex.—_Sha ligs doon ivvery daay efter dinner. It ligs aback o’
Roseberry._
+Lig-a-bed+, _n._ A sluggard.
+Lig een on+, _v._ To meet or see a person.
Ex.—_Ah think he mun be deead, Ah ’evn’t lig’d een on him this
lang whahl._
+Lig ho’d+, _v._ To take hold of.
+Lig on+, _Vide_ +Lay on+.
+Lig up, To+, _v._ To store, put by.
+Lightsome+, _Vide_ +Leetsome+.
+Light+, +Leet+, _adj._ Of little depth, applied to a furrow; weak,
slight; mealy, not sodden, as applied to potatoes and bread;
lacking soil.
+Lightening+, +Leetening+, _n._ Yeast (brewer’s), the break of day.
+Light+ or +Leet skets+, _n._ A female of doubtful morals.
+Like+, +Leyke+, _adj._ 1. Likely, highly probable.
2. In duty bound.
Ex.—_Leyke eneeaf Ah s’ be theear._
2. _Ah s’ be leyke ti show up at kess’nen._
+Like all that+, _adj._ An intensive, giving greater force to some
previous statement.
Ex.—_Sha war iv a tantrum, an’ flang hersel aboot leyke all
that_, i.e. in a passion. _He went at it leyke all that_,
i.e. with resolution. _Sha gen’d an’ giggled like all that_,
i.e. in a ridiculous manner. _Sha tell’d him what sha thowt
leyke all that_, i.e. spoke her mind plainly.
+Lile+, +Larl+, +Lahl+, _adj._ Little.
+Lillilow+, _n._ A blaze, a flame.
+Lilting+, +Lilty+, _adj._ Jumpy, frolicsome.
+Limb+, _n._ A mischievous child.
+Limber+, _adj._ Pliant, easily bending to light pressure.
+Limmers+, _n._ Shafts.
+Lin+, +Lahn+, _n._ Flax (_Linum usitalissimum_).
+Lin clout+, _n._ A linen rag.
+Linch+, _v._ To flog.
+Lineseed+, Linseed.
+Ling+, _n._ Heather.
+Lingberry+, _n._ The seed capsule of the heather.
+Ling-nail+, _n._ The linch-pin of a cart-wheel.
+Lingy+, _adj._ Active, athletic.
+Lip+, _n._ Impudence, saucy talk.
+Lish+, _adj._ Active.
+Lisk+, _n._ The groin.
+Lithe+, _v._ To thicken with flour and water.
+Lithing+, _n._ Flour and water, used to thicken broth, gravy, &c.
+’Liver+, _v._ To deliver, to give back, usually followed by ‘up.’
Ex.—_If thoo dizn’t ’livver ’t up, thoo’ll catch it._
+’Liverance+, _n._ Liberation, freedom.
+’ll+ = Will.
+Lobster-louse+, _n._ The wood-louse.
+Loggerheeads, To be at+ = To be at variance.
+Loggin+, _n._ A batten of threshed straw.
+Lollop+, _v._ To lean up against, to move about lazily.
+Lone+, +Loan+, _n._ A lane.
+Long-+ or +Lang-strucken+, _part._ Legs too long for the body.
+Loning+, +Loaning+, +Lonnin’+, +Lo’nin’+, _n._ A narrow lane.
+Loobily+, _adj._ Foolishly.
+Look a bad look+ }
+Leeak a bad leeak+ } +To+, _v._ To look ill.
+Looking+ or +Leeaking for+, _v._ To expect, to desire.
+Looks ta+ or +Leeaks ta+. Look thou or you.
+Loose end+, _n._ Going to the bad.
Ex.—_He’s nobbut at a loose end, sen he gat hissel henkled on
wi’ yon lot._
+Loose i’ t’ heft+, _n._ Lit. loose in the handle, and hence of
little use. A worthless fellow.
+Lopp+, _n._ A flea (_Pulex irritans_).
+Loppered+, _adj._ Curdled (of milk).
+Lops an’ tops+, _n._ The small branches and tops of trees.
+Lorn+, _part._ Left, lost, forlorn.
+Lost+, _adj._ Beyond all bounds, almost helpless.
Ex.—_Her hoos war fairly lost i’ muck. He war lost i’ wonder_,
i. e. absolutely amazed. _Ah war lost i’ ‘mazement an’ c’u’d
deea nowt._
+Lound+, _adj._ Calm, free from wind, sheltered.
+Lounder+, _v._ To thrash soundly.
+Loundering+, _n._ A thrashing.
+Loundering+, _adj._ Heavy, severe (of a blow).
+Loup+, _v._ To leap, jump, bound up.
Ex.—_If thoo caan’t loup ’t, thoo mun clim ’t, tumm’l ower ’t,
or ram thisen thruff ’t._
+Low+, +Glow+, _n._ The flame from a fire or candle, &c.
+‘Lowance+, _n._ The forenoon drinking.
+Lowse+[112], _v._ To loose, to unfasten.
2. To dismiss.
Ex.—2. _Hez t’ chetch lowsed yet?_ i.e. ‘Has the congregation
left?’
+Lowse oot+, +Lowsen oot+, _v._ To unyoke, to unpack.
+Lowsing tahm+, _n._ The time for unyoking after a day’s work.
+Lubbart+, _n._ A clown.
+Lucky bird+ or +bo’d+, _n._ The first male to cross the threshold
on New Year’s morn.
+Lucky-steean+, _n._ A rounded, water-worn piece of quartz, or a
stone with a natural hole through it. _Vide_ +Lemmel-steean+.
+Lug+, _n._ The ear proper, or the handle of a pitcher or jug, &c.
+Lug+, _v._ To pull.
Ex.—_Sha diz lug mah hair, when she combs it, diz mah aunt Jane._
+Lug ends+, _n._ Tips of the ears.
+Luke+, _v._ To pull weeds from cornfields.
+Lumberly+, _adj._ Awkwardly.
+Lurdy+, _n._ A stupid fellow.
M.
+Mabble+, _v._ To leave the chisel-marks on stone, to rough-dress.
+Mad+, _adj._ 1. Very angry.
2. Wild.
Ex.—1. _Aa bud, Ah war mad wiv her._
2. _He seems fair mad efter t’ lass._
+Maddle+, _v._ 1. To bewilder, confuse.
2. To grow bewildered.
3. To conduct oneself foolishly in love affairs.
Ex.—1. _Tha maddled ma sairly wi’ ther racket an’ din._
2. _It war that pick dark ’at Ah didn’t ken wheear Ah war, bud Ah
maddled alang, fust yah waay an’ then t’ ither, whahl at last
end Ah fan mysen i’ Au’d Willie’s pig-stee._
3. _If thoo dizn’t tak care, thoo’ll gan maddlin’ efter t’ lass,
whahl thoo’ll loss thi job._
+Made oot+, _Vide_ +Mak oot+.
+Madge+, +Madgipeg+, _n._ The fool of the sword-dancers.
+Maffle+, _v._ To strive in a way quite inadequate to the success
of the undertaking.
Ex.—1. _Noo let’s hear what thoo ’ez ti saay foor thisel, an’
deean’t maffle on i’ that road._
2. _If he maffles on wi’ t’ job i’ yon waay he’ll nivver
mannish ’t._
+Mafted+, +Mefted+, _adj._ 1. Stifled.
2. Out of breath by long exertion, through fighting against a
storm, generally of snow.
Ex.—_Oppen t’ winner, Ah caan’t bahd; Ah’s ommaist mafted i’ t’
pleeace._
+Mahnd+, +Mind+, _v._ 1. To remember.
2. To pay heed to.
Ex.—1. _Ah mahnd t’ tahm_, i. e. ‘I remember the circumstances.’
2. _Ah’ve mahnded what thoo sed_, i. e. ‘I paid heed to what you
said.’ _Noo thoo mun mahnd all ’at Ah’ve tell’d tha, an’ think
on ’at thoo ’ezn’t ti foorgit ti mahnd an’ paay t’ bill._
+Main+, _adj._ and _adv._ 1. Largest or greatest.
2. Quite.
Ex.—1. _T’ main on ’em sez ’at it is seea_, i.e. ‘The greatest
number of them say that it is so.’
2. _Ah’s ommaist main sartin he’s in t’ reet on ’t, or Ah’s main
sartin_, i.e. ‘I am quite certain.’
+Mainswear+, _v._ To take a false oath.
+Mair+, _adj._ More.
+Maist+, _adj._ Most.
+Maist-hand+, _Vide_ +Near-hand+.
+Maistly+, +Maistlings+, +Moastlings+, _adv._ Mostly.
+Mak+, _n._ 1. Make, design, shape.
Ex.—_Ah’ve seen a vast o’ maks i’ ma tahm, bud nivver a mak
leyke this. Wheeas mak’s that?_ i.e. ‘Whose make is that?’
_It ’ez a queer mak aboot it._
+Makmeeat+, _v._ To make or prepare food for the household.
+Mak on+, _v._ To induce by kindness.
Ex.—_T’ dog’ll follow if thoo maks on it a bit._
+Mak oot+, _v._ 1. To make, serve.
2. To succeed in an undertaking.
3. To discover, find out.
Ex.—1. _He’ll ’a’e ti mak oot wi’ t’ bit ’at’s left noo._
3. _Ah caan’t mak oot what yon chap’s efter._
+Mak sharp+, +Be sharp+, +Leeak sharp+ = Make haste, be quick.
+Mak spare+ = Economical, careful.
Ex.—_Noo reeach teea an’ help yersels; ther’s nowt ya need be
neyce aboot, an’ ya needn’t mak spare ov owt._
+Maks an’ manders+, _n._ All sorts.
Ex.—_Ah’ve all maks an’ manders on ’em._
+Man+, _n._ The husband of the person speaking, or of some woman
spoken of; with the addition of ‘young,’ it would mean the one
who is courting some fair maid, e. g. _Mah man’s gahin’, an’ thi
man’s gahin’, an’ Sally’s young man mun go wiv ’em._
+Manders+, _n._ All kinds, different sorts mixed.
+Mang+, _n._ A bran mash.
+Mang+, _v._ To mix various ingredients of any kind of food.
+Manifold+, +Monifaud+, _n._ The intestines. _adj._ Various.
+Mannish+, _v._ To manage, to conduct farming in a prosperous
manner, to manure land.
+Mannishment+, _n._ Manure.
+Mannur+, _v._ and _n._ Manure.
+Mar+, _v._ To injure, spoil.
+Mark’s E’en+, St. Mark’s Eve.
+Marrish+, _n._ Low-lying ground liable to be flooded.
+Marrow+, +Marrer+, _n._ One of a pair, similar.
+Marrow+, _n._ To match, to produce a similar thing.
+Marry, Aye+, _intj._ Yes; as ‘Will ta gan?’ answer, ‘Aye marry!’
Ex.—_Aye marry! bud sha’s a beauty. Aye marry, tha’re wed noo
hard eneeaf._
+Mash+, _v._ To draw the strength out of anything by infusion, as
tea; to reduce to pulp.
+Mash up+, _v._ To break in small pieces.
+Mask+, _v._ To infuse. _Vide_ +Mash+.
+Mask+, _n._ The face, the hunter’s term for a fox’s head. _Vide_
+Keld+.
+Master+, +Meeăster+, +Maăster+, +Maastther+, _n._ Master; the
head of the house, shop, works, or school.
+Masterman+, _n._ One who employs.
+Matched+, _pp._ Almost beyond one’s ability to do; to be put to a
severe test.
Ex.—_Ah s’all be hard matched ti git t’ job deean byv t’ tahm
’at he wants it. He’s mair ’an matched wi’ yon. Ah’ve gitten
myself sairly matched this tahm._
+Matter+, _v._ To esteem.
2. To influence.
3. Information.
Ex.—1. _Ah nivver did matter him mich._
2. _Owt ’at he sez weean’t matter mich ti onnybody._
3. _Onny matter ’at he knaws weean’t mak onnybody neea wiser._
+Matters+, _n._ Quantity, account.
Ex.—_It maks neea gert matters owt ’at he sez. Nut onny gert
matters foor me, Ah ’ed summat afoor Ah cum’d._
+Maudle+, _v._ To besot.
Ex.—_He war maudling drunk._
+Maukey+, _adj._ Whimsical.
+Mauls+, _n._ The marsh-mallow.
+Maum+, +Maumy+, _adj._ Ripe, mellow.
+Maunder+, _v._ To wander, talk foolishly.
+Maundering+, _adj._ Grumbling, muttering.
+Maunsil+, _n._ A fat, slovenly female.
+Maun’t+, +Mooun’t+, +Mun’t+, +Munnot+. Must not.
+Mawk+, _n._ A maggot.
+Mawky+, Maggoty.
+Mayern+, _n._ A wicken gatherer.
+Mayhap+, _adv._ Perhaps. +Mebbe+ is most commonly used.
+Maze+, _v._ To bewilder.
+Meadow-drake+, _n._ Corn-crake.
+Meal+, _n._ Flour of various kind not fully dressed.
+Mealy-mouthed+, _adj._ Plausible.
+Mean+, +Meean+, _adj._ Bad as to character.
Ex.—_He’s aboot ez meean ez tha mak ’em. Sha’s meean eneeaf ti
deea onny dirty trick. Sha’s meean eneeaf ti hunger t’ baa’n
ti deeath._
NOTE.—‘Mean’ is almost always used to denote some form of badness,
rarely stinginess or mediocrity.
+Meat+, _n._ The daily food of a workman in addition to his wages.
+Meat+, _v._ To provide a lodger with food as well as lodgings.
+Meer+, _n._ A mare.
+Meg+, _n._ A penny.
+Mell+, _n._ A wooden mallet.
+Mell+, _v._ To meddle, usually followed by ‘on.’
Ex.—_If thoo mells on oor larl Jimmy onny mair, Ah’ll leather tha
mysel. Thoo’s allus melling o’ t’ baa’n. Will ta nivver gi’e
ower?_
+Mell-sheaf+, _n._ The last sheaf gathered.
+Mell-supper+, _n._ Harvest supper. See chapter on ‘Customs.’
+Melt+, +Milt+. The spawn of the milter (male fish).
+Mend+, _v._ To improve, to grow better.
Ex.—_Ah’s mending neycely noo, Ah’s seean be all reet agaan.
He’ll ’a’e ti mend his waays, or he’ll end up nowt._
+Mends+, _n._ Improvement.
+Mennem+, +Mennad+, _n._ The minnow.
+Mense+, _n._ Decency, good appearance, civility, tact.
Ex.—_If he’d ’ed onny mense aboot him, he wadn’t ’a’e sed a thing
leyke that._
+Mense+, _v._ 1. To add beauty or order.
2. To smooth away a misunderstanding.
Ex.—1. _Sha seean mensed things up a bit when sha cam._
2. _Nobbut saay thoo’s sorry an’ it’ll mense t’ matter up at
yance._
+Menseful+, _adj._ Becoming and decent behaviour.
+Mensefully+, _adv._ Becomingly, decently, civilly.
+Menseless+, _adj._ Untidy, useless, &c.
+Merls+, _n._ The game of morris.
+Met+, _n._ Two bushels, a five-stone weight.
+Met-poke+, _n._ A narrow sack, but sufficiently large to hold two
bushels.
+Meuse+, _v._ To study, to contemplate.
Ex.—_Ah think t’ lass is lovesick, sha gans meusing aboot seea._
+Mew+, _pret._ To mow. _n._ A stack.
+Mew-bo’nt+, _adj._ Heated or burnt in the stack.
+Mew up+, _v._ To be overcrowded in a heated room.
2. To huddle together.
Ex.—1. _Ther war ower monny fau’k i’ t’ room; Ah war that mew’d
up Ah c’u’d hardlings breeathe. Sha’s gitten all her things
mew’d up tigether, whahl sha’ll ’a’e straange deed ti git ’em
all ti reets again._
+Mich+, _adj._ Much.
+Middin+, _n._ A manure-heap.
+Middinstead+, _n._ The ground or place of the midden.
+Midge+, _n._ A tiny fly.
+Mig+, _n._ The drainings from a manure-heap.
+Milk-can+, _n._ A milk-pail.
+Milk-hoos+, +Milk’us+, _n._ The milk dairy.
+Milk-lead+, _n._ A shallow leaden cistern, with a hole stopped by
a wooden plug; after the milk has stood overnight, the plug is
withdrawn, and the milk drained from the cream.
+Mill’d in+, _adj._ Shrunk, aged, withered.
+Mill-e’e+, _n._ The eye or hole through which the ground grain
falls into the sack or bin.
+Mill-gear+, _n._ The machinery of a mill.
+Mill-race+, +Mill-reeace+, _n._ The cut or channel which leads to
the waterwheel, the water running towards the waterwheel.
+Mindful+, +Mahndful+, _adj._ Careful.
Ex.—_Thoo mun be mahndful hoo thoo hugs t’ basket. Be mahndful
what thoo sez, noo._
+Mint+, _v._ To intend, purpose; to aim a blow; to pretend.
+Mirak’lous+, _adj._ Careless, venturesome, precocious.
Ex.—_He’s a bit mirak’lous wiv a gun. He carried on iv a straange
mirak’lous waay at t’ fire. He war awlus a mirak’lous kind ov a
lad._
+Miscall+, _v._ To give a wrong name to any person or thing, to
use abusive epithets.
+Misfit+, _n._ Out of place, one who cannot be trusted.
+Mista’en+, _adj._ Mistaken.
+Mistetched+, _part._ Badly trained or broken in (of a horse).
+Mistimed+, _adj._ Put out of the regular course, especially of
sleep.
+Mits+, +Mittens+, _n._ Woollen gloves, covering the wrist and
knitted with divisions for the fingers.
+Moider+, _v._ To bewilder.
+Moil+, _v._ To toil on when tired.
+Moit+, _n._ The smaller part, a small portion.
Ex.—_Tha sed ’at tha shared it oot amang t’ lot on uz, onny waay
Ah nobbut gat a moit._
+Mole-rat+, _Vide_ +Mowdywarp+.
+Moo-moo+, _n._ A pet name for a cow.
+Moor-titling+, +Moor-taalin+, _n._ The meadow pipit.
+Mooun’t+, _Vide_ +Maun’t+.
+Moozy-feeaced+, +Mouzy-feeaced+, _adj._ Applied to the first
growth of hair on the lip or chin.
+Moozy meean+, _n._ A hazy moon.
+Mostlings+, +Meeastlings+, _adv._ Generally, usually.
+Mouck+, _v._ To creep along, to hide.
+Moud+, +Mud+, _v._ Might.
+Mowdy-hill+, _n._ A mole-hill.
+Mowdy-rake+, _n._ A rake used to level mole-hills.
+Mowdywarp+, _n._ The mole.
+Mounge+, _v._ To chew with the gums when the teeth have gone.
+Muck+, _n._ Dirt, excrement, manure.
+Muck+, _v._ To spread manure.
+Muck-clout+, _n._ A floor-cloth, &c.
+Muck-gripe+, _n._ A dung-fork.
+Muck lather+, _n._ In a state of excessive perspiration.
+Muckments+, _n._ Filthy matter.
+Muck-middin+, _n._ The manure- or ash-midden.
+Muck out+, _v._ To clean out a stable or midden.
+Muck sweat+, _Vide_ +Muck lather+.
+Mucky+, _adj._ Dirty, filthy, unwashed.
+Mud+, _v._ Might.
+Mug+, _n._ Face.
+Muggy+, _adj._ Damp, foggy, thick and close.
+Mull+, +Murl+, _n._ Dry fine mould.
+Mumm’l+, _v._ To mumble.
+Mump+, _n._ A blow on the face with the fist. _v._ To chew without
teeth.
+Mun+, _n._ Man.
Ex.—_Ah’ll tell tha what, mun._
+Mun+, _v._ Must.
+Murl+, _v._ and _n._ To crumble into small pieces.
+Mush+, _n._ Dust, rotten through decay. NOTE.—Though generally
applied to anything dry, it is sometimes used to denote damp and
rotten.
Ex.—_It’s grund ti mush. Them to’nips is neea good, tha’re all
iv a mush._
+Mushy+, _adj._ Dry, powdery, in a state of pulp.
+Musweb+, _n._ A cobweb, the white cobwebs which float about in
the air.
+Muther+, +Mudder+, _n._ Mother.
+My-song!+ _intj._ Originally +La Sangue+!
N.
+Na+, _conj._ Nor, than.
+Naay+, _adv._ Nay.
+Nab+, _v._ To pick up sharply, to steal.
Ex.—_Thoo mun watch him or he’ll nab summat._
+Nab+, _n._ A hill or rocky point, a headland.
+Naekins+, _Vide_ +Otherkins+.
+Naether+, +Nowther+, +Nowder+, _conj._ Neither.
+Naff+, _n._ The nave of a wheel.
+Naff-heead+, _n._ A stupid fellow.
+Naffle+, _v._ To pretend, to potter about.
+Naggy+, _Vide_ +Gnaggy+.
+Nak’t+, _adj._ +Naked+.
+Namby-pamby+, _adj._ Affected, conceited.
+Nanpie+, _n._ The magpie.
+Nantle+, _Vide_ +Naffle+.
+Nap+, _Vide_ +Nab+.
+Nap+, _v._ To strike with a hammer lightly.
+Nar+, _adj._ Near.
+Narked+, _v._ Vexed beyond measure.
+Nar-side+, _n._ The left-hand side of a horse when leading or
walking along with a team.
+Nasty+, _adj._ Ill-natured.
Ex.—_He war varra nasty aboot t’ job._
+Natter+, _v._ To be fretful, peevish.
+Nattery+, _adj._ Fretful, peevish.
+Nattering+, _n._ Continued complaining. _Vide_ +Gnatter+.
+Nattle+, _v._ To make a light rattling sound.
+Natt’rable+, _adj._ What might be expected; unassuming, kindly.
+Nature+, +Nater+, _n._ The innate good quality of things.
Ex.—_Ther ’ez been that mich wet, whahl t’ gess ’ll a’e lost
all t’ nater oot on ’t_, i.e. ‘There has been that much wet,
that the grass (drying for hay) will have lost all the
nature (goodness) out of it.’
+Naup+, _v._ To give a smart tap on the head.
+Naup+, _n._ A tap on the head, as with a ruler.
+Nauping+, _n._ A thrashing.
+Naw+, _Vide_ +Neea+.
+Nay-say+, _n._ The privilege of refusing.
Ex.—_Tommy’s gitten t’ naay-saay on ’t. Aye, Ah’ve bowt it, bud
then Ah’ve hed t’ naay-saay on ’t foor lang eneeaf._
+Nazzed+, +Nazzled+, _adj._ Somewhat intoxicated.
+Nazzy+, _adj._ Under the influence of drink.
+Neaf+, _Vide_ +Neeaf+.
+Near+, _adj._ Close-fisted, very careful, greedy.
Ex.—_Did Sammy gi’e tha owt? Neea, he’s ti near ti even wish yan
weel._
+Near+, _n._ A kidney.
+Near-hand+, _adv._ 1. Near by, close to.
2. Almost, nearly.
Ex.—1. _Whya, sha lives near-hand Bessy._
2. _Ah nivver wur seea near-hand gittin’ putten oot o’ t’ road
i’ mah leyfe. If thoo gans near-hand yon chap, he’ll smit tha._
+Nearlings+, _adv._ Almost, all but.
+Neavil+, +Nevel+, _v._ To pummel with the fist.
+Nevilling+, _n._ A sound pummelling with the fist.
+Neb+, _n._ The bill of a bird, the nose, the peak of a cap.
+Neb+, _v._ To kiss, to peck at viciously.
Ex.—_Did ta neb her afoor thoo let her gan?_
+Neea+, +Noa+, +Naw+, +Nooa+, _adv._ No.
+Neeaf+, +Neif+, _n._ The fist.
+Neeaf-full+, _n._ A handful.
+Neea matters+ = No great quantity, of little importance.
Ex.—_Did he win owt at t’ races? Neea matters wo’th telling on.
What sha sez is neea matters ti onnybody._
+Neeap+, _v._ To raise on end, as in lifting the shafts of a cart.
+Neease+, +Nooas+, _n._ The nose.
+Neease+, _v._ To sneeze.
+Needer+, _n._ The common adder.
+Needful+, _adj._ Necessitous, applies to persons and things.
Ex.—_Whya, wa mun all deea a bit; sha’s varra needful, ther’s a
lot o’ bairns. Aye, it’s wivoot doot a maist needful case._
+Needment+, _n._ Something necessary.
+Ne’er-di-weel+, _n._ A worthless fellow.
+Neest+, _adj._ Next.
+Neet+, _n._ Night.
+Ner+, _conj._ Nor.
+Nervy+, _adj._ Vigorous.
+Nesh+, _adj._ Tender, soft, weak.
+Ness+, _n._ A projecting headland.
+Neuk+, _n._ A corner, corner of a field, a hiding-place.
+Never give over, With a+ = without ceasing.
+New-fangled+, _part._ Pleased with novelties.
Ex.—_Bairns diz git new-fangled wi’ owt ’at’s fresh._
+Nias+, _n._ A young hawk.
+Nibble+, _n._ Nipple of either the breast or a gun.
+Nibbs+, _n._ The handles on a scythe.
+Nice+, +Neyce+, _adj._ 1. Too particular.
2. Shy.
3. Considerable in size and quantity.
4. Sensitive.
Ex.—1. _Ah deean’t leyke fooak ’at’s sae neyce aboot what tha eat._
2. _Noo help yersels, an’ deean’t be neyce aboot it._
3. _Ah mun saay ’at ther wur a neycish few._
4. _Ah’s a bit neyce aboot what fooak saay o’ ma._
+Nicker+, _v._ To whinny as a foal.
+Niff-naff+, _n._ A trifle.
+Niff-naffing+, _adj._ Trifling.
+Nifle+, _n._ A trifle.
+Nifle+, _v._ To waste time. Useless occupation.
Ex.—_Thoo nifles on, an’ nivver gits nowt deean. Thoo’s nifling
agaan, allus at t’ saam bat._
+Niggle+, _v._ To deal out or give grudgingly, to be greedy in
small matters.
+Nigh+, _adv._ Nearly, about.
+Nigh at hand+, _adv._ Close to, near by.
+Nilder-nalder+, _n._ Vacillation, hesitation.
+Nim+, _adj._ Quick, active.
+Nim+, _v._ To snatch up quickly, to steal, to be active, agile.
+Ninnycocks+, _n._ Young lobsters.
+Nip+, _v._ Run.
Ex.—_Just nip ower ti Bob an’ ass foor t’ saw._
+Nip off+, _v._ To run away, to move quickly.
+Nip up+, _v._ To snatch up quickly, to go up quickly.
Ex.—_He nipped it up afoor Ah c’u’d stop him. Nip upstairs an’
fetch mah hat doon._
+Nipper+, _n._ A young child.
+Nisly+, _adj._ Showery.
+Nit+, _n._ The egg of the louse.
+Nither+, +Nidder+, _v._ To shiver.
Ex.—_Ah nithered an’ dithered an’ trimm’ld all ower that mich
whahl Ah c’u’dn’t mak oot if sha’d been shuvved, tumm’ld,
slithered, or louped inti t’ beck._
+Nittering+, _part._ Subdued giggling.
+Nivver+, _adj._ Never.
+Nizy+, _n._ A dunce.
+Nizzled+, _v._ To be under the influence of drink.
+Noa ship+, _n._ Clouds said to resemble the Ark. A common saying
is, _T’ Ark’s oot, wa’re in foor a spell o’ bad weather._
+Nobbin+, _n._ The hair on the crown of the head.
Ex.—_He teeak her biv t’ nobbin an’ pulled her backkards-waay
ower._
+Nobbut+, _conj._ If, only. ‘Only’ is rarely used.
+Nobby+, _adj._ Handy, nice.
+Nock+, +Nicking+, _n._ A method of keeping count by cutting
notches on a stick.
+Nodder+, _v._ To tremble.
+Noggen+, _adj._ Hard, rough.
+Noggin+, _n._ A quarter pint, a small jug.
+Nominy+, _n._ The name given to any doggerel rhyme.
+None+, +Noan+, +Neean+, _adv._ Not at all.
Ex.—_He’ll neean ho’d back, he’ll deea ’t hard eneeaf._ ‘Neean’
in this case means more than ‘not’; the idea conveyed is, ‘He
will not in any sense hold back.’ _He’s neean lost owt_,
i.e. ‘He has lost nothing at all.’
+Nooatish+, _v._ To notice.
+Noo+, _adv._ Now, well. The use of this word is most curious.
_Noo, Noo, Noo! Noo_, said one man on meeting a friend. ‘Noo’ the
first meant either ‘good morning,’ ‘now then,’ or ‘well.’ ‘Noo’
the second was addressed to the dog, and meant ‘lie down.’ ‘Noo’
the third, with a different inflection, was understood by the dog
to imply, ‘If you do not lie down at once, I shall hit you.’ And
‘Noo’ the fourth clearly denoted, the dog having laid down, ‘Now,
then, we can talk.’ This inflective power throughout the whole
vocabulary lessens or adds force to words. Unfortunately it is
impossible to render in print these varying tones, which are the
life and soul of the dialect. When used as an interjection, it is
equivalent to ‘How do you do?’
+Nooa+, _Vide_ +Neea+.
+Noos an’ agaains+ }
+Noos an’ thens+ } = By chance, now and again, occasionally.
+Noration+, _Vide_ +Oration+.
+Notified+, +Nooatified+, _adj._ Well-known.
Ex.—_Aye, he war a nooatified chap yance ower._
+Not ti fail+, Without fail.
Ex.—_Ah’ll tell him ti cum an’ not ti fail._
+Nowt+, _n._ 1. Nothing.
2. Valueless.
3. Worthless person.
Ex.—1. _Yon thing’s warse ’an nowt._
2. _It’s up ti nowt neea way._
3. _He’s a nowt, an’ warse ’an nowt._
+Nowt bud weel+, Exceedingly good in every way.
Ex.—_Ah can saay nowt bud weel on him._
+Nowther+, +Naether+, +Nowder+, _conj._ Neither.
+Noy+, +Noyance+, +Noying+, _n._ Vexatious, worrying.
+Nuddle+, _v._ To huddle together, to squeeze.
+Nullet+, +Nullot+, _n._ An owl. +Ullot+ is most commonly used.
+Numb+, _adj._ Dull, awkward, clumsy, insensible.
+Nursery+, _n._ A plantation of young trees.
+Nut+, _adv._ Not.
Ex.—_Is ta gahin wi’ ma? Neea, Ah’s nut._ ‘Nut’ is to some extent
an emphatic form of ‘not.’
+Nutty-crack-neet+, The ninth night before Martinmas Day, on which
a feast of apples and nuts is indulged in.
O.
+O’+, _prep._ Of.
+Oafing+, +Oafish+, _adj._ Half-witted, foolish, silly.
+Oaf-rocked+, _adj._ More or less imbecile.
+Oddments+, _n._ Odds and ends.
+‘Od rabbits+, This and other forms commencing with _‘Od_ is an old
form of profanity, by abbreviating the name of the Deity by the
omission of _G_.
+Of+, _prep._ By, out of.
Ex.—_That meer he gat of t’ broon meer’s deean weel._
+Off+, Used in the sense of ‘by heart.’ To be aware of, to know all
about.
Ex.—_Ah’ve gitten my task off. He’ll nut git ower ma na mair,
Ah’ve gitten him off noo_, i.e. ‘I know all about him now.’
+Offally+, _adj._ Refuse. Bad, both of persons and things.
+Offally maade+, +Offally leeaking+, +Offally putten tigither+,
_adv._ Badly or poorly made, &c.
+Offalment+, _n._ 1. Of little value, offal.
2. A useless, good-for-nothing fellow.
3. Intestines, &c., of animals.
+Off and on+, _adj._ and _adv._ 1. Vacillating, uncertain.
2. Now and again.
Ex.—1. _He’s allus off an’ on, an’ nivver sattles ti nowt._
2. _He’s off an’ on frev yah thing tiv anuther, whahl ther’s
neea ’pendence on him._
+Off one’s heead+, _adj._ Mad, delirious.
+Off on’t+, _adv._ 1. Poorly.
2. Disappointed.
Ex.—1. _Ah ’evn’t deean nowt this week, Ah nobbut felt a larl
bit off on ’t._
2. _He war sadly off on ’t when tha tell’d him o’ Mary’s trouble._
+Offen+, _adv._ From off, off.
Ex.—_It tumm’l’d offen t’ shelf on tiv his heead._
+Off’ns+, _adv._ Often.
+Ofter+, _adv._ Oftener.
+Okkad+, _adj._ Awkward, clumsy.
+Olden+, _v._ To age, to show signs of age.
+Ommaist+, +Ommost+, _adv._ Though often meaning simply ‘almost,’
it often carries a stronger sense with it, e.g. Q. _Will ta gan
wiv uz?_ ‘Will you go with me?’ A. _Aye, Ah ommost think Ah
will_, would mean, ‘Aye, I certainly think I will.’ The general
sense, however, is that of ‘almost.’
+On+, _adv._ 1. Here.
2. There.
3. Forward.
Ex.—1. _He’s cumin’ on ti-neet_, i.e. ‘He is coming here to-night.’
2. _Will ta be on ti-neet?_ i.e. ‘Will you be there to-night.’
3. _Wa mun push t’ job on or wa s’aan’t git deean._
+On+, _prep._ Of.
Ex.—_Sha war despert freet’n’d ’at Ah war gahin’ ti tell on her._
+On, To be+, _v._ To assent.
Ex.—Q. _Will thoo gan wiv uz?_ A. _Noa, Ah weean’t be on at a
gam o’ that soart._
+Once ower+, _Vide_ +Yance ower+.
+Onely sahded+, _adj._ Doubtful, singular.
Ex.—_It’s nobbut a onely sahded gahin’ on_, i.e. ‘It is only a
doubtful or singular proceeding.’
+Onny bit leyke+, or +Owt leyke+. Fairly well, tolerably.
Ex.—_If he aim’d onny bit leyke, he mud ’a’e mannished. Wa s’all
cum if t’ daay be owt leyke._
+On with, To be+, _v._ The act of doing, to be engaged with.
Ex.—_Ah s’ be on wiv it ti morn at morn_, i.e. ‘I shall be doing
it to-morrow morning.’ _He’s dropped Sally, an’ ‘s on wi’
Jin_, i.e. ‘He has jilted Sally, and is engaged to Jane.’
+Oot+, _adv._ Out, not within; also away, as _Git oot wi’ ya_,
‘Get away with you.’
+Oot o’ course+, _adv._ Beyond comparison, beyond measure.
+Oot an’ away+, _adv._ Undoubtedly.
Ex.—_Oot an’ away t’ best hoss._
+Oor+, +Wer+, _pron._ Our.
+Oorsens+, +Oorsels+, +Wersens+, +Wersels+, _pron._ Ourselves.
+Oppen+, _v._ Open.
+Oppen oot+, _v._ 1. To bring to light, to reveal.
2. To show one’s true character.
Ex.—1. _If thoo sez mich mair, Ah’ll oppen oot a bit mysen_,
i.e. ‘I will reveal something.’
2. _Ah think he’s a varra canny chap sen he’s oppen’d oot a bit._
+Oration+, _n._ A commotion accompanied with much talking and
shouting.
+Orf+, _n._ The scurf which forms under the hair of children and
animals.
+Orling+, _n._ A mis-shapen, undersized, rickety child.
+Othergates+, _adj._ Otherwise.
+Othersome+, _adj._ Variety, of another sort.
+Ought+, +Owt+, _n._ Anything. _adv._ At all.
Ex.—_It’s all nowther owt, nowt, na summat._
+Ouse+, _Vide_ +House+.
+Out+, +Outing+, _n._ A day’s pleasure.
+Out with, To be+ = On unfriendly terms.
+Out by+, _adv._ Near to, in the direction of.
Ex.—Q. _Does Mr. Jackson live near here?_ A. _Noa, he lives out
by Newton._
+Outen+, _adv._ Out of.
Ex.—_Sha tumm’l’d outen t’ winder i’ti t’ watter-butt. Thoo
caan’t git thisel an’ Dolly a dhriss outen that, cut it which
waay thoo will. Ya mud ez weel aim ti squeeze milk outen a
yat-post ez git owt outen him._
+Out-end+, +Out-gang+, +Out-gaat+, _n._ An exit, a way out of.
+Out o’ fettle+, _adj._ Unwell, needing repair.
Ex.—_Ah s’aan’t be gahin’ ti-daay, Ah’s a bit oot o’ fettle. T’
cart’s gitten a bit oot o’ fettle; Ah s’all ’a’e ti ’ev it
leeaked teea._
+Out o’ t’ road+, _adv._ Out of the way, out of sight, killed.
Ex.—_Ah caan’t finnd ’t, sha’s putten ’t oot o’ t’ road
sumwheears._
+Out-thrust+, +Out-thrussen+, _adj._ Projecting.
+Ouzel+, _n._ The Bessy ducker, or ring ouzel.
+Over+ is generally pronounced ’ower’ or ’ovver.’
+Overget+, +Owerget+, _v._ To come up with, overtake, overreach.
+Oversail+, _n._ The top course of masonry covering the whole
width of the wall.
+Over-scutch+, _v._ To whip too severely.
Ex.—_He’s ower-scutched t’ lad this tahm, an’ Ah’ll foller t’
law on him an’ mak him pay foor ’t._
+Overwelt+, _v._ To roll on the back, so as to be unable to rise
again—generally applied to sheep.
+Overwing+, _v._ To outwit.
Ex.—_He aims ’at he knaws a bit, bud Ah’ll overwing him onny
tahm iv a hoss deeal._
+Owe+, +Awe+, _v._ To own.
+Ower+, _v._ 1. To last through.
2. To cease, to come to an end.
Ex.—1. _Ah deean’t think Tom ’ll git here i’ tahm ti see t’ au’d
chap, it’ll tak him all his tahm to ower t’ neet, let aleean
t’ week end._
2. _T’ meeting’s owered, t’ chapel’s lowsed, an’ t’ chetch ’ez
cum’d out, bud t’ army’s gahin’ ti gan at it whahl midneet._
+Ower+, _adj._ 1. Too.
2. Beyond due bounds.
Ex.—1. _It’s ower grand_, i.e. ‘Too fine.’ _Ower big_, i.e. ‘Too
large.’
2. _He’s ower daft foor owt_, i.e. ‘He’s foolish beyond all
bounds.’
+Ower+, _prep._ and _adv._ On the other side of, beyond.
Ex.—_Ower t’ street_, e.g. ‘On the other side, across the street.’
_Ower t’ dale_, i.e. ‘On the other side of or beyond the dale.’
+Owerance+, _n._ The upper hand, the mastery.
Ex.—_He’s gitten t’ owerance ov all t’ lot on uz. Ah ower-handed
him that tahm_, i.e. ‘Got the advantage of.’
+Ower an’ up agaan+ = More than once, over and again.
+Ower-gaat+, _n._ A stone style, the steps in a wall side.
+Ower-kessen+, +Owercast+, _v._ and _adj._ Overcast, cloudy.
+Ower monny+, _adj._ Too many, too strong, beyond one’s power.
Ex.—_Ah’ll nut drhive t’ hoss, he’s ower monny foor ma. He maay
bunch t’ lass, bud his weyfe’s ower monny foor him._
+Ower-neyce+, _adj._ Too particular, fastidious, shy, diffident.
_Vide_ +Nice+.
Ex.—_Noo ya mun stritch yer elbows, an’ reach teea; what’s putten
afoor ya’s putten ti gan at; noo deean’t be ower-neyce, bud
set ti wark an’ sahd t’ lot._
+Owerset+, +Owersetten+, _pp._ 1. Overtasked beyond one’s strength.
2. Overturned.
Ex.—1. _Ah’s completely owersetten an’ deean up wi’ t’ job. Naay
what, thoo seems owersetten afoor thoo starts._
2. _Ah owerset t’ au’d lass’ stall, an’ t’ nippers did scramm’l
foor t’ things._
+Owerhand+, _Vide_ +Owerance+.
+Owt+, _n._ Aught, anything.
+Owther+, +Owder+, +Aether+, _conj._ Either.
+Ox-prod+, _n._ An ox-goad.
+Oxter+, _n._ The armpit.
P.
+Pace-eggs+, +Paste-eggs+, _n._ Hard-boiled eggs dyed various
colours, used by children on Easter Monday. _Vide_ chapter on
‘Customs.’
+Pack+, _v._ When birds at certain seasons collect together they
are said to ‘pack.’
+Packman+, _n._ A pedlar.
+Pack-rag day+, The day following Martinmas Day, when the servants
who are changing masters pack up their belongings.
+Paddle+, _v._ To walk with difficulty, to wade bare-legged.
+Paddy-noddy+, _n._ A long wearisome tale with much repetition.
+Pafty+, _adj._ Pert, assuming, impudent.
+Pair of stairs+, _n._ A flight of stairs.
+Pairt+, _Vide_ +Part+.
+Pairtner+, _n._ A partner, generally husband or wife.
+Pally-ully+, _n._ A game almost identical with hop-scotch.
+Palm+, +Paum+, _v._ To climb with the hands and legs. _Vide_
+Swarm+.
+Palm-cross day+, _n._ Palm Sunday.
+Palms+, +Paums+, _n._ Catkins, ‘lambs’-tails’ of the hazel.
+Pan+, _v._ To fit into or close together.
+Pankin+, +Pankin-pot+, _n._ A large earthenware vessel.
+Pankin-dish+, _n._ A deep earthenware dish.
+Pannel+, _n._ A riding pad.
+Parkin+, _n._ A gingerbread cake made for the fifth of November.
+Parlous+, _adj._ Its general meaning carries with it a sense or
state of evil.
2. Adverbially used, it always intensifies.
Ex.—1. _Ther’s been parlous deed at t’ mill. Tha’ve locked him
up at t’ last, it’s nobbut a parlous ending up._
2. _He’s a parlous good preeacher is yon local chap._
3. _T’ hoos is iv a parlous state, bud then it’s cleeaning tahm._
+Part+, +Pairt+, _adj._ A considerable number or quantity.
Ex.—_Pairt fooak wur bidden ti t’ funeral. Ther’ll be pairt
fruit ti year, nobbut Jack Frost dizn’t nip t’ blo afoor it
sets._
+Pash+, _v._ To dash to the ground, to smash into fragments.
+Pash+, _n._ 1. A crash.
2. A heavy fall of snow or rain.
3. The result of a smash, or of a heavy fall of rain or snow, as
mud or slush.
4. Soft, rotten, pulpy matter.
Ex.—1. _T’ chim’ly cam doon wi’ sikan a pash._
2. _Wa’ve hed a pash o’ snaw ti week._
3. _Baith t’ carts is upskell’d an’ t’ things ur a’ iv a pash
tigither._
4. _Cum awaay fra sike pashy deed, thoo’ll labber thisen all ower._
+Past+, _adj._ Beyond, incapable.
Ex.—_Past deeaing owt wi’_, i.e. ‘not to be restrained or
influenced.’ _Past kenning_, i.e. ‘grown beyond recognition.’
_Past bahding_, i.e. ‘beyond one’s power to endure.’ _Past wark_,
i.e. ‘incapable of working.’ _He’s gitten past that noo_,
i.e. ‘incapable of having further aid rendered.’
+Past all+ = Beyond all bounds, generally used in a disagreeable
sense; the antithesis of ‘Caps all.’
+Patter+, _v._ To tread or beat down by many steps, as a pathway
across a newly tilled field.
+Patter+, +Pattering+, _n._ The sound of quick, light footsteps.
+Pause+, _Vide_ +Bunch+.
+Paut+, +Pooat+, _v._ 1. To paw the ground impatiently.
2. To kick lightly.
3. To walk in an affected style.
4. To walk feebly and somewhat heavily, as an aged person.
Ex.—1. _T’ meer’s gifting stall’d o’ stannin’, sitha hoo sha pauts
t’ grund._
2. _Wa caan’t hap t’ bairn up, sha pauts aboot wiv her larl feet
sae._
3. _Sen sha’s gitten long skets an’ fancy stockin’s on, sha diz
paut alang._
4. _Au’d Willie, Ah see, still mannishes to paut about wiv a
stick._
+Pawk+, _n._ +Pawky+, _adj._ Impudent, inquisitive, precocious,
forward (of a child).
+Pawty+, _adv._ Slovenly.
+Pea-hulls+, +Pea-swads+ or +-cods+, _n._ Empty pods of peas.
+Peascod+, _n._ Peas still in the pod.
+Peffing+, _adj._ Applied to short, husky, hard breathing.
+Peggy-stick+, _Vide_ +Dolly-stick+.
+Peggy wi’ t’ lautern+, Will o’ t’ Wisp, Jack o’ t’ Lantern
(_Ignis Fatuus_).
+Pelt+, _adv._ Speedily, swiftly.
Ex.—_He cam doon t’ hill sike a pelt._
+Pelt+, _n._ The skin of a flayed animal.
+Pepper-cake+, _n._ A kind of ginger loaf. _Vide_ chapter on
‘Customs.’
+Perceivance+, _n._ Conception, acquaintance with.
Ex.—_Neea, Ah’d na perceivance o’ what he meant ti deea._
+Perishment+, _n._ The outcome of a severe cold, a thorough chill.
Ex.—_Ah’ve gitten a perishment o’ cau’d, Ah knaw that._
+Pet, To take+, _v._ To be offended, to sulk, to be affronted over
some petty misunderstanding.
+Pick+, _n._ Pitch.
+Pick+ = Black. An intensive, or black as pitch.
Ex.—_It war pick dark._
+Pick+, _v._ 1. To trip up, pitch, or push so as to bring to the
ground.
2. To give birth immaturely (of an animal).
3. To find fault.
Ex.—1. _Ah shoved mah foot oot an’ pickt him ower nicely._
2. _Coo’s pick’d her cauf._
3. _Sha’s nivver off mah beeans, sha’s awlus picking at ma._
+Pick-fork+, _n._ A pitch-fork.
+Pickle+, +Piddle on+, _v._ To play with one’s food.
+Pick-mark+, _n._ The mark on sheep made with a hot iron stamp.
+Pick up+, _v._ To vomit.
+Pie+, _v._ To store potatoes in an earth mound for the winter, to
peep, to pry.
+Pie+, _n._ A heap of potatoes covered by earth.
+Piet+, _n._ The magpie.
+Piffle+, _v._ To steal in small quantities.
+Piffling+, _v._ To. do anything in a silly, half-hearted way.
+Pigmeat+, The refuse of the kitchen and dinner-table gathered
together, and saved with other swill in a tub for pig-food.
+Pig-nut+, _n._ The earth-nut (_Bunium flexuosum_).
+Pig-swarth+, _n._ The skin of bacon.
+Pike+, _n._ A number of hay-cocks made into one heap.
+Pinchery+, _n._ Greediness, penuriousness.
+Pin-faud+, _n._ The pound for stray cattle.
+Pinnies+, _n._ Fish just hatched.
+Pirl+, +Purl+, _n._ The wooden or other winder upon which cotton
or thread is wound.
+Pisking+, _v._ To lounge about.
+Pit+, _v._ 1. To match.
2. To jeer, to quarrel.
3. To mark or spot.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll pit him again thoo. Let ’em aleean, tha’re well
pitted._
2. _Ther’s maist o’ t’ street end oot, an’ tha’re pitting yan
anither leyke all that._
+Pit+, _n._ A mark left by small-pox.
+Place+, _n._ Service.
Ex.—_Ah isn’t gahin’ ti pleeace yet._
+‘Plain+, +‘Pleean+, +‘Plaan+, _v._ To complain, to be querulous.
+Plaint+, _n._ A pitiful tale.
+Plash+, _v._ To splash. n. A puddle.
+Plate+, _v._ To clinch a nail.
+Plating+, _n._ A sound thrashing.
+Pleeaf+, _Vide_ +Plough+.
+Pleeaf stots+, Young fellows, about twelve in number, who used to
go about fantastically dressed on Plough Monday, headed by music;
a kind of sword-dancer.
+Pleean+, +Plaan+, _adj._ Doubtful, not handsome.
Ex.—1. _Ah wadn’t trust yon, he’s nobbut a plaan un._
2. _Yon’s a pleean leeaking lass, hooiveer._
+Plenish+, _v._ To review, to furnish.
+Plesh+, +Plosh+, +Plash+, _n._ A puddle.
+Plew+, _Vide_ +Plough+.
+Pload+, _v._ To walk with difficulty over heavy land.
+Ploader+, _n._ A plodding, diligent fellow.
+Ploat+, _v._ To pluck the feathers from a fowl.
+Plodge+, _v._ To wade through water.
+Plook+, _n._ A small pimple.
+Plooky-feeaced+, _adj._ Applied to a pimpled or blotched face.
+Plosh+, _v._ To splash, to bespatter.
+Ploshy+, _adj._ Splashy.
+Plother+, +Plodder+, _n._ Soft mud.
+Plother+, _v._ To bring into a state of soft mud.
+Plothery+, +Ploddery+, +Pluthery+, _adj._ Muddy, miry.
+Plough+, +Plew+, +Pleeaf+, +Plufe+, _n._ A plough.
+Ploughing-day+, +Pleeafing-day+, +Plewing-day+, _n._ The day on
which neighbouring farmers lend men, horses, and implements, to
assist a new-comer on the land.
+Ploughing iron+ or +airn+, _n._ The coulter.
+Pluck+, _n._ The heart, liver, and lungs of an animal.
+Pluff+, _n._ A tube to pluff with.
+Pluff+, _v._ To force anything through a tube by blowing.
+Plug+, _v._ To load a cart with manure.
+Plugger+, _n._ Anything larger than usual.
+Pluke+, _Vide_ +Plook+.
+Plum+, _adj._ Perpendicular.
Ex.—_That’s nut plum byv a lang waay._
+Plump+, _v._ To come straight down, hence to accuse openly.
Ex.—1. _It cam plump doon i’ t’ frunt o’ ma._
2. _Ah plump’d him wi’ ‘t tiv his feeace_, i.e. ‘I accused him
to his face.’
+Plump+, _adj._ Straightforwardly, exactly.
Ex.—_Ah tell’d him plump oot what Ah thowt._
+Plunder+, _n._ The legitimate profit made out of any business
transaction.
+Pluther+, _Vide_ +Plother+.
+Plutherment+, _n._ Slush, water and mud, or snow and mud mixed;
any liquid filth.
+Pock-arr+, _n._ The scar left by small-pox.
+Podge+, _n._ A short fat man.
+Podgy+, _adj._ Little and fat.
+Poke+, +Pooak+, _n._ A sack or bag.
+Poringer+, _n._ A mug which widens toward the base.
+Porrets+, _n._ Small onions.
+Porriwiggle+, _n._ The tadpole.
+Posh+, _n._ Slush, mud.
+Posh+, +Poss+, _v._ To pound with a possing-stick whilst washing
clothes. _Vide_ +Dolly-stick+.
+Poshing-stick+, +Possing-stick+, _n._ The stick used to poss or
beat with, something like a heavy club.
+Poskit+, +Peggy-tub+. A large oaken tub used to poss clothes in,
often called a +Possing-tub+.
+Posy+, _n._ A bunch of flowers to carry in the hand.
+Pot-blossoms+, _n._ Blotches on the face caused by excessive
drinking.
+Potherment+, _n._ Petty annoyance.
+Pot-lug+, _n._ The handle of a jug.
+Pot-sitten+, _adj._ Burnt whilst cooking, especially in the case
of milk or porridge. Almost universally styled now +Setten on+.
+Potch+, _n._ To throw.
Ex.—_Gi’e ower potching steeans._
+Potter+, _v._ To attempt in a feeble way, often followed by ‘about.’
Ex.—_Hoo he diz potter aboot! Diz he ivver get owt deean?_
+Pottering+, _adj._ Slow, feeble, awkward.
+Preachment+, _n._ A wearying discourse.
+Present+, _v._ To present.
Ex.—_Tha’ve presented her wiv a clock an’ a silken pess wi’
twenty pund in ’t._
+Pretty warm+, _adj._ Comfortably off, well-to-do.
+Prickle+, _v._ 1. To have a pricking sensation.
2. To prick.
Ex.—1. _Ah prickle all ower._
2. _Ah’ve prickled my han’s all ower wi’ gethering bumm’l-kites._
+Pricky-back otch’n+, _n._ The hedgehog.
+Prod+, _n._ Usually a hazel stick with a sharp point.
+Prod+, _v._ To prick or push with a prod.
+Proddle+, _v._ To poke about, to prick, to poke about under stones,
&c.
+Proffer+, _v._ To make an offer.
Ex.—_Ah proffered ti gan ower an’ give him a lift._
+Prood+, _adj._ Proud.
+Propped up+, _adj._ Kept alive owing to the observance of certain
rules and other advantages.
Ex.—_Tha’ve propped him up foor a bit, but it weean’t be foor
lang, he fails ivvery daay._
+Pross+, _n._ A friendly gossip.
+Providence+, _n._ Food, &c., provided for any kind of feast.
Ex.—_A mirical wadn’t a’e maad yon providence last._
+Pubble+, _adj._ Plump, soft and round.
+Puddings+, _n._ Entrails.
+Pull+, _v._ To pick.
Ex.—_Wa mun pull t’ currants ti morn._
+Pulls+, _n._ The shells of ripe turnip seeds, &c.
+Pulsey+, _n._ A poultice.
+Pum+, +Pumm’l+, _v._ To beat with the fists.
+Purlings+, _n._ Ribs upon which the spars of the roof of a house
rest.
+Push+, _n._ 1. Moment.
2. Energy.
Ex.—1. _He awlus leeaves ivvery thing ti t’ last push._
2. _Ther’s neea push i’ yon youth._
+Pushed+, _adj._ Hurried, inconvenienced.
Ex.—_Ah war varra mich pushed for tahm._
+Put about+, _v._ To be incommoded, put out of one’s ordinary
course, disgusted.
Ex.—_Ah nivver war seea grieved an’ vexed an’ putten about iv
all mah leyfe._
+Put off+, +Put away+. To kill, to remove one’s outer garments.
+Putten+, _pp._ of ‘Put.’
+Putten by+, _v._ To put away, to bury.
+Putten ti reets+, _v._ 1. To put in order.
2. To correct.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll git things putten ti reets a bit._
2. _Thoo’ll git thisen putten ti reets if thoo dizn’t tak care._
+Puzzon+, _n._ A poison.
+Puzzon+, _v._ To poison.
Q.
+Quality+, _n._ Gentry.
+Quart+, _v._ 1. To cross transversely, as in ploughing.
2. To disagree, to quarrel.
Ex.—2. _Ah aim ’at oor Tom wad quart wiv a stuffed monkey._
+Queery+, _n._ Any circumstance of an extraordinary character.
+Quick-sticks+, _adv._ Sharply, at once.
Ex.—_If thoo dizn’t git it deean i’ quick-sticks, Ah’ll wahrm
thi jacket foor tha._
+Quirk+, _n._ A trick, deception.
+Quite better+, = Quite recovered.
R.
+Rabate+, _v._ To return something, in consideration of.
Ex.—_Thoo gav him fahve pund foor ’t, an’ ‘ed ti gan foor ’t
thisen, what rabate did ta git?_
+Rabble+, _v._ To read or speak so hastily as to be indistinct.
+Rabblement+, _n._ Indistinct, confused talk; a mob of low
scoundrels.
+Race+, _Vide_ +Mill-race+.
+Rack+, _n._ Fleecy clouds driven by wind.
+Rackapelt+, _n._ A worthless fellow.
+Rackit+, _n._ A turbulent, boisterous noise.
+Raddle+, _v._ To beat or thrash soundly.
+Raddling+, _n._ A sound thrashing.
+Radged+, _adj._ Furious, mad.
+Raff+, _n._ 1. A confused heap.
2. A disreputable person.
Ex.—1. _Thoo’s gitten things all iv a raff._
+Raff, After+, _n._ A second mowing, generally of clover.
+Raffle+, _adj._ Idle or foolish.
+Raffle+, _v._ and _n._ 1. To become confused, to wander.
2. To entangle.
3. To lead a wild, irregular life.
Ex.—1. _He raffles on seea whahl yan dizn’t knaw what he meeans._
2. _What a raffle sha’s gitten t’ wool inteea!_
3. _He’ll raffle on whahl he’ll gan thruff t’ bit o’ brass t’
au’d chap left him._
+Raffle-pack+, _adj._ Of loose, irregular lives.
+Raffling+, _adj._ Riotous, dissolute.
+Raffly+, _adj._ Applied to a confusion of ideas or weakened
mental powers.
Ex.—_He gits a larl bit raffly at tahms._
+Rag+, _v._ To enrage, to vex.
Ex.—_Ah did rag him aboot Polly._
+Ragabash+, _n._ A bad character.
+Ragally+, _adj._ Loose, unseemly, unprincipled.
+Rageous+, _adj._ Furious.
+Ragged+, _pp._ To be enraged.
+Ragged+, _adj._ Borne down with fruit.
+Raggel+, _n._ A worthless vagabond.
+Rag out+, _n._ Passion, temper.
Ex.—_Deean’t git his rag oot_, i.e. ‘Don’t vex him.’ _Wa gatnhis
rag oot_, i.e. ‘We got him into a passion.’
+Rag-river+, _n._ A tomboy.
+Raitch+, _n._ The white line down a horse’s face.
+Raited+, _pp._ Applied to hay or straw injured by wet or damp;
peeled off after soaking.
+Rain+, _Vide_ +Rein+.
+Rakapelt+, _n._ A low, dissolute fellow.
+Raking+, _v._ To wander about with a doubtful purpose.
+Ram+, _adj._ Possessing a fetid smell.
+Ram+, _v._ To push forward, to work hard.
Ex.—_Ah ram’d at it, an’ seean gat it deean._
+Raments+, _n._ Shavings, odd bits.
+Rammack+, _Vide_ +Rannack+.
+Ramm’l+, _v._ To idle about.
Ex.—_Noo off thoo gans; thoo’s awlus ramm’ling about t’ pleeace._
+Ramp+, _n._ A series of steps or drops on the upper part of a
wall; the name given to garlic.
+Rampageous+, _adj._ Furious, boisterous, wild.
+Ramp and Rave, To+, _v._ To be mad with passion.
+Ramper+, _n._ The sloping side of a raised footpath.
+Ramscallion+, _n._ A filthy, loathsome person.
+Ramshackle+, _adj._ Disjointed, unsteady, needing repair.
+Ranch+, _adj._ Acid.
+Ranch+, _v._ To sprain.
+Ranch+, +Rinch+, _n._ A sprain.
+Rand+, _n._ A piece cut out of or off.
+Rands+, +Reeands+, _n._ The unploughed edges round a field.
+Randy+, _adv._ Madly, wildly, riotous. _adj._ Mad.
+Rannack+, _n._ A dissolute spendthrift.
+Rann’l-+ or +Randle-bauk+, _n._ The bar upon which the reckons
hang.
+Rantipole+, _n._ A romping child.
+Ranty+, _adj._ Much excited, angry.
+Rap+, _n._ A friendly chat.
Ex.—_Cu’ thi waays, an’ lets ’ev a pipe an’ a bit o’ rap._
+Rap-off+, _v._ To speak on the spur of the moment.
+Raps+, _n._ Gossip, news.
+Rapterous+, _adj._ Ecstatic.
+Rase+, _pret._ of ‘Rise.’
+Rase+, _v._ To raise, to cause to move.
Ex.—_Ah rase a rabbit i’ that coorner last neet. Ah rase ’t up
mysen._
+Raspin+, _adj._ Excellent.
+Rasps+, _n._ Raspberries.
+Rasselled+, _adj._ Applied to withered fruit.
+Ratten+, _n._ A rat. +Rattener+, _n._ A catcher of rats.
+Ratten-trap+, _n._ A rat-trap.
+Rattle-beeans+ (bones), _n._ A very thin man.
+Rattle-cap+, _n._ A lively, somewhat wild person.
+Rattle-doon+, _adj._ Tumble-down.
Ex.—_It’s nobbut a rattle-doon spot at t’ best._
+Raum+, +Reeam+, _v._ To bawl at the top of one’s voice.
+Raun+, _n._ Fish roe.
+Rave+, _Vide_ +Rive+.
+Rawk+, _n._ _Vide_ +Roke+.
+Rawp+, _n._ Rape (_Brassica napus_).
+Rax+, _v._ To strain to the utmost.
+Rax+, _n._ A strain, a twist of limb or muscle.
+Razzle+, _v._ To roast on the outside before the fire, to
hurriedly cook over a flame.
+Reach+, _v._ To hand or fetch anything.
Ex.—_Reeach ma t’ breead. Reeach ma yon mug o’ milk._
+Reach to+, _v._ To help oneself.
Ex.—_Ya’re all on ya varra welcum ti t’ best o’ owt Ah’ve gitten,
sae reach to, and mak yersels at heeam._
+Reap up+, _v._ To refer to some past misdeed.
+Rear+, _v._ To raise up, to raise into a perpendicular position.
+Rear+, _adj._ Applied to meat underdone.
+Reckan-bauk+, _Vide_ +Gally-bauk+.
+Recklin+, _Vide_ +Wrecklin+.
+Reckon+, _n._ The bar suspended from the rann’l-bauk.
+Reckon+, _v._ To imagine, to suppose.
Ex.—_Ah reckon you’ll be him. Ah reckon I knaw summat aboot it._
+Reckon-crook+, _n._ The hook of the reckon.
+Red up+, _Vide_ +Reet up+.
+Reead-yat+, _adj._ Red-hot.
+Reeak+, _n._ A rook.
+Reeasty+, _adj._ Rancid, e.g. ‘reeasty bacon.’
+Reeasty-cropt+, _adj._ Hoarse.
+Reek+, _n._ Smoke. _v._ To smoke.
+Reet+, _adj._, _adv._, and _n._ Right.
+Reet up, To+, _v._ To put things in order, to tidy up.
Ex.—_Ah’ll reet things up a bit, an’ then Ah’ll cum._
+Reft+, _n._ A chink, a slit.
+Rein+, _n._ The sides of a field overgrown with brushwood.
+Reist+, _n._ A horse which refuses to move is said to have taken
the ‘reist.’
+Rench+, _v._ To rinse.
Ex.—_Ah’ll gi’e it a rench oot._
+Render+, _v._ To convert the fat of pigs to a liquid state by heat.
+Renky+, _adj._ Tall, but too thin, as trees when grown too close
together.
+Resehes+, +Reashes+, _n._ The rush (_Juncus glaucus_).
+Rezzil+, _n._ The weasel (_Mustela_ or _Putorius vulgaris_).
+Wezzil+ and +Wuzzil+ are equally common.
+Rick+, _n._ A quantity of hay larger than a pike.
+Rickle+, _n._ A small heap of peat set to dry.
+Ride+, _v._ To travel on horseback, or in any kind of vehicle.
Ex.—_Ah s’all rahde t’ meer theear, bud rahde back i’ t’ cart
wi’ Billy._
+Ride rough-shod ower, To+, _v._ To obtain our own ends careless of
other people’s rights.
Ex.—_Ah’ll nut let him rahde rough-shod ower me when Ah’ve
gitten t’ reet o’ mah sahd._
+Riding+, +Ridding+, _n._ The space made by felling trees,
generally within a wood.
+Riddle+, _n._ A sieve.
+Rife+, _adj._ Inclined, ready.
Ex.—_He’s rife foor onny rackit. He war rife foor t’ job._
+Riff-raff+, _n._ A low mob, scum.
Ex.—_He’ll gan wi’ onny sike leyke riff-raff._
+Rift+, _v._ To belch.
+Rig+, _v._ To dress oneself.
+Rigg+, _n._ The back of a man or beast, the rows in which turnips
grow. Hence ‘rigg and furr,’ the latter being the raised part
running between each rigg.
+Rigged+, _v._ To be laid on the back unable to rise, applied to
sheep; to tidy oneself, to put on one’s best.
+Rigging+, _n._ The framework of a roof.
+Rigging tree+, _n._ The top spar of a house.
+Right+, +Reet+, _adj._ True, correct.
Ex.—_It’s reet what Ah’s telling on ya._
+Right on end+, _adv._ Direct as to direction, in a straightforward
manner.
+Right up+, _v._ To put things in order.
Ex.—_Ah’ve setten Janey ti reet things up a bit._
+Ring-shaken+, _adj._ That part of timber which cannot be used
owing to its being diseased.
+Rise+, _n._ A steep ascent.
+Rive+, +Rahve+, _v._ 1. To tear in two.
2. To pull with force.
3. To split.
Ex.—1. _He gave it a snip w’ t’ sithers, an’ then rahve it reet
across._
2. _Ah rahve it up, it war deead._
3. _Ah s’all rive t’ maist o’ yon wood up._
+Rist+, _n._ Rust.
+Rist+, _v._ To rest.
+Road, Oot o’ t’+ = Out of the way, killed.
+Rods+, _n._ Pea-rods, used to support peas when growing.
+Roil+, _v._ To be noisy, turbulent.
+Roist+, _adj._ Wild, dissolute.
+Roistering+, _adj._ Wild, noisy, or dissolute.
+Roke+, +Rawk+, _n._ A thick fog.
+Roky+, +Rauky+, +Roaky+, _adj._ Foggy, damp.
+Roll+, _n._ The pad of cloth worn on the head by potter women and
others who carry a basket in that position.
+Roll-egg day+, +Troll-egg day+. Easter Monday. _Vide_ chapter on
‘Customs.’
+Roo+, +Roo on+, _v._ To work hard amidst confusion.
Ex.—_If thoo’d nobbut sahd a few things by ez thoo went on, thoo
wadn’t ’a’e ti roo on i’ this fashion. Sha awlus ’ez ti roo on
at t’ finish._
+Rooar+, _v._ To make a loud noise when crying.
+Rook+, _n._ A cock of clover set up to dry.
+Rook+, _v._ To set up in small heaps.
+Rossil+, _n._ Resin.
+Rostle+, +Rossel+, _v._ To disturb, to shake.
+Rouk+, _v._ To snore loudly, as pigs.
Ex.—_Ah weean’t sleep w’ him na mair, he rouks warse ’an a pig._
+Roughen+, _v._ To make rough.
+Round, To get+, _v._ To cajole, to assuage.
+Roundy+, _adj._ Of fairly good size, as compared with another
sample containing much dust and small pieces; applied to a good
sample of coal.
+Rouped up, To be+, _v._ To be hoarse.
+Roupy+, _adj._ Hoarse from cold.
+Rout+, +Rowt+, _v._ To wander, to stray; to bellow loudly, as
cattle.
+Rout about+, _v._ To turn every place out.
+Routering tahm+, Cleaning time, house-cleaning.
+Roving+, _adj._ Of an unsettled nature.
+Rovven+, _pp._ Riven.
+Row+, _v._ To form ridges in the land for setting potatoes, &c.
+Rowan-tree+, _n._ The mountain ash (_Pyrus Aucuparia_). _Vide_
chapter on ‘Witchcraft.’
+Rownd+, _Vide_ +Raun+.
+Rowty+, _adj._ Rank.
+Roy+, +Roy on+, _v._ To lead a fast life.
Ex.—_If he roys on leyke yon, he’ll seean ’a’e ti spell want._
+Royously+, _adv._ Extravagantly.
+Rud+, _n._ Red ochre, also ruddle.
+Rud-stake+, _n._ The post to which a cow or ox is fastened when
in its stall.
+Rue+, _v._ To alter one’s mind after making a bargain.
+Rue-bargain+, _n._ A sum of money paid to cancel a bargain.
+Ruffle+, _v._ To rub or raise the skin.
+Rumbustical+, _adj._ Noisy, rough in play.
+Runch+, _n._ The charlock (_Sinapis arvensis_).
+Rung+, _n._ The step of a ladder.
+Runnel+, _v._ A small stream of water, the channel it runs in, a
funnel.
+Run out+, _adj._ Exhausted, impoverished.
+Runty+, _n._ Short, thick-set.
+Rush+, _n._ A large concourse of people.
+Russelled+, _Vide_ +Rasselled+.
+Rutterkin+, _n._ A sly old fellow.
+Rutting+, _n._ The sound made by deer during the pairing season.
+Ruttle+, _v._ and _n._ To breathe with a rattling, gurgling sound,
as when suffering from bronchitis, or when dying. Hence _t’ deeath
ruttle’s setten in, it’ll seean be owered wiv him noo._
+Rutty+, _adj._ A road deeply furrowed by cart-ruts.
S.
+‘S+, Is, has, or as.
+S’+, _v._ Shall.
+Sa+, _Vide_ +Seea+.
+S’aan’t+, _v._ Shall not.
+Sack, To get the+, _v._ To be turned out of or lose a situation,
to be dismissed.
+Sackless+, _adj._ Lacking common sense, foolish.
+Sad+, _adj._ Heavy, as badly-risen bread, damp.
+Sadden+, _v._ To make firm by stamping, treading, &c.
Ex.—_Sae monny fooak tramping on t’ land sairly saddens ’t._
+Sadly+, _adv._ Very much.
Ex.—_It sadly wants deeaing_, i.e. ‘It wants doing very much.’
_Ah sadly wanted her ti stop a bit langer._
+Sadly begone+, _adj._ Surprised and distressed at the same time.
+Sadly ta’en in+, _adv._ Very much deceived.
Ex.—_Ah’ve been sadly ta’en in wiv ’em._
+Sae+, _Vide_ +Seea+.
+Safe+, +Seeaf+, _adj._ and _adv._ Certain, without doubt.
Ex.—_Ah’s seeaf ti cum_, i.e. ‘I am certain to come.’ _Safe
eneeaf he did it_, i.e. ‘Without doubt he did it.’
+Sag+, _v._ To hang lower in the middle than at either end, as a
rope.
+Sahded by+, +Sided by+, _pp._ Buried.
Ex.—_It’s owered wiv him noo, wa’ve gitten him sahded by._
+Saim+, +Saam+, _n._ Lard.
+Sair+, _adj._ Sore, in all its senses.
Ex.—_Wa’ve ’ed a sair tahm_, i.e. ‘a sad time.’ _It’s varra sair
news_, i.e. ‘sorrowful.’ _T’ lad’s gitten a naisty sair spot_,
i.e. ‘sore.’
+Sair+, +Sairly+, _adv._ Sorely, greatly, extremely; used as an
intensive.
Ex.—_Sha’ll be sairly missed, will Jane. It war a sair mannish’d
job. Sha sairly wanted ti git yam._
+Sam+, _v._ 1. To cause milk to curdle, to coagulate.
2. To gather in a hurry.
3. To pack things carelessly.
Ex.—2. _Ah samm’d all t’ lot tigither iv a twinklin’._
3. _Sam ’em in onnyhoo._
+Sammer+, _adj._ Larger than usual.
+Santer+, _v._ To loiter, to walk slowly.
+Sappy+, _adj._ Heavy, sodden.
+Sap-tree+, _n._ The rowan-tree.
+Sark+, _n._ A shirt or chemise.
+Sarten+, _adj._ Certain.
+Sarve+, _v._ 1. To feed cattle.
2. To pay back revengefully.
Ex.—1. _Thoo mun sarve t’ pigs._
2. _Ah’ll sarve him oot foor ’t._
+Sattle+, _v._ To settle, usually followed by ‘down’; to feel at
home.
Ex.—_Ah s’ sattle efter a bit. Oha, he’s sattled doon neycely._
+Sattle one’s hash, To+, To completely discomfit.
Ex.—_If sha sez owt ti me Ah’ll seean sattle her hash, an’ tell
her her neeam fur nowt an’ all; sha’d best leeak oot_.
+Sauce+, _n._ and _v._ An impudent answer.
Ex.—_Ah tell’d her what Ah thowt, an’ sha sauced ma back ageean
leyke all that._
+Sau’t+, _n._ Salt.
+Sau’t-kit+, _n._ Salt-box.
+Sauve+, _n._ Ointment.
+Sauve+, _v._ 1. To cajole.
2. To apply ointment.
Ex.—1. _Thoo mun sauve him ower byv talking neycely._
+Savelicks+, _n._ Canker of the dog-rose.
+Saw-cum+, +-com+, or +-coom+, _n._ Sawdust.
+Saw-hoss+, _n._ A saw-pit, or the arrangement of two tressels upon
which the wood to be sawn is rested.
+Say+, _n._ 1. Power, influence.
2. Opinion.
Ex.—1. _T’ parson ’ez t’ maist say ov onnybody hereabouts._
2. _Noo let me saay mah saay noo_, i.e. ‘Now let me express my
opinion now.’
+Say+, _v._ To control or influence.
Ex.—_Ther’s neea saying onny o’ Martha’s bairns. Ah caan’t saay
t’ dog._
+Scacelings+, _adv._ Scarcely.
+Scaldered, To be+, _v._ To have an unhealthy skin, so that the
surface comes off in scales. Children’s heads are often said to
be scaldered when suffering from dandruff.
+Scalderings+, _n._ Nodules of half-burnt lime.
+Scale+, +Scaling+, _v._ To scatter or spread, as manure; to cause
the milk to be absorbed in the female breast.
+Scale-dish+, _n._ A shallow metal pan used to skim milk.
+Scallibrat+, _n._ A passionate, noisy child.
+Scamp+, _v._ To execute work in a dishonest manner, not paying
attention to details which are hidden from view.
+Scar+, _n._ The face of a precipitous rock, or the rock itself.
+Scart+, _v._ Frightened.
+Scaud+, _n._ and _v._ A scold, a vixenish woman.
+Scaud-heead+, _n._ Applied both to dandruff and ringworm.
+Scau’p+, _n._ The head, the skull, the bare spots of rock and
stones on a hillside.
+Sconce+, _n._ 1. A screen, usually lined with tin, which is kept
very bright so as to reflect; this is placed in front of any
joint roasting before the fire.
2. Hence the usage of the word in the sense of a ‘ruse,’
‘deception,’ i.e. a screen to hide one’s real intentions.
Ex.—2. _He aim’d at wa s’u’d think ’at he’d cum’d ti see t’ au’d
chap, bud it war nowt bud a sconce ti finnd oot what wa’d
gitten i’ t’ hoos._ The word is also used in the sense of
‘tale-bearing’ in such a way as either to hide one’s own fault
or to obtain one’s own ends.
+Scopperil+, _n._ A teetotum, a pierced bone button with a wooden
peg through it.
+Scourging top+, +Scurgy+, _n._ A whipping-top.
+Scow+, _n._ Confusion, hurried and somewhat disorganized
preparation for an expected event, bustle with confusion.
+Scowder+, +Scowderment+, _n._ Confusion.
+Scraffle+, _v._ To struggle, to strive.
Ex.—_Ah mannished ti scraffle thruff’t, bud Ah s’all tak t’
hedge t’ next tahm. Sha’s deean mair ’an weel ti scraffle on
wi’ a family leyke yon._
+Scrag-cauf+, _n._ A name applied to females whose legs are very
thin.
+Scraggy+, _adj._ Lean.
+Scran+, _n._ Food.
+Scranky+, _adj._ Very lank.
+Scrannel+, _adj._ Poor, worthless.
+Scrap+, _v._ and _n._ To quarrel.
+Scrape+, _n._ Misfortune, trouble.
+Scrape the tongue, To+, _v._ To speak affectedly.
+Scrat+, _v._ and _n._ 1. To scratch.
2. A scraping together of one’s belongings by hard toil.
Ex.—2. _Yan gits yan’s things scratted tigither oddly by_
_tahms. Neeaboddy’s made a harder scrat foor what tha’ve
gitten ’an Lisa Jane._
+Scrat+, _n._ A miser, the itch.
+Scrat, Au’d+, _n._ The devil.
+Scrawm+, _v._ To scratch irregular marks on any surface, to grope
about in the dark.
+Scrawmy+, _adj._ Straggly, irregular, unshapely.
+Scrawmy cauf+, _n._ A badly shaped leg. _adj._ +Scrawmy-cauf’d.+
_Ex.—Mah wo’d, bud Polly war sairly flowter’d when Ah dropped on
her shauming, ant Ah seeaa sha’d neea call ti be, fer sha’s
owt bud a scrawmy-cauf’d un._
+Screed+, _v._ To run a line or border on the edge of anything.
+Screed+, _n._ A shred, the border or edge of any material.
+Screeve+, _v._ To mark with a screever.
+Screever+, _n._ A small pointed steel tool used to mark metal,
&c.; the sound produced by such marking.
+Scriggle+, _v._ To twist about.
+Scrimp+, _adj._ 1. Niggardly.
2. Scant.
3. Short.
Ex.—1. _It war nobbut a scrimpy do._
2. _It war a varra scrimpy set oot._
3. _Did ta run sho’t o’ stuff? T’ sket nobbut seems scrimpy an’
sho’tish at t’ back._
+Scrogs+, _n._ Stunted bushes or shrubs.
+Scrout+, _v._ To lengthen, as the days.
+Scrow+ and +Scrowing+. _Vide_ +Scow+.
+Scruff+, _n._ Scurf, either on the skin or head; scum, hence ‘the
rabble.’
+Scruffle+, +Scruffling+, _v._ 1. To push, strive, to put on one
side by force, as pushing through a crowd.
2. To weed turnips.
Ex.—1. _Ah’d a despert scruffle afoor Ah gat inti t’ tent.
Neeabody teeak na notish o’ neeabody, bud iverybodd scruffled
t’ best waay tha c’u’d, whahl wa war all scruffling tigither._
+Scruffle+, _n._ A quarrel accompanied with a struggle, an unruly
crowd.
+Scruffler+, _n._ A hoe for weeding turnip rows. Formerly it was
fashioned from an old horse-shoe fixed to a long handle.
+Scuff+, _n._ The nape of the neck.
+Scuff+, _v._ To seize or shake by holding the neck.
+Scumfish+, _v._ To oppress with either heat, smoke, or foul air.
+Scut+ or +Scud+, _v._ To run away.
+Scutter+, _v._ To run away quickly.
+Scutters+, _n._ Diarrhoea.
+Scuttle+, _n._ An open rough-made basket considerably narrowing
towards the bottom, and used to gather potatoes in, &c.
+Sea-fret+, _n._ Fine rain, usually commencing with the rise of
the tide.
+Seagling+, _part._ Sauntering.
+Sea-tang+, _n._ Sea-weed or wrack (_Laminaria digitata_).
+Seddle+, _n._ The wrist-bone.
+Seea+, +Sae+, +Sa+, +Soa+, +Sooa+, _adv._ So.
+Seear+, +Shower+, _adj._ and _adv._ Sure.
+Seed+, _pf. part._ of ‘Saw.’
+Seed-lip+, _n._ The basket from which the seed corn is cast when
thrown on the land.
+Seeing-glass+, _n._ A looking-glass.
+Seeve+, +Seeave+, _n._ The common rushes (_Juncus effusus_ and
_conglomeratus_).
+Seet+, _adj._ Considerable, many.
Ex.—_Ther war a seet main fooak theear ’an what Ah thowt ther’d
be. He’s a seet better ’an what Ah leeak’d foor._
+Segged+, _v._ To be distended, swollen, accompanied by hardness.
+Seggrums+, _n._ Common ragwort.
+Seggy+, _adj._ Second.
Ex.—_Bags Ah seggy_, i.e. ‘Second turn.’
+Segs+, _n._ A name applied somewhat loosely to several rushes and
flags.
+Sen+, +Sin+, _adv._ Since.
+Servers+, _n._ Females, generally two in number, who hand the cake,
biscuits, and wine to mourners and others at a burial.
+Set+, _v._ To accompany any one either the whole or a short way on
a journey.
Ex.—_Tommy set ma ivver sae fur. He put t’ meer in an’ set ma all
t’ waay. Ah’ve setten her ti t’ deearstan._
+Set+, _v._ To arrange or settle a price.
Ex.—_Setten at that price, he’d nivver git his awn ageean. Ah’ve
setten it at less na what Ah aimed ti git._
+Set a day, To+, _v._ To fix a definite appointment.
+Set agate+, _v._ To set in motion, to start work, to put into
action. _Vide_ +Agate+.
+Set in+, _adj._ Applied to dirt on the clothes or skin of long
standing; commenced and likely to continue.
+Set on+, +Setten on+, _v._ To burn in the pan when cooking,
especially when milk is used. _adj._ Small, stunted in growth.
+Set on knees+, _v._ To kneel.
+Set-pot+, _n._ A large iron cauldron fixed in brickwork.
+Set-teea+, _n._ A fight.
Ex.—_Let ’em ’ev a set-teea, an’ then tha’ll git it sattled.
Bob’s ’ed a set-teea wi’ Billy._
+Set teea+, +Set on+, _v._ To begin or cause to begin.
Ex.—_Thoo mun set teea at yance, an’ Ah’ll set Tom on ti morn at
morn._
+Setter+, _n_. A seton. Also _v._ To insert, &c.
+Settle+, _n._ _Vide_ +Lang settle+.
+Settled+, _v._ To be decided, satisfied, contented.
_Vide_ +Sattle+.
Ex.—_Ah’ve sattled that point lang sen. Ah’s nobbut hauf sattled
wi’ t’ waay things is gahin’ on, an’ Ah s’aan’t feel sattled
whahl Ah’ve been ti see foor mysen._
+Set up+, _v._ To greatly delight.
+Sez+, _v._ Says.
Ex.—_If sha sez ’at thoo sez what thoo sez sha sez, sha sez
what’s wrang._
+Shabby+, _adj._ Disagreeable, unpleasant as to weather.
Ex.—_Wa nobbut ’ed a shabby hay-tahm ti year._
+Shackle+, _n._ The wrist.
+Shade+, _n._ A wooden or lightly constructed building, a shed.
+Shades+, _n._ Lace curtains.
+Shaff+, _n._ Sheaf.
+Shaffle+, _v._ To shuffle in walking, to evade by subterfuge, to
be undecided.
+Shaft+, _n._ A handle, as of a fork, rake, hoe, axe.
+Shaft+, _v._ To fix a handle to anything.
+Shak+, _v._ To shake.
+Shak-bag+ or +-back+, _n._ An untrustworthy fellow.
+Shake+, _n._ A split or crack in furniture.
+Shak-fork+, _n._ The fork used for lifting and shaking the
thrashed straw.
+Shak-ripe+, _adj._ So ripe that shaking will cause the fruit to
fall. Anything likely to fall either from a shake or wind.
+Shanks’ nag+, +Shanks’ pony+, _n._ One’s own legs as a means of
going from place to place.
Ex.—_Ah s’all ’a’e ti gan on Shanks’ pony_, i.e. ‘I shall have
to walk.’
+Shap+, +Shaape+, _v._ 1. To show good judgement.
2. To give promise.
Ex.—1. _He shaps weel ti deea ’t, diz t’ lad._
2. _It shaps ti mak a good un._
+Sharp+, _v._ To insert nails or screws in a horse’s shoe during
frosty weather.
+Sharp+, _adj._ Quick, smart, intelligent.
Ex.—1. _Noo gan ez sharp ez thoo can_, i.e. ‘quick.’
2. _Noo that war a sharp trick ti deea_, i.e. ‘smart.’
3. _He’s a sharp lad that_, i.e. ‘intelligent.’
+Sharps+, _n._ Flour with the admixture of bran.
+Shaum+, _v._ To warm the legs and knees by sitting close to the
fire; in the case of females, with the skirts, &c., pulled above
the knees.
+Shear+, _v._ To cut corn with a sickle.
+Shearling+, _n._ A sheep of the first year from the time of
shearing.
+Sheep-ked+ or +-keead+, _n._ A sheep-tick.
+Shell+, _n._ A slide. _v._ To slide.
+Shelvings+, _n._ Wooden frames fixed on either side of a cart to
increase the size.
+Shift+, _v._ To remove from one house to another, to change one’s
clothes, to move.
+Shift+, _n._ A chemise.
+Shifty+, _adj._ Deceitful, crafty.
+Shill+, _n._ Scum of anything left to stand.
+Shill+, _v._ 1. To shell, as peas, &c.
2. To cause to curdle so that the whey and curds separate.
3. To make a noise something between a howl and a whistle.
Ex.—3. _Mah wo’d, bud t’ wind did shill roond t’ chetch last neet.
Its nobbut a feeal ’at trimm’ls when t’ wind shills._
+Shills+, _n._ Shafts of a cart.
+Shine+, _n._ The pupil of the eye; a disturbance, a quarrel.
+Shinnop+, _v._ To play at hockey.
+Shinny+, _n._ Hockey.
+Shippy+, or +Ship starnel+, _n._ The starling.
+Shiv+, _n._ A husk of corn.
+Shive+, _n._ A slice.
+Shoe+, _n._ The drag applied to the wagon or cart wheel when
descending a hill.
+Shog+, _v._ To shake, to be slowly driven along with a jolting
motion.
+Shoggle+, _v._ To shake with unsteady motion.
+Shogglin+, _n._ An icicle.
+Sholl+, _n._ Slide. _v._ To idle.
+Shool+, _n._ A shovel.
+Shoon+, _n._ Pl. of ‘Shoe.’
+Shoot+, _v._ 1. To shout. Often implies to call without raising
the voice.
2. To break into ear (of corn).
Ex.—1. _Shoot on him, he’s i’ t’ next room._
+Shot+, +Shut+, _v._ To be freed from, rid, clear of.
Ex.—_Hez ta gitten shut on him?_ i.e. ‘Have you got rid of him?’
_Ah’ve gitten shot o’ that claim_, i.e. ‘I have got clear of
that claim.’
+Sho’t+, _adj._ Short, hasty.
Ex.—_Saay neea mair, leeave that sho’t_, i.e. ‘Don’t tell or
explain the whole.’ _Ah thowt ’at he war a bit sho’t wi’ ma_,
i.e. ‘a trifle hasty.’
+Shot-ice+, _n._ Sheets of ice.
+Shovven-string+, _n._ Boot-lace.
+Shrag+, _v._ To lop, to trim.
+Shrift+, _n._ The condition of an animal’s coat after having been
kept on soft food in the open during winter; on beginning to
better its condition it sheds its coat.
+Shudder+, +Shuther+, _v._ To shake, to tremble.
Ex.—_Yah crack o’ thunner made all shuther ageean._
+Shut+, _v._ To shoot with a gun, to put out or shoot out, to quit.
+Shuttance+, _n._ Riddance.
Ex.—_Tha’ve gane, an’ good shuttance tiv ’em_, i.e. ‘They have
gone, and good riddance to them.’
+Shutters+, _n._ A shooting party.
+Shy+, _adj._ Bitter and piercing (of the wind).
+Sich+, _adv._ So.
+Side-lang+, _v._ To fasten the fore and hind foot of a sheep
together to prevent its straying.
+Side up+, _v._ To put in order, to tidy.
+Side-wipe+, _n._ Censure, conveyed by innuendo.
+Sidling+, _adj._ Fawning, servile.
Ex.—_He awlus sidles an’ maks up ti fresh fooak, bud he’s a
sidling sooart ov a chap._
+Sie+, _n._ A fine sieve to strain milk, a spot, a stain left by
anything falling in drops.
+Sie+, _v._ To strain milk.
+Sike+, _adj._ Such.
+Sikan+, _adj._ Such (used before a vowel).
+Sike-like+, _adj._ Such-like, so forth, similar.
+Sile+, _n._ A strainer.
+Sile-brigg+, _n._ The wooden frame upon which the sile rests when
used.
+Sill-horse+, _n._ The shaft horse.
+Sin+, _adv._ Since.
+Sink-hoal+, _n._ A dug-out or other hollow place in which the
drainage from a midden-stead collects, or water from the sink.
+Sinter-santer+, _v._ To idle, to dawdle.
+Sipe+, _v._ To soak through, to drain away slowly, to sink away.
+Sippel+, _n._ A thin slice of anything.
+Sipper-sauces+, _n._ Dainty dishes.
+Siss+, _v._ To hiss, as water dropping on the fire; to spit (of a
cat); to hiss like a goose.
+Sitfast+, _n._ The hard cyst of a wound or boil.
+Sitha+, pronounced _Si-tha_. Calls attention to. It is a
corruption of ‘seest thou.’ Sutha originally was ‘saw thou.’
‘Sitha’ and ‘sutha’ are equally common.
+Sit up on end, To+, _v._ To sit up.
Ex.—_He’s mending grandly; whya, he’s sitting up on end i’ bed._
+Sizzapur+, _n._ A heavy blow. As an _adj._ Large of its kind.
+Skaff+, +Skeeaf+, _n._ A rough, steep, broken bank.
+Skare on+, _v._ To overlap or splice.
+Skate+, _v._ To turn sharp round.
+Skaum+, _Vide_ +Skime+.
+Skeeal+, _n._ School.
+Skeel+, _n._ A large wooden milk-pail.
+Skeg+, _n._ A glance, a cast of the eye.
+Skel-beast+, _n._ Wooden partitions in the cow byre.
+Skell+, _v._ To tilt, to raise up one end of anything, to shriek
out.
+Skell up+, +Skell ower+, _v._ To upset, by the lifting of one end
or side too high.
+Skeller+, _v._ To squint.
+Skellered+, _adj._ Bent by heat, as the covers of a book held too
near the fire.
+Skelly+, _n._ A squint.
+Skelp+, +Skelping+, _n._ A thrashing. _adj._ Quickly, with great
speed.
Ex.—1. _Ah gav’ him a skelp._
2. _He did gan wiv a skelp._
+Skelp+, _v._ 1. To strike with the open palm.
2. To move quickly.
Ex.—1. _Noo Ah’ll skelp tha._
2. _He skelp’d off yam t’ minit he seed ma._
+Skelper+, _n._ +Skelping+, _adj._ Huge.
+Skep+, _n._ A basket made from either flags or willows.
+Sket+, _n._ A skirt.
+Skew+, _v._ To twist round or about, to wrench.
Ex.—_Sha skews hersen aboot warse ’an nowt. Skew ’t off if t’
weean’t pull oot._
+Skid+, _n._ The iron shoe used as a brake.
+Skid+, _v._ To fix the iron shoe to the wheel.
+Skill+, _v._ To understand, to unravel.
Ex.—_It’s putten tigither queerly, it’s a bit of a rum un ti
skill. It’s a queer taal, can ta skill ’t?_
+Skillet+, +Skellit+, _n._ A small pot for the fire with a long
handle.
+Skime+, +Skaum+, _v._ To droop the eyelids, to scowl.
Ex.—_Oppen thi e’es, an’ deean’t gan skauming aboot leyke that.
Noo leeak pleasant, an’ dean’t skaum._
+Skimmering+, _adj._ Bright, sparkling, brilliant. _v._ Shining
brightly.
+Skiny+, _adj._ Greedy.
+Skirl+, _v._ To scream.
+Skirtling+, _n._ The lower and dressed part of a haystack.
+Skirts, A pair of+, _n._ Petticoat.
+Skite, To take one’s+, _v._ To leave quickly.
Ex.—_Ah heeard what he’d gitten ti saay, an’ then Ah teeak my
skite._
+Skit+, _v._ To sneer at, to make fun of.
+Skit+, _n._ A remark, or printed matter of a personal character.
+Skivvers+, _n._ Wooden skewers.
+Skrike+, _v._ To screech.
+Skrimp+, _Vide_ +Scrimp+.
+Slabby+, _Vide_ +Sleazy+.
+Slack+, _adj._ Slow, lacking go or briskness.
Ex.—_It war nobbut slack deed. T’ market war varra slack._
+Slack+, _n._ A small valley.
+Slafter+, _n._ Slaughter.
+Slafter-hoos+, _n._ Slaughter-house.
+Slain+, +Sleean+, _n._ The smut blight of wheat
(_Ustilago segetum_).
+Slair+, _v._ To idle away one’s time.
+Slairy+, _adj._ Untidy, sluttish.
+Slaister+, _v._ To do anything in an idle, slovenly manner; to
scamp work; to flog with a whip or cane.
+Slaisterer+, _n._ An idle, slovenly fellow.
+Slake+, _v._ To lick; to cleanse imperfectly by just wetting and
rubbing, as licking a slate.
+Slake+, _n._ A lick, a pretence of cleaning.
Ex.—_Ah just gav’ things a slake ower._
+Slap+, _v._ To spill.
Ex.—_Thoo’ll slap ’t if thoo hugs it leyke that, an’ if thoo diz
slap ’t Ah’ll slap tha foor slapping ’t._
+Slap+, _v._ To go or do anything quickly, to be energetic.
Ex.—_He went slap at it ez if he meant it. Ah’ll run slap ower
at yance._
+Slape+, _adj._ Slippery; smooth, as applied to even or polished
surfaces; untrustworthy, crafty.
+Slape-feeaced+, _adj._ Applied to a hypocrite.
+Slape-fingered+, _adj._ Butter-fingered.
+Slapen+, _v._ To make slippery, to open the bowels by laxatives.
+Slape-scalp+ or +-scaup+. A hypocrite.
+Slape-shod+, _adj._ Shoes, especially of horses, are said to be
‘slape-shod’ when much worn and smooth.
Ex.—_Is ta slape-shod? Neea, Ah’ve just gitten sharp’d._
+Slape-t’unged+, _adj._ Plausible.
+Slappy+, _adj._ Sloppy, puddly, wet.
+Slaps+, _n._ Slops.
+Slap-stone+ or +-steean+, _n._ The kitchen sink.
+Slap up+, _v._ To eat or drink in a hurry.
+Slap-up+, _adj._ First-class, exceedingly good.
Ex.—_He’s gitten a slap-up t’on-oot. Noo that’s a slap-upper if
ya leyke._
+Slathery+, _adj._ Continued, as applied to wet weather; puddly,
of the roads. The word as used often embodies both ideas.
+Slating+, _n._ Scolding.
Ex.—_Ah gat sike a slating foor brecking t’ winder._
+Slattery+, _adj._ Slovenly.
+Slaup+, _v._ To eat and drink with the mouth too full.
+Slaverment+, _n._ Insincerity, fawning, hypocrisy.
+Sleave+, _v._ To twist. To ‘sleave’ a lass is to put one’s arm
round her waist.
+Sleaved+, _part._ Twisted.
+Sleazy+, _adj._ Badly made, slight, unsubstantial.
+Sleck+, _v._ To quench one’s thirst, to quench fire by pouring
water on it, to remove the caustic element from lime.
+Sleck+, _n._ Drink.
Ex.—_That’s all reet foor them ’at can deea wi’ ‘t, bud Ah leyke
a sup o’ beer foor a sleck._
+Sled+, _n._ A sledge.
+Slem+, _adj._ Bad, applied to work put together badly.
+Slem+, _v._ To do work imperfectly, to slur over, to hide work by
an outer covering. Its usage is a trifle loose.
Ex.—_Ah slemm’d it ower wi’ pent._
+Slew+, _v._ To swerve, to turn or twist round. In the passive, to
be intoxicated.
+Slidder+ }
+Slither+ } _v._ 1. To slide.
2. To disappear unobserved.
Ex.—1. _He set hissel on t’ top ov a larl bit of a sled, an’
went slithering doon t’ hill leyke all that._
+Sliddery+ } _adj._ Slippery.
+Slithery+ }
+Slinky+, _adj._ Inclined to act evasively.
+Slip+, _v._ 1. To forget.
2. To go, to come.
Ex.—1. _It slipt my mahnd ez cleean ez nowt._
2. _Slip ower ti Bob an’ tell him ti slip ower ti me_, i.e. ‘Go
to Robert’s and tell him to come to me.’
+Slip+, _n._ A pinafore.
+Slipe+, _v._ To strip off an outer covering, as bark, with a rapid
action.
+Slirt+, _v._ To squirt water.
+Sloke+, _n._ Slime on the surface of stagnant water.
+Slope+, _v._ To dishonestly evade payment, to defraud; to abscond,
leaving one’s debts unpaid.
+Slosh+, _n._ Melted snow or mud.
+Sloshy+, _adj._ Applied to a condition of general thaw.
+Slot+, _n._ A slit in a garment for a tape to be run through.
+Slot+, _v._ To slam.
Ex.—_Ah sed nowt, bud just slotted t’ deear iv his feeace._
+Slough+, +Sluff+, _n._ The outer skin, especially of fruit, as the
gooseberry.
+Slowdy+, _adj._ Flabby, soft; applied to fish out of condition and
season.
+Sluddery+, +Sluthery+, _adj._ Applied to melted snow and mud.
+Slummer+, _v._ To sleep almost in a comatose state.
+Slush+, _Vide_ +Slosh+.
+Slutherment+, _n._ Any slimy, viscid matter.
+Sluthery+, _adj._ Having to the touch a feeling of slime or viscid
matter.
+Sly-cakes+, _n._ Ordinary looking cakes, but filled with fruits.
+Smally+, _adj._ Puny, thin, undergrown.
+Smatch+, _n._ A savour, a trifle, a small portion.
+Smeark+, _v._ To half smile.
+Smere+, _n._ The membrane covering the nostrils of a foal at birth.
+Smiddy+, _n._ A blacksmith’s shop.
+Smiddy-oom+, _n._ The sweepings of a blacksmith’s bench and floor.
+Smit+, _n._ Infection.
+Smit+, +Smitch+, _n._ Fine particles of soot which fall from the
smoke of the chimney.
+Smitting+, _adj._ Infectious.
+Smittle+, _v._ To infect.
+Smock+, _n._ A chemise.
+Smoor+, +Smurr+, _v._ To smother, suffocate.
+Smoot+, _v._ To partially hide the face.
+Smooth+, _v._ To iron clothes.
+Smooth-feeaced+, _adj._ Bashful.
+Smoot-hoal+, +Smoot-hole+, _n._ A hole, varying in size, in a
hedge or wall; e.g. a rabbit smoot, a sheep smoot.
+Smoot-steean+, _n._ A slab or stone used to stop a smoot-hole.
+Smudge+, _v._ To smear; to emit smoke, but without any flames
visible.
+Snaffling+, _v._ To speak through the nose.
+Snag+, _v._ To cut the branches from felled trees, to top and tail
turnips.
+Snahl+, _n._ Snail.
+Snake-steean+, _n._ An ammonite.
+Snarly+, _adj._ Biting, chilling (of the wind).
+Snavvie+, _Vide_ +Snaffling+.
+Sneb+, _v._ To rebuke.
+Sneck+, _n._ The fastening of a gate or door.
+Sneck+, _v._ To fasten, to latch.
Ex.—_Noo think on an’ sneck all t’ yats._
+Sneeap+, _v._ To check, to put down.
Ex.—_Ya caan’t sneeap ’em, an’ they weean’t be snebbed, an’
neeabody’s gitten neea saay ower ’em at all, an’ if yan diz
call ’em, tha deea nowt bud snifter, snitter, an’ gen at yan._
+Snicker+, _Vide_ +Snitter+.
+Snickle+, _v._ A slip-noose of wire used as a snare.
+Snifter+, _n._ A sniff, a smell of short duration.
Ex.—_Noo it’s varra neyce, just tak a snifter on ’t._
+Snifter+, _v._ To snuff up.
Ex.—_Wipe thi snoot; deean’t snifter._
+Snig+, _v._ To drag timber from the wood.
+Snig-cut+, _n._ A short cut, a by-path.
+Sniggle+, _v._ To laugh behind one’s back, to laugh derisively.
+Snite+, _v._ To blow the nose, not necessarily with a handkerchief.
+Snitter+, _v._ To sneer, to giggle with ill-nature and derisively.
Ex.—_Ah’ll gi’e tha summut ti snitter at if thoo dizn’t shift
thisen._
+Snook-snarls+, _n._ The knotty entanglements of thread, string, &c.
+Snod+, _adj._ Smooth, neat-looking, trim.
+Snoke+, _v._ To smell with a deep inspiration.
+Snow-flag+, _n._ A snow-flake.
+Snubbits+, _n._ The projecting pieces of wood at the end of a cart,
on which it rests when tilted up.
+Snubby+, _adj._ Knotted (of wood).
+Snudge+, +Snuggle+, +Snowzel+, _v._ To lie close together.
+Soa+, _Vide_ +Seea+.
+Soamy+, _adj._ Close, oppressive (of the weather).
+Sob+, _v._ To sigh as the wind does on the approach of calmer
weather.
+Sock+, _n._ The ploughshare.
+Sod+, _n._ An opprobrious epithet = Ass, fool.
+Sodden+, _v._ To soften by soaking in water.
+Sods+, _n._ 1. Square parings of grass and earth.
2. A lump of earth and grass.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll hev hauf o’ t’ garden laid wi’ sods._
2. _Ah’ll chuck a sod at tha._
+Soft+, _adj._ 1. Inclined to wet weather.
2. Silly, half-witted.
Ex.—_1. Ah’s feeard wa’s gahin’ ti ’ev a softish back-end._
2. _Poor bairn! is sha a larl bit soft?_
+Somerset+, _n._ Somersault.
+Sooa+, _Vide_ +Seea+.
+Sooart+, _n._ Sort, kind, quality.
+Soond+, _v._ To faint, to sound. Also _n_.
+Soonest+, _adj._ Quickest, nearest, shortest.
Ex.—_Ah’s gan by t’ foot brigg; it’s seeanest road. It’ll be t’
seeanest deean i’ that waay._
+Sore+, _Vide_ +Sair+.
+So so+ = That will do, enough, cease.
+Soss+, _v._ and _n._ To fall with force into the water; to lap
water, as a dog.
+Sough+, +Soo+, _v._ To sob, to sigh (of the wind).
+Soup+, _v._ To soak, to drench with water.
Ex.—_Ah’s fairly souped ti t’ skin._
+Sour-docken+, _n._ The wild sorrel (_Rumex acetosa_).
+Sowl+, _v._ To give a thorough rinsing in water, to chastise.
+Sowse+, _v._ 1. To cause to be wet all over.
2. To throw into water.
Ex.—1. _He sowsed a bucket o’ mucky watter cleean ower ma._
2. _Ah sowsed t’ beggar i’ t’ beck._
+Spade-+ or +Speead-graft+, _n._ A spade depth.
+Spane+, +Speean+, _v._ To wean.
+Spang+, _Vide_ +Spanker+.
+Spank+, _v._ To strike with the open hand.
+Spanker+, _n._ One who takes long strides; large of its kind;
hence +Spang+, _n._ A leap.
+Spanking+, _adj._ Tall and broad, rapid.
+Span-new+, _adj._ Quite new.
+Sparrow-feathers+, _n._ The chaff of oats is so called when used
for beds in the place of feathers.
+Spattle+, _n._ Spittle.
+Speak+, _v._ Even yet the usage in an active sense of ‘to address’
is often heard in the dales.
Ex.—_Ah seed him, bud wa didn’t speeak yan anuther. What didn’t
ta speeak her foor?_
+Speeak+, +Spooak+, _n._ The spoke of a wheel.
+Speean+, _n._ A spoon.
+Spelk+, _n._ A long thin slip of wood, a splint.
+Spell+, _n._ A splinter of wood, the cross-bar of a ladder; a
spill, either of wood or paper; a turn at work, not necessarily
of long duration; the trap upon which the ball rests in the game
of spell and knorr.
+Spic an’ span+, _adv._ New, clean, tidy; lit. new, from ‘spike to
span’ of a knight’s lance. Another form is ‘Bran spander new.’
Ex.—_Ez thoo’s gahin’ ti see t’ lass foor t’ fo’st tahm, thoo
mun mak this en leeak ez spic an’ span ez a new-maad pin.
Mr. Henry war gitten up spic an’ span._
+Spice+, _n._ Raisins, currants, &c.
+Spice-bread+, _n._ A cheaper form of plum-cake.
+Spice-cake+ or +-keeak+, _n._ Plum-cake.
+Spink+, _n._ The chaffinch, often named +Bull-spink+.
+Spinner+, _n._ A spider’s web. Also +Spinner-web+. The latter,
however, is generally confined to the gossamer threads so
commonly found floating in the air on a summer’s evening.
+Spit+, _n._ A long narrow spade used for draining.
+Spittle+, _n._ A small spade.
+Splatter+, _v._ To splash about, to make splashes.
+Splatter-dash+, _n._ and _v._ 1. A showing-off.
2. Commotion.
3. To brag, to make a foolish display of wealth.
Ex.—1. _Ah caan’t bahd sike splatter-dash gahins on. It’s nowt
bud a lot o’ splatter-dash._
2. _Ah, what a splatter-dash ther is i’ t’ pleeace._
+Splatterer+, _n._ One who splashes.
+Splauder+, _v._ 1. To sprawl, to spread out one’s limbs.
2. To display, to be vulgarly ostentatious. Hence +Splaudered+,
+Splauderment+.
Ex.—1. _Hoo yon lass diz splauder her feet oot. Talk aboot a
splauder o’ stuff, ther war mair ti eat na wa c’u’d ’a’e
mannish’d if wa’d ’ed tweea goes apiece._
+Splaudy+, _adj._ Wide-spreading.
+Splaws+, _n._ Pen-nibs.
+Splet+, +Split+, _v._ To tell of one’s doings, to break confidence.
+Splutter+, _n._ Bustle, excitement, nervousness.
Ex.—_Deean’t git i’ sike a splutter, wa’ve endless o’ tahm.
Didn’t sha git intiv a splutter when sha heeard what Jin Ann
’ed sed aboot her!_
+Sponge+, _n._ Leaven, a portion of leavened dough saved from each
baking to raise the next week’s kneading with.
+Sponge+, _v._ To swell and froth as a dead body.
+Spool+, _n._ The wooden reel upon which thread is wound.
+Spout+, _n._ A small waterfall.
+Spraggy+, _adj._ Thin, bony, having many sharp projections.
+Spraints+, _n._ Otter’s dung.
+Spreead+, _v._ Spread.
+Spreead+, _n._ Abundance of food and of extra quality.
Ex.—_Ah nivver war at sikan a spreead afoor, ther war ommaist
ivverything ya c’u’d think on_ (imagine).
+Sprent+, +Sprint+, _v._ To sprinkle, to spurt, to cause water to
fly about by compression or striking the surface sharply.
Ex.—_Mary Jin’s slapt t’ slap-hoal wiv her battledooar, an’ ‘s
sprented ma all ower wi’ blash an’ sluthery muckment._
+Sprent+, _n._ A spot or mark left by a splash.
+Spring+, _v._ ‘To spring’ is applied to cows when near calving.
+Sprunt+, _n._ 1. Short, stiff, lively.
2. A steep road, a hill.
Ex.—1. _Ya’ll mannish ti trunn’l yersen t’ best hauf o’ t’ waay,
bud efter that ya’ll finnd it a bit sprunt_ (said to a cyclist).
+Spurrings+, _n._ The banns.
+Squab+, _n._ A rude long settle with cushions, usually with only
one arm.
+Square up, To+, _v._ To settle an account or dispute.
+Squary+, _adj._ Compact, both as to size and shape.
Ex.—_It’s a neyce squary kitchen. It’s just sich an (sikan) a
squary bit ez Ah want._
+Stack-bar+, _n._ A hurdle.
+Stack-garth+, +Stagg’ath+, _n._ The stack-yard.
+Stack-prod+, _n._ A stick used in thatching, being pointed and
thrust into the stack. The string is wound round it in such a
way, from prod to prod, as to hold the _thack-bands_ secure.
+Staddle+, _n._ The foundation of cross-beams upon which a stack
is built, the stain left after washing out the producing cause.
+Staddling+, _n._ A foundation of brushwood, brackens, &c., to
build the stack upon.
+Stag+, _n._ A gelding over a year old.
+Stagnated+, _part._ Much bewildered, astonished.
Ex.—_T’ whoal lot on uz wur stagnated._
+Staith+, _n._ and _v._ An embankment; to protect land from
overflowing of water by an embankment.
+Staithe+, +Steeath+, +Steers+, _n._ A landing-place.
+Stakker+, _v._ To stagger.
+Stall+, _v._ To eat until satiated, to tire out, to weary.
+Stan’+, +Stand+, _v._ 1. To stand.
2. To be responsible for;
to agree to maintain, uphold.
3. To stop, as a clock.
4. Remains.
5. Holds.
Ex.—2. _Ah’ll stand tiv all he diz. Thoo said thoo wad, an’
thoo’ll ’a’e ti stan’ ti ’t noo._
4. _That’ll stand good_, i.e. ‘That is settled.’
5. _It stands a good chance ti win._
+Stand again+, _v._ To withstand, oppose.
Ex.—_Thoo maun’t aim ti stan’ agaan what’s deean._
+Stand for+, _v._ To act as sponsor.
+Standing+, _n._ The stall for a horse or cow.
+Stand-ups+, _n._ God-parents.
+Stane+, +Steean+, _n._ A stone.
+Stang+, _n._ A pole or stake.
+Stang, To ride the+, _Vide_ chapter on ‘Customs.’
+Stape+, _v._ To slope, to incline.
+Stapple+, _n._ A staple.
+Stark+, _adj._ Stiff, unyielding, powerful. The Danish word
_stærk_ means being strong, possessing strength. Hence ‘Stark mad’
is quite correct.
Ex.—_Thoo’s starched t’ things whahl they’re ez stark ez a
booard._ A very common redundancy is _Stiff stark steean deead_.
+Starken+, _v._ To become stiff. _adv._ +Starkly.+
+Star-slubber+ or +-blubber+, _n._ Frog-spawn.
+Start+, _n._ Work, employment.
Ex.—_He sez ’at he’ll gi’e tha a start. Ah’ve gitten a start at
a pund a week._
+Start+, _v._ 1. To begin.
2. To set going.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll start wi’ t’ job ti morn. He started off a gay bit
sen. Tha’ve started a pianner, ’ez t’ fooak next doour._
2. _Ah’ll start it fur tha._
+Starvatious+, _adj._ Cold, very chilly.
Ex.—_No’thallerton station’s t’ maist starvatious spot onnywheear._
+Starve+, _v._ In the passive voice, to suffer from cold; in the
active voice, to cause hunger.
+Staup+, _v._ To walk about clumsily.
Ex.—_Sha staups aboot that okkad whahl sha’ll tumm’l ower her
shadder sum daay._
+Stead+, +Steead+, _n._ Common as a suffix, denoting the exact
place, as homestead, yat-stead, middin-stead, deear- or
dooar-steead, &c.
+Steck+, _v._ To close and fasten a door or gate.
+Stee+, +Stey+, +Stegh+, _n._ A ladder, a style with steps like a
ladder.
+Steead+, _pp._ Stood.
+Steeal+, _n._ Stool.
+Steean+, _n._ Stone.
+Steer+, _n._ An ox under two years.
+Steer-tree+, _n._ The left handle of a plough.
+Steg+, _n._ A gander, a fool.
+Stegly+, _adj._ 1. Shaky.
2. Unsymmetrical, unsuitable.
Ex.—2. _It’s a gret stegly hoos_ (said of Faucet Vicarage).
+Stell+, _n._ An open ditch varying in width and depth.
+Stent+, _v._ To abstain, to deny oneself.
+Step+, _n._ An undefined distance.
Ex.—_Ah went a good step wiv him._
+Step, A langish+ = Quite a long way off.
+Steven+, _v._ To bawl out, to shout at the top of the voice; to
howl and bluster, as the wind. NOTE.—Rarely heard now.
+Stick+, _v._ To kill an animal by stabbing, as a butcher.
+Stickle+, _v._ To hesitate, to object.
+Stickle-haired+ }
+Stickly+ } _adj._ Bristly.
+Stickler+, _n._ A difficulty, a poser.
+Sticks+, _n._ Furniture, belongings.
+Stick up, To+, _v._ To boldly maintain one’s right.
+Stiddy+, _n._ An anvil.
+Stiddy+, _v._ To be steady, attentive to business.
+Stife+, +Stify+, _adj._ Close, foul, as to air.
+Stiff+, _adj._ 1. Steep, difficult.
2. Firm, obstinate.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ll tell ya what, it’s a stiffish clim’. Ah’ve gitten
a stiff job this tahm._
+Stifler+, _n._ A bad odour; a heavy blow, such as to cause
insensibility.
+Stint+, _Vide_ +Stent+.
+Stir on, Plenty to+ = Rich, well-to-do.
Ex.—_He’s gi’en ten pund, bud then he’s gitten plenty ti stir
on._
+Stirk+, _n._ A heifer.
+Stirrings+, _n._ An unusual excitement, gaiety.
Ex.—_Ya’ll be ’eving sthraange stirrings when t’ young chap cums
at age._
+Stitch+, _n._ A sharp pain in the side.
+Stithe+, _v._ To taint, to give a taste of smoke, &c.
Ex.—_What ’a’e ya putten on t’ fire? it’s stithed all ’at’s i’
yewn thruff t’ crack i’ t’ boddum._
+Stob+, _n._ Usually a short pointed stick or stake; the stump of
a tree, a small splinter.
+Stob+, _v._ To mark out land with short stakes, to dig up a fence,
to strengthen with stobs.
+Stob off+, _v._ To lop off branches of a tree or the top half of
a hedge.
+Stock+, _n._ A beam of wood, generally applied to the frame of a
bedstead, e.g. bed-stock.
+Stock+, _adv._ Quite, absolutely.
Ex.—_He steead stock still._
+Stodge+, _v._ To satiate with over-eating; to make anything too
thick, as the admixture of too much meal with water.
Ex.—_Ah caan’t eat it, it’s nowt bud stodge._
+Stone-naked+, _adj._ Absolutely naked.
+Stonies+, _n._ Common stone taws.
+Stooden+, _pp._ of ‘Stand,’ but the usage is somewhat peculiar.
Ex.—_Things wad ’a’e stooden different if t’ bobby ’ed catched
him_, i.e. been. _Ah’ve stooden Bedale market ivver sen Ah wur
a larl nipper_, i.e. attended.
+Stook+, _n._ Twelve sheaves of corn set up against each other in
the harvest field.
+Stook+, _v._ To set up stooks, and bind the same.
+Stooth+, _v._ To apply plaster on laths instead of to the wall
itself, or to make in a room a false wall of battens, laths, and
plaster.
+Stor+, +Sturr+, _v._ and _n._ To stir; a stir, excitement.
+Storm+, _n._ A continuance of frost and snow, with or without wind.
+Stortioners+, _n._ The common nasturtium.
+Stot+, _n._ A young ox.
+Stoup+, _n._ A measure of ale.
+Stour+, _v._ To blow in clouds, whether of dust, rain, hail, or
snow; also the action of smoke as it comes from a chimney or fire.
+Stour+, _n._ Dust, &c.
+Stour+, +Stower+, _n._ A stake, the middle bars of a cattle rack,
the cross-bars of a ladder.
+Stout+, _adj._ Convalescent, healthy looking.
Ex.—_Sha leeaks weel an’ stoot agaan._
+Stoven+, _n._ The old stump of a tree not yet quite dead.
+Stowp+, _n._ An upright post.
+Stra+, +Streah+, _n._ Straw.
+Stracklin’+, _n._ A worthless fellow, a waster.
+Straighten+, _v._ Often followed by ‘up.’ To put in order, to
punish, to settle accounts.
Ex.—_Ah mun straighten things up a bit afoor t’ parson’s missus
drops in. If thoo dizn’t drop it, Ah’ll straighten thi jacket
foor tha. When thoo’s deean, fetch thi bill in, an’ wa’ll
straighten up._
+Strand+, _n._ The beach.
+Strapping+, _adj._ Strong, tall, big.
+Strather+, _n._ Haste, excitement.
+Streah+, _Vide_ +Stra+.
+Streamers+, _n._ Minnows during spawning.
+Streean+, +Strain+, _n._ Descent, breed.
+Streean+, _v._ To do one’s utmost.
+Strength+, +Stren’th+, _n._ 1. Security.
2. Belief.
Ex.—1. _He ’ezn’t t’ stren’th o’ fifty pund_, i.e. ‘Could not
find security for that sum.’
2. _On t’ stren’th o’ what thoo sez_, i.e. ‘Acting on the
belief,’ &c.
+Strickle+, _n._ The stone or other contrivance used to sharpen a
scythe.
+Stride-whallops+, _n._ A lanky, long-legged lass. An older word,
now fallen into disuse, was +Stridykirk+.
+Stridlings+, _adv._ Astride.
+Strike+, _v._ To kick with the hind leg (of a horse), to fly-blow
meat, to balance an account, to make a line with string and chalk.
+Strik’-stick+, _n._ The stick used to scrape off the superfluous
corn when measuring.
+String-halt+, _n._ A twitching of the hind leg of a horse.
+Strip+, _v._ To drain the udder dry.
+Stritch-stick+, _n._ The bar which keeps the trace chains apart.
Also +Stretcher+.
+Stroke+, +Stroak+, _n._ A single bat, a commencement.
Ex.—_Ah ’evn’t deean a stroak o’ wark ti-daay._
+Strong+, _adj._ 1. Hard, severe.
2. Heavy, bulky.
3. Stiff, clayey.
Ex.—1. _Wa s’ ‘ev a strangish frost efter this._
2. _It’s a strangish leead foor t’ au’d meer._
3. _T’ land’s varra strong hereaboots._
+Strother+, _Vide_ +Strather+.
+Strucken+, _pp._ of ‘Strike.’
+Strunt+, _n._ The tail.
+Strunt+, _v._ To cut the tail short.
+Struts+, _n._ The posts used in the roof-frame of a house.
+Stuck up+, _adj._ Proud.
+Stuff+, _n._ Of very loose application, e.g. material, furniture,
chattels, produce, &c.
Ex.—_Thoo’s gitten stuff eneeaf ti mak tweea coats. Thoo’s gitten
stuff i’ t’ chaamer eneeaf foor tweea rooms. Thoo’s gitten
mair stuff on t’ land na ivver Tommy ’ed._
+Stunning+, _adj._ First-class.
+Stunt+, _adj._ Short, stumpy; stiff, unyielding.
+Stunt+, _adv._ and _n._ Sulky, obstinate.
Ex.—_Tak neea notish, he taks t’ stunt at nowt._
+Sturdy+, +Stoddy+, _n._ A disease, i.e. hydatids in the brain.
+Stut+, _v._ To stutter.
+S’u’d+, _v._ Should.
+Summat+, _n._ Something.
+Summer-bink+, _n._ A seat shaded by leaves in summer-time.
+Summer-colt+, _n._ Undulating vapour near the ground.
+Sump+, _n._ A bog or marsh.
+Sumpy+, _adj._ Wet, boggy.
+Sunder+, _v._ To dry in the sun.
+Sundown+, _n._ Sunset.
+Sup+, _n._ A small quantity of any liquid.
Ex.—_Ah wants a sup o’ milk. It leeaks nowt bud leyke a sup o’
wet._
+Sup+, _v._ To drink either by sips or with a spoon.
+Sup off+, _v._ To drain one’s glass.
+Surance+, _n._ Surety.
Ex.—_Bud what tha ’a’e gi’en, tha ’ez surance for ’t?_
+Surfeit o’ cold+, _n._ A very severe cold.
+Swab+, _n._ A drunken sot.
+Swad+, _n._ A peascod, and the like.
+Swag+, _v._ 1. To swing about.
2. To lean towards.
Ex.—2. _Ya’ll ’a’e ti put summat at yon sahd ti balance ’t, it
swags gertly ti this sahd._
+Swage+, _v._ To soften, to quiet down.
+Swaimish+, _adj._ Bashful.
+Swale+, +Sweeal+, _v._ 1. To waste by burning unevenly, as a
candle in a draught.
2. To squander.
Ex.—1. _Shut t’ doour, t’ cann’l’s sweealing._
2. _Yon chap ’ud sweeal a ransom awaay._
+Swang+, _n._ A boggy stretch of land.
+Swangy+, _adj._ Boggy.
+Swanky+, +Swanking+, _adj._ Great of its kind.
+Swap+, _v._ To exchange.
+Swape+, _n._ An oar of peculiar shape, a pump handle.
+Swappy+, _adj._ Plump.
+Swarm+, _v._ To climb by clasping a pole or tree with both arms,
knees, and legs.
+Swart+, _adj._ Black looking.
+Swarth+, +Swa’th+, _n._ The outer skin, rind; the quality and
quantity of grass upon the land.
+Swarve+, _v._ To swerve.
+Swash+, _v._ To dash about in waves.
+Swatch+, _n._ Fit, size, the precise thing required.
Ex.—_This yan’ll deea, its just mah swatch. Its just t’ swatch
foor ma._ NOTE.—Swatch was originally a wooden tally or other
means by which any person might prove their claim to cloth
which had been left to dye—cloth, by-the-way, which was
home-spun.
+Swathe+, _n._ The full reach of the scythe when cutting.
+Swathe-bank+, _n._ The grass left uncut by the blade at the end
of its sweep.
+Swatter+, _v._ 1. To play and splash with water.
2. To squander.
Ex.—1. _Tho’ll sprent thisen all ower, swattering on i’ that
waay._
2. _He’ll swatter t’ bit o’ brass awaay._
+Swelt+, _v._ To faint, to swoon; to overpower, as with heat.
+Swelter+, _v._ To burn, to bear or suffer heat, to perspire
profusely.
+Swidden+, _n._ Any place on a moor which has been cleared by
burning.
+Swidden+, +Swithen+, _v._ To singe or burn off superficially.
+Swidge+, _v._ To tingle, burn (of inflammation).
Ex.—_It war nobbut a bleb at t’ fu’st, bud it swidged an’
throbbed an’ then started ti kittle, an’ Ah think that wur t’
warst ov all._
+Swig+, _v._ To drink at one draught.
+Swill+, _n._ Pigmeat.
+Swill+, _v._ To cleanse by throwing water out of a pail, as on
flags, &c.
+Swingle-tree+, _n._ _Vide_ +Stritch-stick+.
+Swip+, _n._ A marrow, the image of.
Ex.—_He’s fair t’ swip ov t’ au’d chap._
+Swipple+, _n._ That part of a flail which beats out the corn.
+Swirrel+, _n._ Squirrel.
+Switch+, _v._ To throw, to dash.
Ex.—_Sha teeak t’ paail o’ mucky watter, an’ switched t’ lot all
ower ma._
+Switched+, _adj._ Drunk.
+Switcher+, _n._ Good, better than ordinary.
+Switching+, _adj._ Grand, noted, extensive.
+Swither+, _v._ 1. To tingle and smart with pain.
2. To dissipate by slow degrees, a little at a time.
Ex.—2. _If he gans on i’ that road, he’ll swither all t’ brass
he hez awaay._
+Swittle+, _n._ A heated iron rod used to bore holes in wood.
+Swizzen+, _v._ To singe. _Vide_ +Swidden+.
Ex.—_It’ll swizzen t’ clothes, t’ iron’s ti hot._
+Sword-dancers+, _Vide_ chapter on ‘Customs.’
+Syke+, _n._ A small streamlet, a gutter, a small rill draining
from a boggy place.
T.
+‘T+, _pron._ It.
+T’+, _def art._ The.
+Ta+, _per. pron._ Thou, you.
+Taal+, _v._ To settle, to accommodate oneself to a new condition
of habits, &c.
+Tacket+, _n._ A tack.
+Ta’en+, +Takken+, _pp._ of ‘Take.’
+Ta’en agaan+ or +ageean+, _v._ To take a dislike to.
Ex.—_Ah’ve ta’en agaan her, an’ Ah s’ nivver tak up wiv her na
mair._
+Ta’en tiv+, _v._ To take to, to like.
+Tag+, _n._ A twist of long grass or rushes, a wisp.
+Tag+, _v._ To flog with a tag.
+Tahm+, _n._ 1. Time.
2. Life.
Ex.—2. _Ah’ve seen a vast i’ mah tahm._
+Tahm by chance+, _adv._ Occasionally.
+Taistrel+, _n._ A peevish character.
+Tak+, _n._ 1. A flavour somewhat pronounced.
2. Land which has been taken at a fixed rent.
3. Piecework.
Ex.—2. _If he’s letten tha ’t at nowt na mair ’an what thoo sez,
its a varra cheeap tak._
3. Q. _Hez ta ta’en ’em byv t’ yackker or by t’ week?_ A. _Neea,
he wadn’t be on byv t’ week, seea Ah’ve ta’en ’em byv t’ tak
this go._
+Tak+, _v._ 1. To take.
2. To rise to bite, as a fish.
3. To attract.
4. To gain one’s esteem or regard.
Ex.—2. _Are tha takkin’ onny?_ i.e. biting.
3. _Wa mun ’ev a bisittle race, hooivver; tha tak t’ best ov owt
noo._
4. _Ah tak tiv him at yance_, i.e. ‘He gained my esteem at once.’
+Tak ho’d+, _v._ To undertake to do, or fill a position.
Ex.—_Ah wanted him ti preeach i’ t’ pleeace o’ Tommy, bud he
wadn’t be on, he’s shy o’ takkin ho’d._
+Tak in, To+, _v._ 1. To understand.
2. To deceive.
Ex.—1. _Gan on, Ah’s takkin ’t all in._
2. _Noo if thoo taks ma in, Ah’ll traade wi’ tha na mair._
+Takken ti heart+ = Giving way to any affliction.
+Takkin+, _n._ 1. The actual result of labour.
2. A condition, a bad temper.
Ex.—1. _Thoo’s gitten a rare takkin; wheear did ta catch ’em?_
2. _Sha’s iv a despert ill takkin._
+Tak off+, _v._ 1. To make fun of, to ridicule, to imitate, mimic.
2. To leave without due notice.
Ex.—2. _He niver sed nowt, bud just teeak off._
+Tak on+, _v._ 1. To retake.
2. To re-engage.
3. To get excited.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ve ta’en t’ farm on agaan._
2. _He ga’ ma t’ sack, bud he’s ta’en ma on agaan._
3. _He did tak on when he gat ti knaw._
+Tak on wi’+, _v._ To engage oneself to another.
+Tak tent+, _v._ To engage oneself to look after, e.g. as a boy
keeping crows off the land.
+Tak t’ hig, To+, _v._ To take offence.
+Takt+, _adj._ Acid, sharp to the taste.
Ex.—_It’s a lahtle bit ower takt ti mah liking._
+Tak up+, _v._ 1. To become fair.
2. To reform one’s character.
Ex.—1. _If ’t dizn’t tak up seean, t’ hay’ll be nut wo’th
leading._
2. _If he’ll nobbut drop drinking an’ tak up, ther’s a seet o’
good iv him._
+Tak up wi’+, _v._ 1. To make friends with another.
2. To become engaged to.
Ex.—1. _He’s neean ower neyce whaw he gans wi’, he’ll tak up wi’
onny lass._
+Tale+, _n._ The number agreed upon.
Ex.—_Ther dizn’t leeak owt leyke a full tale, Ah s’all coont ’em
afoor Ah paay tha._
+Talk+, _n._ Report, gossip.
+Taller-cake+, _n._ Any cake made with the fat from about the
kidney of a sheep or beast.
+Taller-craps+, _Vide_ +Craps+.
+T’ ane+, +T’ yan+ = The one of two or more followed or replied to
by +T’ other+ or +T’ ither+.
Ex.—_Tha wur all feighting t’ ane amang t’ ither._
+Tang+, _n._ The tongue of a buckle.
+Tangle+, _n._ An entanglement, the long fibre of a root, sea-wrack.
+Tangle+, _v._ To entangle.
+Tangly+, _adj._ Slatternly, slovenly. Applied to a slut.
+Tantle+, _v._ 1. To waste time.
2. To play on with.
Ex.—1. _Noo set ti wark ez if thoo meant it, an’ deean’t tantle
on leyke that._
+Tappy-lappy+, _adv._ Anyhow.
+Tatchy+, _adj._ Sticky, viscous, adhesive.
+Tattling+, _n._ The necessary tackle or equipment of things for
carrying out any purpose.
Ex.—_He hezn’t gitten onny tattling foor a job o’ yon size_,
i.e. neither ladders, ropes, nor scaffolding poles.
+Taum+, _n._ The twisted hair to which the fish-hook is attached.
+Taum ower, To+, _v._ To faint.
+Taws+, _n._ Boys’ marbles.
+Team+, +Teem+, _v._ and _n._ 1. To pour from any vessel.
2. To rain heavily.
3. To empty.
Ex.—1. _Team all t’ cau’d tea oot._
2. _It teem’d doon_, i.e. of rain.
3. _Teeam t’ coals oot at t’ back-side._
+Tea-party+, _n._ A tea meeting given in the village school or
barn to raise money for some object.
+Teave+, _Vide_ +Tew+.
+Teea+, _prep._ To. _Vide_ +Till+.
+Teeagle+, _v._ To raise timber from the ground by means of a
tripod of strong poles and a pulley.
+Teeak+, _v._ Took.
+Teeals+, _n._ Tools.
+Tell+, _v._ 1. To recognize.
2. To know.
3. To number, to reckon up, to judge.
Ex.—1. _Ah c’u’d tell wheea ’t wur ez seean ez Ah clap’t mah een
on ya._
2. _‘Twur good eneeaf ti tell what he wur gahin’ ti saay._
3. _Gan ti t’ gaate an’ tell t’ sheep ez tha cum thruff._
+Telly-pye-tit+, or +Tell-pyet+, _n._ A tale-bearer.
+Tempesty+, _adj._ Thunderous, blustery, or having the appearance
of stormy weather.
+Teng+, _v._ To sting.
+Tenged+, _pp._ Stung.
+Tengs+, _n._ Tongs.
+Tent+, _n._ Attention, care.
Ex.—_Tak tent o’ what he saays, noo._
+Tent+, _v._ To look after, to keep watch over.
Ex.—_Yan’s tenting craws fur Billy, an’ t’ other’s tenting wur
awn coos i’ t’ lonnin’._
+Tetchy+, _adj._ Cross, peevish.
+Teufit+, +Teeafit+, +Tewit+, _n._ The pewit, plover, or lapwing
(_Vanellus cristatus_).
+Teugh+, +Teeaf+, _adj._ Tough.
+Tew+, _v._ 1. To toil.
2. To tire and grow weary.
3. To tire by restlessness.
4. To crumple and crease by rough or unskilful handling.
Ex.—1. _Ah’ve tewed all t’ daay_, i.e. ‘toiled.’
2. _Ah’ve gitten ’t deean, bud it’s sadly tewed ma._
3. _Sha’s tired noo, bud then sha’s tewed on all t’ neet._
4. _Put ’em doon, thoo’s tewing ’em, whahl tha weean’t be fit ti
put on._
+Tha+, _per. pron._ They, thou, and thee.
+Thabble+, _n._ The plug which fits the hole in the milk trough.
+Thack+, +Theeak+, +Theeaking+, _n._ Thatch.
+Thack+, +Theeak+, +Theeaking+, _v._ To thatch.
+Thacker+, +Theeaker+, _n._ A thatcher.
+Thack-bands+, +Theeak-bands+, +Theeaking-bands+, _n._ Bands of
straw for thatching.
+Thack-prods+, +Theeak-prods+, +Theeaking-prods+,
_Vide_ +Stack-prod+.
+Thah+, _per. pron._ Thy.
+Tharf+, +Tharfish+, _adj._ +Tharfly+, _adv._ Backward, reluctant,
shy, bashful, unwilling.
+Thauvel+, +Thivel+, _n._ A stick used for stirring or pushing down
the contents of a pan likely to boil over.
+Thee+, _n._ Thigh.
+Theet+, _adj._ Water-tight.
+Them+, _pron._ Those.
+Thick+, _adj._ Very friendly, intimate.
+Thills+, _n._ Shafts of a waggon.
+Think long of, To+, _v._ To be long expectant, weary of waiting.
+Think on+, _v._ To bear in mind, to remember.
As an example of redundancy, I heard a woman say, _Noo mahnd an’
think on, an’ deean’t forget ti beear i’ mahnd ’at thoo ’ez ti
fetch a pund o’ treacle_.
+Think up+, _v._ To originate, to arrange.
Ex.—_Noo it’ll ’a’e ta’en a lot o’ thinking up, will a do leyke
yon._
+Tho+, +Thoo+, _per. pron._ Thou.
+Thoff+, _conj._ Though.
+Thrave+, _v._ To thrive.
+Thrave+, +Trave+, +Treeav+, _n._ A stook of corn, or twelve
battens of straw.
+Thraw+, _Vide_ +Throw+.
+Threead+, _n._ Thread.
+Threeap+, _n._ A contentious fellow.
+Threeap+, _v._ To maintain pertinaciously, to argue positively.
+Threeap down+, _v._ To overpower by argument.
+Threeap up+, _v._ To refer to bygone mistakes or misunderstandings
in an unkindly manner.
+Threeten+, Threaten.
+Three-thrums+, _n._ The purring of a cat.
+Thribble+, _adj._ Treble.
+Thriver+, _n._ Healthy, strong, likely to improve.
+Thro+, _Vide_ +Thruff+.
+Throng+, _adj._ 1. More than usually busy or crowded.
2. Engaged in.
Ex.—2. _T’ bairn’s thrang gitting its teeth._
+Throng+, +Thrang+, _n._ Bustle, a great crowd, confusion,
excitement.
+Throng deed+, _n._ Excitement over some event, the bustle and
confusion attendant on any celebration, tea party, wedding, &c.
+Thropple+, _n._ The windpipe.
+Thropple+, _v._ To strangle.
+Throstle+, +Throssel+, _n._ The thrush.
+Through+, _n._ A lathe.
+Through+, +Thruff+, _prep._ At some time, at intervals.
Ex.—_Ah’ll mebbe deea ’t thruff t’ morning. It teeam’d doon
thruff t’ neet._
+Through+ or +Thruff with+, _adv._ Finished, complete. N.B.
‘Through’ is also pronounced ‘throwgh’ and ‘thro.’
Ex.—_Ah s’all be thruff wi’ t’ job by ti morn._
+Throughly+, _adv._ Completely, fully.
+Through time+ = In time, gradually, by-and-by.
Ex.—_Ah s’all git better through time. If t’ weather ho’ds
thoo’ll git deean through time._
+Through, To get+, _v._ To dispose of.
Ex.—_Ah’ve fetched t’ coo yam ageean, bud Ah gat thruff t’ sheep._
+Throvven+, _pp._ To thrive.
+Throw+, _v._ To vomit.
+Throw back+, _v._ To have a relapse.
Ex.—_He’s warse ti-daay, he’s gitten thrown back a lump sen last
neet._
+Throw over+, _v._ To turn over, to upset, to be overturned.
+Thruff+, +Throw+, _prep._ Through.
+Thrumble+, +Thrumm’l+, _v._ To examine the quality of anything by
the touch or rubbing action of the finger and thumb.
+Thrumm’l+, _n._ A rope firmly bound round a grooved iron ring.
+Thrummy+, _adj._ Bulky, plump.
+Thrust+, _v._ To push with some force.
+Thrust out+, +Thrussen oot+, _pp._ Projecting forward, bulging,
turned out.
+Thumping+, _adj._ Big, large of its kind.
+Thunner+, _n._ Thunder.
+Thwack+, _v._ To administer a sharp blow.
Ex.—_Gi’e it a good thwacking wiv a hezzel stick, that’ll fetch
t’ dust oot on ’t._
+Thysen+ or +Thysel+, +Thisen+ or +Thisel+, _pron._ Thyself or
yourself.
+Ti+, _prep._ To.
+‘Tice+, _v._ To allure, induce.
Ex.—_A young widow knows hoo ti ’tice a chap._
+‘Ticing+, _adj._ Alluring, seductive, winning.
+‘Tick+, _Vide_ +Cade+.
+‘Tick+, _v._ To mark off goods or other items, as in an invoice,
by placing a small mark against each when called.
+Tiddle+, _v._ To fondle, to finick.
+Tiddy+, _adj._ Small, puny.
+Tidy-betty+, _n._ A guard to prevent the ashes dirtying the hearth.
+Tie+, +Tee+, +Tah+, _n._ A hair band to secure the legs of a cow
whilst being milked.
+Tie+, _n._ 1. Obligation.
2. Necessity.
3. Burden.
4. Care.
Ex.—1. _Ah’s unner neea tie tiv him._
2. _Ther’s neea tie fur thoo ti gan._
3. _Thoo’ll finnd her a despert tie, sen sha lost t’ ewse ov her
legs._
+Tied+, +Tahd+, _v._ Obliged, constrained, compelled.
Ex.—_If sha’s leyke ti dee, Ah s’ be tied ti gan. He’ll be tied
ti drop a bit ower t’ meer. Ah’s nut tied ti deea ’t acoz thoo
tells ma._
+Tied, It’s+ = It must, no doubt exists.
Ex.—_It’s tied ti be ez he sez. It’s tied ti tumm’l doon wi t’
fo’st gust o’ wind._
+Tiffany+, _n._ Strong, fine-meshed gauze.
+Tift+, _n._ A quarrel, generally of words only.
+Tift+, _v._ To contend.
+Tig+, _n._ A light tap.
Ex.—_Ah didn’t hit, Ah nobbut tigg’d him._
+Tiggings+, _n._ A game played by children, the object being to
tap each other; the one so touched must then chase the rest
until he or she gently taps some other.
+Tightish+, _adv._ and _adj._ 1. Somewhat fast or close-fitting.
2. Lacking means.
3. Difficult.
Ex.—1. _It’s varra well putten tigither, bud a larl bit tightish
i’ t’ lid._
2. _Ah caan’t len’ tha ten pund, Ah’s a bit tightish held mysel
just noo._
3. _It’s a tightish fix thoo’s gitten thisen intul._
+Till+, +Tull+, +Ti+, _prep._ To. +Tiv+ before a vowel.
+Tim’ered+, +Weell+, _adj._ Well built.
+Tim’er-toed+, _adj._ A man wearing a wooden leg is said to be
timber-toed.
+Timersome+, _adj._ Nervous, apprehensive of danger.
+Ti morn+, _n._ To-morrow.
+Ti morn at morn+ = To-morrow in the morning. Hence +Ti morn at
neean+, ‘noon’; +Ti morn at neet+, ‘night.’
+Tinkler+, _n._ A tinker.
+Tip-trap+, _n._ An arrangement which closes the door, owing to
the weight of the animal releasing a lever as it passes in.
+Tipe+, _v._ To turn over, or fall over.
+Tipple over+, _v._ To fall over.
+Tipple-tail-over+, _n._ Somersault.
+Tit up+, _v._ To pay one’s share.
+Tite+, _Vide_ +As tite+.
+Titter+, _adv._ and _adj._ Sooner, first, willingly.
+Titterly+, _adj._ Early, forward in growth.
+Titty+, _n._ The mother’s milk.
+Tiv+, _Vide_ +Till+.
+Tivvy+, _v._ To roam about.
+To+, _prep._ Often used instead of ‘for.’
Ex.—_We’re gahin’ ti ’ev dumplings ti dinner._ Common in old
writers and the Bible.
+Toft+, _n._ A small grove of trees.
+Tommy-loach+, _n._ The stone-loach.
+To’n+, _n._ A good turn = a kindness.
Ex.—_They’ll deea onnyboddy a good to’n, will John an’ Annie._
+To’n+, _v._ To turn.
+Toon+, _n._ A village.
+Toon street+, _n._ The village street.
+Top-dressin’+, _n._ Manure thrown on, not ploughed in.
+Topping+, _n._ A natural standing-up roll or curl on the forehead,
the hair of the head.
Ex.—_Sha teeak him byv t’ topping an’ shuvved him inti t’ hollin
bush._
+Topping+, +Topper+, _adj._ First-class, very fine.
+Tottering+, _adj._ Unsettled as to weather and life.
Ex.—_It’s been nobbut a tottering tahm fur hay. He’s nobbut
’eving a tottering tahm on ’t; Ah doot he’s nut lang fur here._
+Tottle+, _v._ To toddle, as a child or an infirm person.
+Tottling+, _pp._ Falling.
+Touchous+ } _adj._ Irritable, resentful.
+Touchy+ }
+Touple+, _v._ Another form of +Tottle+. To sway or totter and then
fall over. +Whemm’l+ carries the same double meaning, but is rarely
heard now. To fall.
+Trail+, _v._ To drag along the ground.
2. To move with difficulty, or lazily.
Ex.—_Hoo that lass diz trail aboot. Ah can hardlin’s trail yah
leg efter t’ other._
+Trailtengs+, _n._ A gossiping woman.
+Trailtripes+, _n._ A slatternly woman.
+Trallops+, _n._ A slatternly woman.
+Tramp+, _n._ and _v._ A beggar; to go on foot.
+Tramping+, _part._ Trampling.
+Trap+, _v._ To be severely nipped, as by a box-lid falling on
one’s finger, and the like.
+Trapěs+, _n._ A dirty, untidy woman.
+Trapes+ or +Trapus+, _v._ To walk aimlessly about hither and
thither.
+Traps+, _n._ Belongings.
Ex.—_Pack thi traps up an’ cum alang._
+Trash+, _n._ Good for nothing, either of persons or things.
+Travel+, _v._ To walk, to move along.
Ex.—_Theease steeans mak it bad travelling._
+Trig+, _v._ To fill. As a _noun_, a stone to stop a wheel.
+Trigger+, _n._ One who feeds the cattle. NOTE.—Only used in the
east of the North Riding.
+Trim+, _v._ To cut a hedge, to apply the finishing touch.
+Trimmer+, _adj._ Really good, first-class. _n._ A sharp fellow.
+Trimm’ling-gess+, _n._ Trembling grass.
+Trod+, _n._ A footpath.
+Troll+, _v._ To roll.
+Troll-egg day+, _Vide_ chapter on ‘Customs.’
+Trollibobs+, _n._ Entrails.
+Trunking+, _n._ The business of lobster and crab catching.
+Tu’n+, _Vide_ +To’n+.
+Tundish+, _n._ A funnel.
+Tup+, _n._ A ram.
+Turve+, _n._ A block of turf to be used as fuel.
+Turve-cake+, _n._ A cake baked in a pan having a tightly fitting
lid, which is covered over with burning turves until sufficiently
baked.
+Twadgers+, _n._ A gingerbread cake.
+Twangy+, _adj._ and _adv._ Affected, applied to intonation.
+Twank+, _v._ To administer a sharp smack, to whip.
+Twattle+, _n._ Gossip.
+Twattle+, _v._ To stroke, to pet.
Ex.—_Thoo twattles on wi’ t’ pup ez if ’twar a bairn._
+Tweea+, _num. adj._ Two.
+Twill+, _n._ A quill, as ‘twill pen.’
+Twilt+, _n._ A bed-quilt.
+Twilt+, _v._ To beat, to flog.
+Twilting+, _v._ Cross-stitching two thicknesses together.
+Twine+, _v._ 1. To twist or turn from a direct course.
2. To be fretful.
Ex.—1. _He twisted an’ twin’d uz aboot whahl Ah didn’t knaw
wheear wa war._
+Twiny+, _adj._ Peevish.
+Twisty+, _adj._ Cross, fretful.
+Twitch-bell+, _n._ The earwig (_Forficula auricularia_).
+Twitters+, _n._ A state of nervousness.
+Tyaak+, _Vide_ +Teeak+.
+Tyke+, _n._ A disreputable fellow; the name given to a
Yorkshireman.
U.
+‘Ud+, Would.
+Udge+, _v._ To urge.
+Un+, One.
Ex.—_Sha’s a good un_, i.e. ‘She is a good one.’
+Unbated+, _adj._ Not repressed.
+Unbeknown+, _adj._ Not known.
+Unbethink+, _v._ To call to mind.
+Uncomeatable+, _adj._ and _adv._ Difficult to approach or get at.
+Underdraw+, _v._ To cover with lath and plaster.
+Underhanded+, _adj._ Undersized, poorly developed.
+Underling+, _n._ A stunted, weakly child.
+Undermind+, _v._ To undermine.
+Ungain+, _adj._ Distant, difficult of access, awkward.
Ex.—_It’s sik an ungain spot ti finnd, is yours._
+Unmenseful+, _adj._ Unbecoming, unseemly, ill-mannered.
+Unreave+, _v._ To unwind.
+Unsayable+, _adj._ Not amenable to advice, self-willed.
+Unslot+, _v._ To unfasten by pulling back the slot or bolt.
+Unsteck+, _v._ To unfasten and push open.
+Up, To speak+, _v._ To speak aloud, to defend oneself against an
unjust charge.
+Up with+ = The matter with.
Ex.—_What’s up wi’ t’ bairn?_
+Upbray+, _v._ To upbraid.
+Upend+, _v._ To set on end, to stand upright.
+Upgang+, _n._ A pathway up a hill or mountain.
+Upgrown+, _adj._ Adult.
+Uphold+, +Upho’d+, _v._ 1. To maintain, to give one’s unqualified
support.
2. To provide those things necessary for a person’s welfare, to
sustain.
Ex.—1. _Thee gan on wi’ ‘t, Ah’ll upho’d tha iv all thoo d’z,
’coz thoo’s i’ t’ reet on ’t._
2. _It’ll tak summat ti uphold t’ waay ’at he’s gahin’ on,
i.e. living._
+Upset-price+, _n._ The marked price at which an article is offered
for sale.
+Upset wiv+, _adj._ Put out, disconcerted, worried.
Ex.—_Ah nivver war sae upsetten wiv owt ez Ah war when t’ au’d
meer deed._
+Upshot+, _n._ Final issue, the conclusion of anything.
Ex.—_An’ t’ upshot on ’t war ’at he gat hissel weel bunched._
+Use, To no+ = Useless, unprofitable, worthless.
+Use ti c’u’d+ = Once was able.
+Us+, _adv._ and _conj._ As. _Vide_ +Es+.
V.
+Varra+, _adv._ Very. _Vide_ +Very+.
+Vast+, _n._ and _adj._ A large number.
Ex.—_A vast o’ fooak cam ti t’ feeast. Ther wur a vast mair
bosses ’an Ah aim’d ti see._
+Verser+, _n._ A rhymster.
+Very+, _adj._ An intensive.
Ex.—_Thoo maay slavver on, varra few ’ll pay onny heed ti what
thoo sez. Aye, a varra deeal o’ what he sez is o’ varra larl
matter tiv onnybody._
+Vessel cups+ = Wassail cups.
+Viewly+, +Viewsome+, _adj._ Pleasing to look at, handsome, neatly
and well put together.
Ex.—_It’s a varra viewly cauf. Sha’s a varra viewly lass._
+Volumous+, _adj._ Large, bulky.
Ex.—_It’s a maist volumous consarn, yon is. Ah deean’t tak ti
sike volumous things._
W.
+Wa+, _pron._ We.
+Wad+, _v._ Would.
+Wade+, _v._ To glimmer, as the sun does when rising if the
atmosphere is charged with moisture.
Ex.—_It’ll rain afoor neet, t’ sun waded sadly ez sha peeped
ower Rosberry._
+Waff+, _n._ 1. A slight puff of wind.
2. The slightest scent.
Ex.—1. _It’s despert clooase, ther hezn’t been a waff o’ wind
ti-daay._
2. _Noo Ah’ve ’ed yah waff o’ thi silidge, an’ Ah want na mair
on ’t._
+Waff+, _v._ To bark as a little dog.
+Waffle+, _v._ To hesitate, waver, to be undecided.
+Waffly+, _adj._ 1. Undecided, wavering, vacillating.
2. Shaky, insecure.
3. Weak, dizzy, from illness.
4. Given to foolish talk, chatter, &c.
Ex.—1. _T’ wind’s all roads, it’ll nobbut be a waffly sooart ov
a daay. It’s a varra waffly gahin’ on._
2. _Thoo’d best prop it up wi’ summat, it leeaks a bit waffly._
3. _Liggin’ i’ bed sae lang maks yan feel a bit waffly._
4. _Ah reckon nowt ov her waffly waays._
+Waffy+, _Vide_ +Wauf+.
+Waft+, _n._ A slight puff of wind; a wraith, the appearance in
the spirit form of some known one whose death is imminent.
+Wag+, _v._ To beckon with the finger or hand.
Ex.—_Ah wagg’d on him, bud he w’u’dn’t cum._
+Wage+, _v._ To induce by promise of payment.
Ex.—_Ah c’u’dn’t wage him ti staay efter he’d seen Mally’s waft._
+Wahnt+ = Was not, were not.
+Wain+, _n._ A wagon.
+Wain hoos+, _n._ Wagon shed.
+Wait of+ }
+Wait on+ } _v._ To wait for.
+Wake+, +Waak+, _adj._ Weak.
+Wakken+, _v._ To awake, _active_ and _neuter_.
+Wakkensome+, _adj._ Easily roused.
+Wale+, +Weeal+, +Wheeal+, _v._ To flog with a stick.
+Waling+, +Weealing+, _n._ Planks so fixed as to strengthen the
bank of a river.
+Walk with+, _v._ To court, to be engaged.
Ex.—_Sha’s gi’en Tom t’ go-by, an’ walks wi’ t’ young gardener
noo._
+Walsh+, _adj._ Watery, without flavour.
+Wame+, +Wheeam+, _n._ The stomach.
+Wan+, _v._ Won.
+Wangle+, +Wankle+, _v._ To totter preparatory to falling, or to
totter so as to have the appearance of falling.
Ex.—_Leeak oot! cum back! sha’s startin’ ti wang’l._
+Wangle+, +Wankle+, +Wankly+, _adj._ Tottering.
Ex.—_T’ larl brigg’s a wankly consarn._
+Want+, _v._ Its use is somewhat curious, e.g. _Does this book want
changing?_ i.e. ‘Is this book to be changed?’ _I want my coat
brushing_, i.e. ‘I wish my coat to be brushed.’ _Thoo wants a
good thrashing_, i.e. ‘You deserve,’ &c. _He hezn’t gitten mair
’an he wanted_, i.e. ‘He has not got more than he deserved.’
+Wap-cloth+, _n._ Coarse cloth for pilot coats.
+War+, +Waur+, +Wor+, +Wur+, +Wuz+, _imp. tense_ of ‘to be.’ Was or
were.
+Warbels+, _n._ Swellings on the back of a beast, caused by the
larvae of the gadfly (_Oestrus bovis_).
+War-days+, _n._ Any day save Sunday.
+Wards+, A common suffix signifying direction.
Ex.—_He war cumin’ fra Newton-wards._
+‘Ware+, _v._ Beware.
+Ware+, _v._ To lay out one’s money, to spend.
Ex.—_He awlus wares his brass ez if he meant ti git fowr penno’th
o’ stuff fur a threpenny bit._
+Wark+, _v._ and _n._ Work. Its use is manifold, see below.
+Wark+, _v._ To ache, also as a _noun_.
Ex.—_Mah back warks past bahding. Thoo mun wark it_ (arrange it)
_seea ez he ’ez ti deea a day’s wark_ (a day’s labour).
_That’ll gi’e him t’ back-wark_ (ache). _‘At’ll wark_ (remove)
_all t’ warks_ (pains) _’at’s warking_ (aching) _oot on him_.
+Warm+, _adj._ In easy circumstances, well-off.
+Warm+, _v._ To chastise, to flog.
+Warn+, _v._ To summon, to call together, to warn or swear in.
+Warp+, _v._ To flood land with water, either by artificial means
or naturally by overflowing during heavy rains, in order that a
deposit may be left upon the surface when the water recedes.
+Warridge+, _n._ The withers of a horse.
+Warse+, +Wuss+, +Wees+, _adj._ Worse.
+Warsen+, +Warsening+, _v._ To gradually grow worse.
Ex.—_T’ crop warsens ivvery year. Tommy warsens; he’s gahin’ ti
pop off if he dizn’t pick up a bit._
+Warzle+, +Wezzle+, _v._ To gain by craft, to cajole, to flatter,
to wheedle.
Ex.—_Sha’s a queer un, sha can wezzle owt oot o’ ma. He can
warzle tha inti believing owt._
+Wastrell+, _n._ An extravagant spendthrift.
+Water-bleb+, _Vide_ +Bleb+.
+Water-brash+, +Water-springs+, _n._ Acidity, heartburn.
+Water-heck+, _n._ A rail or swing gate hung across the stream to
prevent cattle from straying.
+Wath+, _n._ A ford.
+Watter+, The common pronunciation of ‘Water.’
+Wauf+, +Waufish+, _adj._ Faint, weak, insipid.
+Wax+, _v._ To grow.
Ex.—_He’s a waxing lad that._
+Wax kernel+, _n._ Swellings in the neck and hollow of the jaw.
+Way-corn+, _n._ Oats or barley.
+Way-wards+, _Vide_ +Wards+.
+Ways+, _n._ Way. Used in such sentences as _Gan thi ways heeam.
Noo git thi ways in. Cu’ thi ways, honey._
+Wean+, +Weean+, _n._ A female. An opprobrious epithet.
+Weather-fast+, _adj._ Kept in or prevented from carrying out one’s
plans owing to stress of weather.
+Weather-gaul+, _n._ The incomplete arc of a rainbow, only half
being visible, the sure sign of a coming shower, if not of a bad
spell of weather.
Ex.—_A dyer’s neeaf an’ a weather-gaul
Sheppards warn ’at rain ’ll fall._
+Weazand+, +Wizzan+, _n._ The windpipe. Ex.—_He did shut his tung
oot when Ah nipped his wizzan foor him._
+Wed+, _v._ To marry. ‘Marry’ is rarely used in any tense or mood.
+Weearish+, _adv._ Irritable.
+Weeks+, _n._ Corners. I give the word because I know a few old
people on whose lips it still lingers, but it is rarely heard now.
I heard an old dame not so long ago say to a well-known gossip,
_If thoo hed t’ weeks o’ thi mooth stitchen, an’ t’ weeks o’ thi
een slitten, thoo’d be yabble ti see t’ muck i’ t’ weeks o’ thi
awn hoos, an’ saay less aboot uther fowk_.
+Weetless+, _adj._ Lacking knowledge.
+Wefted, To be+, _v._ To be closely associated with.
+Weight+, +Wite+, _n._ Quantity, &c. Ex.—_There warn’t a gret
weight o’ taaties ti year. Neea gret weight o’ rain fell thruff
t’ neet._
+Welt+, _Vide_ +Rigged+.
+Welting+, _n._ A sound thrashing.
+Wer+, +Wern+, _poss. pron._ Our, our own.
+Werrick+, _n._ and _v._ A half-smothered laugh; to laugh, to
chuckle.
+Wersells+ } _pron._ Ourselves
+Wersens+ }
+Wet, To+, _v._ To rain lightly.
+Wet-shod+, _adj._ Wet as to feet, boots and stockings soaked.
+Weyfe+, +Wahfe+, _n._ Wife.
+Wezzel+, _Vide_ +Rezzel+.
+Wezzle+, _Vide_ +Warzle+.
+Whack+, _v._ To flog.
+Whacker+, _adj._ Larger than ordinary.
+Whahl+, _adv._ Until. _Until_, however, is never heard amongst the
country people, _whahl_ or _while_ being general.
+Whallack+, _v._ To flog with a stick or strap.
+Whallacker+, _adj._ _Vide_ +Whacker+.
+Whallacking+, _adj._ Very large.
+Whallop+, _v._ To whip soundly.
+Whang+, +Wheeang+, _n._ A thong.
+Whang+, _n._ A sudden and heavy drop, or a blow; a thick slice.
Also as a _verb_, to strike a heavy blow.
+Whanging+, _adj._ _Vide_ +Whallacking+.
+Whap+, _n._ A sudden movement, a jerk. Ex.—_He went by wiv a whap._
+Whap+, _v._ To close with a bang; to give a smart tap on the
knuckles; to flap, as a wing.
+Whapper+, +Whopper+, _adj._ Huge.
+What for+, +What for not+, _adv._ Why, why not.
+What mud be deean+ = No matter what precaution may have been taken.
Ex.—_Ah shuv’d wi’ my back, an’ Billy thrust his hardest wiv a
powl, but doon it cam, what mud be deean._
+What one could+, or +‘Ativver he+, +Ah+, or +yan could+ = One’s
very best efforts.
Ex.—_Ah pull’d ’ativver Ah could pull, bud it war ti neea ewse.
Yan did what yan could, bud it war ti larl good._
+Whatten+, _pron._ What. Ex.—_Whatten a tahm o’ daay is ’t? Whatten
a sooart ov a thing diz ti call that?_
+Whau+, +Wheea+, _pron._ Who.
+Wheea s’ ow’ ‘t?+ lit. who shall owe or own it, i.e. To whom does
it belong? Who owns it? Ex.—_Wheea s’ ow’ ‘t bairn?_
+Whemmel+, _v._ To rock to and fro and then fall over.
+Whewling+, _adj._ Dizzy.
+Whewtle+, _v._ To whistle, to squeak.
+Whidder+, +Wither+, _n._ 1. A rush. 2. A sharp and swinging blow.
Ex.—1. _He did gan by wiv a wither._
2. _Ah’ll catch thee sike a wither aback o’ t’ lug if thoo dizn’t
mahnd._
+Whiff+, _v._ To puff in short blasts, as smoke sometimes puffs
downwards and into the room.
+Whiffle-whaffle+, _n._ Idle talk.
+Whiffley+, _v._ To trifle, to vacillate.
+Whimly+, _adv._ Quietly, softly. _Vide_ +Whisht+.
+Whimsey+, _adj._ Changeable, unstable.
+Whins+, _n._ The gorse.
+Whipster+, _n._ A doubtful character.
+Whip-stitch+, _n._ A useless fellow.
+Whirken+, _v._ To choke.
+Whisht+, _adv._ Noiselessly, quietly. Ex.—_Them bisittles gans
varra whisht._
+Whisht+, _adj._ Silent, noiseless.
+Whisht+, _intj._ Be quiet! Hush!
+Whittle+, _n._ A knife.
+Whittle+, _v._ To shave or slice off with a knife.
+Whizzle+, _Vide_ +Warzle+.
+Whoats+, +Whots+, _n._ Oats.
+Whya+, _intj._ Well. If used at the end of a remark = Very well.
Ex.—Q. _Thoo’ll cum on o’ Sundaay?_ A. _Whya._
+Wi’+, _prep._ With. +Wiv+ before a vowel.
+Wick+, _adj._ Living, lively, vigorous. Ex.—_Ah want yan ’at’s
wick, nut a deead un. By goa, sha’s a wick un, is yon young miss._
+Wick+, _n._ Life. Ex.—_This bangs all ’at Ah’ve seean i’ mah wick._
+Wicken+, _v._ To gather wickens.
+Wickens+, +Wicks+, _n._ Couch grass.
+Wicken-wood+, _n._ The mountain ash, the rowan-tree.
+Wicker+, _v._ To neigh, whinny.
+Wicks+, _n._ Seedlings of the whitethorn.
+Wicksilver+, _n._ Quicksilver.
+Widdle-waddling+, _v._ To waddle.
+Widdy+, _n._ A young willow shoot.
+Wikes+, _n._ The corners of the mouth.
+Wildfire+, _n._ Erysipelas.
+Win+, _v._ To attain one’s object by considerable effort.
+Wind+, _n._ Information, a hint. Ex.—_Ah gat wind o’ what he war
efter. If he gets wind o’ what thoo’s deean, thoo’ll drop in for
’t._
+Wind, To lose one’s+ = To die. ‘Wind’ is often used for ‘breath.’
+Winder+, +Winn’l+, _v._ To winnow.
+Winder+ or +Winn’ling machine+, _n._ A winnowing machine.
+Windle straw+ or +Winn’l streah+, _n._ A dead stalk of straw or
grass.
+Winge+, _v._ To threaten to kick (of a horse), to cry peevishly.
+Winter-hedge+, _n._ A clothes-horse.
+Wipe+, _n._ A sharp slap, a hurried rub. Also a _verb_.
Ex.—_Ah’ll wipe tha across t’ feeace._
+Wire-ling+, _n._ The crowberry plant.
+Wire-rush+, _n._ The hard rush (_Juncus glaucus_).
+Wit+, _n._ Knowledge. Ex.—_He hezn’t wit ti deea a job o’ that
sooart. He show’d mair wit ’an what Ah aim’d foor._
+Wiv+, _prep._ With.
+Wivoot+, +Widoot+, _prep._ Without, unless.
+Wizen+, _v._ and _adj._ To shrivel, to dry up.
Ex.—_Sha’s gitten an au’d wizen’d feeace._
+Woomle+, _n._ An auger.
+Wor+, _Vide_ +War+.
+Worral-hole+, _n._ A draught-hole let into the wall through a
drain-pipe at the back of the fire, used to burn sea-coal.
+Worn+, _adj._ Exhausted, used up. Ex.—_Ah’s fairly woorn oot wi’
t’ job. Ah gat weary an’ worn afoor t’ daay war spent._
+Worry+, _v._ To kill. Ex.—_Sha’s nobbut a young un, bud sha’s
worried a ratten alriddy._
+Worsen+, +Warsen+, _v._ 1. To make worse. 2. To gain the advantage
of. _Vide_ +Warsen+.
Ex.—1. _Thoo worsens owt ’at thoo puts thi han’ teeea._
2. _Ah worsen’d him all t’ waay thruff t’ bargain._
+Wostler+, _n._ Hostler.
+Wrang+, _adj._ Wrong.
+Wrecklin+, _n._ The last and smallest of a litter or brood.
+Wringe+, _v._ To whine like a dog, to cry out in pain. Often
+Winge+.
+Wrizzled+, _Vide_ +Razzelled+.
+Wrong with, To get+, _v._ To quarrel, to have a misunderstanding.
+Wrought+, +Wrowt+, _v._ To work, to strive. Ex.—_Neea chap’s wrowt
harder ’an what he hez. Ah’ve wrowt an’ tew’d all t’ daay whahl
Ah’s worn oot._
+Wummely+, _v._ To move in a sinuous manner.
+Wur+, _Vide_ +War+.
+Wurk+, _Vide_ +Wark+.
+Wuz+, _Vide_ +War+.
+Wye+, _n._ A heifer under three years of age.
+Wyke+, +Week+, _n._ A small bay on the sea-coast.
Y.
+Yabble+, +Yabblins+. 1. Able. 2. Maybe, perhaps.
Ex.—1. _Thoo’ll be yabble ti deea ’t._
2. Q. _Will ta leeak in ez thoo passes?_ A. _Yabblins_ (or
_Ablins_) _Ah will_.
+Yaccorn+, +Yakron+, _n._ The acorn.
+Yacker+, _n._ Acre.
+Yaffle+, _v._ To mumble, to speak indistinctly.
+Yah+, _num. adj._ One. N.B. +Yah+, unlike +Yan+, is never used
singly, but is always followed by a word agreeing with it,
e.g. ‘Yah chap,’ ‘Yah tahm.’
Ex.—_Yah daay Ah went wi’ yan on ’em. Yah tahm yan o’ your lads
bunched ma. Yan’s shooting yah things, &c._
+Yak+, _n._ Oak.
+Yal+, _n._ Ale.
+Yalhoos+, Alehouse.
+Yam+, _n._ Home. _Vide_ +Heeam+.
+Yam+, _v._ _Vide_ +Aim+.
+Yan+, _num. adj._ and _indf. pron._ One. _Vide_ +Yah+.
+Yance+, _adv._ Once.
+Yance ower+, Once, at that time.
+Yank+, _v._ To thrash, to flog.
+Yap+, _v._ To bark at one’s heels, to talk foolishly.
+Yark+, _v._ 1. To strike with a switch. 2. To pull out with a jerk.
Ex.—2. _Thi float’s blobb’d unner, yark ’t oot._
+Yarker+, _n._ The best of a sample. Ex.—_Tak that un, mun, it’s a
yarker._
+Yarking+, _n._ A whipping with a switch.
+Yarp+, _v._ To shout, to speak loudly. _Vide_ +Yowp+.
+Yat+, _adj._ Hot. Ex.—_It wur that yat, Ah c’u’dn’t ho’d it._
+Yat+, _n._ A gate.
+Yat-steead+, _n._ The ground covered by the sweep of the gate.
+Yat-stoop+, +Yat-stoup+, _n._ A gate-post.
+Yaud+, _n._ A horse or mare, usually on its last legs.
+Yearn+, _v._ To curdle milk.
+Yearning+, _n._ Rennet.
+Yed+, _v._ To make runs underground, as a rabbit, mole, &c.
+Yedder+, +Yether+, _n._ A young shoot in a hedge, which, being
half cut, is utilized to strengthen some weaker part.
+Yeead+, +Heead+, Head.
+Yer-nut+, _n._ The earth-nut (_Bunium flexuosum_).
+Yet+, _adv._ Still. Ex.—_Is t’ wagon here yet?_ would not imply
‘Has the wagon arrived?’ but ‘Is it still here?’
+Yeth+, _n._ Earth.
+Yethwurm+, _n._ The earthworm.
+Yewn+, _Vide_ +Yown+.
+Yocken+, _v._ To swallow greedily.
+Yoke+, _n._ The shoulder-bar by which two pails can be carried
with ease.
+Yoke+, _v._ To buckle the harness on the horse to the shafts.
+Yon+, _adj._ and _adv._ That, over there. Used demonstratively of
persons and things.
+Yotten+, _Vide_ +Yocken+.
+Youst+, _pp._ Used.
+Yow+, _n._ A female sheep.
+Yowl+, _n._ A plaintive howl.
+Yowl+, _v._ To howl, to cry plaintively.
+Yown+, +Yewn+, +Yuen+, _n._ An oven. Ex.—_Now ’t’s neyce, t’
yuen’s nivver been yat._
+Yowp+, +Yope+, _v._ To cry as a young dog when first kennelled, to
speak in a shrill voice.
+Yuck+, A curious usage is attached to this word. At any social
gathering in the Cleveland dales, when those assembled have grown
excited, some one will shout, _Yuck foor oor deeal_, to which
another will instantly reply, _Yuck foor Castleton_, or _Yuck
foor_ ——, mentioning his own locality. I fancy in days past it
would be given as a challenge; it now carries with it the sense
of ‘To cheer,’ or ‘Here’s to our dale.’
+Yuer+, +Ur+, _n._ The udder of a cow.
+Yuk+, _v._ To beat.
+Yuking+, _n._ A beating.
+Yule-cake+, _n._ A rich plum-cake made for Christmastide, and cut
into on Christmas Eve.
+Yule-candle+, +-cann’l+, _n._ A large wax candle lighted on
Christmas Eve.
+Yule-log+ or +-clog+, _n._ The log burnt on the fire on Christmas
Eve.
CONCLUDING REMARKS
It is a fact, and one worthy of all commendation, that every
Yorkshireman considers the dialect spoken in the immediate locality
wherein he was reared, as being not only the best, but the purest.
Doubtless in some cases this is quite correct, but not in all.
Contiguity to other counties has a deteriorating influence, which
naturally extends across both borders, and is sometimes very
far-reaching in its effect. Owing to this and other causes, many of
my readers will find the pronunciation of some words, as given both
in the Glossary and throughout the work, not quite in tune with the
sound in which they daily hear such words uttered. This difficulty
presented itself at the very commencement of the work. A rule had to
be adopted to obtain something approaching uniformity and conciseness.
To accomplish this, area has been chosen; i.e. in all cases in which
a word has several pronunciations, those given in the Glossary and
elsewhere, so far as the writer knows, are the pronunciations most
generally in use throughout the riding. It may be noted, as we approach
the West Riding and South Lancashire, that the vowel sounds of _a_,
_e_, and _o_ have a growing tendency to broaden in sound, often
becoming _u_. This, however, should be carefully guarded against in
writing the dialect of the North Riding[113], as there is ample proof
that over a very wide area the original sound of eighty years ago was
the same as now used in Cleveland. These gradual local alterations form
in time what botanists call sports.
Many words in such places are to-day passing through a transitional
stage. E.g. let us compare a few words as spoken eighty years ago in
two places I well know, viz. Bedale and Great Ayton. The former is much
nearer the West Riding than the latter, and very forcibly shows the
gradual alteration in pronunciation some words have undergone since
1800.
PRONUNCIATION.
_As used in _As given in │ _As _As pronounced│
the North a Glossary │ pronounced in the │ _Meaning._
Riding, published │ in Bedale, West Riding,│
1898._ at Bedale, │ 1898._ 1898._ │
1800._
Chetch Chŭch Church
Deear Doour Door
To’n Tŭ’n Turn
Stor Sturr Stir
Fo’st Fust First
Ez Uz As
Fau’k Fooak Folk
Neeaze Nooaz Nose
Cleease Clooase Close
Ken _or_ Kern Chen _or_ Chun Churn
Diz Duz Does
Wark Wurrk Work
War _or_ Wor Wuz Was _or_ were
Ax’d Ast, Assed Asked
Clais, Cleeas Clooaz Clothes
Deean’t Dooan’t Don’t
Fleear Flooar Floor
Gahin’ _or_ ganning Bown Bahn Going
The Glossary contains many words common to other dialects[114],
especially the folk-speech of North Lincolnshire, Cumberland,
Westmoreland, North Lancashire, and East Anglia.
It may be of interest to note over what a wide area the dialect of the
North Riding is understood and in the main spoken. As an entertainer, I
come in touch with the country people of many places, and I have often
been surprised at the quickness with which the various points in my
dialect sketches have been seized by those of other counties. Naturally
I am able to indulge much more freely, both in dialect and idiom, in
some places than in others.
The North and West Riding dialects widely differ not only as to
vocabulary, but in drawl and intonation; e.g. take the following
sentences:—
NORTH RIDING. Noo, mun, wheear’s ta gahin’ teea? Ah’s gahin’ doon t’
toon.
WEST RIDING. Nah, lad, whor’s ta bahn tew? Ah w’ bahn dahn t’ tahn.
Hear each sentence uttered by men of their respective ridings, and my
readers will better understand my meaning than from pages of written
explanation. There is also another difference. Whilst many titled
people, and members of the best families in the North and East Ridings,
can, when they have a mind to, speak the dialect fluently, of only a
few of the leading families in the West Riding whom I have met am I
able to say the same thing. There seems to be a feeling that in some
way it would be _infra dig._ to admit ability to speak a word of their
own folk-speech.
Referring to the wide area over which the dialect of the North and
East Ridings is spoken, granting without questioning slight variation
in pronunciation, the addition of new words, and the loss of familiar
ones as we pass along, we find that practically the same dialect exists
amongst the country folk inside the following rough boundary line. Draw
right-lines commencing at Boston Spa, Lincolnshire, and connecting the
following places, Doncaster, Harrogate, Lancaster, along the coast-line
to Carlisle, thence to Darlington, Stockton, Middlesborough[115], and
along the north-east coast. By so doing you wall in what may be aptly
termed, ‘the north-east folk-speech.’ But far over this imaginary
line, in certain directions, the dialect is understood and appreciated.
This is not surprising when we remember the same races overran and
peopled the whole of the country from the Wash to the Tyne and thence
north-westward.
They may be easily traced by their place-names—the by’s, thorpes,
cliffs, wicks, dales, &c.
But if we compare the folk-speech of the district so walled in, with
that of the Danes and their kinfolk, then its Norse origin is seen at a
glance. E.g. take the few following words—scores of the like could have
been given:—
_North and _Cumberland _Standard
East and _Danish._ _Scotch._ English._
Riding._ Westmoreland._
Mowdywarp Mowdywarp Muldvarp Moudie Mole
Beck Beck Bæk ... A small
stream
Lake Lake Lege ... Play
Beeal Beel Bjæle ... Bellow
Bield Bield Bylja ... A shelter
(Swedish)
Gah, gan Ga, gang Gaae Ga Go
Neeaf Neif Næve Neive Fist
Bink Bink Bænk Bink Bench
Gliff Gliff Glippe Gliff Quick
glance
Gesling Gezling Gjæsling Gesling Gosling
Gloor Glower Glo Glower Stare
Skrike Skrike Skrige Skreich Scream
Teeam Teem Toomme Toom (to Pour out
empty)
Feck, _n._
ability
Feckless, Feckless Fik is the Feckless Incapable of
_adj._ past tense providing
of faa, to for oneself
get[116], imp.
tense, feck
The Danish, Norwegian, Lowland Scotch, and north-east folk-speech are
closely allied. We must not, however, compare the spelling, but the
general sound of the words. Take the two first lines of the Danish
national song—
DANISH. Kong Christian stod ved hoien mast.
NORTH RIDING. King Christian steead byv t’ heegh mast.
DANISH. I’ Rog[117] og damp.
NORTH RIDING. I’ roke an’ reek.
Again, take two lines from a poem in Modern Friesic published in 1834.
The centre lines are from the poem, with the modern North Riding
dialect above and standard English below.
NORTH RIDING. What be’st thoo, leyfe?
FRIESIC. Hwat bist dhow, libben?
STANDARD ENGLISH. What art thou, life?
NORTH RIDING. Fra t’ scepter’d king ti t’ slaave.
FRIESIC. Fen de scepterde kening ta da slave.
STANDARD ENGLISH. From the sceptred king to the slave.
For a list of words common to the English, Dutch, and Scandinavian
languages, see _Trans. Phil. Soc._ part i. 1858.
Much that is written and spoken at the present day is quite over the
heads of our country people. Take the following, from one of our best
authors:—‘He who performs every part of his business in due course
and season, suffers no part of time to escape without profit. And it
is well always to regard the quality rather than the quantity of your
work, and bear in mind, if you delay till to-morrow what ought to be
done to-day, you overcharge to-morrow with a burden which belongs not
to it,’ Our country folk would fully grasp the above if put to them
something like the following:—‘Him ’at diz a daay’s wark iv a daay,
dizn’t waste his tahm, an’ mannishes ti git a bit foor hissel. An’ yan
awlus owt ti aim ti deea t’ bit ’at yan diz deea fo’st-class, mair ’an
aiming ti clash thruff a seet o’ wark onny road; an’ think on, if ya
lig o’ yah sahd whahl ti morn what ya owt ti-deea ti daay, ya saddle ti
morn wiv a boddun ’at it’s neea call ti bear.’
Hah am the rose o’ Sharon and the lily o’ the valley.
In a work kindly lent me by my friend Dr. Johnson of Lancaster, and
published some years ago for the Philological Society, the author,
quoting from _Latham on the English Language_, gives the above as a
specimen of North Riding dialect—nay, more, of Cleveland itself. Surely
the writer can never have spent a day in any part of Cleveland, for the
sentence given contains but twelve words, seven of which are distinctly
not Clevelandic.
The country people, when speaking _naturally_, rarely use the aspirate,
except as an intensive. Otherwise they have little use for it. And when
‘H’ is preceded by the definite article, they do not drop it in the
sense generally understood; the fact is they cannot well sound it, for
this reason—the definite article is ‘t’, ‘the[118]’ being but rarely
used. They could not say ‘t’ horse,’ ‘t’ house,’ ‘t’ hamper,’ &c.; with
them it is, ‘t’ hoss,’ ‘t’ hoos,’ ‘t’ hamper,’ pronounced ‘toss,’
‘toos,’ ‘tamper.’
‘The horse is yoked,’ ‘the hamper is in the wagon,’ and ‘the whip is
under the wheels,’ as spoken, would sound to unfamiliar ears as if the
speaker had said ‘toss is yoked,’ ‘tamper’s i’ twagon,’ and ‘twip’s
unner tweels.’
The definite article, to those unaccustomed to our folk-speech, seems
to be entirely wanting. Certainly before _b_, _m_, and _n_ it is only
very slightly sounded, and it becomes the merest touch of the tongue
against the palate when preceding words commencing with _d_ or _t_.
‘Shut the door, the bacon and the beans are on the table,’ would sound
to a stranger as though the speaker said, ‘Shut deear, bacon an’ beeans
is on table’; the speaker having in reality said, ‘Shut t’ deear, t’
bacon an’ t’ beeans is on t’ table.’
To return, however, to the line from Solomon’s Song, given as a
specimen of Cleveland dialect. Let us see what the rendering should
have been.
Hah am the rose o’ Sharon and the lily o’ the valley.
Ah’s t’ roase o’ Sharon an’ t’ lily o’ t’ valley.
The lower line is North Yorkshire and pure Cleveland, the upper line is
said to be so.
It has been remarked that the aspirate is almost unknown—so it is as
a letter, but not as an intensive. The aspirate, when misplaced by
those speaking naturally, is only used to add greater force. ‘He’s
mah henemy foor hivver,’ leaves no doubt that the injury sustained is
of an unbridgeable character. Such a sentence, however, holds quite a
different place in grammar, too. ‘Hi hallers taike shagar i’ my tea.’
The first example is Yorkshire intensified, minus any adjectives, the
first ‘H’ expressing or suggesting some such feeling as implacable,
and the ‘hever’ meaning for ever and ever. The latter is the vile and
affected speech of the upper circles of Yorkshire flunkeys and maids,
who try to improve upon their mother tongue. It holds no place in our
folk-speech. It is hateful, and is only indulged in by those of whom
the old people say, ‘When they start ti knack an’ scrape ther tungs,
what they saay’s nowther nowt na summat,’ i.e. ‘When they begin to talk
affectedly, what they say is neither one thing nor another.’
There is one other peculiarity which must be noticed—the possessive
case. I should imagine a hundred years ago its disuse was universal
in both ridings. My reason for so thinking lies in the fact that in
any old books wherein the owners have inscribed their names—and they
usually did (books were valued in those days)—the names are never
written in the possessive case. It is always ‘Tom Smith book,’ ‘Ann
Scott book.’ Even to-day in many places, when speaking, the observance
of the case is conspicuous by its absence. E.g. in the Boroughbridge
and other districts they would not say ‘Jack Wilson’s dog bit Smith’s
calf,’ and ‘Peggy’s cat flew through Nanny’s window,’ but ‘Jack Wilson
dog bit Smith cauf,’ and ‘Peggy cat flew throw Nanny window.’ Such
sentences as ‘Ho’d t’ hoss heead,’ ‘Pull t’ pig lug,’ and ‘Twist t’
coo tail,’ &c., are still universal in both ridings. The instances
in which the possessive is used, and vice versa, are now about equal
in the North Riding. The peculiar forms of redundancy are many and
curious. ‘Ah nivver at neea tahm sed nowt aboot nowt ti neeabody,’
simply means, ‘I never said anything to any one. I think the following
example, which I overheard one Yorkshireman say to another just before
the train moved out of Guisborough station, is the finest on record.
‘Whya,’ said he, ‘thoo mun saay what thoo ’ez a mahnd teea, bud think
on, thoo knaws, ’at Ah knaw ’at he knaws, ’at thoo knaws ’at Ah knaw,
all aboot ivverything ’at’s ivver been deean an’ ‘at’s ivver ta’en
pleeace.’ I heard a man say a short time ago, ‘Ah s’ be agate ti git
agate ti set agate Tom fo’st thing ti morn at morn’; i.e. ‘Ah s’ be
agate,’ I shall be about; ’ti git agate,’ to commence work; ’ti set
agate,’ to set Tom to work; ‘fo’st thing ti morn at morn,’ first thing
in the morning. Said one to another, ‘Noo Ah’ll tell ya what, hard
eneeaf, he war neean ower-suited when he fan oot ’at he’d ’ev ti ’ev
’t ower wi’ ma owther thruff or by. An’ noo when Ah’ve fetched him up
ti t’ scrat, he sez ’at he’s putten t’ dog oot o’ t’ road; bud Ah’s
satisfied o’ yah thing, t’ dog rave mah britches, an’ Ah s’all leeak ti
him ti mak ’em good agaan, foor he ’ez a reet ti owther deea that or
’livver summat up i’ lieu on’t; bud Ah reckon nowt o’ what he sez, an’
that’s t’ len’th on ’t.’ i.e. ‘Noo Ah’ll tell ya what,’ now I assure
you; ‘hard eneeaf,’ without doubt; ‘he war neean ower-suited,’ he was
not over-pleased; ‘when he fan oot,’ when he discovered; ‘’at he’d ’ev
ti ’ev it ower wi’ ma,’ that he would have to talk it over with me;
‘owther thruff or by,’ either one way or the other; ‘an’ noo when Ah’ve
fetched him up ti t’ scrat,’ and now when I have made him toe the mark;
‘he sez ’at he’s putten t’ dog oot o’ t’ road,’ he says that he has
killed the dog; ‘bud Ah’s satisfied o’ yah thing,’ but I am certain of
one thing; ’t’ dog rave mah britches,’ the dog tore my trousers; ‘an’
Ah s’all leeak ti him ti mak ’em good agaan,’ and I shall expect him to
replace them; ‘foor he ’ez a reet ti,’ for he ought to; ‘owther deea
that or ’livver summat up,’ either do that or give something; ‘i’ lieu
on ’t,’ in place of it (them); ‘bud Ah reckon nowt o’ what he sez,’ but
I place no confidence in anything he says; ‘an’ that’s t’ len’th on
’t,’ and that is the extent of it.
If the reader masters the abbreviations and elisions facing page 1,
the _pons asinorum_ will have been crossed, and the reading of our
folk-speech found to be a thing easy of accomplishment and a delightful
acquisition.
It will be well to remember, when reading aloud, that a consonant
with an elided vowel must be joined either to the word preceding or
following, as ’t’ hoss,’ ’t’ hens,’ ‘t’ wax,’ the horse, the hens, the
wax, which would be pronounced ’toss,’ ‘tens,’ ‘twax.’ Again, ‘Sha’s
i’ t’ sulks’ would be ’shas it sulks,’ and ‘Oot wi’ ‘t, put tane ti
t’ ither,’ would be rendered as ’oot wit, put tane ti tither,’ ‘Ah’ve
deean noo, t’ ink’s ommaist dhry i’ mah pen, seea this’ll ’a’e ti be
T’ LAP UP ON ‘T.’
OXFORD: HORACE HART
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
FOOTNOTES:
[1] ‘Nothing is the same.’
[2] Ask.
[3] Before retiring to rest the older and more superstitious look round
to see if there is a shadowless head thrown on the wall; should any one
cast such a shadow, it is held they will die ere next Christmas Eve
comes round.
[4] In many of our dales on Christmas morn, no one will leave the house
until some one brings luck in by crossing the threshold with a bit of
green in their hand.
[5] Also called Pace-egg. The Danish word is Paaskeaeg.
[6] The small stack often seen in our churches at a harvest
thanksgiving is a survival of the mell doll.
[7] The stang was ridden at Thoralby, Wensleydale, as recently as
October, 1896.
[8] The pole was a stang or cow-staff.
[9] The original was most kindly lent to me by the Lady of the Manor,
Mrs. Chaloner.
[10] A three-legged race. In this there was nothing unseemly, for a
long way into this century the skirts worn came but little below the
knee. Bear in mind, both in launching and beaching their husband’s or
father’s boat, the women and girls of to-day often rush up to the waist
in the sea to lend a helping hand.}
[11] Some explanation is needed to make this task understandable. A
large basket (probably a wide creel) had a strong pole thrust through
the wicker-work or handles improvised for the occasion; each end of the
pole was then rested upon some suitable support, leaving the basket
free to swing about a foot from the ground. On each support and near
to the pole a shell or other light object was placed. The thing to be
done would not be easy of accomplishment. Those contending for the
prize had in turn to seat themselves astride of the pole with both
feet inside the basket; thus seated, and firmly grasping the pole
with one hand, they had to knock off the shell with a stick (which in
the meantime they used to steady themselves with), then turn round,
reseat themselves, knock off the other shell, and then get out without
overbalancing. You try it, but have something soft to fall upon. It is
marvellous how soon it is the next person’s turn.
[12] Thirty years ago it was common.
[13] The details of the plate-throwing vary slightly in different
localities.
[14] In some parts it was customary for the winner, after having
removed the garter, to enter the bridal chamber, turn down the bed
clothes, and offer to the bride a hot pot as she entered to remove
her bridal attire, and then salute her; did he omit the latter, he
forfeited the garter.
[15] I gather from a diary, dated 1625, which has been kindly sent
to me as I am correcting my proof sheets, that originally it was the
bridegroom’s duty to tie on the bridal garters.
[16] Lusty.
[17] Sound of wind.
[18] The story was given me by an eye-witness.
[19] Only when returning were the guns discharged as a rule.
[20] Each in turn slipped the garter over his glass on to his wrist.
The garters were nearly a yard long; as used above, the ends were tied
together to form a loop.
[21] A native of Exelby.
[22] It would seem these two often worked their charms in company.
[23] I have no knowledge as to the meaning of these two words; their
real pronunciation may have been lost, or perhaps they are simply cant
words.
[24] My own opinion is that ‘R. H.’ was William Hird’s father, though
he never admitted it.
[25] The garland consisted of two hoops intertwined, decorated with
white paper flowers and ribbons, in the centre of which was a white
glove, often home-made, of paper or fine linen, upon which was written
or worked in some fine stitch the initials or name in full and age of
the deceased. According to locality this garland was either carried in
front of the coffin by one of the deceased’s dearest companions, or
laid upon it. This custom might well have been retained.
[26] And many other places in Cleveland.
[27] The author is quite aware some other writers state that the fire
is never allowed to die out whilst the corpse is in the room. He never
knew or heard of such a custom, though possibly such may exist.
[28] In the North Riding, about three miles from Ripon.
[29] _The Gospelles of Distaues_, published by Wynkyn de Worde about
1530, contains the following:—‘If it happen that somebody stride over a
little childe, know ye for certain that it shall never grow more, but
if (unless) they stride backward over it again. Gloss: Certainly, said
Sebylle, of such thing cometh dwarfs and little women.’
[30] Richard Kirby, who gave me the above and several other stories
concerning witches, still lives in Carthorpe, near Bedale.
[31] Nanny must have been disguised in some way, at least one would
think so, otherwise Mrs. Langstaff would have recognized her at once,
both being natives of that part.
[32] Inconvenienced, literally ‘cost.’
[33] Never accomplished his life’s work, i.e. committed suicide.
[34] ‘T au’d un,’ or the old one = the devil.
[35] Possibly this meant the longer he waited there, the longer he
would remain in the river.
[36] Boyes Wetherell lost his wife on the birth of their first child, a
boy. Boyes tended his bairn with a mother’s love and care, and when the
child was four years old, he tramped all the way to London with the lad
on his back. Once they slept in a grave; but the journey is a story.
[37] A contemporary of the wise man of Stokesley, but having nothing
like the same reputation.
[38] An aperient drink.
[39] A worral hole is a drain-pipe let in the wall immediately at the
back of the fire; this is to afford sufficient draught to burn the sea
coal which is daily gathered from the beach.
[40] A sucking-pig.
[41] A cant phrase of the time is used in the original.
[42] The devil.
[43] Hand in hand, both touch the floor together. This has already been
referred to.
[44] Observe the lack of the possessive case.
[45] The ground covered would be about twenty miles—not bad.
[46] A woman was adjudged the same punishment at Bedale (for a
different offence) in the year 1779, also at Thirsk and Northallerton.
[47] For other interesting matter concerning Nan Hardwicke, _vide_
Henderson’s _Folklore_.
[48] Observe rice is now being ousted by confetti, which is much
better—rice is so dangerous.
[49] This statement has nothing to do with his private life, only as
that of a wise man. ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum.’
[50] This would be the father of the Mr. Scorer I knew, who for many
years lived at Basedale Abbey.
[51] I know that Mr. G. Markham Tweddle holds quite contrary views. His
idea is that Wrightson was little better than a huge swindler.
[52] For other authentic stories of Wrightson, _vide_ Henderson’s
_Folklore_.
[53] A small four-legged stool.
[54] A hedgehog.
[55] I met a man in the train the other day who said he had often seen
them sucking.
[56] Henry Wilson, of Broughton, was a wise man of some repute after
Wrightson’s time.
[57] Something like Sadler and Clarke’s method.
[58] The usual time was midnight; this case, so far as I know, is
unique.
[59] Accuse openly.
[60] To prepare a ‘hand of glory,’ the hand of a man who had been
hanged had to be left for some days in a special kind of pickle;
afterwards it was dried in the sun, and then parched in the smoke of
certain herbs. A special kind of candle had to be made from certain
fats; with this candle lighted and stuck in the dead man’s hand, a
hypnotic sleep could be cast upon a whole household. Henderson’s
_Folklore_.
[61] There was a marvellous hobman once lived near Ripon, but his deeds
some one writing of the West Riding must chronicle.
[62] With slight variation the same story is known in other parts of
the riding, also in Lancashire, and is as old as the hills throughout
Scandinavia.
[63] A similar story is told of Sir Francis Drake.
[64] See Glossary.
[65] ‘Ower,’ _prep._ over.
[66] ‘Ower,’ _adv._ too; ‘ower’ nearly always takes the place of ‘too.’
‘Ower mich,’ ‘ower monny apples,’ ‘ower big a load,’ ‘ower larl,’ ‘ower
au’d,’ &c.
[67] This peculiarity, even amongst many educated Yorkshire people, of
repeating the verb is further illustrated in the concluding remarks at
the end of the Glossary.
[68] Thirsty.
[69] Really the same simile, common where otters fish.
[70] Snails.
[71] The name by which the Grammar School boys were known.
[72] I have heard children innocently repeating, as they counted each
other out:—
Prest an, pop an,
Cock on t’ spire,
Holy Alice,
Dah mell fire.
Did their parents or teachers but know what the youngsters were really
saying, they would be no little shocked.
[73] Staggerum buck, or Staggerer Staggera bobtail, is the name of a
boys’ game, very commonly played. ‘Philson,’ ‘Valson,’ and ‘Dickson’
are examples of the elision of the possessive case, i.e. Phil’s son,
Val’s son, and Dick’s son.
[74] ‘Knave-a’ became general during the War of Independence—we were a
bit out of favour then.
[75] _Vide_ Grimm’s _Household Tales_.
[76] As the children tell the story, they pronounce _crooked_,
‘crook-ed.’
[77] The story in its original form was a prophetic hymn sung by the
Jews at the Passover, the animals and elements representing their
enemies and deliverers.
[78] Henderson’s _Folklore_.
[79] Knotted hair.
[80] Both pronunciations are equally common.
[81] Walk.
[82] Brow.
[83] Purse.
[84] ‘Trigg’d his wame,’ filled his stomach.
[85] ‘Lair,’ a barn.
[86] ‘Streahy,’ strawy.
[87] ‘Seeat,’ soot.
[88] ‘Clais,’ clothes.
[89] E is used in the original.
[90] Horse.
[91] Should be ‘wae’s t’ me,’ lit. ‘woe is to me.’
[92] Riding apparel.
[93] Well dressed.
[94] Designed.
[95] Mind.
[96] Determined.
[97] False.
[98] Scythe.
[99] ‘Window’ is commonly pronounced _winder_, _winner_, and _windther_.
[100] _At_ is often used instead of _who_, _which_, and _that_.
[101] The _th_ and _dh_ sound, found in so many East Riding words, is
not nearly so marked in the speech of the North Riding.
[102] ‘Ya ’evn’t’ and ‘tha ’evn’t’ are not so emphatic as ‘ya’ve nut’
or ‘tha’ve nut,’ &c.
[103] Throughout, save in this example, ‘He’ has been so printed, but
without exception its utterance approaches nearer to that of ‘a’ or
‘eh,’ e.g. ‘‘Ez he ta’en ’t fra tha?’ would certainly appear as if the
speaker had said ’‘Ez _a_ (or _eh_) ta’en ’t fra tha?’ But to save the
reader much needless confusion, _he_ has been retained, though it is
rarely heard save at the commencement of a sentence.
[104] ‘Divn’t’ is quite a common form of ‘do not.’
[105] ‘Uz,’ ‘us,’ is often used for ‘me.’
[106] Written _gi’en_.
[107] ‘On,’ prep. ‘of.’
[108] Rod = red.
[109] The old pronunciations of ‘trashing’ for ‘thrashing,’ ‘trepence’
for ‘threepence,’ ‘trive’ for ‘thrive,’ &c., are frequently heard in
Cleveland.
[110] Along the borders touching the West Riding ‘Blathery’ is in
common use. ‘Bladdry’ it should be.
[111] ‘Come’ is always pronounced ‘cum.’
[112] The same pronunciation is often used in the sense of ‘to lose.’
Ex.—‘Thoo’ll lowse thisel,’ or ‘Thoo’ll loss thisel;’ ‘It’s been a
lowsin’ gaame fra t’ fo’st ti t’ last,’ i.e. ‘It has been a losing
game,’ &c.
[113] In several instances this rule has been broken, but only to give
a correct rendering of the pronunciation as spoken in a particular
district to-day.
[114] The term ‘dialect’ is used throughout this work for want of a
better word, and to avoid tautology. Our folk-speech is not a dialect,
it is a language.
[115] The map issued with the North-Eastern 1_d._ Time-table answers
well for the purpose.
[116] Our dialect word _Fick_, which is the _Fik_ given, has three
distinct meanings: (1) to struggle under some form of restraint; (2) to
strive to obtain; (3) to succeed, to get.
Ex.—1. ‘T’ pig ficked that hard whahl Ah c’u’dn’t git it inti t’
cart,’ 2. ‘He made a poor fick on ’t,’ i.e. he made a feeble attempt.
‘He weean’t mak a fick for ’t,’ he won’t strive to do, obtain, or get.
3. ‘He ficked it at t’ finish,’ he got it in the end.
[117] ‘Roke’ is the common dialectic word for mist or fog. ‘Reek’ is
the North Riding word for smoke. ‘Rog’ is the Danish.
[118] ‘The’ is always used before the name of the Deity, and often in
conversation of a grave and sorrowful nature.
PUBLIC AND PRIVATE
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_Original Character Sketches in the Yorkshire Dialect_
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_Address_—
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_MORE THAN A DREAM._
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MATTHEWS, F. W., The Bank, Leyburn.
MAULE-COLE, Rev. E., Wetwang.
MAYNARD, A. C. HUTTON, Pickhill House, Pickhill (2 copies).
M^CCRIRICK, Rev. T. W., Stockton-on-Tees.
M^CKAY, W., Haldthorpe House, Scarborough.
MELROSE, J., Clifton Croft, York.
METCALFE, R. M. D., Leyburn.
MICKLE, Dr. G., Kirklington (2 copies).
MIDDLETON, Lady, The Right Hon. JULIA, Setterington House (4 copies).
MILNER, Mrs., The Mount, York (2 copies).
MITCHELL, Rev. A. P., The Rectory, Brotton (2 copies).
MITTAN, Rev. H., Sherburn House, Durham.
MOORSOM, M. MAUDE, Harewood, Leeds.
MORGAN, Rev. F. H., The Rectory, Guisborough.
MORRIS, Rev. M. C. F., The Rectory, Nunburnholme.
N.
NELSON, Alderman THOS., J.P., Newstadt, Norton.
O.
ORD, CHAS., Guisborough.
ORNSBY, J. A., 5 North Bailey, Durham.
ORTON, Mrs. E. S., Westgate, Guisborough.
OXFORD, The Right Rev. the Lord Bishop of.
P.
PAGE, J. W., J.P., Norton, Stockton-on-Tees (2 copies).
PEARSON, H., Whitby.
PEASE, A. E., M.P., Pinchingthorpe Hall (2 copies).
PEASE, Mrs. G., Woodside, Darlington.
PEASE, HOWARD, Arcott Hall, Dudley, Northumberland.
PEASE, Sir JOSEPH W., Bart., M.P., Hutton Hall (2 copies).
PEASE, PIKE, Undercliff, Great Ayton.
PECKSTONE, J., Stockton-on-Tees.
PEEL, The Right Hon. Lady, Potterton Hall, Barnoldswick.
PEGLER, T. B., Sholebrook Avenue, Leeds.
PEIRSON, Rev. W. B., Rothwell, Leeds.
PLATNAUER, H. M., St. Olive’s Road, York (2 copies).
PLEWS, W. J., Southend End, Northallerton.
POLLEXFEN, Rev. H., Stanwick, Darlington.
PORTER, CHAS., Mill Vale, Great Ayton.
PRINCE, E., Woodhouse Moor, Leeds (2 copies).
PROUD, J., The Hall, East Layton.
PURVIS, R., 6 Westoe Crescent, South Shields.
R.
RAW, Rev. G., 250 Hawthorne Road, Bootle.
REYNARD, Capt., Camp Hill, Bedale.
RICHARDSON, W., Guisborough.
RICHMOND, The Right Rev. Lord Bishop of (4 copies).
RIDDELL, E. C., J.P., The Hall, Leyburn.
RIDDELL, Sir J., Bart., The Hall, Hepple, Rothbury.
RIPLEY, Rev. THOS., Kirklington.
RIPON, The Most Noble the Marchioness of.
RIPON, The Right Rev. Lord Bishop of.
RIPON, The Very Rev. the Dean of (2 copies).
ROBINSON, F. J. H., Easingwold.
ROBINSON, Rev. STEWART, The Rectory, Richmond, Yorkshire.
ROBINSON, Rev. W., The Rectory, Tadcaster.
ROPNER, G., J.P., The Grove, Richmond, Yorkshire.
ROPNER, Col. R., J.P., Preston Hall, Egglescliffe.
ROWCLIFFE, H. S., Guisborough.
ROWSELL, Rev. Canon, Topcliffe.
RUDD, A. G., The Worshipful the Mayor, Stockton-on-Tees.
S.
SALMAN, Rev. J. S., The Vicarage, Lastingham.
SCOTT, Rev. ERRINGTON, The Vicarage, Norton.
SEDGWICK, Miss, The Hall, Sedbergh.
SHAND, Dr., Fountain Street, Guisborough.
SHARP, F. J., Skelton, near Boroughbridge.
SHEFFIELD, The Right Hon. Lady, Yeadon Manor, Henley-on-Thames
(2 copies).
SISSONS, D. W., North Ferriby, Brough.
SISSONS, W., Nunthorpe, Jesmond Park.
SLINGSBY, W., Red House, Moor Monkton, York.
SMITH ALDERSON, G. A., J.P., D.L., Scarborough.
SMITH, E. J., The Bank, Bridlington (4 copies).
SMITH, T. RUDOLPH, 25 Bridge Road, Stockton-on-Tees.
SOMERSON, J., Pocklington.
SPRENT, Dr. W. S., Slingsby.
STANBRIDGE, T., The Hall, Harlsey.
STANNYFORTH, Capt. E., J.P., The Hall, Kirkhammerton.
STARKIE, Miss S., Scarthwaite, Lancashire.
STAVELEY, Miss, Old Slenningford Hall, Ripon.
STIRLING-NEWALL, Mrs., The Hall, Birtley, Durham.
STOBART, ——, The Hall, Spellow Hill (2 copies).
STOBART, Col. W., Pepper Arden.
STOREY, Sir THOS., D.L., Lancaster (2 copies).
ST. QUINTIN, W. H., J.P., Scampston Hall (2 copies).
STRICKLAND, Sir C., Bart., Boynton Hall (2 copies).
STRICKLAND CONSTABLE, Mrs., The Hall, Wassand (2 copies).
SUDLOW, THOS., Stockton-on-Tees.
T.
TATTERSAL, O., Green Royd, Ripon (2 copies).
TAYLOR, J., Brotton Grange, Brotton.
TEMPLE, Miss M., Saltergill, Yarm.
TETTLEY, A., The Right Hon. Lady Mayoress, Leeds (2 copies).
THOMSON, J. S., New Buildings, Thirsk (2 copies).
TINDAL, Miss, Kirby Misperton Hall, Pickering.
TOMLINSON, Miss, Heysham House, Lancaster.
TOMLINSON, Rev. W., Vicarage, North Cave.
TREVOR, W. C., Overbeck, Guisborough.
V.
VIE, E. J., Paradise Row, Stockton-on-Tees (2 copies).
W.
WADE, E. W., 5 Clyde Terrace, Hull.
WADE-DALTON, Col. HAMLET COOTE, C.B., Hawxwell Hall.
WAKEFIELD, The Right Rev. Lord Bishop of.
WALDY, Rev. A. G., Horsley Vicarage, Derby.
WALKER, Capt. GERALD, Hill House, Richmond, Yorkshire.
WALKER, Sir J., Bart., 41 Belgrave Square, S.W.
WARD, Rev. H., The Rectory, Amotherby.
WATSON, FRED. BYERS, Stockton-on-Tees.
WATSON, THOMAS, M.D., Argyle House, Stockton-on-Tees (2
copies).
WEST, Mrs., Stoneybrough, Thirsk.
WHITE, Col. W. A., J.P., Clifton Green, York.
WILLAN, Rev. A., The Vicarage, Copmanthorpe.
WILLIAMSON, T., J.P., Fairfield, Ripon.
WILSON, Miss A., Hutton House, Hutton Rudby.
WILSON, Mrs. A., Rockhurst, York (2 copies).
WILSON, I., Nunthorpe Hall.
WILSON, Rev. J. ALDER, Craythorne Rectory, Yarm.
WILSON, J. G., 12 South Bailey, Durham (2 copies).
WILSON, P., Bedale.
WILTON, R., The Rev. Canon, Londesborough.
WIMBUSH, Rev. S., The Rectory, Terrington.
WITHINGTON, Rev. R., Rectory, Great Ayton.
WOOD, F. MAURICE DALE, Swainby, Northallerton.
WOOD, Rev. F., The Rectory, Nunthorpe.
WRIGHT, Professor J., M.A., Langdale House, Oxford (2 copies).
WYNDHAM, Mrs., 31 Cambridge Street, Hyde Park, S.W.
WYNNE FINCH, Mrs., Manor House, Stokesley.
Y.
YEOMAN, Miss C., Prior House, Richmond, Yorkshire.
YORK, His Grace the Archbishop of.
Z.
ZETLAND, The Right Hon. Lord, Aske Hall, Richmond, Yorkshire.
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