'Twas frost and thro' leet, wid a greymin o' snaw,
When I went to see Biddy, the flow'r o' them aw;
To meet was agreed on at Seymy' deyke nuik,
Where I saunter'd wi' monie a seegh and lang luik,
But poud up my spirits and off till her heame,
For when swok mean reet, wey, what need they think sheame!

I peep'd through the window to see what was duin:
Her fadder sat whusslin, and greasing his shoon;
Her mudder sat darnin, and smuikin the while;
And Biddy was spinnin, the neet to beguile;
Her thread it aye brak, she seem'd sad as cud be,
And yen sat aside her, a stranger to me.

She turn'd her head frae him, and niver yence spak;
He struive for a kiss, then she up in a crack,
And suin i' the faul, wi' great pleasure we met,
But that happy moment we ne'er can forget:
To be mine she promis'd agean and agean,
And the priest, if God spares us, will suin mek us yen.
;;;;.
Dinah Dufton
Peer Dinah Dufton's e'en wi' bairn,
Oh, but I's unco sworry for't!
A bonnier or a teydier lass,
No niver yet fell i' the durt:
Auld Tim, her fadder, turn'd her out
At mid neet, tho' 'twas frost and snaw;
She owre the geate,--what cud she de?--
And sobb'd and gowl'd, and telt us aw.

My fadder shuik his head at furst,
But spak and acted leyke a man;
'Dinah!' says he, 'tou sannot want,
Sae keep thy heart up, if tou can;
I've lads and lasses o' my awn,
And nin can tell what they may de:
To turn thee out! peer luckless bairn!
Thy fadder e'en mun hardened be!'

God niver meade a heartier lass,
For she wad sing for iver mair;
Yet, when peer fwok were in distress,
To hear on't, Oh! it hurt her sair!
This luive, they say, hides monie fau'ts;
Peer thing! the warl she little knew!
But if she'd been by me advis'd,
She wadden't hed sec cause to rue.

At Rosley Fair she chanc'd to leet
O' mangrel Wull, that wicked tuil;
He'd larn'd to hannel weel his feet,
And kept a bit o' dancin schuil:
A fortune--teller neist he brib'd,
To say the match was meade abuin;
But when he'd brong his ends about,
He nobbet laugh'd and left her suin.

Now Dinah's apron's grown quite shwort;
Dull, downcast, outcry o' the lave!
Aw day she whinges in our loft,
And wishes she were in her grave:
But mangrel Wull, that wicked tuil,
My fadder says sall lig in jail;
And he that ruins onie lass,
De'il tek the man that wad him bail.