Poem by John Stagg

Auld Lang Seyne

(Written in the Cumberland Dialect)

WHEILST some the soldier's deeds emblaze,
	An' taulk of seiges and compaigns;
Or some the weily statesman praise,
	Whea hauds of government the reins;
Or others reang the rheymer's verse,
	An ca' the jinglin' sentence feyne;
Be meyne the busness to rehearse
	The parlish turns of auld lang seyne.

Threyce happy days of past deleight,
	'At sliving teyme whurls fast away,
When plizzer smeyl'd on every neight,
	An' spworts beguil'd the leeve lang day.
'Twas than or wardly fash I knew,
	Or luive or loss had gar'd me peyne,
That oft, weel pleas'd, I wad review
	The gladsome page of auld lang seyne.

Yence on a clashy winter neight,
	Wheyte maiz'd wi' loungiu' on ith' nuok,
A palmer'd ont as chance wad heft,
	An' till a neybors house a tuok,
The man was gaily up i' years,
	An' wearin' fast to leyfes decleyne,
An' monny a faimish teale and tell,
	O' upturns duin i' auld lang seyne.

When veyle moss troopers, bworder bred,
	To reeve and pillage flock to arms,
By war than that-a-donnet led,
	Bouz'd into Cumberland i' swarms:
Our kye, our owsen, off they druive,
	Our gear, our graith, our naigs, our sweyne,
An' monny a lass, her luckless luive,
	Was left to wail for auld lang seyne.

Yence on a teyme a hangrell gang
	Com with a bensil owr the sea,
Wheyle flocks an' herds they gar'd them spang,
	An' pot a' th' country in a bree;
Up a dark lonnin fast they rouode,
	Thinking to shelter their deseyne,
Whoaping their fit hauld to meak guid,
	As monny a teyme they'd duone lang seyne.

Kemp Dobbie, as they canteran com,
	Furst spyt them, but quo' he, ne'er ak,
Divent be flait o' them lad Tom,
	But let's cour down i' this deyke back;
Sea said, an' humly cowrs they sat,
	Up bruoc'd the taistrels in a leyne,
Till reeght for nenst them up they gat,
	An' rwor'd, now lads for auld lang seyne.

Back helter-skelter, panic struck,
	T'wards heame they kevvel'd, yen and a',
Nor ventur'd yen an a — ewards luik,
	For fear he'd in the gilders fa'.
Thus single twa, abuon a scwore,
	Druive sleeely frae their cwoarse deseyne,
An' yet tho' disbelief may glowr,
	This really com to pass lang seyne.

Thus thro' the langsome winter neights,
	O' curious teales sec rowth he'd tell,
O' Brownies gheasts and flaysome seeghts,
	Enough to flay the aulden's sell:
As how when witches here war reyfe,
	Reeght sonsy fwoak they gar't to peyne,
An' Mitchel Scot's strange fearfu' leyfe,
	He telt reeght gleesomely lang seyne.

Scot yence got Criffell on his back,
	Some pedder-leyke as stwories tell,
But whow! his girtins gev a crack,
	An' down his boozy burden fell.
Auld Nick and Scot yence kempt they say,
	Whea best a reape frae Saun cud tweyne,
Clouts begg'd some caff, quo' Mitchel nay,
	Sea bang'd the de'il at that lang seyne.

Wi' clish-ma-clatter, cracks, and jwokes,
	My friend and me the evenings past,
Unenvying finger-fed feyne fwoaks,
	Unmeyndfu' o' the whustlin' blast;
Wi' sweet content, what needit mair?
	For nought need we our gizrins tweyne,
The auld man's common simple prayer,
	Was ay God be wi' auld lang seyne.

Someteymes he'd talk in wond'rous rheymes,
	About t' rebellion, and how th' Scots
Com owr, and what sec parlish teymes,
	They hed to hide their butter pots,
A' maks o' gear i' sacks they huod,
	To th' fells they druive beath bease and sweyne;
Man! it wad chill thy varra bluid
	To hear o'th' warks o' auld lang seyne.

Yet tho' sec bruolliments galwore,
	Oft snaip'd the whyet of our days,
Yet God be thank'd this awfu' stowre
	Suin ceas'd wi' a' its feary phraise.
Then smeyling peace yence mair restword
	Content or joy to every meynde,
An' rowth and plenty crown'd each bwoard,
	Nea mair we fret for auld lang seyne.

Oh! weels me on thar happy teymes,
	When a' was freedom, friendship, joys,
Or paughty preyde or neameless creymes
	War kent our comforts to destroy:
Nea thoughts of rank engag'd the soul,
	But equals seem'd the squire and heynd,
The laird and dar'ker cheek by chowle,
	Wad sit and crack of auld lang seyne.

'Twas than that nin however great,
	Abuin his neybor thowght his sell,
Bit lads and lasses wont to meet,
	Wi' merry changs their teales to tell;
Frae house to house the rock gairds went,
	I'th' winter neights when t'muin did sheyne,
When luivesome sangs and blythe content,
	Begueyl'd the hours of auld lang seyne.

Lang streek'd out owr the clean hearth steane,
	The lads their sicker stations tuik,
Wheyle to beet on the elden; yen
	As th' auld guid man sat up i'th' nuik.
When Curs'nmas com, what stiven wark,
	Wi' sweet minch'd pyes and hackins feyne,
An' upshots constantly by dark,
	Frae Yuole to Cannelmas lang seyne.

Bit suin as smeyling spring appear'd,
	The farmer leaves the ingle seyde,
His naigs are graith'd, his plows are geer'd,
	For ither winters to proveyde.
Blythe as a lavrick owr the rig,
	He lilts thro' monny a langsome leyne,
An' southy crops o' beans an' bigg,
	Neest year mek up for auld lang seyne.

Owr a' the joys the seasons bring,
	Nin, bonny hay teyme, comes leykes thee,
Weel pleas'd we lythe the lasses sing,
	The lads drive on wi' hearty glee;
Rashly they scale the scattran swathe,
	Wi' zig zag fling the reakers tweyne,
An' seylin sweats their haffets bathe,
	Sec wark was meyne weel pleas'd lang seyne.

But hay teyme owr an' harvest come,
	Shek reype an' ready to be shworne,
See how the kempan shearers bum.
	An' rive an' bin an' stook their cworn;
At darknin' canty heam they turn.
	Whar a douce supper pangs them feyne,
Or if they're duin a rivan curn
	Meks up for pinehery lang seyne.

Last, best of a', comes on Carle fair,
	Frae every art the young fwoak druive,
The lads we'el don'd, the lasses fair,
	Joy in their een, their bwosoms luive;
Wi' lowpin', dancin' and deray,
	Wi' neyce shwort ceaks, sweet punch an' weyne.
An' sec leyke things they spent the day;
	There's nea swports now leyke auld lang seyne.

Thus vearst in legendary teale,
	This auldfar'd chronicle cud tell
Things that yaens varra lugs wad geale,
	Of what to this an' that befell;
Bit hirplan fast on leyfe's downhill,
	His prejudice wad sair incleyne
To think the present nought but ill,
	An' nought at dow but auld lang seyne.

Frae sympathy as strange as true,
	E'en I his nwotions seem'd to catch;
For far geane teymes when I review.
	I'm with the prizzent leyke to fratch;
Yes there's a secret plizzer springs
	Frae retrospect, that soothes the meynde,
Reflection back to fancy brings
	The joyous hours of auld lang seyne.

Fareweel ye moments of deleyght,
	Adieu ye scenes I lang may mourn,
Nea mair ye cheer my anxious seight,
	Impossible ye shall return;
Leyfes darknin' low'rs; the sun of youth
	On wint'ry eage mun cease to sheyne,
And stoutest hearts confess this truth,
	The prizzent's nought leyke auld lang seyne.

But whether 'tis the partial eye,
	With glass inverted, shews the scene,
The guode things past resolve to spy,
	An' blast the prizzent wid our spleen
I know not; this alone I know,
	Our past misfortunes we'd propeyne
T' oblivion, wheilst our prizzent woe
	Maks dear the joys of auld lang seyne.

For as I range the weel ken'd haunts
	Of past amusements, youthfu' bliss,
Wi' impulse strange my bwosom pants
	For what yence was, for what now is;
Each step I tread some far fled hour
	Of past endearment, brings to meynde
Each callar shade an' silent bower.
	Ca' back the joys of auld lang seyne.

Then doubly sweet the black-bird sang,
	Wi' tenfold beauties smeyl'd the grove,
Creation round ya chorus rang,
	'Twas plizzers tuone inspir'd by luive;
But when auld yeage wi' slivin' han',
	Sal roun' the heart insiduous tweyne,
'Tis than we seean' only than,
	The prizzent's nought leyke auld lang seyne.

1. The Panic
2. Tom Pendant
3. A Choice
4. Occasional Reflections
5. Sonnet on Autumn

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