’Twas Kendle teenan, when jung Mal Treloare
Trudg’d hum from Bal, a bucken copper ore;
Her clathing hard and ruff, black was her eye,
Her face and arms like stuff from Cairn Kye.
Full butt she mit jung Sandry Kemp, who long
She had been token’d to, come from Ding Dong;
Hes jacket wet, his faace rud like his beard,
And through his squarded hat hes heer appeared.
She said, “Oh Kemp, I thoft of thee well leer,
Thees naw that daay we wor to Bougheehere,
That daay with ale and cakes, at three o’clock,
Thees stuff’d me so, I jist neen crack’d me dock:
Jue said to me, ‘Thee mayst depend thee life
I love thee, Mal, and thee shust be ma wife.’
And to ma semmen, tes good to lem ma naw
Whether the words were aal in jest or no.”
Sandry.—
Why, truly, Mal, I like a thing did zay
That I wud have thee next Chewiden daay.
But zence that time I like a thing ded hear
Thees went wi’ some one down, I naw where;
Now es that fitty, Mal? What dost think?
Mal.—
Od rat tha body, Sandry, who said so?
Now, faath and traath, I’ll naw afore I go;
Do lem ma naw the Gossenbary dog.
Sandry.—
Why, then, Crull said jue wor down to Wheal Bog
With he and Tabban, and ded play some tricks
By dabben clay at jungsters makan bricks;
Aand that from there jue went to Aafe-waye house,
Aand drink’t some lecker. Mal, now there’s down souse.
Aand jue to he, like a think ded zay,
Jue wed have he, and I mait go away.
Mal.—
I tell the lubber so! I to Wheal Bog!
I’ll scat hes chacks, the emprent, saucy dog.
Now hire me, Sandry Kemp, now down and full,
Ef thee arten hastes, the shust hire the whole.
Fust jue must naw, tes true as thee art theere,
Aant Blanch and I went to Golsinney feer.
Who overtookt us in the dusty road,
In common hum but Crull, the cloppen toad.
Zes he to Aant, “What cheer? Aant Blanch, what cheer?
Jue makes good coose, suppose jue ben to feer.”
“Why, hiss,” zes Aant, “ben there a pewer spur;
I wedn’t a gone ef nawed ed ben so fur. [98]
I bawft a pair of shods for Sarah’s cheeld.”
By this time, lock! we cum jist to the field.
We went to clember up the temberen style,
(Haw keept his eye upon me all the while.)
Zes haw to Aant, “Then whos es thees braa maide?
Come tha wayst long, dasent be afraid.”
Then mov’d by my side, like a thing,
Aand pull’d my mantle, and jist touch’d my ching.
“How arry, jung woman?” zes haw. “How dost do?”
Zes I, “Jue saucy dog, what’s that to jue?
Keep off, jung lad, else thees have a slap.”
Then haw fooch’d some great big doat figs in me lap,
So I thoft, as haw had ben so kind,
Haw might go by Aant Blanch, ef haw had a mind.
Aand so haw ded, aand tookt Aant Blanch’s arm.
“Areah!” zes haw, “I dedn’t mane no harm.”
So then Aant Blanch and he ded talk and jest
Bout dabbing clay and bricks at Perran feast.
Sandry.—
Ahah then, Mal, ’twas there they dabbed the clay?
Mal.—
Plaase Faather, Kemp, tes true wot I do saay.
Aand hire me now, pla-sure, haw dedn’t budge
From Aanty’s arm tell jest this side Long Brudge.
Aand then zes he to Aant, “Shall we go in
To Aafe-way house, and have a dram of gin
Aand trickle mixt. Depend ol do es good,
Taake up the sweat and set to rights the blud.”
So Aant ded say, “Such things she dedn’t chuse,”
Aand squeeze my hand, aand loike a thing refuse.
So when we passed along by Wheal Bog moor,
Haw jumpt behind, and pok’t us in the door.
Haw caal’d for gin, aand brandy too, I think.
He clunk’d the brandy, we the gin ded drink.
So when haw wish’d good night as es the caase,
Haw kiss’t Aant Blanch, and jist neen touch’d my faace.
Now, Sandry Kemp, there’s nothing shure in this,
To my moinde, then, that thee shust taake amiss.
Sandry.—
No fath, then Mal, ef this es all, aand true,
I had a done the same ef I was jue.
Mal.—
Next time in any house I see or hear am,
I’ll down upon the plancheon, rat am, scat am,
Aand I will so poam am,—
Sandry.—
Our Kappen’s there, just by thickey bush.
Hush! now Mally, hush!
Aand as hes here, so close upon the way
I wedent wish haw nawed what we ded zay,
Aand jett I dedent care, now fath and soul,
Ef so be our Kappen wor to hire the whole.
How arry Kappen? Where be going so fast?
Jure goin’ hum, suppose, juse in sich haste.
Kappen.—
Who’s that than? Sandry, arten thee ashamed
To coosy so again? Thee wust be blamed
Ef thees stay here all night to prate wi’ Mal!
When tes thy cour, thee wusten come to Bal.
Aand thee art a Cobbe, I tell thee so.
I’ll tell the owners ef thee dosent go.
[99]
Sandry.—
Why, harkee, Kappen, don’t skoal poor I,
Touch pipe a crum, jue’ll naw the reason why.
Coozen Mal aand I ben courtain bout afe a year.
Hould up tha head, Mal; don’t be ashamed, dost hire?
Aand Crull one day made grief ’tween I and she;
But he shall smart for it now, I swear by G——.
Haw told me lies, as round as any cup.
Now Mal and I have mit, we’ve made it up;
So, Kappen, that’s the way I stopt, I vow.
Kappen.—
Ahah! I dedent giss the caase jist now.
But what dost think of that last batch of ore?
Sandry.—
Why pewer and keenly gossen, Kappen sure;
I bleeve that day, ef Franky’s pair wornt drunk,
We shud had pewer stuff too from the sump.
But there, tes all good time, as people saay,
The flooken now, aint throw’d us far away;
So hope to have bra tummalls soon to grass.
How ded laast batch down to Jandower pass?
Kappen.—
Why, hang thy body, Sandry, speed, I saay,
Thees keep thy clacker going till tes day.
Go speak to Mally now, jue foolish toad,
I wish both well, I’ll keep my road.
Sandry.—
Good nightie, Kappen, then I wishee well.
Where artee, Mally? Dusten haw hire me, Mal?
Dusent go away, why jue must think of this,
Before we part, shure we must have a kiss.
She wiped her muzzle from the mundic stuff,
And he rubb’d his, a little stain’d with snuff.
Now then, there, good night Mal, there’s good night;
But, stop a crum.
Mally.—
Good night.
Kappen.—
Good night.
The guest, for whose entertainment the old men had furbished up their memories, said, “that piece is a capital one, and it seems all the better from the way in which you have told it. Your dialect is pleasant to hear; it is softer and more musical than that of most other parts of England.
“Many Cornish drolls remind me of Irish stories, which show similar traits of character. I have seen a piece by Tregellas, a St. Ann’s man, I suppose, as he says much about people in that parish and its neighbourhood. [100]
“There is one story of his which shows how prone Cornish people are to stretch a point or two, as you call it. I mean that story of a boy telling his mother there are scores and hundreds of cats caterwauling upon the roof; his mother reproves him for making such an unreasonable stretch, and sends him out to see how many are there; he returned, and, condescending to tell the truth at last, says that he could ‘only see grammar’s cat and ours.’
“An Irish story, called ‘The Three Geese,’ shows the habit of augmenting the number of things, and of obstinacy in sticking to the words said.
“I’ll tell the Irish story, if you’d like to hear it, as it’s told by my old friend Patrick Kennedy.”
“We should all be delighted to hear et, I’m sure,” said the host.
“Then let us have a good large jug of toddy—half-a-gallon or so—that all the company may drink together of the same, and make the story seem less dry,” said the Irish gentleman.
A jorum of hot grog having been brought and served, all the company wished the guest health, happiness, and a long life; and “may your shadow never grow less,” added our host.
Then the following Irish story was told in native style.