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RETURNING to my old friends the Jacobites again, I venture to present my readers with three pretended Cumberland ones, which I introduced in an old Magazine as follows:“ Two Scotsmen come to a poor widow's house in Cumberland, in search of old songs, having heard that she was in possession of some. She tells them that she has plenty, but that they were all written by her brwother Twommy, and proceeds to say, ' Whoy, didst thou neaver heaur of Twommy? I thowt all Cooamberland had knwoan brwother Twommy. Him wos a swart oof, a keynd of a dwomony, whoy had mwore lear nwor wot to gnyde it; and they ca'd him the leympyng dwomony, for heym wos a creypple all the days of heym's layfe. A swort of a treyfling nickynacky bwody he wos, and neiver had the pooar to dey a gude turn eyther to the sel o' heym, or wony yan belaunged till heym. Aweel, thou'lt no hender Twommy, but he'll patch up a' the feyne ould sangs i' the weyde warld, and get them prentit in a beuk. And sae, efter he had spent the meast pairt o' him's leyfe gathering and penning, he gyangs his ways to Caril, whoy but he, to maik a greyt fortune. Whew! the prenter woad neaver look at nowther heym nor his lawlyess syangs. Twommy was very crwoss than, and off he sets wey them crippling all the way till Edinborough, and he woffers them till a measter prenter for a greyte swom of mwoney. Ney, he would nae byite! Then he woffers them till an wother measter prenter. He wos reather better, for he woffered Twommy a beuk o' prented syangs for his wretten yans. " Wow, Twommy, man! quoth I, ' but thou wast a great feul no till chap him, for then thou wadst hae had a beuk that every body could heave read, wheyras thou hast now neything but a batch o' scrawls, that nay body can read but the sell o' thee.' Twommy brought heame his beuk o' grand syangs yance myair ; but at last there cwoms a Scots chap to Caril, speering after ooar Twommy's syangs, and then, peur man, he was up as heyly as the wund, expecting to pouch the hale mony o' the keuntrey. But afore the Scots gentleman came back, there cwomes anwother visitor, by the bye, and that was Mr Palsy, and he teuk off peur Twommy leyke the shot of a gun, and then all his grand schemes war gyane leyke a blast o' wunn. The syangs are all to the fore, and for ney euse, that I can sey, but meaking sloughs to the wheeal spindle.'—Of course, the three following Jacobite ballads are extracted from Twommy's beuk.'”

“ Whoy, Josey mon, where be’st thou gwoing

Woth all thyne own horses and keye, With thy pocks on thy back, leyke a pether,

And bearnies and baggage forby?”


Whoy, dom it, mun, wost thou nwot hearing

Of all the bwad news that are out,
How that the Scwots rascals be cwoming

To reave all our yauds and our nout?

“ So I's e’en gwoing up to the muirlands,

Amang the weyld floshes to heyde, With all my heall haudding and gyetting,

For fear that the worst should betyde. Lword, mon! hast thou neaver been hearing,

There's noughts bwot the deavil to pay, There's a Pwope cwoming down fro’ the Heylands,

To herry, to bworn, and to slay?

“He has mwore nor ten thwosand meale weyming,

The fearswomest creatures of all,
They call them Rebellioners-dom them!

And cannie-bulls swome do them call.
Whoy, mon, they eat Chreastians lyke robbits,

And bworn all the chworches for fwon; And we're all to be mwordered togyther,

Fro' the bearn to the keyng on the thrwone.

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Whoy, our keyng he sends out a greyt general,

With all his whole army, nwo less ;
And what dwoes this Pwope and his menzie ?

Whoy, Twommy mon, feath thou'lt nwot guess ? Whoy, they fwalls all a-rworing and yelling,

Leyke a pack of mad hounds were their gowls ; And they cwomes wopen-mouth on our swodgers,

And eats them wop, bwodies and sowls !

Whoy, Heaster, what deavel's thou dwoing ?

Come, caw up the yaud woth the cart;
Let us heaste out to Bwarton's weyld shieling,

For my bloud it runs could at my heart.
So fare thee weal, Twommy-l's crying-

Commend me to Mwoll and thyne wyfe;
If thou see'st oughts of Jwhony's wee Meary,

Lword, tell her to rwon for her lyfe !"

“Whoy, Josey mon, surely thou'st raving,

Thou'st heard the wrong seyd of the treuth ; For this is THE TRUE KEYng that's cwoming,

A brave and mwoch-wrong'd rwoyal yeuth.

Thou's ignorant as the yaud that thou reyd'st on,

Or cauve that thou dreyv’st out to the lwone; For this Pwope is the Prince Charles Stuart,

And he's cwome bwot to clayme what's his own.

“ His feythers have held this ould keyngdom

For a meatter of ten thowsand years, Till there cwomes a bit dwom'd scrwogy bwody,

A theyvish ould rascal, I hears ; And he's stown the brave honest lad's crown fro'm,

And kick'd him out of house and hould, And rewin'd us all with taxations,

And hang'd up the brave and the bwold.

Now, Josey mon, how wod'st thou lyke it,

If swome crabbit, half-wotted lown
Should cwome and seize on they bit haudding,

And droyve thee fro' all that's theyne own?
And, Josey mon, how wod’st thou lyke it,

If thou in theyne freands had swome hwope, If they should all tworn their backs on thee,

And call thee a thief and a Pwope ?”

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