Beal, to bellow.—­Th’ bairn be{a}led oot that bad, I was cl{e}an
  scar’d, but it was at noht bud a battle-twig ’at hed crohl{e}d up’n
  hisairm. (Battle-twig, earwig; airm, arm.)

  Cart, to get into, to get into a bad temper.—­Na, noo, thoo
  ne{a}dn’t get into th’ cart, for I we{a}n’t draw thee.

Cauf, a calf, silly fellow.—­A gentleman was enlarging to a Winterton lad on the virtues of Spanish juice [liquorice water].  “Ah,then, ye’ll ha’ been to th’ mines, whe{a}re thaay gets it,” the boy exclaimed; whereupon the mother broke in with—­“A gre{a}t cauf!  Duz he think ‘at thaay dig it oot o’ th’ grund, sa{a}me as thaay do sugar?”

  Chess, a tier.—­I’ve been tell’d that e’ plaaces whe{a}re thaay
  graw silk-worms, thaay ke{a}ps ’em on traays, chess aboon chess,
  like cheney i’ a cupboard. (E’ in; cheney, china.)

Clammer, to climb.—­Oor Uriah’s clammered into th’ parson’s cherry-tree, muther, an’ he is swalla’in on ’em aboon a bit.  I shouldn’t ha tell’d ye nobbut he we{a}nt chuck me ony doon. (Nobbut, only.)

Cottoner, something very striking.—­Th’ bairn hed been e’ mischief all daay thrif; at last, when I was sidin’ awaay th’ te{a}-things, what duz he do but tum’le i’to th’ well.  So, says I, Well, this is a cottoner; we shall hev to send for Mr Iveson (the coroner) noo, I reckon. (Thrif, through; sidin’ awaay, putting away.)

Ducks.—­A girl said to the author, of a woman with whom she had been living for a short time as servant, “I’d raather be nibbled to de{a}d wi’ ducks then live with Miss P. She’s alus a natterin’.” (De{a}d, death; alus, always; natterin’, nagging.)

  Good mind, strong intention.—­She said she’d a good mind to hing
  her-sen, so{a} I ax’d if I mud send for Mr Holgate (the coroner), to
  be ready like. (Hing, hang; mud, might.)

  Jaup, senseless talk.—­Ho’d the jaup wi’ th{(e}; dos’t ta want
  ivery body to knaw how soft thoo is? (Ho’d, hold; soft,
  foolish.)

MIDLAND (Group 2):  S.E.  LANCASHIRE.

The following poem is from Poems and Songs by Edwin Waugh; 3rd ed.,
London, 1870.

    Owd Pinder.

  Owd Pinder were a rackless foo,
    An’ spent his days i’ spreein’;
  At th’ end ov every drinkin-do,
    He’re sure to crack o’ deein’;
  “Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon,
    Aw’s never live to trail ’em;
  My ballis-pipes are eawt o’ tune,
    An’ th’ wynt begins to fail ’em!

  Eawr Matty’s very fresh an’ yung;—­
    ’T would any mon bewilder;—­
  Hoo’ll wed again afore it’s lung,
    For th’ lass is fond o’ childer;
  My bit o’ brass’ll fly—­yo’n see—­
    When th’ coffin-lid has screen’d me—­
  It gwos again my pluck to dee,
    An’ lev her wick beheend me.