A York dialogue between Ned and Harry

A

YORK DIALOGUE

between

NED and HARRY:

or,

NED giving HARRY an Account of his Courtſhip and Marriage State.

to which are added,

THREE EXCELLENT

NEW SONGS.

GLASGOW,

Printed by J. & M. ROBERTSON, Saltmarket.

1802.

A

YORK DIALOGUE

BETWEEN

NED AND HARRY.

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Ned gives Harry an account of his Courtſhip and Marriage State.

Ned.
HONEST Harry! I am glad to ſee you! You're welcome to York: You're a great ſtranger. When came you to town.

Harry. I came to your town laſt night, Ned, and am glad to ſee you. I enquir'd after you of my landlord and he told me, you was well and have been married two or three years. I wiſh you much happineſs; pray, how d'ye like matrimony?

Ned. In good faith Harry, (ſcrubbing his ſhoulders) but ſo, ſo; however, I will not diſcourage you.

Harry. But don't you remember Ned, that you and I made an agreement, that which of us two was married firſt, ſhould tell one another of the way of courtſhip, and how he lik'd it and a married ſtate.

Ned. 'Tis true, we did ſo, Harry: but now I have not time to tell you, for it will take me more than two or three hours to give you a full account of both parts.

Harry. What! are you in haſte then, Ned? 'Tis a great while ſince I have ſeen you, and ſhan't we have one mug together?

Ned. 'Faith Harry, I'm loath to delay you; but if I go with you, I muſt ſend home to my wife, to let her know where I am.

Harry. So you may Ned, and tell her, you are with an old friend that would be glad to ſee her.

Ned. Not a word of that Harry; for if I go with you and ſtay any time, we ſhall have her company without ſending for her.

Harry. Say you ſo. Come then, let us go to Peter Winn's.———Well, Ned, I am glad to ſee thee?—Ring the bell.—Dick, bring us a pint of your beſt ale.———Come Ned, ſit down and let me hear a little of your courtſhip, and how long it was before you got your wife into the mind to marry; for if I speak to any of the female ſex, they're ſo deviliſh coy, I can't tell what to make of them.

Ned. That's very true, they are ſo, Harry: for when I ſpoke to my wife firſt, ſhe was ſo very coy and huffiſh, and told me ſhe did not know what I meant; ſhe was not for marrying; ſhe liv'd very well as ſhe was; and if ſhe should marry, ſhe muſt then be confin'd to the humours of a huſband.

Harry. Well, but how then, Ned? tell me all

Ned. Faith, I have not time now Harry; for I muſt go home.

Harry. Come my ſervice t'ye Ned, I will have you be as good as your promiſe.

Ned. Then if I muſt, I will ſtay a little longer, and tell you.———I told her I had as good a trade as any of my neighbours, and I hop'd to keep her as well.—Upon theſe words ſhe was called away.

Harry. How then Ned?

Ned. Faith I went home, but could not get her out of my mind. The next day I went again to ſee her, and took her by the hand; but ſhe pull'd it away with ſcorn, ſaying, Pray don't banter me, for I know you men love to tantalize us ſilly women. Upon my faith, madam, ſaid I, I am in good earneſt, for a man of my trade muſt have both journeymen and prentices, therefore I cannot well be without a wife, and you are the only perſon that I always fancied would make me happy. Then I look her by the hand again, and with much ado got a kiſs of her. Pray be quiet, ſaid ſhe, L—d! what do you mean? you are ſo troubleſome! and look'd very angry, and ſo left me.

Harry. Very well, Ned, go on, this is vaſtly pleaſant.

Ned. That very kiſs made me think of her, and love her more than ever I did; for, after that kiſs, I was always wiſhing myſelf in her company, and was never at reſt. The Sunday after, I ſaw her in the minſter, at prayers, and thought every thing handſome and pretty about her: her face, her eyes, her mouth, her breaſt, her ſhape. I watch'd her coming out of the choir, and walk'd with her in the minſter, and aſk'd her if the would pleaſe to take a walk into the groves, but ſhe told me ſhe was engag'd. Believe me, Harry, I was ſo daft with that anſwer, that my heart was fit to break with fear that ſhe ſhould love another better than myſelf; however, I went home with her, and at the door deſir'd that I might ſpeak a word or two with her. She told me ſhe was engag'd, and I need not trouble myſelf any further. Madam, ſaid I, the firſt time that ever I ſaw you, I was ſtruck with the thought that you was the woman that was to make me a happy wife. You men, ſaid ſhe, ſay ſo to all the women you meet with. Truly, madam, ſaid I, what I ſay is really true, from the bottom of my heart, and I hope you will find it ſo. You men always promiſe fair, ſaid ſhe, before you are married; but when that job is over, you ſeldom or never perform your promiſe, Pray try me, madam, ſaid I, for upon my word you ſhall find me always as good as I have ſaid, by this kiſs.———Fie, ſaid ſhe, I ſwear I will never come into your company any more, if you will not let me ſtand quietly by you. Then I aſked her again the favour to take a walk, for it was a fine evening and would do her a great deal of good. She told me at laſt ſhe was truly to meet two or three of her acquaintance at ſeven o'clock, in the groves, juſt to take a turn or two, and ſo come home again; ſo bid me good-night.

Harry. Well, Ned, I hope you went to the groves to meet her, did you not?

Ned. Yes, you may be aſſured I did; and within a quarter of an hour after I was there, my miſtreſs came; but her friends were not with her, as good luck would have it.

Harry. Was not you glad of that, Ned; tho' I dare ſwear, the knew of no body to meet her at that time?

Ned. Yes, faith I was very glad of it; and when we had taken a turn or two, I aſked her if ſhe would go to the cheeſe-cake houſe, and with much ado I got her conſent to go.

Harry. Well, Ned, what diſcourſe had you there?

Ned. Why, faith we were very merry; I called for ſome cheeſe-cakes, and a bottle of cyder, and at laſt began to aſk her about marrying me. She told me ſhe heard I had a good trade, and did mind it now very well but how I would mind it, if ſhe ſhould conſent to marry me was her fear. I told her ſhe need never fear that, for marrying of her would be the only means to make me mind my buſineſs if poſſible, more than I have done. I do aſſure you Harry, that the ſervants which we call chamber-maids ſtand as much upon their honour, as ſome of them will call it, in courting as their miſtreſs, nay, and more.

Harry. Why, Ned, I have obſerved that all along you have called her madam, whenever you named her but I hope it is not a cuſtom here at York, to call your chamber-madis madam at every word.

Ned. Yes, faith we do, and they themſelves call one another ſo, or there be five or ſix of them together at the parting with one another, you ſhall hear them take their leave of one another with, Madam, good night to you, ſays one; Madam, your ſervant ſays another; Pray, my ſervice to you know who———'Tis very true Harry.

Harry. How could you ever expect Ned, that ſuch a one would make you a good wife, that minded nothing but her pride.

Ned. Well, Harry, but you are miſtaken, for ſome of them do make very good wives, and are very good houſe wives too.

Harry. How long were you a courting her, before ſhe gave conſent to marry you?

Ned. Why, about a year or more, and all that while I very little did mind myſelf for minding of her, for I was fain to watch her as a cat watcheth a mouſe for fear of a rival. At laſt I told her I hoped now ſhe would conſent to marry me, if not to tell me ſo, for it was a great loſs to me to loſe my time ſo day after day. Upon theſe words, ſhe told me ſhe thought I was in earneſt, but ſhe did not much like the houſe I liv'd in. I told her it was a very pretty houſe; and I ſhould be glad to ſee her in it. Upon this the ſmiled, and gave me her conſent.

Harry. Was you aſk'd in the church, Ned, or had you a licence?

Ned. I went on purpoſe to aſk her that queſtion, and the told me ſhe was a gentlewoman born, and did not care to be aſk'd in the church; for, ſhe ſaid, there was no body aſk'd in the church but cook-maids and kitchen-maids, ſo it coſt me about twenty ſhillings in a licence. Well, married we were, and very merry were we that day, and I proteſt, Harry, I thought every hour two till bed-time, ſhe look'd ſo well; and at laſt the hour came, and to bed we were got. But Harry—

Harry. Well, what Ned, doſt thou think that I do not know what it is to lie with a woman?

Ned. Yes, faith I believe you do, I do not think you have liv'd to this age, and does not know that.

Harry. But now, Ned, in the ſecond place, come tell me how you and your wife agree together; for I think it is ſaid, you: York wives will be maſters of their huſbands in leſs than a year's time if poſſible they can.

Ned. Come, Harry, my ſervice to you we'll talk no more of that ſubject now, for I muſt be going home, for fear you ſhould hear ſomething I would not have you, and ſee ſomething I would not have you ſee.

Harry. Well, then Ned, I do ſuppoſe it is with you, as with moſt of your neighbours, your wife is the maſter?

Ned. Faith, Harry, not much maſter, (ſcratching his head) but I doubt ſhe'll come and find us together, and then there will be———

Harry. What then, Ned, let her come, I have a mug or two of ale at her ſervice, and ſhall be glad to ſee her?

Ned. So ſhall not I, Harry.

Harry. Why, Ned, how can ſhe be angry with you, when ſhe ſees you with an old acquaintance you have not ſeen this two or three years?

Ned. That's nothing.

Harry. What, Ned, do you not agree then really, and has been married but three years; ſuppofe ſhe ſhould come, what would or could ſhe ſay to you?

Ned. Dear Harry, do not deſire me to tell you, for if I would, and you ſhould happen to tell it again, and it ſhould come to her ears, that it was I that told you, I might as well run my country as ſtay at home.

Harry. Ned, my ſervice to you, upon my honour, as the gentlemen ſays, I will never ſay any thing of it to any body.

Ned. Well then, Harry, if I be out at any time, as now with you, when I go home, as ſoon as I am got within doors, ſhe'll begin with a pretty tone ſhe has learned of her neighbours. Oh, brave ſir! you are a fine huſband; you mind your buſineſs and ſhop, as you promiſed me before we were married; do you not, you drunken dog, you rogue, you raſcal, where have you been theſe ſix hours, (tho' it were but three) ſirra, give me an account where you have been.

Harry. Well, Ned, do you give her an account where you was, or what anſwer do you make her.

Ned. All that I ſay to her is, Pray my dear, be not in ſuch a paſſion, for I was with an old friend, that I have not ſeen this two or three years. A pox on your old friends, ſays ſhe, and you too, muſt you go and fill your belly with good meat and drink, and I and my poor children ſtarve at home, with only a little bread and cheeſe, a curſe on the firſt day I ſaw you.

Harry. Why, Ned, I hope your circumſtances are not ſo low in the world, but that you can afford your wife pretty well to keep houſe with.

Ned. Why, Harry, there's ſeldom a day but we have a joint of meat, either boiled or roaſted, and I am ſure ſhe never wants for good bread, cheeſe, eggs, and butter.

Harry. Pray, Ned, what does ſhe do towards maintaining your houſe? does ſhe endeavour any ways to get a penny what portion had you with her, Ned?

Ned. Harry, never marry a chambermaid, for they bring nothing with them but a few old clothes of their miſtreſſes, and for houſe-keeping, few of them knows any thing of it; for they can hardly make a pudding or a pye, neither can they ſpin, nor knit, nor waſh, except it be a few laces to make themſelves fine withal.

Harry. What would ſhe be at?

Ned. Why, always a goſſiping, there is ſuch a company of them in our ſtreet, that there's never a day but ſome or other of them meet together.

Harry. Where do they meet?

Ned. Where the beſt country ale is,

Harry. What! do they make a fitting of it when they meet?

Ned. A fitting of it, yes, yes, they will fit from three till ten at night, and drink like fiſhes, and talk againſt their huſbands.

Harry. What do you ſay when ſhe comes home? do not you ask her where ſhe has been, that ſhe ſtay'd ſo late?

Ned. I dare not ſay one word to her, bet am glad ſhe will let me go to bed, and ſleep quietly.

Harry. What becomes of your children thoſe days? who looks after them all that while?

Ned. No-body but a ſilly maid ſhe hired, who can do nothing; I am fain as well as I can, to boil them their milk for their ſuppers, and help to get them to bed.

Harry. Does not ſhe aſk when ſhe comes home how her children do, and who gave them their ſuppers, and got them to bed.

Ned. Never, never, Harry; but perhaps the next morning will get them up herſelf, and put them on, poor things, the ſame linen they had on three days before.

Harry. How do you allow your wife? do you allow her ſo much a week? how gets the the money to ſpare for goſſiping.

Ned. Why ſhe watches me; and if I ſell any thing in the ſhop, then ſhe comes to me, and tells me, ſuch a child wants this, and ſuch a one that; ſo I am fain to give her money for quietneſs ſake.

Harry. Why, Ned, ſhe makes a meer fool of you.

Ned. 'Tis not my caſe alone, Harry, for moſt of my neighbours have not much better wives; for the better ſort, they ſay, love carding and goſſiping, and cold tea.

Harry. Well, Ned, I think you have almoſt ſatisfied me, and I promiſe you for your ſake, I will never marry any one of that ſort, call'd chamber-maids.

Ned. If ever you marry, Harry, marry one that's bred up in buſineſs, I mean one that knows how to look after her houſe; and as you endeavour to get a penny in your way, ſhe will endeavour to get another in hers, ſuch a one will make both you and herſelf happy.

Harry. Pray, then, Ned, what can your wife, or any man's wife ſay againſt her huſband, if he takes all the pains (as you ſay you do) to maintain her and her children handſomely?

Ned. I know not, but this I hear, is their way, if any new married wife come among them; firſt ſhe muſt pay for her admittance, then preſently after, ſome of them will begin, Neighbour, your good health; another, Neighbour, I wiſh you health and happineſs; another, Pray neighbour, what kind of a humour'd man is your huſband? another, Is he kind to you? another, Does he allow you as he ſhould do? another, If he does not, neighbour, let us know, and we will tell you how to manage him, I warrant you.

Harry. Well, Ned, I pity thee, with all my heart, and all them that have ſuch wives; but now you muſt make the beſt of it, and live as quietly as you can.

Ned. Harry, I muſt ſo: well, come let's know what's to pay, I have ſtay'd too long, ſo I am ſure of a lecture when I go home.

Harry. Come, Ned, I treat you this time, becauſe I invited you, it may be you will find your wife in a better humour than you think of.

Ned. I wiſh I may, Harry, I am ſure of it that ſhould make me ſtay at home, and mind my buſineſs a great deal better than I have done of late.

Harry. How many children have you, Ned?

Ned. Two boys, and I believe another coming.

Harry. Well, Ned, ſhe cannot find fault with you, but that you have done family-duty very well to have every year a child.

Ned. Well, Harry, I muſt take my leave of you, and I thank you for me; and if you do not go out of town tomorrow, I hope I ſhall ſee you again; there is a great deal more in a married ſtate than I have told you of, that is, all charges to the huſband, the ſickening-day, the week-day, the chriſtening-day, three-week-day, the churching-day; all theſe days they have their meetings and diſcourſes, which would take half a day to tell them all; and if the huſband be not there, to wait

upon them on thoſe days, ſome of them will fay, Neighbour, where is your huſband? he ſhould be here to wait on us. If my huſband ſhould ſerve me ſo, ſays another, when I lie in, odds hud. A third will ſay, Indeed neighbour, you give your huſband, too much liberty, more than I would do. So, Harry, when I go home, ſhe falls a telling me what ſuch a one and ſuch a one, and all the company ſaid of me, for my not being there to wait upon them.

Harry. Well, Ned, thou haſt ſatisfied me very well, and for thy ſake I will never marry a chamber-maid. Come, ring the bell, we'll ſee what there's to pay; and ſhould be glad of your company longer, if it ſtand to your conveniency.

Ned. Harry, I thank you, but home I muſt go now.

Harry. Dick, what's to pay?

Dick. One ſhilling, Sir.

Harry. There it is for you: Well, Ned, good-night to you, my ſervice to your ſpouſe; and if I ſtay to-morrow, I'll come and ſee you and her.

Ned. Harry, Good-night to you, I thank you for me, and I ſhall be glad to ſee you to-morrow; but whether my wife will or no, I cannot tell, for I doubt I ſhall find her but ſo and ſo in her humour.

Harry. Good-night to you, Ned, thank you for your good company: it has been very pleaſant, and I hope will find all things eaſy and quiet at home.

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Three excellent new Songs.

I. The good Houſe-wife.

WOU'D you chuſe a wife,
For a happy life,
Leave the court and the country take,
Where Dolly and Sue,
Young Molly and Prue,
Follow Roger and John,
Whilſt harveſt goes on,
And merrily merrily rake.

Leave the London dames
(Be it ſpoke to their ſhames)
To ly in their beds till noon,
Then get up and ſtretch,
And paint too and patch,
Some widgeon to catch,
Then look at their watch,
And wonder they roſe up ſo ſoon.

Then coffee and tea,
Both green and bohea,
Are fery'd to their tables in plate,
Where tattles do run,
As ſwift as the ſun,
Of what they have won,
And who is undone,
By their gaming and ſitting up late.

The laſs give me here,
Tho' brown as my beer,
That knows how to govern her houſe,
That can milk her cow,
Or farrow her ſow,
Make butter and cheeſe,
Or gather green peaſe,
And valués fine clothes not a ſouſe.

This is the girl
Worth rubies and pearl;
A wife that will make a man rich;
We gentlemen need
No quality breed,
To ſquander away
What taxes would pay;
We care not in faith for fuch.

II. Tak your auld cloak about ye.

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld,
And froſt and ſnaw on ilka hill,
And Boreas, with his blaſts ſae bald,
Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill;
Then Bell, my wife, wha loves na ſtrife,
She ſaid to me right haſtily,
Get up, goodman, ſave Cromie's life,
And tak your auld cloak about ye.

My Cromie is an uſeful cow,
And ſhe is come of a good kine;
Aft has ſhe wet the bairn's mou,
And I am latch that ſhe ſhou'd tyne;
Get up, goodman, it is fou time,
The ſun ſhines in the lift ſae hie;
Sloth never made a gracious end,
Go tak your auld cloak about ye.

My cloak was anes a good grey cloak,
When it was fitting for my wear;
But now it's ſcantly worth a groat,
For I ha'e worn't this thirty year;
Let's ſpend the gear that we ha'e won,
We little ken the day we'll die:
Then I'll be proud, ſince I ha'e ſworn
To ha'e a new cloak about me.

In days when our king Robert rang,
His trews they coſt but ha'f a crown:
He ſaid, they were a groat o'er dear,
And ca'd the taylor thief and loun.
He was the king that wore a crown,
And thou'rt a man of laigh degree,
'Tis pride puts a' the kintry down,
Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee.

Every land has its ain laugh,
Ilk kind of corn it has its hool;
I think the warld is a' run wrang,
When ilka wife her man wad rule
Do ye not ſee Rob, Jock, and Hab,
As they are girded gallantly,
While I ſit hurkling in the aſe,
I'll ha'e a new cloak about me.

Goodman, I wat 'tis thirty years,
Since we did ane anither ken;
And we have had between us twa,
Of lads and bonny laſſes ten:
Now, they are women grown and men
I wiſh and pray well may they be
And if you prove a good huſband,
E'er tak your auld cloak about ye.

Bell my wife, ſhe loves nae ſtrife;
But ſhe wad guide me if ſhe can,
And to maintain an eaſy life,
I aft maun yield, though I'm good man:
Nought's to be won at woman's hand,
Unleſs ye give her a' the plea;
Then I'll leave aff where I began,
And tak my auld cloak about me.

III. Fooliſh fort, a Heart.

TIS now ſince I ſat down before,
this fooliſh Fort, a heart,
(Time ſtrangely ſpent) a year or more,
and ſtill I did my part.

Made my approaches, from her hand,
unto her lip did riſe;
And did already underſtand
the language of her eyes.

Proceeding on with no leſs art,
my tongue was engineer;
I thought to undermine the heart,
by whiſp'ring in the ear.

When this did nothing, I brought down,
great cannon, oaths, and ſhot,
A thouſand, thouſand to the town,
and ſtill it yielded not.

I then reſolv'd to ſtarve the place,
by cutting off all kiſſes;
Praiſing and gazing on her face,
with all ſuch little bleſſes.

To draw her out, and from her ſtrength,
I drew all battries in,
And brought myſelf to lie at length,
as if no ſiege had been

When I had done what man could do,
and thought the place my own,
The enemy lay quiet too
and ſmil'd at all was done.

I ſent to know from whence and where,
theſe hopes, and this relief:
A ſpy informd, Honour was there,
and did command in chief.

March, march, quoth I, the word ſtraight give,
let's loſe no time, but leave her:
That giant upon air will live,
and hold it out for ever.

To ſuch a place our camp remove,
as will no ſiege abide;
I hate a fool that ſtarves her love,
only to feed her pride.

FINIS.

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