T’ ya lūg hed been rovven an’ hung like a cloot,
While t’ tudder stack ūp like t’ cockad’ iv a hat;
Lang whiskers like brūssles spread o’ roond it’ snoot—
It wosn’t a beauty—Keàte Cūrbison’ cat!
Keàty Cūrbison’ cat was a terror to t’ toon—
Till butt’ry an’ pantry it may’d hed a kay.
Intil ivery hoose, ayder up t’ geàt or doon,
By air-wole or chimla it wūmmelt it’ way.
For thievin’ an’ reàvin’ ’twas war’ nor a fox,
Ther’ wasn’t a hen-hoose it hedn’t been at;