But he rantit aboot, or he reàv’t ūp an’ doon,
Fairly greànin’ his life an’ fwokes patience away.
Ther’ wer’ pokey oald wives aboot Harrin’ton than,
An’ a varst of advice, o’ free gratis, he gat;
But he gat nèa ’mends, dudn’t pooar oāld man,
An’ he fail’t varra sair iv his leùks an’ his fat.
He seeken’t at meat,—nay, he’d bowk at a speùn!
An’ his beùrd he let growe like a Turk or a gwoat,
An’ he squeak’t iv his toak like a fiddle oot o’ teùn,
An’ like bags full o’ nowte hung his britches an’ cwoat.