T’ doctor lapt ūp his hand varra fewsome an’ reet,
An’ Joe, like a man, pait him weel for his job,
An’, creùnin’, “I’s m’appen git sūm rist to-neet,”
Joggelt heàm, pleased as Punch, wid his thumb in his fob.
An’ to t’ wife says he, “Tak’ ’t to t’ churchyard oot o’ geàt,
An’ bury ’t whoar I’ll lig mysel’ when I dee.”
An’ she went wid a trooin an’ lantern, leàt,
An’ left it i’ t’ spot whoar Joe said it mud be.
Jwosep’ to’k till his meat, for his hand mendit weel—
(He hed gud healin’ flesh, an’ fine natur’, hed Joe,)[19]