He laid him sūm plaisters o’ soav on his po’,
An’ gev him sūm stuff to lig on tūl’t at heàm;
But nowte putten on tul’t gev easement tūll Joe,
For t’ būrnin’ an’ bworin’ wer’ iverly t’ seàm.
An’ it keept on sa bad, he tūrn’t maffelt an’ maiz’t,
An’ sa wankle an’ wake ’at he to’k tull his bed,
Whoar, liggin’ hoaf deid, ey, an’ mair nor hoaf craiz’t,
He cūd think aboot nowte but what t’ doctor hed said.
He triet nūt to speak on’t—He knew ’twasn’t reet,
But it ola’s beàd by him—his uppermor’ thowte;