’At thinks there’s no’but ya kind o’ shoddy.”
W. Bowness. Brough Hill Fair.
Nowte ’at dowe, C, nothing of ability, fit for nothing.
“In o’ her flegmagaries donn’d,
What is she?—nowte ’at dowe!”
Anderson. Betty Brown.
O.
Oomer, C, shade.
“Howay wi’ the’, an’ lig down i’ t’ owmer o’ t’ trees till I’ve time ùt tak’ the’ afooar Mr. Machell.”
Said by a farmer at Colton to an idle servant.