An’ Cook’s house was ratch’t through an’ through, an’ t’ silver cup fund theear,
Heead theear, girt like, o’ purpose—an’ t’ āld cūpple wer’ teean up.
“An’ for the’r lives they triet ’em beeath, an’ beeath condemn’t to dee.
Myles Philipson was theear, an’ Dolly glooer’t him hard i’ t’ feeace,
As meear ner plowmb she rais’t hersel’, an’, terrable ut see,
She spak’ thir wūrds i’ seccan a skrike as rung through t’ justice pleeace:—
“‘Ey, gūd thysel’, Myles Philipson—thou thinks th’u’s mannish’t grand;
Thou thinks th’u’s hooal’t our lile bit grund, and gitten’t o’ for nowte,
Bit, harks te’ here, Myles Philipson—that teenie lump o’ land
Is t’ dearest grūnd a Philipson hès ayder stown or bowte;