Ruth Penwarne have a little linhay, An' there her washes when the rain be nigh, But when 'tis sunny her goes in the garden, An' spreads her clo'es on the fuzzen to dry.
Miss Tregear have a pile o' carpets; Her be frit of a moth or a speck o' dust; Her be feared that the sun will spile her curtains, An' the damp will make her fire-irons rust.
Ruth Penwarne have a fine stone kitchen; An' two rooms aloft as be crammed with beds; Her don't have carpets, so they can't get dirty, An' her soon clanes up where the childer treads.
Miss Tregear have a face that's lonely; Her be often sad, tho' her can't tell why; Her be allays asayin there's nothin' doin', An' thinks how slow all the days go by.
Ruth Penwarne haven't time for thinkin', With makin' an' mendin' an' scrubbin' too, An' sartin sure, she'm a braave rich woman, With childer an' home an' her work to do.
A FIRESIDE SPELL
"I've spanked young Tom an' sent him to bed, an' I reckon it sarves him right; For 'tisn no use asayin' things when the rope's end baint in sight, An' he shouldn' go steerin' out along when the tide is runnin' away, I've telled him afore; I cussn't keep on atellin' him every day."
"Now when I was a boy—" "Iss, when you was a boy, you was jest such a scalliant too, All'ays athinkin' o' darin' things as you didn' belong to do. Climbin' they clifts for saygulls' eggs or clambering ower the crags An' heavin' tuffs at the cormorants, an' shyin' stones at the shags."