“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?”
Sed Nickey, wi a grin,
“Tha knaws I am full up below,
An cannot tack more in.”
“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks,
“Tha ruffin ov a dog,
I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean,
To see wun John o’ t’Bog.
I cannot see it fer me life,
What it’s to do wi thee;
Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick,
An nivver thee heed me.”
“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks,
Whativver tha may say,
For I been roasting t’human race
For mony a weary day.”
Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee,
This last two years or so;
Wi Germany an Italy,
An even Mexico.
An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil
Browt in some thaasands more;
An sooin fra Abysinnia,
Tha’ll bring black Theodore.
So drop that scythe, oud farren Death,
Let’s rest a toathree wick;
Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan,
Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”
“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath,
Who spack it wi a grin,
“Ise just do as I like fer thee,
So tha can hod thi din.”
This made oud Nick fair raging mad,
An lifting up his whip,
He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash
Across o t’upper lip.
Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks,
To give oud Nick leg bail,
He started off towards the tahn,
An Nick stuck aht his tail.