Oh, silly clown! thou might have known
To eyt each one wor able;
The country air did mack some swear,
They could ommost eyt a table.
The atmosphere, no longer clear,
The clouds are black an’ stormy;
Then all but one away did run,
Like some deserting army.
On—on! they go! as if some foe
Wor charging at the lot!
If they got there, they didn’t care
A fig for poor Will Scott!
Poor lame ould Will, remains there still,
His crutches has to fetch him;
But he’s seen the toime, when in his prime,
At nobody there could catch him.
Like some fast steed, wi’ all its speed,
All seem’d as they wor flying;
To escape the rain, an’ catch the train,
Both old and young wor trying.
One neet, old Wills, about Crosshills,
He heeard a fearful humming,
He said t’ woife, upon my life,
Aw think the French are coming!
Tha knaws reight weel at we’ve heeard tell
O sich strange things before,
So lass look quick, an’ cut thee stick,
An’ a will bolt the door.
Like drahnded rats, they pass their mates,
An’ rans dahn to the station;
And Betty Bakes an’ Sally Shakes,
Their both plump aht o’ patience.
“This is a mess,” says little Bess,
At lives o’t top o’t garden;
“There’s my new shawl an’ fine lace fall,
They’ll nut be worth a farden.”
But, hark! ding-dong goes through the throng,
The bell does give the sign,
With all its force, the iron horse,
Comes trotting up the line.