Then helter-skelter off they went,
As ower t’fence I lape;
I thowt—well, if it matters owt,
I’ve made a nice escape.
But nah the mooin began ta shine
As breet as it could be;
An dahn the vale of t’Aire I luked,
Whear I could plainly see.
The trees wor deeadly pale wi’ snaw,
An’ t’windin’ Aire wor still,
An’ all wor quite save t’hullats,
At wor screamin’ up o’t’ hill.
Owd Rivock End an’ all arahnd
Luk’d like some fiendish heead,
Fer t’more I star’d an’ t’more I thowt
It did resemble t’deead.
The Friendly Oaks wor alter’d nah,
Ta what I’d seen afore;
An’ luk’d as though they’d nivver be
T’owd Friendly Oaks no more.
Fer wun wor like a giant grim,
His nooas com to a point,
An’ wi’ a voice like thunner sed—
“The times are aaght o’t’joint!”
An’ t’other, like a whippin’-post,
Bud happen net as thin,
Sed “T’ times el alter yet, owd fooil,
So pray nah, hod thi din!”
I tuke no farther gawm o’ them,
But paddl’d on mi way;
Fer when I ivver mak a vah,
I stick ta what I say.
I heddant goan so far agean,
Afoar I heeard a voice,
Exclaiming—wi’ a fearful groan—
“Go mak a hoil i’ t’ice!”
I turned ma rahnd wheer t’sahnd com fro,
An’ cautiously I bowed,
Sayin’ “Thenk ye, Mr. Magic Voice,
I’m flaid o’ gettin’ cowd.”