Thinks I, “Th’ fat’s i’th fire,—aw mun make it no wur,— For there’s plenty o’ feightin’ to do eawt o’th dur; So, aw’ll talk very prattily to her, as heaw, Or else hoo’ll have houd o’ my toppin’ in neaw;” An’ bith’ leet in her e’en, It were fair to be sin That hoo’re ready to rive me i’ teaw.
Iv truth mun be towd, aw began to be fain To study a bit o’ my cwortin’ again; So aw said to her, “Mally, this world’s rough enoo! To fo’ eawt wi’ thoose one likes best, winnut do,— It’s a very sore smart, An’ it sticks long i’th heart,”— An’, egad, aw said nought but what’s true!
Lord, heaw a mon talks when his heart’s in his tung! Aw roos’t her, poor lass, an’ aw show’d hoo wur wrung, Till hoo took mo bith hond, with a tear in her e’e, An’ said, “Jamie, there’s noabry as tender as thee! Forgi mo, lad, do: For aw’m nobbut a foo,— An’ bide wi’ mo, neaw, till aw dee!”
So, we’n bide one another, whatever may come; For there’s no peace i’th world iv there’s no peace awhoam; An’ neaw, when a random word gies her some pain, Or makes her a little bit crossish i’th grain, Sunshine comes back, As soon as aw crack O’ beginning my cwortin again.
