It’s ten to one hoo’ll co’ in here, An’ poo tho eawt o’th corner cheer; So, sit fur back, where th’ runnin’s clear; Aw’ll keep my e’en o’th window; Thae’m mind te hits, an’ when aw sheawt Be limber-legged, an’ lammas eawt; An’—though hoo’ll not believe, aw deawt, Aw’ll swear aw never sin tho.
Aw’ll bite my tung aw will, bith mon, An’ plug my ears up till hoo’s gwon; A grooin’ tree could hardly ston A savage woman flytin’; Iv folk were nobbut o’ i’th mind To make their bits o’ booses kind, There’d be less wanderin’ eawt to find A corner to be quiet in.
It’s nearly three o’clock bith chime: This ale o’ Jem’s is very prime; Aw’ll keawer mo deawn till baggin-time, An’ have a reech o’ bacco; Aw guess thae’s yerd ’at Clinker lad An’ Liltin’ Jenny’s getten wed; An’ Collop’s gooin wrang i’th yed,— But that’s not mich to crack o’.
There’s news that chaps ’at wore a creawn, Are gettin’ powler’t up an’ deawn, They’re puncin’ ’em fro teawn to teawn, Like foot-bo’s in a pastur; Yon Garibaldi’s gan ’em silk; Th’ owd lad, he’s fairly made ’em swilk; An’ neaw, they sen he’s sellin’ milk To raise new clooas for Ayster.
There’s some are creepin’ eawt o’th slutch, An’ some are gettin’ deawn i’th doitch; Bith mon, aw never yerd o’ sich A world for change o’ fortin! They’re gooin’ groanin’ eawt o’th seet, They’re comin’ cryin’ into th’ leet; But howd! aw yerd last Monday neet A tale abeawt a cwortin’.
Poo up! aw’ll tell it iv aw con;— Thae knows that bow-legged railway mon?— But, heigh, owd lad! yor Margit’s yon,— Hoo’s comin’ like a racer!— Some foo’ has put her upo’ th’ track; Cut, Sam; hoo’ll have us in a crack! Aw said hoo’d come—let’s run eawt th’ back; Bith’ mass, aw dar not face her!
