“He taks delight i’ roving reawnd, To nooks where trouble’s mostly feawnd; He comes like rain to drufty greawnd,— Gentle Jone! He’s very slow at thinkin’ ill; Forgi’s a faut wi’ hearty will; An’ doin’ good’s his pastime still,— Gentle Jone!
“At th’ time I broke this poor owd limb, I should ha’ dee’d except for him.” He said no moor; his e’en geet dim,— Mine were th’ same. “Owd lad,” said I, “Come, have a gill!” “Naw, naw,” said he, “I’m rayther ill; It’s time to paddle deawn this hill, To th’ owd dame.”
’Twere nearly noon, i’th month o’ May; We said we’d meet some other day; An’ then th’ owd crayter limped away Deawn th’ green lone. An’ neaw, let’s do the thing that’s reet, An’ then, when death puts eawt e’r leet, We’s haply ston a chance to meet Gentle Jone!
NEET-FO’.
Old Air—“When Dolly and I get wed.”