When she was growed up, a big gal,
And went to sarvice at the Hall,
She han’t but one stuff gownd to wear,
And not the lissest mite of shawl.
But now yeou cäan’t tell whue is whue;
Which is the missus, which the maid,
There ain’t no tellin’; for a gal,
Arter she’s got her wages paid,
Will put ’em all upon her back,
And look as grand as grand can be;
My poor old mother would be stamm’d [39]
Her gal should iver look like she.
And ’taint the lissest bit o’ use
To tell ’em anything at all;
They’ll only lâff, or else begin
All manner o’ hard names to call.
Praps arter all it ’tain’t the truth,
That one time’s wusser than the t’other;
Praps I’m a-gittin’ old myself,
And fare to talk like my old mother.
I shäan’t dew nowt by talkin’ so,
I’d better try the good old plan,
Of spakin’ sparing of most folks,
And dewin’ all the good I can.
J. D.
II.
My father used to repeat one stanza of an old song; I wonder whether the remainder still exists in any living memory. That one stanza ran:—
“The roaring boys of Pakefield,
Oh, how they all do thrive!
They had but one poor parson,
And him they buried alive.”