Tho. Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise—Row, or Road, or summat?
Bill. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school.
Tho. Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt?
Bill. Second door round the corner, sir.
Tho. Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner, my man?
Bill. Round any corner. Second door's all-ways Sunday-school. (Takes a sight. Exeunt boys.)
THOMAS sits down on a door-step.
Tho. Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord dunnot be a forsakin' ov mo. There's that abeawt th' lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' angels keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an' they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless him! but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo mo Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb. (Boys begin to gather and stare.) She's o' the world to me. O Lord, hear mo, and gie mo mo Mattie. Nea, aw'll geet oop, and go look again. (Rises.)
First Boy. Ain't he a cricket, Tommy?
Second Boy. Spry, ain't he? Prod him, and see him jump. (General insult.)