Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time mâ be longful
Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye;
Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom
Again and again—zaw good bwye, an good bwye!
FANNY FEAR
The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.
Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please
To lissen to my storry,
A mâ-be 'tis a jitch a one,
Ool make ye zummet zorry.
'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief,
A put wi' ort together,
That where you cry, or where you laugh,
Da matter not a veather;
Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true,
Wi' readship be it spawken;
I knaw it all, begummers! well,
By tale, eese, an by tawken.
The maid's right name war FANNY FEAR,
A tidy body lookin;
An she cood brew, and she cood bake,
An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake;
An all the like o' cookin.
Upon a Zunday âternoon,
Beforne the door a stanin,
To zee er chubby cheaks za hird,
An whitist lilies roun 'em spird,
A damas rawze her han in,
Ood do your hort good; an er eyes,
Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin;
Tha country lads could not goo by,
Bit look thâ must—she iver shy,
Ood blish—tha timid lorklin!
Her dame war to her desperd kind;
She knaw'd er well dezarvin:
She gid her good advice an claws,
At which she niver toss'd her naws,
As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.