"What! dwont ye knaw that now about
It is the midst o' June?
Tha hawly thorn at Kirsmas blaws—
You be zix months too zoon.
Goo whim again, yea gâwky! goo!"
Zaw zed a damsel vair
As dewy mornin late in Mâ;
An Jerry wide did stare.
"Lord Miss!" zed he, "I niver thawt,
O' Kirsmas!—while I've shoes,
To goo back now I be zet out,
Is what I sholl not choose.
I'll zee the Torr an hawly thorn,
An Glassenberry too;
An, nif you'll put me in tha wâ,
I'll gee grate thanks ta you."
Goo droo thic veel an up thic lane,
An take tha lift hon path,
Than droo Miss Crossman's backzid strait,
Ool bring ye up ta Wrath.
Now mine, whaur you do turn again
At varmer Veal's long yacker,
Clooäse whaur Jan Lide, tha cobler, lives
Who makes tha best o' tacker;
You mist turn short behine tha house
An goo right droo tha shord,
An than you'll pass a zummer lodge,
A builded by tha lord.
Tha turnpick than is jist belaw,
An Cock-hill strait avaur ye."
Za Jerry doff'd his hat an bow'd,
An thank'd er vor er storry.
Bit moor o' this I need not zâ,
Vor off went Jerry Nutty;
In his right hand a wâkin stick,
An in hiz qut a tutty.
Bit I vorgot to zâ that Jer
A zatchel wi' en took
To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;—
Iz drink war o' tha brook.