A corr'd er trunk avaur en,
An by hiz belt o' leather
A bid er hawld vast; on thâ rawd,
Athout much tâk, together.
Not vur thâ went avaur she gid
A whissle loud an long;
Which Mr. Guy, thawt very strange;
Er voice too zim'd za strong!
She'd lost er dog, she zed; an than
Another whissle blaw'd,
That stortled Mr. Guy;—a stapt
Hiz hoss upon tha rawd.
Goo on, zed she; bit Mr. Guy
Zum rig beginn'd ta fear:
Vor voices rawze upon tha wine,
An zim'd a comin near.
Again thâ rawd along; again
She whissled. Mr. Guy
Whipt out hiz knife an cut tha belt,
Then push'd er off!—Vor why?
Tha ooman he took up behine,
Begummers, war a man!
Tha rubbers zaw ad lâd ther plots
Our grazier to trepan.
I shall not stap ta tell what zed
Tha man in ooman's clawze;
Bit he, and all o'm jist behine,
War what you mid suppawze.
Thâ cust, thâ swaur, thâ dreaten'd too,
An ater Mr. Guy
Thâ gallop'd all; 'twar niver-tha-near:
Hiz hoss along did vly.
Auver downs, droo dales, awâ a went,
'Twar dâ-light now amawst,
Till at an inn a stapt, at last,
Ta thenk what he'd a lost.
A lost?—why, nothin—but hiz belt!—
A zummet moor ad gain'd:
Thic little trunk a corr'd awâ—
It gawld g'lore contain'd!