I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thâ mid be moor eager to hunt thic poor little theng câlled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when thâ da hire tha yell o' tha houns thâ'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mâ-be thâ mid be zummet tha wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be remimbered. This is the moril.
I am, sur, your sarvant,
TEDDY BAND.
THE CHURCHWARDEN.
Upon a time, naw matter whaur,
Jitch plazen there be many a scaur
In Zummerzet's girt gorden;
(Ive hir'd 'twar handy ta tha zea,
Not vur vrom whaur tha zantots be)
There liv'd a young churchwarden.
A zim'd delighted when put in.
An zaw a thawt a ood begin
Ta do hiz office duly:
Bit zum o'm, girt vawk in ther wâ—
Tha Porish o'ten câlled,—a girt bell sheep
Or two that lead the rest an quiet keep—
Put vooäth ther hons iz coose to stâ,
Which made en quite unruly.
A went, of coose, ta Visitâtion
Ta be sworn in;—an than 'twar nâtion
Hord that a man his power should doubt,—
An moor—ta try ta turn en out!
"Naw, Naw!" exclaim'd our young churchwarden,
I dwon't care vor ye âll a copper varden!"
Tha church war durty.—Wevets here
Hang'd danglin vrom tha ruf; an there
Tha plaisterin shaw'd a crazy wâll;
Tha âltar-piece war dim and dowsty too,
That Peter's maricle thâ scase cood view.
Tha Ten Commandments nawbody cood rade; [Footnote: Read]
Tha Lord's Prayer ad nuthin in't bit "Brade;" [Footnote: Bread]
Nor had tha Creed
A lain or letter parfit, grate or smâll.
'Twar time vor zum one ta renew 'em âll.
I've tawld o' wevets—zum o'm odd enow;
Thâ look'd tha colour of a dork dun cow,
An like a skin war stratched across tha corners;
Tha knitters o' tha porish tâk'd o knittin
Stocking wi' 'em!—Bit aw, how unbevittin
All tâk like this!—aw fie, tha wicked scorners!