A handled too iz gads well
His paddle and iz oor;
[Footnote: Oar.]
A war âlways bawld an fearless—
A, when upon tha Goor.
[Footnote: The Gore. Dangerous sands so called, at the mouth of
the River Parret, in the Bristol Channel.]
O' heerins, sprats, an porpuses—
O' âll fish a cood tell;
Who bit he amangst tha Fishermen—
A âlways bear'd tha bell.
Tommy Came ad hired o' Plâyers,
Bit niver zeed 'em plâ;
Thâ war actin at Bejwâter;
There a went wi' Sally Dâ.
When tha curtain first drâw'd up, than
Sapriz'd war Tommy Came;
A'd hâf a mine ta him awâ,
Bit stapp'd vor very shame.
Tha vust act bein auver
Tha zecond jist begun,
Tommy Came still wonder'd grately,
Ta him it war naw fun.
Zaw âter lookin on zumtime,
Ta understand did strive;
There now, zed he, I'll gee my woth
[Footnote: Oath.]
That thâ be all alive!
MARY RAMSEY'S CRUTCH.
I zeng o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
"Thic little theng!"—Why 'tis'n much
It's true, but still I like ta touch
Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
She zed, wheniver she shood die,
Er little crutch she'd gee ta I.
Did Mary love me? eese a b'leeve.
She died—a veo vor her did grieve,—
An but a veo—vor Mary awld,
Outliv'd er friends, or voun 'em cawld.
Thic crutch I had—I ha it still,
An port wi't wont—nor niver will.
O' her I lorn'd tha cris-cross-lâin;
I haup that't word'n quite in vâin!
'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read
Jitch little words as beef an bread;
An I da thenk 'twar her that, âter,
Lorn'd I ta read tha single zâter.
Poor Mary ôten used ta tell
O' das a past that pleas'd er well;
An mangst tha rest war zum o' jay
When I look'd up a little bway.
She zed I war a good one too,
An lorn'd my book athout tha rue.
[Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or
behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of rue!]
Poor Mary's gwon!—a longful time
Zunz now!—er little scholard's prime
A-mâ-be's past.—It must be zaw;—
There's nothin stable here belaw!
O' Mary—âll left is—er crutch!
An thaw a gift, an 'tword'n much
'Tis true, still I da like ta touch
Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
That I lov'd Mary, this ool tell.
I'll zâ na moor—zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]
HANNAH VERRIOR.
Tha zâ I'm maz'd,—my Husband's dead,
My chile, (hush! hush! Lord love er face!)
Tha pit-hawl had at Milemas, when
Thâ put me in theäze pooät-hawl place.