John Cox took up his father's cloaths—
Poor fellow! he beginn'd to cry!
Than, Evans vrom the wâter rose;
"A hunderd vawk'll come bimeby,"
A zed; whun, short way vrom the shore.
We zeed, what zeed we not avore,
The head of Doctor Cox appear—
Het floated in the wâter clear!
Bolt upright war he, and his hair,
That pruv'd he sartainly war there,
Zwimm'd on the wâter!—Evans than,
The stupid'st of a stupid man,
Call'd Vigo—pointed to that head—
In Vigo dash'd—Cox was not dead!
But seiz'd the dog's lag—helt en vast!
One struggle, an het war the last!
Ah! well do I remember it—
That struggle I sholl ne'er forgit!
Vigo was frightened and withdrew;
The body zink'd at once vrom view.
Did Evans, gallid Evans then,
Câll out, at once, vor father's men?
(Thâ war at work vor'n very near
A mendin the old Highbridge pier,)
A did'n câll, but 'mus'd our fear—
"A hundred vawk ool zoon be here!"
A zed.—We gid the hue and cry!
And zoon a booät wi' men did vly!
But twar âll auver! Cox war voun
Not at the bottom lyin down,
But up aneen, as jist avore
We zeed en floatin nigh the shore.
But death 'ad done his wust—not âll
Thâ did could life's last spork recall.
Zo Doctor Cox went out o' life
A vine, a, and as honsom mon,
As zun hath iver shin'd upon;
A left a family—a wife,
Two sons—one_dater_,
As beautiful as lovely Mâ,
Of whom a-mâ-bi I mid za
Zumthin hereâter:
What thâ veel'd now I sholl not tell—
My hort athin me 'gins to zwell!
Reflection here mid try in vain,
Wither particulars to gain,
Evans zim'd all like one possest;
Imagination! tell the rest!
L'ENVOY.
To âll that sholl theeäze storry read,
The Truth must vor it chiefly plead;
I gee not here a tale o' ort,
Nor snip-snap wit, nor lidden smort.
But ôten, ôten by thie river,
Have I a pass'd; yet niver, niver,
Athout a thought o' Doctor Cox—
His dog—his death—his floatin locks!
The mooäst whun Brue war deep and clear,
And Lammas dâ an harras near;—
Whun zummer vleng'd his light abroad,—
The zun in all his glory rawd;
How beautiful mid be the dâ
A zumthin âllès zim'd to zâ,
"Whar whing! the wâter's deep an' clear,
But death mid be a lurkin near!"
A DEDICATION.
Thenk not, bin I ood be tha fashion,
That I, ZIR, write theäze Dedicâtion;
I write, I haup I dwon't offend.
Bin I be proud ta câll You FRIEND.
I here ston vooäth, alooän unbidden
To 'muse you wi' my country lidden;—
Wi' remlet's o' tha Saxon tongue
That to our Gramfers did belong.
Vor áll it is a little thing,
Receave it—Friendship's offering—
Ta pruv, if pruf I need renew,
That I esteem not lightly YOU.
THE FAREWELL.
A longful time zunz I this vust begun!
One little tootin moor and I a done.
"One little tootin moor!—Enough,
Vor once, we've had o' jitchy stuff;
Thy lidden to a done 'tis time!
Jitch words war niver zeed in rhyme!"
Vorgee me vor'm.—Goo little Reed!
Aforn tha vawk an vor me plead:
Thy wild nawtes, mâ-be, thâ ool hire
Zooner than zâter vrom a lyre.
Zâ that, thy mäester's pleas'd ta blaw 'em,
An haups in time thâ'll come ta knaw 'em;
An nif zaw be thâ'll please ta hear
A'll gee zum moor another year.
Ive nothin else jist now ta tell:
Goo, little Reed, an than forwel!