Ther’s sum can nowther sit nor lig,
Aboot t’election they’re seea big,
They say they’re Britons, rump an’ rig,
Bud whea can trist ’em,
When, frev a Toory tiv a Whig,
A glass ’ll twist ’em?
Ther’s others rayther shoat o’ seeght,
Fort’ seeak o’ twea’r three sovrens breeght,
Gies in ther vooat, an’ thinks it reeght,
Te t’ Roman stranger;
Then others pleeaster up i’t’ street,
“The Church in danger!”
An’ seea they yan prevent another,
Wi’ drinking, politics, an’ bother,
Thof t’ best ov all can’t seeave his bruther,
Nor ransom him;
That spark ’at’s left they try te smuther,
Wi’ stratigem.
As for thooase Methodeys, they say,
They mack seea varry mitch te deea,
Ther’s sum wad deea nowght else bud pray
An’ reead, an’ preeach,
Till they git all meead Methodeys,
Within ther reeach.
Bud ther wur neean o’ this amaze,
I’ neean ov oor foore elder’s days,
Thof ther gud deeds an’ honest prayers,
An’ pious reeadins,
Hez beean, neea doot, as gud as theers,
Wiv all ther meetins.
Te see ’em doon o’ beeath ther knees,
I’ kirk, or field, or under trees,
Wi’ brokken hearts an’ teearful ees,
Wur quite uncommon;
An’ if they hevn’t deed i’ t’ faith,
Then what’s cum’d on ’em.
Te preeach ’em all geean doon te hell,
It is a dreeadful teeal te tell,
An’ we mun wiv oor kindred dwell,
Seea we, like them,
Will on life’s ooacean tak oor chance,
An’ sink or swim.
They mack sike wark amang yoong fooaks,
They breeak up all oor jovial spooarts,
They thin oor ranks, an’ storm oor pooarts
Wi’ strange confusion;
Ther’s nowght bud we mun cry’t all doon,
A mere delusion.
Bud us ’at seldum hev attended,
They deeant git us seea eeasy mended,
An awd stiff yack ’s nut eeasy bended,
That’s varry true;
Bud thooase ’at winnut bend yoo see,
Mun breeak i’ noo.
They trifle on fra’ yeear te yeear,
Like watches woorn oot ov repair,
Thof if they wad, its varry cleear,
They mud be mended;
Bud they perceeave neea danger neear,
Till life is ended.