Soa aw'll contented jog along,—
It's th' wisest thing to do;
Aw've seldom need to use im tongue,
Tha tawks enuff for two.
Tha cooks mi vittals, maks mi bed,
An finds me clooas to don;
An if to-day aw worn't wed,
Aw'd say to thee,—"Come on."
Th' State o' th' Poll. A nop tickle illusion.
Sal Sanguine wor a bonny lass,
Ov that yo may be sewer;
Shoo had her trubbles tho', alas!
An th' biggest wor her yure.
Noa lass shoo knew as mich could spooart,
But oft shoo'd heeard it sed,
They thank'd ther stars they'd nowt o'th sooart,
It wor soa varry red.
Young fowk we know are seldom wise,—
Experience taiches wit;—
Some freeat 'coss th' color o' ther eyes
Is net as black as jet.
Wol others seem quite in a stew,
An can't tell whear to bide,
'Coss they've black een asteead o' blue,—
An twenty things beside.
Aw'm foorced to own Sal Sanguine's nop,
It had a ruddy cast;
An once shoo heeard a silly fop,
Say as he hurried past—
"There goes the girl I'd like to wed,—
'Twould grant my heart's desire;
In spring pull carrots from her head,—
In winter 'twould save fire."
Her cheeks wi' passion fairly burned,—
Shoo made a fearful vow,
To have to some fresh color turned
That yure upon her brow.
Shoo knew a chap 'at kept a shop,
An dyed all sooarts o' things;
An off shoo went withaat a stop,
As if shoo'd flown wi' wings.
Shoo fan him in, an tell'd her tale,
An tears stood in her ee;
"Why, Sal," he sed, "few chap's wod fail
If axt, to dye for thee.
What color could ta like it done?
Aw'll pleeas thi if aw can;
We'st ha some bother aw'll be bun,
But aw think aw know a plan."
"Why mak it black, lad, if tha can;
Black's sewer to suit me best;
Aw dooant care if its black an tan,—
Mi life's been sich a pest.
For tho' aw say 'at should'nt say't,
Ther's lots noa better bred,
Curl up ther nooas an cut me straight,
Becoss mi yure's soa red."
"Come on ageean to-morn at neet,
Aw'll have all ready, lass;
An if aw connot do it reight
Aw'll ax thi for noa brass."
Soa Sally skuttered hooam agean,
An into bed shoo popt,
Her fowk wor capt what it could meean,
For thear th' next day shoo stopt,
When th' evenin coom shoo up an dress'd,
An off shoo went to th' place;
Shoo seem'd like some poor soul possess'd,
Or one i' dire disgrace.
"Come here," sed th' chap, "all's ready nah,
It's stewin here i'th' pan;
Aw'll dip thi heead,—hold,—steady nah!
Just bide it if tha can."