Nah, aw'll have a quiet pipe, just for once,
Aw'm soa thankful to think 'at they're shut;
An its seldom a chap has a chonce;—
Whear the dickens has th' matches been put?
Well, nah then, aw've th' foir to leet,—
It will'nt tak long will'nt that,
An as sooin as its gotten burned breet,
Aw'il fry some puttates up i' fat.
Aw know aw'm a stunner to cook,—
Guys-hang-it! this kinlin's damp!
It does nowt but splutter an smook,
An this Hue's ov a varry poor stamp.
It's lukkin confaandedly black,—
Its as dismal an dull as mi hat;
Nah, Sal leets a foir in a crack,—
Aw will give her credit for that.
Ther's nowt nicer nor taties when fried,—
Aw could ait em to ivvery meal;
Aw can't get 'em, altho' aw've oft tried,—
Its some trouble aw know varry weel.
Th' foirs aght! an it stops aght for me!
Aw'il bother noa mooar wi' th' old freet!
Next time they set off for a spree,
They'st net leeav me th' foir to leet.
Aw dooant care mich for coffee an teah,
Aw can do wi' some milk an a cake;
An fried taties they ne'er seem to me,
Worth th' bother an stink 'at they make.
Whear's th' milk? Oh, its thear, an aw'm blest,
That cat has its heead reight i'th' pot;
S'cat! witta! A'a, hang it aw've missed!
If aw hav'nt aw owt to be shot!
An th' pooaker's flown cleean throo a pane;
It wor fooilish to throw it, that's true;
Them 'at keep sich like cats are insane,
For aw ne'er see noa gooid 'at they do.
Aw think aw'il walk aght for a while,
But, bless us! mi shooin isn't blackt!
Aw'm net used to be sarved i' this style,
An aw think at ther's somdy gooan crackt.