Old Nick may have his run o'th' fold
Wol he's off galavantin.
Aw dooant say 'at yo're sich a one,
Yo seem a gradely sooart;
But if yo' th' Gospel armour don,
Yo'll find it isn't spooart.
Dooant sell yor heavenly birthright,
For a mess ov worldly pottage:
But spend less time i'th' squire's hall
An moor i'th' poor man's cottage.