The red painted tavern, whare years ago, the townsfolks gathered in, on Saturday nights, to wet their whistles, and brag on their bush beans, and other gardin sass, iz gone, and departed.
And Roger Williams, where iz he?
Roger waz the village blacksmith, and could out argy the parson, on a bit ov skripture, hiz anvil iz still, and he now livs in his new house, with the rest of the old people, just back ov the little one story church.
Whare iz Square Watkins, the justiss of the peace? he knu law, and the stattews, just az eazy az he did the 10 commands, hiz little old offiss, for 50 years unpainted, iz now no more.
No one ov hiz name iz left, he and Roger the blacksmith, lay side by side, just back ov the little one story church, az still az deth kan make them.
Sue Dunham, the crazy woman, I don’t see her! Poor Sue, she waz not alwus welkum, but no one turned her away, a night’s lodgeing no one refused, she was even butiful still, when i waz a boy, but i shrunk from the flash ov her misterious eye.
The old folks knu her story, it waz that sad one, so often told, and so soon forgotten, a mans perfidy.
Sue Dunham raves no more, but in the farther korner, just 470 bak ov the little one story church, whare the ded lay the thikest, lays Sue.
A weep in willow, sown bi aksident, hangs over her grave, and on her hed stone, theze words, almost knawed away bi time, kan be made out, “Sue Dunham, aged 59.”