Simon.
Wha, Johnny, stop, thoo’s oot o’ breeath.
Bud hoo cam sha ti git her death?
Johnny.
Whya, ho’d a bit, an’ thoo s’all heear.
I’ t’ next pleeace, mun, her breasts war bare;
Her naaked airms, teea, sha mun show,
E’en when t’ cau’d bitter wind did blaw.
Her clock’d hose, ez ower t’ street
Sha tripp’d, sha show’d, a sham’ful seet.