He war content, ner cared a pin,
An’ his good frien’ then lock’d him in.
T’ lair fra t’ hoos a larl piece stood,
Atween ’em grew a lahtle wood.
Aboot midneet, ur nigher morn,
Tweea rogues brak in ti steeal ther corn.
‘Eving a leet i’ lantern dark,
Tha seean ti winder fell ti wark;
An’ wishing tha’d a lad ti fill,
Young brush (wheea yet ’ed ligg’d quite still),