“Hooray!” said Harry, “summut as he larned!”
“Bravo!” said the Boardman, “summut as he larned?”
“Here’s at un,” said Joe.
And then with a mighty provincialism he repeated without a break:—
DR. BRIMSTONE’S SERMON,
as put into verse by gaffer ditcher.
I bin to Church, I ha’, my boy,
And now conwarted be;
The last time I wur ever there
War eighteen farty-three!
And ’ow I knows it is as this,
I didn’t goo to pray,
Nor ’ear the Word, but went becorse
It wur my weddin day!
Zounds! wot a blessed sarmon twur
I ’eeard the Sabbath morn;
’Ow I a woful sinner wur
Or ever I wur born.
You sees them wilful igorant pigs
In mud a wollorin;
Well, like them pigs, but ten times wus,
We wollers in our sin.
We’re coated o’er wi’ sinful mud,—
A dreadful sight we be;
And yet we doant despise ourselves—
For why?—We doant zee!