Buttermilk astid o’ beer,
I’m sartin I shanna stop here.
(South Cheshire.)
Come aw ye buttermilk sellers that have buttermilk to sell,
Ah’d have ye give good mizzer, and scrub yo’r vessels well;
For there’s a day o’ reckoning, an hell will have its share,
An’ the devil will have you nappers as Mossy ketched his mare.
“Go fiddle for shives (slices of food)
Amongst old wives.”
Said in contempt.