Nan laugh’d—t’church we gat without ’im;
The greet crowd, becrike, how aw hew’d ’em!
Smasht a keel-bully roar’d,
Clear the road! Whilk’s my lord?
Owse se high as the noble Bob Cranky.
Aw lup up an’ catch’d just a short gliff
O’ lord trial, the trumpets, and sheriff,
Wi’ the little bit mannies,
Se fine and se canny,
Ods heft! what a seet for Bob Cranky.