Theer’s moor sense i’ one o’ ‘is legs nor in all thy braäins.
Me an’ thy muther, Sammy, ‘as beän a-talkin’ o’ thee;
Thou’s beän talkin’ to muther, an’ she beän a tellin’ it me.
Thou’ll not marry for munny—thou’s sweet upo’ parson’s lass—
Noä—thou’ll marry for luvv—an’ we boäth on us thinks tha an ass.
Seeä’d her todaäy goä by—Saäint’s daäy—they was ringing the bells.
She’s a beauty thou thinks—an’ soä is scoors o’ gells,
Them as ‘as munny an’ all—wot’s a beauty?—the flower as blaws.
But proputty, proputty sticks, an’ proputty, proputty graws.
Doänt’t be stunt: taäke time: I knaws what maäkes tha sa mad.