An' I boärt 'er at Kettleby Feär, I did, two yeär coom Cannelmas Daäy.
Araminta her neäme is—but I carls 'er "Minty," fur shoärt,
She weänt naw moor nor a goslin' o' coorse, what taïme she wur boärt:
But a' knawed she'd turn oot a rare 'un, to jedge by her weëight an' feäl,
An' I reckoned to fat her by Michaelmas Eve, ef I buzzled 'er oop wi meäl,
Mayhappen ya'll ardly beleäve ma—but she unnerstood fra' the fust,
What wur hexpected of 'er, (with a senile chuckle,) I thowt that burr'd 'ud ha' bust!
Cram her, a' did! but she swuckered it doon, wi' niver a weästed drop,
Fur she tuk that hinterest in it as she'd ruther ha' choäked nor stop!
An' she'd foller wheeriver a went—till I hedn't naw peäce fur t' foäk,