At the he'th where my own logs do burn,
An' let anger's wild vist never swing
In where I have a door on his durn;
Vor I'll be a happier man,
While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.
To zit down by the vier at night,
Is my jaÿ—vor I woon't call it pride,—
Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight,
An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide.
Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll,