An' when he do whissel or hum,
'Ithout thinkèn o' what he's a-doèn,
He'll beät his own lags vor a drum,
An' bob his gaÿ head to the tuèn;
An' then you mid zee, 'etween whiles,
His feäce all alive wi' his smiles,
An' his gaÿ-breathèn bozom do rise,
An' his me'th do sheen out ov his eyes:
An' at last to have praïse or have bleäme,
Is the seäme to Gammony Gaÿ.