On a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi' het,
Wi' his heäir all a-wetted around
His young feäce, wi' the big drops o' zweat;
In his little left palm he'd a-zet,
Wi' his right hand, his vore-vinger's tip,
As for zome'hat he woulden vorget,—
Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.
Then they took en in hwome to his bed,
An' he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore,
Vor the curls on his sleek little head