An' love his evenèn whiff o' smoke,
A-zittèn in his cheäir o' woak.
"Your cup," his daughter cried;
"Vill'd up," his wife replied;
"Aye, aye; a drap avore my nap,"
Cried worthy Bloom the miller.
When Lon'on vok did meäke a show
O' their girt glassen house woone year,
An' people went, bwoth high an' low,
To zee the zight, vrom vur an' near,