An' I don't shatter haÿ, an' meäke
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reäke.
I'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows
Lik' hedges up above my nose,
Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
Poor Jeäne a-beät an' left behind;
Vor she would sooner drop down dead.
Than let the pitchers get a-head.
'Tis merry at the rick to zee
How picks do wag, an' haÿ do vlee.