An' tumblers, wi' their streaks an' spots,
That all but tied theirzelves in knots.
An' then a conjurer burn'd off
Poll's han'kerchief so black's a snoff,
An' het en, wi' a single blow,
Right back ageän so white as snow.
An' after that, he fried a fat
Girt ceäke inzide o' my new hat;
An' yet, vor all he did en brown,
He didden even zweal the crown.