An' fling en on ageän the back,
An' zee the outside door is vast,—
The win' do blow a cwoldish blast.
Come, so's! come, pull your chairs in roun'
Avore the vire; an' let's zit down,
An' keep up Martin's-tide, vor I
Shall keep it up till I do die.
'Twer Martinmas, and ouer feäir,
When Jeäne an' I, a happy peäir,
Vu'st walk'd, a-keepèn up the tide,