Till now our childhood's pleäces there,
Be gaÿ wi' other feäces there,
An' we ourselves do vollow on
Our own vorelivers dead an' gone.
THE WINDOW FREÄM'D WI' STWONE.
When Pentridge House wer still the nest
O' souls that now ha' better rest,
Avore the viër burnt to ground
His beams an' walls, that then wer sound,