At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand.
THE SHY MAN.
Ah! good Meäster Gwillet, that you mid ha' know'd,
Wer a-bred up at Coomb, an' went little abroad:
An' if he got in among strangers, he velt
His poor heart in a twitter, an' ready to melt;
Or if, by ill luck, in his rambles, he met
Wi' zome maïdens a-titt'rèn, he burn'd wi' a het,
That shot all drough the lim's o'n, an' left a cwold zweat,