Of pounds we’ll bet thee vive.
The stranger covers the bets, pulls out a piece of wood, touches a
spring, and shows a watch inside:--
‘Bout vifty pounds thaay varmers lost,
Which in course thaay hed to paay,
And the bwoys run arter’em down the street,
Wi’ “Gee us the time O’ daay.”
Wi’ my tol-de-rol, etc.
I did not, however, concur in the award myself. I should have given the
prize for a love-song, a sort of rustic rendering of “Phyllis is my only
Joy,” the chorus of which ran:--