I have a cot o' Cob-wâll
Roun which tha ivy clims;
My Pally at tha night-vâll
Er crappin viër trims.
A comin vrom tha plow-veel
I zee tha blankers rise,
Wi' blue smauk cloudy curlin,
An whivering up tha skies.
When tha winter wines be crousty,
An snaws dreav vast along,
I hurry whim--tha door tine,
An cheer er wi' a zong.
When spreng, adresst in tutties,
Câlls âll tha birds abroad;
An wrans an robin-riddicks,
Tell âll the cares o' God,
I zit bezides my cot-door
After my work is done,
While Pally, bizzy knittin,
Looks at tha zottin zun.
When zummertime is passin,
An narras dâs be vine,
I drenk tha sporklin cider,
An wish naw wither wine.
How zweet tha smill o' clawver,
How zweet tha smill o' hâ;
How zweet is haulsom labour, ^
Bit zweeter Pall than thâ.
An who d'ye thenk I envy?--
Tha nawbles o' tha land?
Thâ can't be moor than happy,
An that is Teddy Band.
Mister Ginnins;
I a red thic ballet o' yourn called Fanny Fear, an, zim ta I,
there's naw moril to it. Nif zaw be you da thenk zo well o't, I'll
gee one.
I dwont want to frunt any ov the gennelmen o' tha country, bit I
âlways a thawt it desperd odd, that dogs should be keept in a
kannel, and keept a hungered too, zaw that thâ mid be moor eager
to hunt thic poor little theng câlled a hare. I dwon' naw, bit I
da thenk, nif I war a gennelman, that I'd vine better spoort than
huntin; bezides, zim ta I 'tis desperd wicked to hunt animals vor
one's spoort. Now, jitch a horrid blanscue as what happened at
Shapick, niver could a bin but vor tha hungry houns. I haup that
gennelmen ool thenk o't oten; an when thâ da hire tha yell o' tha
houns thâ'll not vorgit Fanny Fear; a-mâ-be thâ mid be zummet tha
wiser an better vor't; I'm shower jitch a storry desarves ta be
remimbered. This is the moril.