[North Wilts.]
Our Jess wur cwoortin' Polly:
Her gwoed an' kitched th' plague.
'Zo cwoortin's wusser'n volly,'
Zes Jess, 'an' I'll renage!'
Zes Polly, 'Dang thee buttons!
Thee gwo an' blaw thee's nause!
Zo zhure as zhip be muttons,
Th' dain be in thee's claus!'
Martal aveard wur Jesse,
An' tuk an' hiked it whoam.
'Bin in my claus 'tes,' zes 'e,
'I'll make a bonvire aw'm!'
Zo off a zoon tuk aal claus,
Vrom sankers up ta zmock,
Vur weskit, cwoat an' smaal-claus,
An' putt 'em in a cock.
Jess wur a vool, but Lawksies!
Thur's zights aw'm wusser'n _he_!
It minds I o' Guy Vawks's,
Thuck vire o' he's to zee!
'Twur down in veyther's archet,
A gashly smother 'twur,
Vor when you comes to scarch it,
Thur be a zim to vur!
But 'twern't no zart o' use on't,
A zoon beginned to sneeze--
An' when I hires moor news on't,
I'll tell 'ee how a be's!