Chapter 5

Wor'ra. _s_. A small round moveable nut or pinion, with grooves in it, and having a hole in its centre, through which the end of a round stick or _spill_ may be thrust. The _spill and worra_ are attached to the common spinning-wheel, which, with those and the _turn-string_, form the apparatus for spinning wool, &c. Most probably this word, as well as whir'on, is used for _whir_, to turn round rapidly with a noise.

Wrassly. Wrestle.

To Wride. _v. n._ To spread abroad; to expand.

Wriggle. _s._ Any narrow, sinuous hole.

Wrine. _s._ A mark occasioned by wringing cloth, or by folding it in an irregular manner.

Wring, _s._ A. Press. A _cyder-wring_, a cyder-press.

To Wrumple. _v. a._ To discompose: to rumple.

Wrumple. _s._ A rumple.

Wust. _adj._ Worst.

Y.

Yack'er. _s._ An acre.

Yal. _s._ Ale.

Yaller. _adj._ Yellow.

Yal'house. _s._ An ale-house.

Yap'ern. _s._ An apron.

Yarly. _adj._ Early.

Yarm. _s._ Arm.

Yarth. _s._ Earth.

Yel. _s._ An eel.

Yel-spear. _s._ An instrument for catching eels.

Yes. _s._ An earthworm.

Yezy. _adj._ Easy.

Yokes. _s. pl._ Hiccups.

Yourn. _pron._ Yours.

Z.

See the observations which precede the letter S, relative to the change of that letter to Z.

Za. _adv._ So.

Zâ. _v._ Say.

Zât. _adj._ Soft.

Za'tenfare. _adj._ Softish: applied to the intellect_s._

To Zam. _v. a._ To heat for some time over the fire, but not to boil.

Zam'zod, Zam'zodden. _adj._ Any thing heated for a long time time in a low heat so as to be in part spoiled, is said to be zamzodden.

Conjecture, in etymology, may be always busy. It is not improbable that this word is a compound of _semi_, Latin, half; and to _seethe_, to boil: so that Zamzodden will then mean, literally, _half-boiled_.

Zand. _s._ Sand.

Zandy. _adj._ Sandy.

Zand-tot. _s._ A sand-hill.

To Zee. _v. a. pret._ and _part. Zid, Zeed._ To see.

Zeeäd. _s._ Seed. Zeeäd-lip. _See_ SEED-LIP.

Zel. _pron._ Self.

Zen'vy. _s._ Wild mustard.

The true etymology will be seen at once in _sénevé_, French, from _sinapi_, Latin, contracted and corrupted into _Zenvy_, Somersetian.

Zil'ker. _See_ SILKER.

Zim, Zim'd. _v._ Seem, seemed.

Zitch. _adj._ Such.

Zooäp. _s._ Soap.

Zog. _s._ Soft, boggy land; moist land.

Zog'gy. _adj._ Boggy; wet.

Zoon'er. _adv._ Rather.

To Zound, To Zoun'dy. _v. n._ To swoon.

To Zuf'fy. _v. n._ See TO SUFFY.

Zug'gers! _'_ This is a word, like others of the same class, the precise meaning of which it is not easy to define. I dare say it is a composition of two, or more words, greatly corrupted in pronunciation.

Zull. _s._ The instrument used for ploughing land; a plough.

Zum. _pron._ Some.

Zum'met. _pron._ Somewhat; something.

Zunz. _adv._ Since.

To Zwail. _v. n._ To move about with the arms extended, and up and down.

To Zwang. _v. n._ and _v. n._ To swing; to move to and fro.

Zwang. _s._ A swing.

To Zwell. _v. a._ To swell; to swallow. See TO SWELL.

Zwird. _s._ Sword.

Zwod'der. _s._ A drowsy and stupid state of body or mind.

Derived, most probably, from _sudor_, Latin, a sweat.

POEMS AND OTHER PIECES EXEMPLIFYING THE DIALECT OF THE

County of Somersetshire.

Notwithstanding the Author has endeavoured, in the Observations on the Dialects of the West, and in The Glossary, to obviate the difficulties under which strangers to the dialect of Somersetshire may, very possibly, labour in the perusal of the following Poems, it may be, perhaps, useful here to remind the reader, that many mere inversions of sound, and differences in pronunciation, are not noted in the Glossary. That it did not appear necessary to explain such words as_ wine, _wind;_ zâ, _say;_ qut, _coat;_ bwile, _boil_; hoss, _horse;_ hirches, _riches; and many others, which it is presumed the_ context, _the_ Observations, _or the_ Glossary, _will sufficiently explain. The Author, therefore, trusts, that by a careful attention to these, the reader will soon become_ au fait _at the interpretation of these West-country_ LIDDENS.

GOOD BWYE TA THEE COT!

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha dâs o' my childhood Glaw'd bright as tha zun in a mornin o' mâ; When tha dumbledores hummin, craup out o' tha cobwâll, An' shakin ther whings, thâ vleed vooäth an' awâ. [Footnote: The humble-bee, _bombilius major_, or _dumbledore_, makes holes very commonly in mud walls, in which it deposits a kind of farina: in this bee will be found, on dissection, a considerable portion of honey, although it never deposits any.]

Good bwye ta the Cot!--on thy drashel, a-mâ-be, I niver naw moor sholl my voot again zet; Tha jessamy awver thy porch zweetly bloomin, Whauriver I goo, I sholl niver vorget.

Tha rawzes, tha lillies, that blaw in tha borders-- The gilawfers, too, that I us'd ta behawld-- Tha trees, wi' tha honeyzucks ranglin âll awver, I âlways sholl think o' nif I shood be awld.

Tha tutties that oten I pick'd on a zunday, And stickt in my qut--thâ war thawted za fine: Aw how sholl I tell o'm--vor âll pirty maidens When I pass'd 'em look'd back--ther smill rawze on tha wine.

Good bwye ta thee Ash! which my Father beforne me, A planted, wi' pleasure, tha dâ I was born; Zâ, oolt thou drap a tear when I cease to behawld thee, An wander awâ droo tha wordle vorlorn.

Good bwye ta thee Tree! an thy cawld shade in zummer; Thy apples, aw who ool be lotted ta shake? When tha wine, mangst thy boughs sifes at Milemas in sorrow, Zâ oolt thou sife for me, or one wild wish awake?

Good bwye ye dun Elves! who, on whings made o'leather, Still roun my poorch whiver an' whiver at night; Aw mâ naw hord-horted, unveelin disturber, Destrây your snug nests, an your plâ by moonlight.

Good bwye ta thee Bower!--ta thy moss an thy ivy-- To tha flowers that aroun thee all blossomin graw; When I'm gwon, oolt thou grieve?--bit 'tis foolish to ax it; What is ther that's shower in this wordle belaw?

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur my mother za thoughtvul, As zumtimes she war droo er care vor us âll, Er lessins wi' kindness, wi' tenderness gid us; An ax'd, war she dead, what ood us bevâll.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! whaur tha nightingale's music, In tha midnight o' Mâ-time, rawze loud on the ear; Whaur tha colley awâk'd, wi' tha zun, an a zingin A went, wi' tha dirsh, in a voice vull and clear.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! I must goo ta tha city. Whaur, I'm tawld, that the smawk makes it dork at noon dâ; Bit nif it is true, I'm afeard that I âlways And iver sholl thenk on tha cot thatch'd wi' strâ.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! there is One that râins awver, An wâtches tha wordle, wi' wisdom divine; Than why shood I mang, wi' tha many, my ma-bes; Bin there's readship in Him, an to him I resign.

Good bwye ta thee Cot! shood I niver behauld thee Again; still I thank thee vor âll that is past! Thy friendly ruf shelter'd--while mother wâtch'd awver. An haw'd vor my comfort vrom vust unto last.

Good bwye ta thee Cot; vor the time mâ be longful Beforn I on thy drashall again zet my eye; Thy tutties ool blossom, an daver an blossom Again and again--zaw good bwye, an good bwye!

FANNY FEAR

The melancholy incident related in the following story, actually occurred a few years ago at Shapwick.

Good Gennel-vawk! an if you please To lissen to my storry, A mâ-be 'tis a jitch a one, Ool make ye zummet zorry.

'Tis not a hoozay tale of grief, A put wi' ort together, That where you cry, or where you laugh, Da matter not a veather;

Bit 'tis a tale vor sartin true, Wi' readship be it spawken; I knaw it all, begummers! well, By tale, eese, an by tawken.

The maid's right name war FANNY FEAR, A tidy body lookin; An she cood brew, and she cood bake, An dumplins bwile, and skimmer cake; An all the like o' cookin.

Upon a Zunday âternoon, Beforne the door a stanin, To zee er chubby cheaks za hird, An whitist lilies roun 'em spird, A damas rawze her han in,

Ood do your hort good; an er eyes, Dork, vull, an bright, an sporklin; Tha country lads could not goo by, Bit look thâ must--she iver shy, Ood blish--tha timid lorklin!

Her dame war to her desperd kind; She knaw'd er well dezarvin: She gid her good advice an claws, At which she niver toss'd her naws, As zum ool, thawf pon starvin.

She oten yarly upp'd to goo A milkin o' tha dairy; The meads ring'd loudly wi' er zong; Aw how she birshed the grass along, As lissom as a vairy!

She war as happy as a prince; Naw princess moor o' pleasure When well-at-eased cood iver veel; She ly'd her head upon her peel, An vound athin a treasure.

There war a dessent comly youth, Who took'd to her a likin; An when a don'd in zunday claws, You'd thenk en zummet I suppaws, A look'd so desperd strikin.

His vace war like a zummer dâ, When âll the birds be zingin; Smiles an good nature dimplin stood, An moor besides, an âll za good, Much pleasant promise bringin.

Now Jan war sawber, and afeard Nif he in haste shood morry, That he mid long repent thereof; An zo a thwart 'twar best not, thawf To stâ mid make en zorry.

Jan oten pâss'd the happy door, There Fanny stood a scrubbin; An Fanny hired hiz pleasant voice, An thawt--"An if she had er choice!" An veel'd athin a drubbin.

Bit Jan did'n hulder long iz thawts; Vor thorough iv'ry cranny, Hirn'd of iz Lort tha warm hird tide; An a cood na moor iz veelins bide, Bit tell 'em must to Fanny.

To Fanny, than, one Whitsun eve, A tawld er how a lov'd er; Naw dove, a zed to er cood be Moor faithvul than to her ood he; His hort had long appruv'd er.

Wi' timourous blishin, Fanny zed, "A maid mist not believe ye; Vor men ool tell ther lovin tale, And awver seely maids prevail-- Bit I dwont like ta grieve ye:

Vor nif za be you now zâ true-- That you've for I a fancy: (Aw Jan! I dwont veel desperd well, An what's tha câze, I cannot tell), You'll zâ na moor to Nancy."

Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin; Booäth still liv'd in their places; Zometimes thâ met bezides tha stile; Wi' pleasant look an tender smile Gaz'd in each wither's faces.

In spreng-time oten on tha nap Ood Jan and Fanny linger; An when war vooäs'd to zâ "good bwye," Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye, While haup ood pwint er vinger.

Zo pass'd tha dâs--tha moons awâ, An haup still whiver'd nigh; Nif Fanny's dreams high pleasures vill, Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still, An oten too the zigh.

Bit still Jan had not got wherewi' To venter eet to morry; Alas-a-dâ! when poor vawk love, How much restraint how many pruv; How zick zum an how zorry.

Aw you who live in houzen grate, An wherewi' much possessin, You knaw not, mâ-be, care not you, What pangs jitch tender horts pursue, How grate nor how distressin.

Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years, An now iz haups da brighten: A gennelman of high degree Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be; His Fanny's hort da lighten!

"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live, Nex zummer thee bist mine; Sir John ool gee me wauges good, Amâ-be too zum viër ood!" His Fan's dork eyes did shine.

"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried, "I iver sholl delight; Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride-- My lidden dâ an night."

A took er gently in iz orms An kiss'd er za zweetly too; His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak, Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak, It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break-- She cood hordly thenk it true.

To zee our hunsman goo abroad, His houns behind en volly; His tossel'd cap--his whip's smort smack, His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack, His whissle, horn, an holler, back! Ood cure âll malancholy.

It happ'd on a dork an wintry night, Tha stormy wine a blawin; Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell; Jitch as zum vawk zâ da death vaurtell, The cattle loud war lawin.

Tha hunsman wâkid an down a went; A thawt ta keep 'em quiet; A niver stopped izzel ta dress, Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness A voun a dirdful riot.

Bit âll thic night a did not come back; All night tha dogs did raur; In tha mornin thâ look'd on tha kannel stwons An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons, The vlesh âll vrom 'em a taur.

His head war left--the head o' Jan Who lov'd hiz Fanny za well; An a bizzy gossip, as gossips be Who've work o' ther awn bit vrom it vlee, To Fanny went ta tell.

She hirn'd, she vleed ta meet tha man Who corr'd er dear Jan's head: An when she zeed en âll blood an gaur, She drapp'd down speechless jist avaur, As thauf she had bin dead.

Poor Fanny com'd ta erzel again, Bit her senses left her vor iver! An all she zed, ba dâ or night-- Vor sleep it left her eye-lids quite-- War, "why did he goo in the cawld ta shiver?-- Niver, O Jan! sholl I zee the, niver!"

[Footnote: See a letter by Edward Band, on this subject, in the prose pieces.]

JERRRY NUTTY; OR THE MAN OF MORK.

Awa wi' âll yer tales o' grief, An dismal storry writin;

A mâ-be zumthin I mâ zing Ool be as much delightin.

Zumtime agoo, bevaur tha moors War tin'd in, lived at Mork One JERRY NUTTY--spry a war; A upp'd avaur the lork.

Iz vather in a little cot Liv'd, auver-right tha moor, An thaw a kipt a vlock o' geese, A war a thoughted poor.

A niver teach'd tha cris-cross-lain Ta any of his bways, An Jerry, mangst the rest o'm, did Not much appruv his ways.

Vor Jerry zumtimes went ta church Ta hire tha Pâson preach, An thawt what pity that ta read Izzel a cood'n teach.

Vor than, a zunday âternoon, Tha Bible, or good book Would be companion vit vor'm âll Who choos'd therein ta look.

Bit Jerry than tha naise o' geese Bit little moor could hire;

An dâly goose-aggs ta pick up Droo-out tha moor did tire.

A ôten look'd upon tha hills An stickle mountains roun, An wished izzel upon their taps: What zights a ood be bóun!

Bit what did mooäst iz fancy strick War Glassenberry Torr: A âlways zeed it when tha zun Gleam'd wi' tha mornin stor.

O' Well's grate church a ôten hired, Iz fancy war awake; An zaw a thawt that zoon a ood A journey ta it make.

An Glassenberry's Torr, an Thorn The hawly blowth of which A hired from one and tother too; Tha like war never jitch!

Bit moor o' this I need not zâ, Vor off went Jerry Nutty, In hiz right hon a wâkin stick, An in hiz qut a tutty.

Now, lock-y-zee! in whimly dress Trudg'd chearful Jerry on;

Bit on tha moor not vur a went-- A made a zudden ston.

Which wâ ta goo a cood not thenk, Vor there war many a wâ; A put upright iz walking stick; A vâll'd ta tha zon o' dâ.

Ta tha suthard than iz wâ a took Athert tha turfy moors, An zoon o' blissom Cuzziton, [Footnote: Cossington.] A pass'd tha cottage doors.

Tha maidens o' tha cottages, Not us'd strange vawk to zee, Com'd vooäth and stood avaur tha door; Jer wonder'd what cood be.

Zum smil'd, zum whecker'd, zum o'm blish'd. "Od dang it!" Jerry zed, "What do tha think that I be like?" An nodded to 'm iz head.

"Which is tha wâ to Glassenberry? I've hired tha hawly thorn War zet there by zum hawly hons Zoon âter Christ war born;

An I've a mine ta zee it too, An o' tha blowth ta take." "An how can you, a seely man, Jitch seely journey make?

"What! dwont ye knaw that now about It is the midst o' June? Tha hawly thorn at Kirsmas blaws-- You be zix months too zoon.

Goo whim again, yea gâwky! goo!" Zaw zed a damsel vair As dewy mornin late in Mâ; An Jerry wide did stare.

"Lord Miss!" zed he, "I niver thawt, O' Kirsmas!--while I've shoes, To goo back now I be zet out, Is what I sholl not choose.

I'll zee the Torr an hawly thorn, An Glassenberry too; An, nif you'll put me in tha wâ, I'll gee grate thanks ta you."

Goo droo thic veel an up thic lane, An take tha lift hon path, Than droo Miss Crossman's backzid strait, Ool bring ye up ta Wrath.

Now mine, whaur you do turn again At varmer Veal's long yacker, Clooäse whaur Jan Lide, tha cobler, lives Who makes tha best o' tacker;

You mist turn short behine tha house An goo right droo tha shord, An than you'll pass a zummer lodge, A builded by tha lord.

Tha turnpick than is jist belaw, An Cock-hill strait avaur ye." Za Jerry doff'd his hat an bow'd, An thank'd er vor er storry.

Bit moor o' this I need not zâ, Vor off went Jerry Nutty; In his right hand a wâkin stick, An in hiz qut a tutty.

Bit I vorgot to zâ that Jer A zatchel wi' en took To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;-- Iz drink war o' tha brook.

Za when a got upon Cock-hill Upon a linch a zawt; The zun had climmer'd up tha sky; A voun it very hot.

An, as iz stomick war za good, A made a horty meal; An werry war wi' wâkin, zaw A sleepid zoon did veel.

That blessed power o' bâmy sleep, Which auver ivery sense Da wi' wild whiverin whings extend A happy influence;

Now auver Jerry Nutty drow'd Er lissom mantle wide; An down a drapp'd in zweetest zleep, Iz zatchel by iz zide.

Not all tha nasty stouts could wâke En vrom iz happy zleep, Nor emmets thick, nor vlies that buz, An on iz hons da creep.

Naw dreams a had; or nif a had Mooäst pleasant dreams war thâ: O' geese an goose-aggs, ducks and jitch; Or Mally, vur awâ,

Zum gennelmen war dreavin by In a gilded cawch za gâ; Thâ zeed en lyin down asleep; Thâ bid the cawchman stâ.

Thâ bâll'd thâ hoop'd--a niver wâk'd; Naw houzen there war handy; Zed one o'm, "Nif you like, my bways, "We'll ha a little randy!"

"Jist put en zâtly in tha cawch An dreav en ta Bejwâter; An as we âll can't g'in wi'n here, I'll come mysel zoon âter."

Twar done at once: vor norn o'm car'd A strâ vor wine or weather; Than gently rawl'd the cawch along, As zât as any veather.

Bit Jerry snaur'd za loud, tha naise Tha gennelmen did gally; Thâ'd hâf a mind ta turn en out; A war dreamin o' his Mally!

It war the morkit dâ as rawl'd Tha cawch athin Bejwâter; Thâ drauv tip ta the Crown-Inn door, Ther Mâ-game man com'd âter.

"Here Maester Wâter! Lock-y-zee! A-mâ-be you mid thenk Thic mon a snauren in tha cawch Is auvercome wi' drenk.

Bit 'tis not not jitchy theng we knaw; A is a cunjerin mon, Vor on Cock-hill we vound en ly'd Iz stick stif in his hon.

Iz vace war cover'd thick wi' vlies An bloody stouts a plenty; Nif he'd o pumple voot bezide, An a brumstick vor'n to zit ascride, O' wizards a mid be thawt tha pride, Amangst a kit o' twenty."

"Lord zur! an why d'ye bring en here To gally âll tha people? Why zuggers! nif we frunt en than, He'll auver-dro tha steeple.

I bag ye, zur, to take en vooäth; There! how iz teeth da chatter; Lawk zur! vor Christ--look there again! A'll witchify Bejwâter!"

Tha gennelman stood by an smiled To zee tha bussle risin: Yor zoon, droo-out tha morkit wide Tha news wor gwon saprisin.

An round about tha cawch thâ dring'd-- Tha countryman and townsman; An young an awld, an man an maid-- Wi' now an tan, an here an there, Amang tha crowd to gape an stare, A doctor and a gownsman.

Jitch naise an bother wâkid zoon Poor hormless Jerry Nutty, A look'd astunn'd;--a cood'n speak! An daver'd war iz tutty.

A niver in his life avaur 'ad been athin Bejwâter; A thawt, an if a war alive, That zummet war tha matter.

Tha houzen cling'd together zaw! Tha gennelmen an ladies! Tha blacksmith's, brazier's hammers too! An smauk whauriver trade is.

Bit how a com'd athin a cawch A war amaz'd at thenkin; A thawt, vor sartin, a must be A auvercome wi' drenkin.

Thâ ax'd en nif a'd please to g'out An ta tha yalhouse g'in; Bit thâ zo clooäse about en dring'd A cood'n goo athin.

Ta g'under 'em or g'auver 'em A try'd booâth grate and smâll; Bit g'under, g'auver, g'in, or g'out, A cood'n than at âll.

"Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!" zed he, I'm come to Glassenberry To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn; What makes ye look za merry?"

"Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw, Theäse town is câll'd Bejwâter!" Cried out a whipper-snapper man: Thâ all bust out in lâughter.

"I be'nt a wizard, zur!" a zed; "Bit I'm a little titch'd; [Footnote: Touched.] "Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk I'm, zure anow, bewitch'd!"

Thaw Jerry war, vor âll tha wordle, Like very zel o' quiet, A veel'd iz blood ta bwile athin At jitchy zort o' riot;

Za out a jump'd amangst 'em âll! A made a desperd bussle; Zum hirn'd awâ--zum made a ston; Wi' zum a had a tussle.

Iz stick now sar'd 'em justice good; It war a tough groun ash; Upon ther heads a plâ'd awâ, An round about did drash.

Thâ belg'd, thâ raur'd, thâ scamper'd âll. A zoon voun rum ta stoory; A thawt a'd be reveng'd at once, Athout a judge or jury.

An, thaw a brawk navy-body's bwons, A gid zum bloody nawzes; Tha pirty maids war fainty too; Hirn'd vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.

Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex I goo to Glassenbery, Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi' I, Nor at my cost be merry.

Zaw, havin clear'd izzel a wâ. Right whim went Jerry Nutty; A flourished roun iz wâkin stick; An vleng'd awâ iz tutty.

A LEGEND OF GLASTONBURY.

[First Printed in "Graphic Illustrator, p. 124.]

I cannot do better than introduce here "_A Legend of Glastonbury_," made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glastonbury, which had formerly one of the richest Abbeys in England; the ruins are still attractive.

Who hath not hir'd o' _Avalon?_ [Footnote: "The Isle of ancient Avelon."--Drayton.] 'Twar talked o' much an long agon,-- Tha wonders o' tha _Holy Thorn_, Tha "wich, zoon âter Christ war born, Here a planted war by _Arimathé_, Thic Joseph that com'd auver sea, An planted Kirstianity. Thâ zâ that whun a landed vust, (Zich plazen war in God's own trust) A stuck iz staff into tha groun An auver iz shoulder lookin roun, Whatever mid iz lot bevâll, A cried aloud "_Now, weary all_!" Tha staff het budded an het grew, An at Kirsmas bloom'd tha whol dâ droo. An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright, But best thâ zâ at dork midnight, A pruf o' this nif pruf you will. Iz voun in tha name o' _Weary-all-hill!_ Let tell _Pumparles_ or lazy _Brue_. That what iz tauld iz vor sartin true!

["The story of the Holy Thorn was a long time credited by the vulgar and credulous. There is a species of White Thorn which blossoms about Christmas; it is well known to naturalists so as to excite no surprise."]

MR. GUY.

The incident on which this story is founded, occurred in the early part of the last century; hence the allusion to making a _will_ before making a journey to the metropolis.

Mr. Guywar a gennelman O' Huntspill, well knawn As a grazier, a hirch one, Wi' lons o' hiz awn.

A ôten went ta Lunnun Hiz cattle vor ta zill; All tha horses that a rawd Niver minded hadge or hill.

A war afeard o' naw one; A niver made hiz will, Like wither vawk, avaur a went His cattle vor ta zill.

One time a'd bin ta Lunnun An zawld iz cattle well; A brought awâ a power o' gawld, As I've a hired tell.

As late at night a rawd along All droo a unket ood, A ooman rawze vrom off tha groun An right avaur en stood:

She look'd za pitis Mr. Guy At once hiz hoss's pace Stapt short, a wonderin how, at night, She com'd in jitch a place.

A little trunk war in her hon; She zim'd vur gwon wi' chile. She ax'd en nif a'd take her up And cor her a veo mile.