T’ rain keep’t cūmmin’ doon—t’ rwoad gat softer an’ softer—t’ basket gat heavier an’ heavier—t’ top sark hetter an’ hetter, an’ my heid queerer an’ queerer. If I stopt anonder ya tree i’ t’ wūd, I stopt anonder twenty, an’ coontit ower t’ things i’ t’ basket till they begon to shap’ theirsels intil o’ mak’s o’ barnish sangs i’ my heid, and I fūnd mysel’ creunin’ away at sec bits of rhymes as thūrr— Ten things an’ yan, Bobby, Ten things an’ yan; Here five an’ five for Betty Banks, An’ yan for Betty’s man. “Lord preserve oor wits—sec as they ūrr,” says I. “I mūn be gā’n wrang i’ my heid when I’ve teàn till mackin’ sangs!” But t’ queerest break was ’at I dūddn’t mak’ them—they meàd thersel’s—an’ they meàd me sing them an’ o’, whedder I wad or nūt—an’ off I went ageàn till a different teùn— Says Betty—says she; says Betty till me— “If owte thou contrives to forgit, “I’ll reckon thè’ daizter an’ dafter,” says she, “Nor iver I’ve reckon’t thè’ yit.” I’s daizter an’ dafter nor iver, she’ll say, An’ marry, she willn’t say wrang! But scold as she will, ey, an’ gūrn as she may, I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang, lāl sang, I’ll sing her a bonnie lāl sang. “Well! It hes cūm’t till whoa wad hae thowte it,” says I, “if I cannot stop mysel’ frae mackin’ sangs an’ singin’ them of a wet day i’ Widdup Wūd; I’ll coont t’ things ower ageàn,” says I, “an’ see if that’ll stop ma.” Ye ma’ believe ma or nūt, as ye like, but iv anūdder tick-tack there was I coontin’ t’ things ower iv a sang:— Here t’ check an’ t’ tape an’ t’ threed, oald lad! Here t’ soat an’ t’ sugger an’ t’ tea— Seàp, starch, steàn-blue, an’ t’ bottle to rub, An’ t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me, Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me, me, me, Here t’ ’bacca by ’tsel’ on’t for me. I’ll niver git heàm while Bobby’s my neàm, But maffle an’ sing till I dee, dee, dee, But maffle an’ sing till I dee! “Weel, weel,” says I, “If I _is_ oot o’ my senses—I IS oot o’ my senses, an’ that’s oa’ aboot it,—but Loavins what’ll Betty think, Betty think, Betty think, Loavins what’ll Betty think if Bobby bide away? She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink, t’ brass i’ drink, She’ll sweer he’s warin’ t’ brass i’ drink this varra market-day. She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass, her būtter-brass, She’s thrimlin’ for her būtter brass, but willn’t thrimle lang. For Bobby lad thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce, thū’s hūr to feàce, For Bobby lad, thū’s hūr to feàce; she’ll m’appen change thy sang.