Bit howiver, when them ’cute ordnance chaps, as they co’t thersel’s, was teean in wi’ thor heeaps, it’s lile wūnder ’at a gentleman ’at leev’t here—yan Mr. Rowlins, sud ha’ meead his-sel’ cock suer ’at they wor nowder meear nor less nor sooa many lile Dunmal Raises, an’ thowte he wod like ut see what they hed in belā’ t’em; an’ as it wodn’t be like a gentleman ut keep o’ t’ fun till his-sel’, he ex’t a lot of udder gentlemen, frinds o’ his, mainly what parsons, fray about Ooston, ut come an’ see t’ cairns oppen’t, an’ t’ grūnd under t’em groven up, ut finnd out what they cūver’t. Well! they o’ torn’t up true to t’ day. Ald Billy Bamthet, Tommy Thackra, an’ yan or two meear Cunniston chaps hed been hired ut due t’ wark, an’ away they o’ went, out on Bannasyde, an’ at it they set. O’ t’ fun ’at they gat, howiver, was a bit of a laugh noos an’ thans at āld Bamthet. He was a queer āld dog was Bamthet, an’ he keep’t exin’ on them o’ manner o’ questions about what they wor laitin on. At ya time he wod say till a parson varra seriously “Irr yé expectin’ ut finnd a Bishop?” at anudder he wod ex t’em if they thowte Moses was buriet theear. Bit nowte’s nowte, whativer may be laitit for! an’ suer aneuf ther’ was nowte ut be fūnd under t’ heeaps o’ steeans. It was a cāld, sleety, slattery sooart of a day o’ through, but they steeak tull the’r wark like Britons, tull it was turnin’ sooa dark ’at āld Bamthet says “Irr we ut hod at it any lang-er, Mr. Rowlins? Tommy Thackra’s gittin’ terrable teer’t, an’ it’s growan sooa dark ’at we’ll seeùn nit be yable ut say whedder what we may finnd be t’ beeans of a bishop or t’ beeans of a billy-gooat, wi’out ther’s some amang ye ’at knā’s beeans by greeapin’ at ’em.” Well, they o’ thowte they mud give it up for a bad job. They’d torn’t ooer meear nor a scooer o’ t’ steean heeaps, an’ they hedn’t fūnd sa mich as t’ shin beean of a cracket ut egg ’em on any farder. Sooa Mr. Rowlins tel’t his men ut gidder up the’r hacks an’ the’r speeads an’ things, an’ git away heeam.