Jwosep’ Thompson hed ola’s been hearty an’ stoot, But trūbble o’ sūm mak’s gay sarten to cūm, An’ when threescwore an’ two he hed jūst coontit oot, He was terrably tyl’t wid a gedderin’ thūmb. For it feister’t an’ wark’t wid sa beàdless a stoon, ’At rist he gat nin for’t by neet nor by day; But he rantit aboot, or he reàv’t ūp an’ doon, Fairly greànin’ his life an’ fwokes patience away. Ther’ wer’ pokey oald wives aboot Harrin’ton than, An’ a varst of advice, o’ free gratis, he gat; But he gat nèa ’mends, dudn’t pooar oāld man, An’ he fail’t varra sair iv his leùks an’ his fat. He seeken’t at meat,—nay, he’d bowk at a speùn! An’ his beùrd he let growe like a Turk or a gwoat, An’ he squeak’t iv his toak like a fiddle oot o’ teùn, An’ like bags full o’ nowte hung his britches an’ cwoat. But o’ things they telt him Joe triet tūll his thūmb— Sec as cerat’, an’ yal-grūnds, an’ turmets an’ skarn, Screàp’t taties, an’ ’bacca, an’ pooder wid rūm, An’ reūts ’at they raik’t oot o’ t’ boddom o’ t’ tarn. An’ fegs, an’ bog-unnion, an’ blackberry buds, An’ carrots, an’ pūppies, an’ teàdsteùls, an’ sneels, An’ soave meàd wid rozzle an’ meal boil’t i’ sūds, An’ t’ fat rwoastit oot o’ beàth hag-wūrms an’ eels. An’ strang reisty bakin, an’ boil’t cabbish skrūnt, An’ broon seàp an’ sugger, an’ typstic, an’ tar, An’ he keept an’ oald pūltess of o’ mak’s upon’t,[18] Till Joe an’ his thūmb warn’t nice to cū’ nār. It was o’ nèa use-nūt a crūmb dūd he mend! An’ t’ parson co’ tūll him to pray an’ to read, An’ whisper, “I say, Jwosep’! think o’ thy end”— But he wadn’t—he thowte of a doctor asteed. An’ tul’ t’ doctor he dreàv iv his car—thumb an’ o’— An’ t’ doctor said, “Well, my lad—off this mūn cūm!” An’ he haggelt an’ cot at his pultess-bleach’t po’, Till Joe was weel shot of his mūrderin’ thumb. T’ doctor lapt ūp his hand varra fewsome an’ reet, An’ Joe, like a man, pait him weel for his job, An’, creùnin’, “I’s m’appen git sūm rist to-neet,” Joggelt heàm, pleased as Punch, wid his thumb in his fob. An’ to t’ wife says he, “Tak’ ’t to t’ churchyard oot o’ geàt, An’ bury ’t whoar I’ll lig mysel’ when I dee.” An’ she went wid a trooin an’ lantern, leàt, An’ left it i’ t’ spot whoar Joe said it mud be. Jwosep’ to’k till his meat, for his hand mendit weel— (He hed gud healin’ flesh, an’ fine natur’, hed Joe,)[19] He screàp’t off his beùrd—he gev ow’r wid his squeel, An’ was gittin’ as pūbble an’ roond as a bo’. But jūst when he thowte o’ his trūbble was geàn, A pain com’ ageàn, wār nor iver he’d fund, An’ theear it keept burnin’ an’ bworin’ i’ t’ beàn O’ t’ thumb ’at was buriet an’ coald under t’ grūnd.[20]