Thinks I, “Th’ lass’s reet, an’ aw houd wi’ her wit;” So aw said—for aw wanted to cheer her a bit— “Owd crayter, aw’ve noan made my mind up to dee, A frolic’ll just be the physic for me! Aw’ll see some fresh places, An’ look at fresh faces— An’ go have a bit ov a spree!” Then, bumpin’ an’ splashin’ her kettle went deawn; “I’th name o’ good Katty, Jem, wheer arto beawn? An’ what sort o’ faces dost want—con to tell? Aw deawt thae’rt for makin’ a foo o’ thisel’,— The dule may tent th’ o’on, Iv aw go witheawt shoon, Aw’ll see where thae gwos to mysel’!” Thinks I, “Th’ fat’s i’th fire,—aw mun make it no wur,— For there’s plenty o’ feightin’ to do eawt o’th dur; So, aw’ll talk very prattily to her, as heaw, Or else hoo’ll have houd o’ my toppin’ in neaw;” An’ bith’ leet in her e’en, It were fair to be sin That hoo’re ready to rive me i’ teaw. Iv truth mun be towd, aw began to be fain To study a bit o’ my cwortin’ again; So aw said to her, “Mally, this world’s rough enoo! To fo’ eawt wi’ thoose one likes best, winnut do,— It’s a very sore smart, An’ it sticks long i’th heart,”— An’, egad, aw said nought but what’s true! Lord, heaw a mon talks when his heart’s in his tung! Aw roos’t her, poor lass, an’ aw show’d hoo wur wrung, Till hoo took mo bith hond, with a tear in her e’e, An’ said, “Jamie, there’s noabry as tender as thee! Forgi mo, lad, do: For aw’m nobbut a foo,— An’ bide wi’ mo, neaw, till aw dee!” So, we’n bide one another, whatever may come; For there’s no peace i’th world iv there’s no peace awhoam; An’ neaw, when a random word gies her some pain, Or makes her a little bit crossish i’th grain, Sunshine comes back, As soon as aw crack O’ beginning my cwortin again. [Illustration] [Illustration] OWD PINDER. Owd Pinder were a rackless foo, An’ spent his days i’ spreein’; At th’ end ov every drinkin’-do, He’re sure to crack o’ deein’; “Go, sell my rags, an’ sell my shoon; Aw’s never live to trail ’em; My ballis-pipes are eawt o’ tune, An’ th’ wynt begins to fail ’em!” “Eawr Matty’s very fresh an’ yung; ’Twould ony mon bewilder; Hoo’ll wed again afore it’s lung, For th’ lass is fond o’ childer; My bit o’ brass’ll fly,—yo’n see,— When th’ coffin-lid has screened me; It gwos again my pluck to dee, An’ lev her wick beheend me.” “Come, Matty, come, an’ cool my yed, Aw’m finished, to my thinkin’;” Hoo happed him nicely up, an’ said, “Thae’s brought it on wi’ drinkin’!”— “Nay, nay,” said he, “my fuddle’s done; We’re partin’ t’one fro’ t’other; So, promise me that when aw’m gwon, Thea’ll never wed another!”