This wor a spice shop, where t' lads met; A merry hoil it ware: Lads making fun o' all they could, And Dolly gat her share. The haaos wor fill'd, but all gave place; "Come, Dolly, sit ye daon:" When hoaf a dozen lads cried aaot-- "That is a bonny gaon!" "Yo've bet'em, Dolly, all to day; Yo'r gaon is first in stile: It's been admir'd by all ith church, Old priest, we saw him smile. "Yo've vext old Mrs. Smith to day; Her dress is nout like this: Shoo knows it too, they all do say, And's taen it quite amiss. "When t' childer laugh'd at yo'r new gaon, Shoo turn'd her face toth wal; When church did loase, shoo went back way, So as to miss 'em all." Some thought this gaon could not be bought At Halifax at all: It wor a London print, they thought; 'T piece sud be sent for--all. A what a profit Dolly'd got! Shoo'd sell it in a crack; "This dress beoats all, come, lads, and see A hunt o' Dolly's back!" The noise wor great, the laugh wor loud; Lads shaoting hard a-way: Poor Dolly rag'd, some said shoo swore, At last we heeard her say-- "Gooid God!" said Dolly, stamping mad, "Whatever sall I hear? I'm t' laughing stock for all, egad, I'm war nor ever here." Up Dolly jumps--this is a hoil; Ol gooa, it dos'n't meon: Shoo heeard t' lads say oth aaotside door-- "Shoo's coming aaot ageon." Lads pull'd her daon, but still shoo'd goa; And running straight at door: Chears and tables, spice and nuts Shoo tumbled on toth floor. "What will yo do," old Betty said, When chears and tables crash'd; "Me spice and apples daon oth floor, And cumfit glass is smash'd." Lads ran at apples, spice and nuts, All sprawling daon o'th floor; Poor Dolly said, "If I get aaot, Yol catch me here no moore." "Naa, flint-faced Tom," old Betty said, "There's not a war ith taon;" Tha held her fast, then late her slip, Tha new shoo'd nock stuff daon. "Aye, tha my laugh, tha brazen'd thing, But will ta mak it up; There is not hoaf oth stuff just naa I had before ith shop. "Such sturs as these I hate to see;"-- Tom said he ne'er begunt; "Old tale ageon, its none o'me, It's olas nubdy's dunt. "There's winkin Will, and Jack ith oil, Thes not two war ith shop; I saw yo pushing lasses daon, Then picking lads oth top. "There's Dolly here, theyn tore her cap; And t' screed wor London lace; Shoe blacking temd o'hur new gaon, And spotted black her face. "Me chears theyn mash'd, me stoils theyn smash'd, And crack'd t' new table top; My apple pooak theyn taen away, An put puttates ith spot. "Sich sturs wud ruin ony man; Whate'er I says no use: There's three or four oth back oth door, Eighting my spenisjuce. "I'll fotch a warrant, if I live; I'll transpoort ten to-morn: Reit ovver sea I'll send yo all, As sure as 'ere yor born.