There’s a summat a wantin, ‘at fills yo wi’ fear,
Yo can turn as yo like, but you find it’s not thear,
An’ yo freeat an’ yo fitter, or weep like a willow;
An’ for want o’ owt better, mak love to a pillow.
But him ‘at’s been blessed wi’ a wife he can love,
Liggs his heead on her breast pure as snow from above,
An’ ther’s nubdy could buy it for silver or gold,
An’ he wodn’t exchange it for Abrahams of old.
An’ he falls hard asleep, wi’ her arm raand his neck,
An’ gets up lik a lark, an’ then works like a brick.
’Nah, friends, aw wish to say a few words befoor aw goa. Awm varry sorry ‘at aw brack that drum, but yo see it wor an accident, an’ aw’ve done my best to mak it up, an’ as Dick’s recitation maks me think awd better be gettin hooam, or aw shall happen find it varry warm when aw get thear. Aw’ll nobbut call o’ one moor befoor sayin gooid neet, an’ that’s Mose Hart. If he’s hear aw should like him to try agean; ther’s nowt like perseverance, an’ if a chap fails twelve times th’ thirteenth may pay for all.’
‘Mr. Cheerman, Mozart wor deead long befoor yo wor born or thowt on.’
’Then that chap ’at dug his elbow into my guts tell’d me a lie, for he sed he’d just made a mess for th’ twelfth time when aw come in.’
Ther wor a crack o’ laffin when he sed that, for th’ chaps saw his mistak, an’ soa one on ’em went quietly up to him an’ explained it. ’O, then,’ he sed, ‘if he’s deead we may as weel goa hooam, an’ all aw’ve getten to say is ’at ony time yo chonce to come by awr haase, just luk in an’ aw’ll mak yo welcome, an’ my owd lass’ll mak yo a mess o’ some sooart ‘at’ll do yo some gooid. Yo’ll find it easy, for aw live th’ next door to th’ Pig an’ Whistle, an’ soa aw wish yo all a varry gooid neet—Come on Dick.’
Th’ Hoil-i’th’-Hill Statty.
Th’ Hoil-i’th’-Hill Fowld wor a quiet little place; ther wor sixteen haases altogether, four on each side ov a big square yard, an’ a pump i’th’ middle. Th’ fowk ’at lived thear had mooast on ’em been born thear, an’ ther’d been soa monny weddin’s amang ’em wol they wor all summat moor or less akin. Niver i’th’ memory o’th’ oldest on ’em had ther been ony change i’th’ fowld, except nah an’ then a bit o’ fresh paint wor put on th’ doors an’ winders, until one day th’ landlord coom and browt two or three smart lukkin chaps’ at begun to messure hear an’ thear, an’ all th’ wimmen an’ th’ childer watched’ em wi’ as mich anxiety as if they wor gooin to pool all th’ haases daan.
Th’ chaps wor all off at ther wark, but when they coom hooam at neet they wor sooin made acquainted wi’ all ‘at had gooan on, an’ when they’d getten ther drinkins, one after another walked aght, wol they wor all met together raand th’ pump.
‘What does ta mak on it, Jacob?’ sed one o’th’ younger end, spaikin to an owd man wi’ a grey heead. ‘What does ta think they meean to do?’