Aw saunter’d raand her cot at morn,
   An’ oft i’th’ dark o’th’ neet;
Aw’ve knelt mi daan i’th loin to find
   Prints ov her tiny feet: 
An’ under th’ window, like a thief,
   Aw’ve crept to hear her spaik,
An’ then aw’ve hurried home agean
   For fear mi heart ud braik.

      Aw long’d to claim her for, &c,

Another bolder nor misen,
   Has robb’d me o’ mi dear,
An’ nah aw ne’er may share her joy
   An’ ne’er may dry her tear;
But though aw’m heartsick, lone, an’ sad,
   An’ though hope’s star is set,
To know she’s lov’d as aw’d ha’ lov’d
   Wod mak me happy yet.

      Aw long’d to claim her for, &c,

Th’ Traitle Sop.

Once in a little country taan
   A grocer kept a shop,
And sell’d amang his other things,
   Prime traitle drink and pop,

Teah, coffee, currans, spenish juice,
   Soft soap an’ paader blue,
Presarves an’ pickles, cinnamon,
   Allspice an’ pepper too;

An’ hoasts o’ other sooarts o’ stuff
   To sell to sich as came,
As figs, an’ raisens, salt an’ spice,
   Too numerous to name.

One summer’s day a waggon stood
   Just opposite his door,
An’ th’ childer all gaped raand as if
   They’d ne’er seen one afoor;

An’ in it wor a traitle cask,
   It wor a wopper too,
To get it aat they all wor fast
   Which iver way to do;

But wol they stood an parley’d thear,
   Th’ horse gave a sudden chuck,
An’ aat it flew, an’ bursting threw
   All th’ traitle into th’ muck.

Then th’ childer laff’d an’ clapp’d their hands,
   To them it seem’d rare fun,
But th’ grocer ommost lost his wits
   When he saw th’ traitle run;

He stamp’d an’ raved, an’ then declared
   He wodn’t pay a meg,
An’th’ carter vow’d until he did
   He wodn’t stir a peg.

He said he’d done his business reight,
   He’d brought it up to th’ door,
An thear it wor, an’ noa fair chap
   Wad want him to do moor.

But wol they stamped, an’ raved, an’ swore,
   An’ vented aat ther spleen,
Th’ childer wor thrang enough, you’re sure,
   All plaisterd up to th’ een,

A neighbor chap saw th’ state o’ things,
   An’ pitied ther distress,
An’ begg’d em not to be soa sour
   Abaat soa sweet a mess;

“An’ tha’d be sour,” th’owd grocer said,
   If th’ job wor thine, owd lad,
An’ somdy wanted thee to pay
   For what tha’d niver had.

“Th’ fault isn’t mine,” said th’ cart driver
   “My duty’s done I hope? 
I’ve brought him traitle, thear it is,
   An’ he mun sam it up.”

Soa th’ neighbor left em to thersen,
   He’d nowt noa moor to say,
But went to guard what ther wor left,
   And send th’ young brood away: 

This didn’t suit th’ young lads a bit,
   They didn’t mean to stop,
They felt detarmin’d ’at they’d get
   Another traitle sop.