“His Sundy coit’s all tore to ribbons, an his ankles sprained; one o’ his front teeth is knocked clean aght, an’ his watch is gooan.  Aw shall be only too thankful if he gets to his wark in a fortneet.”

“Hev yo’ telled th’ perleece?” Sarah sed.

“Noa,” shoo sed, “it wodn’t be noa sooart o’ use tellin’ them chaps, they’re too lazy to do owt nobbut draw ther wage,—­besides, Martin’s that forgivin’, ‘at he says he’d rayther suffer i’ silence nor let onnybody be punished on his accant—­but aw mun be off.”  An’ shoo went aght wi’ th’ bottle.

“Ther’s a deal o’ humbug i’ this world,” Sarah sed, when th’ woman wor gooan, “awm glad he’s getten catched at last, aw mak nowt o’ sich decaitful fowk, robbin’ poor people o’ ther brass,—­it’s little enuff ’at we can finger honestly nah a days.  Aw’ve been wantin a new bonnet monny a week—­Missis Lupton’s getten one, an’ shoo’s getten a faal face to put inside ov it two, an aw dooant like to be bet bi a woman like that,—­soa if yo’ can get that five bob thro’ Uriah, it’ll come in handy.  Aw’ve sed times an times agean, ‘at them Lodges wor th’ nearest fowk i’ all Maant Pleasant, an’ fowk owt to pay ther debts, whether it’s bettin or whether it isn’t.”

“Aw’ll see him to morn.”

“That’s reight, lad, do, an’ let’s goa to bed nah, for we shall have a rare gas nooat this quarter if we sit up like this.”

Th’ Next Mornin’.

Aw’ll nivver get druffen noa mooar,
   It’s th’ last time is this, an that’s trew,—­
For mi booans is all shakkin an sooar,
   Throo th’ craan o’ mi hat, to mi shoe.

An mi skin, it’s all cover’d wi’ marks,
   Some’s blue, an some’s black, an some’s red;
Yo connot think ha mi heead warks,
   An it feels just as heavy as lead.

Aw connot tell ha’ aw gate fresh,
   For aw didn’t sup ovver mich drink,—­
It’s mi stummack ’at’s weakly, aw guess,
   It couldn’t be nowt else aw’ think,
For aw’d nobbut a gallon o’ beer,
   A couple o’ whiskeys,—­a rum,—­
Happen two—­for awm net varry clear
   Hah monny—­aw knaw aw hed some.

That’s all, tho’ aw’d happen a drop
   Lat on, ’at aw knaw nowt abaat;
For th’ lanlord he tell’d mi to stop,
   When th’ brass i’ mi pocket runn’d aght,
Aw remember beein chuckt into th’ street
   At cloisin time, nothin noa mooar,—­
An mi mates set mi up o’ mi feet,
   An propt me agean a hasse door.

All th’ rest o’ last neet is a blank,
   Aw wonder who put mi to bed? 
Awm sewer aw dooant knaw who to thank,
   An aw connot reet think, for mi head—­
Besides aw feel terrible sick,—­
   This drinkin, it isn’t all bliss;
Aw expect aw’st be seedy a wick,
   It’s towt mi a lesson ’as this.

Christmas Oysters.