Fer wun wor like a giant grim, His nose com to a point, An wi a voice like thunner sed— “The times are aaght o’ t’joint!”
An t’other like a whipping-post, Bud happen not as thin, Sed “T’times ul alter yet, oud fooil, So pray, nah, hod thi din?”
I tuke no farther gawm o’ them, Bud paddled on me way; Fer when I ivver mack a vow, I stick to what I say.
I heddant goan so far agean, Afoar I heeard a voice, Exclaiming—wi a fearful groan— “Go mack a hoyle e t’ice!”
I turned ma rhaand where t’saand com fro, An cautiously I bowed, Saying thenk yo, Mr. Magic Voice, I’m flaid o’ gettin coud.
Bud nah a sudden shack tuke place, A sudden change o’ scene; Fer miles where all wor white afore, Wor nah a bottle-green.
Then com a woman donned e white, A mantle gert she wore; A nicer lukin, smarter form, I nivver saw afore.
Her features did resemble wun O that kind-hearted lot, At’s ivver ready to relieve The poor man in his cot.
Benevolence wor strongly marked Upon her noble heead; An on her breast yo might hev read, “Who dees fer want o’ breead?”
In fact, a kinder-hearted soul Oud Yorksher cuddant boast; An who wod feel the least alarmed, To talk to sitch a goast?
I didant feel at all afraid, As nearer me she drew; I sed—Good evening, Mrs. Goast, Hah ivver do yo dew?
Sho nivver seemed to tack no gawm, Bud pointed up at t’mooin, An beckon’d me to follow her Dahn be t’Wattery Loin.
So on we went, an dahn we turned, An nawther on us spack; Bud nah an then sho twined her heead, To see if I’d runned back.
At t’last sho stopped an turned her rahnd An luked ma fair e t’een; ’Twor nah I picked it aaght at wunce, Sho wor no human been.
Sho rave a paper fra her breast, Like some long theatre bill; An then sho sed “Weak mortal, Will ta read to me this will?
But first, afoar tha starts to read, I’ll tell thee who I iz; Tha lukes a deacent chap enuff, I judge it by thi phiz.
Well, I’ve a job fer thee to do, That is, if tha will do it; I think tha’rt t’likeliest man I knaw, Becos tha art a poet.
If I am not mistaken, friend, I offan hear thi name; I think they call thi “John o t’Bog;” Says I—“Oud lass, it’s t’same.”
“It’s just so mony years this day, I knaw it by me birth, Sin I departed mortal life, An left this wicked earth.