A niver in his life avaur 'ad been athin Bejwâter; A thawt, an if a war alive, That zummet war tha matter.
Tha houzen cling'd together zaw! Tha gennelmen an ladies! Tha blacksmith's, brazier's hammers too! An smauk whauriver trade is.
Bit how a com'd athin a cawch A war amaz'd at thenkin; A thawt, vor sartin, a must be A auvercome wi' drenkin.
Thâ ax'd en nif a'd please to g'out An ta tha yalhouse g'in; Bit thâ zo clooäse about en dring'd A cood'n goo athin.
Ta g'under 'em or g'auver 'em A try'd booâth grate and smâll; Bit g'under, g'auver, g'in, or g'out, A cood'n than at âll.
"Lord bless ye! gennel-vawk!" zed he, I'm come to Glassenberry To zee tha Torr an Hawly Thorn; What makes ye look za merry?"
"Why mister wizard? dwont ye knaw, Theäse town is câll'd Bejwâter!" Cried out a whipper-snapper man: Thâ all bust out in lâughter.
"I be'nt a wizard, zur!" a zed; "Bit I'm a little titch'd; [Footnote: Touched.] "Or, witherwise, you mid well thenk I'm, zure anow, bewitch'd!"
Thaw Jerry war, vor âll tha wordle, Like very zel o' quiet, A veel'd iz blood ta bwile athin At jitchy zort o' riot;
Za out a jump'd amangst 'em âll! A made a desperd bussle; Zum hirn'd awâ--zum made a ston; Wi' zum a had a tussle.
Iz stick now sar'd 'em justice good; It war a tough groun ash; Upon ther heads a plâ'd awâ, An round about did drash.
Thâ belg'd, thâ raur'd, thâ scamper'd âll. A zoon voun rum ta stoory; A thawt a'd be reveng'd at once, Athout a judge or jury.
An, thaw a brawk navy-body's bwons, A gid zum bloody nawzes; Tha pirty maids war fainty too; Hirn'd vrom ther cheaks tha rawzes.
Thinks he, me gennelmen! when nex I goo to Glassenbery, Yea shant ha jitch a rig wi' I, Nor at my cost be merry.
Zaw, havin clear'd izzel a wâ. Right whim went Jerry Nutty; A flourished roun iz wâkin stick; An vleng'd awâ iz tutty.
[First Printed in "Graphic Illustrator, p. 124.]
I cannot do better than introduce here "_A Legend of Glastonbury_," made up, not from books, but from oral tradition once very prevalent in and near Glastonbury, which had formerly one of the richest Abbeys in England; the ruins are still attractive.
Who hath not hir'd o' _Avalon?_ [Footnote: "The Isle of ancient Avelon."--Drayton.] 'Twar talked o' much an long agon,-- Tha wonders o' tha _Holy Thorn_, Tha "wich, zoon âter Christ war born, Here a planted war by _Arimathé_, Thic Joseph that com'd auver sea, An planted Kirstianity. Thâ zâ that whun a landed vust, (Zich plazen war in God's own trust) A stuck iz staff into tha groun An auver iz shoulder lookin roun, Whatever mid iz lot bevâll, A cried aloud "_Now, weary all_!" Tha staff het budded an het grew, An at Kirsmas bloom'd tha whol dâ droo. An still het blooms at Kirsmas bright, But best thâ zâ at dork midnight, A pruf o' this nif pruf you will. Iz voun in tha name o' _Weary-all-hill!_ Let tell _Pumparles_ or lazy _Brue_. That what iz tauld iz vor sartin true!