A long chawk moor ner him;
It couldn't be his knowledge box
'At made thi change thi whim.

He doesn't haddle as mich brass
As aw do ivery wick:
An' if he gets a gradely shop,
It's seldom he can stick.

An' then agean,--he goes on th' rant;
Nah, that aw niver do;--
Aw allus mark misen content,
Wi' an odd pint or two.

His brother is a lazy lout,--
His sister's nooan too gooid,--
Ther's net a daycent 'en ith' bunch,--
Vice seems to run ith' blooid.

An yet th'art happy,--soa they say,
That caps me moor ner owt!
Tha taks a deal less suitin, lass,
Nor iver awst ha' thowt.

Aw saw yo walkin aat one neet,
Befoor yo'd getten wed;
Aw guess'd what he wor tawkin, tho
Aw dooant know what he sed.

But he'd his arm araand thi waist,