Revised Edition of Poems. Bill o'th' Hoylus End

      In ivvery grocer’s shop I pass’d,

         A play-card I could see,

      I’ t’biggest type at e’er wod print —

         “There’s nowt here, lad, fer thee.”

      Wal ivvery butcher’s shop I pass’d,

         Asteead o’ meit wor seen,

      A mighty carvin’-knife hung up,

         Reight fair afore mi een.

      Destruction wor invitin’ me,

         I saw it fearful clear,

      Fer ivvery druggist window sed —

         “Real poison is sold here.”

      At last I gav a frantic howl,

         A shaat o’ dreead despair,

      I seized missen by t’toppin then,

         An’ shack’d an’ lugged mi hair.

      Then quick as leetnin’ ivver wor,

         A thowt com i’ mi heead —

      I’d tak a walk to t’Simetry,

         An’ meditate wi’ t’deead.

      T’owd Church clock wor striking’ t’ time

         At folk sud be asleep,

      Save t’Bobbies at wor on ther beat,

         An’ t’Pindar after t’sheep.

      Wi’ lengthen’d pace I hasten’d off

         At summat like a trot;

      Ta get ta t’place I started for,

         Mi blood wor boiling hot.

      An’ what I saw at Lackock Gate,

         Rear’d up ageean a post,

      I cuddant tell – but yet I thowt

         It wor another goast!

      But whether it wor a goast or net,

         I heddant time ta luke,

      Fer I wor takken bi surprise

         When turning t’Sharman’s Nuke.

      Abaat two hunderd yards i’ t’front,

         As near as I could think,

      I thowt I heeard a dreeadful noise,

         An’ nah an’ then a clink!

      Whativver can these noises be?

         Some robbers, then I thowt! —

      I’d better step aside an’ see,

         They’re happen up ta nowt!

      So I gat ower a fence ther wor,

         An’ peeping threw a gate,

      Determin’d to be satisfied,

         If I’d a while to wait.

      At last two figures com ta t’spot

         Whear I hed hid misel,

      Then walkers’-earth and brimstone,

         Most horridly did smell.

      Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat,

         His face as black as sooit,

      His name, I think wor Nickey Ben,

         He hed a clovven fooit.

      An’ t’other wor all skin an’ bone

         His name wor Mr. Deeath;

      Withaat a stitch o’ clooas he wor,

         An’ seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.

      He hed a scythe, I plainly saw,

         He held it up aloft,

      Just same as he wor bahn ta maw

         Owd Jack O’Doodle’s Croft.

      “Where are ta bahn ta neet, grim phiz?”

         Sed Nickey, wi’ a grin,

      “Tha knaws I am full up below,

         An’ cannot tak more in.”

      “What is’t ta thee?” said Spinnel Shanks,

         “Tha ruffin of a dog,

      I’m nobbut bahn mi raands ageean,

         Ta see wun John o’t’ Bog.

      “I cannot see it fer mi life,

         What it’s ta dew wi’ thee;

      Go mind thi awn affairs, owd Nick,

         An’ nivver thee heed me.”

      “It is my business, Spinnel Shanks,

         Whativver tha may say,

      Fer I been rostin’ t’human race

         Fer monny a weary day.”

      Just luke what wark, I’ve hed wi’ thee,

         This last two yer or so;

      Wi’ Germany an Italy,

         An’ even Mexico.

      An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil

         Browt in some thaasands more;

      An’ sooin fra Abyssinia,

         They’ll bring black Theodore.

      “So drop that scythe, owd farren deeath,

         Let’s rest a toathree wick;

      Fer what wi’ t’seet o’t’ frying pan,

         Tha knows I’m ommost sick.”

      “I sall do nowt o’t’ sort,” says Deeath,

         Who spack it wi’ a grin,

      I’s just do as I like fer thee,

         So tha can hod thi din.”

      This made owd Nick fair raging mad,