An’ just wi’ this a-zaid by mister Flick
To mister Crow, wold John the farmer’s man
Come up, a-zwingèn in his han’
A good long knotty stick,
An’ laid it on, wi’ all his might,
The poor pig’s vlitches, left an’ right;
While mister Crow, that talk’d so fine
O’ friendship, left the pig behine,
An’ vied away upon a distant tree,
Vor pigs can only grub, but crows can vlee.
TOM.
Aye, thik there teäle mid do vor childern’s books;
But you wull vind it hardish for ye
To frighten me, John, wi’ a storry
O’ silly pigs an’ cunnèn rooks.
If we be grubbèn pigs, why then, I s’pose,
The farmers an’ the girt woones be the crows.
JOHN.
’Tis very odd there idden any friend
To poor-vo’k hereabout, but men mus’ come
To do us good away from tother end
Ov England! Han’t we any frien’s near hwome?
I mus’ zay, Thomas, that ’tis rather odd
That strangers should become so very civil,—
That ouer vo’k be childern o’ the Devil,
An’ other vo’k be all the vo’k o’ God!
If we’ve a-got a friend at all,
Why who can tell—I’m sure thou cassen—
But that the squier, or the pa’son,
Mid be our friend, Tom, after all?
The times be hard, ’tis true! an’ they that got
His blessèns, shoulden let theirzelves vorget
How ’tis where the vo’k do never zet
