SAM.
You snub-nos’d flopperchops! I pitch’d so quick,
That thou dost know thou hadst a hardish job
To teäke in all the pitches off my pick;
An’ dissèn zee me groun’ en, nother, Bob.
An’ thou bist stronger, thou dost think, than I?
Girt bandy-lags! I jist should like to try.
We’ll goo, if thou dost like, an’ jist zee which
Can heave the mwost, or car the biggest nitch.
BOB.
There, Sam, do meäke me zick to hear thy braggèn!
Why bissen strong enough to car a flagon.
SAM.
You grinnèn fool! why I’d zet thee a-blowèn,
If thou wast wi’ me vor a day a-mowèn.
I’d wear my cwoat, an’ thou midst pull thy rags off,
An’ then in half a zwath I’d mow thy lags off.
BOB.
Thee mow wi’ me! Why coossen keep up wi’ me:
Why bissèn fit to goo a-vield to skimmy,
Or mow down docks an’ thistles! Why I’ll bet
A shillèn, Samel, that thou cassen whet.
SAM.
Now don’t thee zay much mwore than what’st a-zaid,
Or else I’ll knock thee down, heels over head.
BOB.
Thou knock me down, indeed! Why cassen gi’e
A blow half hard enough to kill a bee.
SAM.
Well, thou shalt veel upon thy chops and snout.
BOB.
Come on, then. Samel; jist let’s have woone bout.
