Newyer's days keep'n comin reawn, like old Ratcher's cream-jug, 'ut never stopt till somebody wur laid under th' table.
Yo 're puttin yo'r yed in a dog-kennel neaw.
He 's ta'en his reed and geirs in, lang sin' [i.e., he's dead].
On a bed a mon lee, that favvert he 're wavin his last draw-deawn o' life.
A plum-pudding.—At eawr club-dinner it coom on th' table i' thunner an' leetnin [blazing brandy], an' had welly ha sweel't a chap's ee-brees off wi' lookin at it. That were th' sort for shiftin' ther ribs, an' makkin 'em tak' ther wynt thick.
Good ale.—Noan o' yor brew'd besoms this; bo' gradely stingo. A quart o' this o' th' top ov a beef-stake 'ud mak' a chap's ribs feel do'some [healthy], would nor it? Well, here 's luck! That 's what aw co' milk o' paradise, or natyer's pap. Yo' may seawk at it till yo're blynt, an' ne'er be satisfied.
Wur eawr Sally crause? Bo' aw no 'casion t 'ax that if hur tung wur no' fast. Her temper'll ne'er be meawlt [mouldy] wi' keepin'.
Two gradely red-hot Jacobins o' th' Gallythumpian breed, 'ut could smell a pa'son a field off, an' 'ud rayther see a quart o' ale upo' th' table any time nor goo an' harken him prache.
It favourit him to a wrinkle.
Owder and th' maddher.
Don' yo know what we ha' opo' th' throne o' Englan' just meet neaw? A mother an' her childer, mon! And
