FIRE AT TRANTER SWEATLEY'S
With a rushing of sobs in a shower were strawn,
Till her power to pour 'em seemed wasted and gone
From the left o' misfortune she bore.
"O Tim, my own Tim I must call 'ee—I will!
All the world ha' turned round on me so!
Can you help her who loved 'ee, though acting so ill?
Can you pity her misery—feel for her still?
When worse than her body so quivering and chill
Is her heart in its winter o' woe!
“I think I mid almost ha' bore it," she said,
"Had my griefs one by one come to hand;
But O, to be slave to thik husbird for bread,
And then, upon top o' that, driven to wed,
And then, upon top o' that, burnt out o' bed,
Is more than my nater can stand!"
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