“Tha’rt varry fond o’ runnin daan them ’at belangs to thee,” sed Dolly, “an to hear thee tawk fowk ud think he could nivver do owt reight; but if that isn’t poetry, aw should like to know what is, for awm sewer ther’s a deeal more common sense in it nor ther is i’ lots o’ thine.  But thear he is gooin past th’ winder, an he knows ther isn’t a drop o’ watter i’ th’ haase, an aw can’t bide to fotch ony.  If he’s like his fayther i’ nowt else he is i’ leavin’ ivverything for me to do; but aw’ll let him see different!” an throwing th’ winder oppen, shoo yell’d aght, “Rubensrembrandtvandyke Drake!  Tha’ll come in this minit, or else aw’ll warm thee!” An away shoo flew aght.

“Whativver made yo call him sich a name as that?” aw axed.

“Why, aw’d a fancy he’d be a cliver chap if he lived, an soa aw gave him a cliver name; but if aw had it to do nah, aw think summat less wad ha to fit him.  But let’s have a luk at th’ museum.”

“Aw should like to hear one o’ yor pieces,” aw sed, “if yo’d be soa gooid as to reead one.”

If that’ll suit thee, aw’ll reead one, an welcome.  Ther’s one here ’at aw wor felterin’ mi brain wi’ last neet: 

   ‘Aw’m havin’ a smook bi misel’,
      Net a soul here to spaik a word to,
   Aw’ve noa gossip to hear nor to tell,
      An ther’s nowt I feel anxious to do.

   Aw’ve noa noashun o’ writin’ a line,
      Tho’ aw’ve jist dipt mi pen into th’ ink,
   Towards wor kin aw don’t mich incline,
      An aw’m ommost to lazy to think.

   Aw’ve noa riches to mak me feel vain,
      An yet aw’ve as mich as aw need;
   Aw’ve noa sickness to cause me a pain,
      An noa troubles to mak mi heart bleed,

   Awr Dolly’s crept off to her bed,
      An aw hear shoo’s beginnin’ to snoor;
   (That upset me when furst we wor wed,
      But nah it disturbs me noa moor.)

   Like me, shoo taks things as they come,
      Makkin th’ best o’ what falls to her lot,
   Shoo’s content wi her own humble hooam,
      For her world’s i’ this snug little cot.

   We know ‘at we’re both growin’ old,
      But Time’s traces we hardly can see;
   An tho’ fifty years o’er us have roll’d,
      Shoo’s still th same young Dolly to me.

   Her face may be wrinkled an grey,
      An her een may be losin’ ther shine,
   But her heart’s just as leetsum to-day
      As it wor when aw first made her mine.

   Aw’ve mi hobbies to keep mi i’ toit,
      Aw’ve noa whistle nor bell to obey,
   Aw’ve mi wark when aw like to goa to it,
      An mi time’s all mi own, neet an day.

   An tho’ some pass mi by wi a sneer,
      An some pity mi lowly estate,
   Aw think aw’ve a deealless to fear
      Nor them ’at’s soa wealthy an great.

   When th’ sky stretches aght blue an breet,
      An th’ heather’s i’ blossom all raand,
   Makkin th’ mornin’s cooi! breezes smell sweet,
      As they rustle along ovver th’ graand.