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But—wutches in front, dooiney-mollas aback—
What surt of coortin' was that for Jack?
No coortin' at all. And bore it wanst,
And bore it twicet; and then he danced
With ragin' fury—Such dirt goin' muckin'
About the gel, he said, and suckin',
Yes, he said, suckin' her blood,
Like a spider a fly, or makin' crud
Of it altogether; and where would it stop?
Drainin' her heart to the last drop—
Quite aisy to see—the gel gettin' white
Most pitiful—a reg'lar blight
On the gel, he said. He could feel her drawin'
Back and back, lek some divil was clawin'
And pullin' her theer, and furder and furder,
Lek innards someway, lek some hole of murder
They were haulin' her into: yis, and lavin'
Just a shape, lek a surt of a graven
Image of Nessy at the windher,
And herself goin' burnin' into tindher,
In some place at these divils—aye tuk and hove her
In a pit, and roullin' her over and over
On coals of fire—and hotter and hotter—
Yis, yis, yis—and where had they got her?
That wasn' Nessy—and he'd hev his revenge
And he'd stop this work, and this wutch should senge
In the deepest of hell herself. And he spoke
Middlin' plain; and it wasn' no joke
For him, he said, nor for Nessy, he said:
And—“Go home with ye! go! go home to bed!
Who's wantin' ye here—with your skinny throat?
You're a big black wutch, and I'd have ye to know't.”