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But still I was useder till Harry, that never
Went to any place whatever—
A reg'lar haythen surt of a chap,
Lek these Dalby fellows is very ap',
Ap' enough—and hadn' no notion
How to behave, and a surt of a ocean
Of spit at this divil; the whole of the pew
Nearly swimmin'—aw, it's true! it's true!
And'd mark some speck in the grain, or a knot
In the timber, and fire a splandid shot.
I know he could do it—of coorse he could—
Bless ye! that was understood.
And I warned him once, and I warned him twice—
I did, I did! and it isn' nice.
No it isn', in church, eh? what?
It's a dirty, savage thing is that.
The Clerk's wife had to clane it out
Agin the next Sunday—treminjus stout
That woman was—and then the churchwardens—
Kneale Ballagill, and Stole the Gardens—
Made a presantment—is that it?
That they couldn' pozzibly do with spit
In the church like yandhar; but just to annoy

578

The Pazon, because he was takin' joy
Of the leks of me—I knew them, blow them!
And so did everybody know them.
 

Apt (to be).