 | Poems and Songs |  |
174
Maut-Worm.
I
Last neet I went swaggerin' downTo Robin o' Pinder's brew;
This mornin' I reel't through th' town,
As fuddle't as David's sow:
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
A maisterful throttle's a foo!
II
I con noather ston, lie, nor sit;I dither like mad i' my shoon;
My yed feels as if it would split,
My gullet's as dry as a oon:
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
This wark'll be th' end on me soon!
175
III
But fill up; an' let it run o'er;For, whether I live or I dee,
I mun just have another tot moore,
O' this bubblin' barley-bree!
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
Barm-broth's bin the ruin o' me!
IV
I once had a wife o' my own,An' three bonny lads an' o';
But they're gone; an' I'm left alone,
Wanderin' too an' fro;
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
An' I wish I wur lyin' low.
V
I'm tatter't fro' th' hat to th' clogs;My pockets are drain't for swill;
I'm goin' yed-long to th' dogs;
But, I'll just have another gill;
Buttle, buttle;
Guttle, guttle;
If a warkhouse coffin I fill!
176
VI
An' when this wild fire grows cool,An' my racklesome journey's past;
Happed up with a sexton's shool;
In a pauper nook laid fast;
Th' owd delver may say.
As he walks away,
“Poor Bill; he's at rest at last!”
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