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Aw're a greight foo'! But aw're beawn to coom in: aw lung'd to goo through th' same dur wi' mo Mattie. Good day, sir. It be like maister, like mon! God's curse upon o' sich! Aw winnot say that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say that. God forgie you! Col. G. This way, please! Th. Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seem' oather Mattie or th' mon. Exit. Col. G. resumes his boot absently.
But iv a gentleman axes mo into his heawse, aw'm noan beawn to be afeard. Aw'll coom in, for mayhap yo can help mo. It be a coorous plaze. What dun yo mak here? Col. G. What would you think now? Th. It looks to mo like a mason's shed a greight one. Col. G. You're not so far wrong. Th. It do look a queer plaze. Aw be noan so sure abeawt it.
Aw connot seigh weel at neet, wi o' th' lamps; an afoor aw geet oop wi' her, hoo's reawnd th' nook, and gwon fro mo seet. Col. G. There are ten thousands girls in London you might take for your own under such circumstances not seeing more than the backs of them. Th. Ten theawsand girls like mo Mattie, saysto? wi'her greight eighes and her lung yure? Puh! Col.
Oop yon, wheer th' angels keep greight flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an' they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost lamb i' this awful plaze! What has th' shepherd o' th' sheep himsel' to do, God bless him! but go look for th' lost ones and carry 'em whoam! O Lord! gie mo mo Mattie. Aw'm a silly ship mosel, a sarchin' for mo lost lamb.
Iv aw hed a houd o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be a coomin' wi' her. It's reet streight whoam to her mother we'd be gooin', aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon! aw'm noan sich a greight foo as yo tak mo for. Exit. COL. G. follows him. Enter. GER. Sits down before the Psyche, but without looking at her. Ger. Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible chords on my heart! I will conquer it.
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