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Updated: June 28, 2025
But why do we of such small fears complain, With both the consuls greater Pompey ran, That Asia aw'd, in dire Hydaspes grown The only rock, its pyrates split upon; Whose third triumph o're earth made Jove afraid, Proud with success he'd next his Heaven invade: To whom the ocean yielding honours gave, And rougher Bosphorus humbly still'd his wave.
And the mother turned her tearful eyes towards the settle whereon lay the corpse. 'Well, cornd yo' see as God hes finished aar wark for us, and what we made lads, He's made angels on? 'But aw'd sooner ha' kept mine. Angels are up aboon, thaa knows; an' heaven's a long way off. 'Happen noan so far as thaa thinks, lass; and then th' Almeety will do better by 'em nor we con.
If they'd taen my advice, an' stick't to th' bass fiddle, aw could ha stopt that ony minute. It has made me puff, carryin' that thing. I never once thought that it 'd start again at after th' hymn wur done. Eh, I wur some mad! If aw'd had a shool-full o' smo' coals i' my hond, aw'd hachuck't 'em into't.... Yer, tho', how it's grindin' away just th' same as nought wur.
Beside, thae'rt younger an' strunger than hoo is." " Eh, God bless tho, lass," replied Martha, "aw know o' abeawt it. Aw'd rayther Sarah would stop, for hoo'll be ill. Aw can go forrud by mysel', weel enough. It's noan so fur, neaw." But, here, Sarah, the eldest of the three, laid her hand once more upon the shoulder of her friend, and said in an earnest tone, "Ann! it will not do, my lass!
'Why, yo' know as weel as aw do, Mr. Penrose. Sin' I yerd yo' talk abaat Him as gies liberally, I thought aw'd do a bit on mi own accaant. 'There, now, said Dr. Hale, 'the snow is beginning to stay, is it not?
"Then you did get off, John?" "Get off! Sure, aw did. It wur noan o' me. It wur a keaw jobber, at did it. . . . Aw'll tell yo what, for two pins aw'd frame that summons, an' hang it eawt o' th' window; but it would look so impudent." Old John's wants were inquired into, and we left him fiddling among his rusty tools.
'It's a fluiker, ki Dick; 'No, ki Matt, 'its owre big, It luik'd mair like a skyet when aw furst seed it rise; Kiv aw for aw'd getten a gliff o' the wig 'Ods marcy! wey, marrows, becrike, it's Lord 'Size.
But it's th' first time and th' last for me, it is that! Aw'll go whoam; an' aw'll dee theer, afore aw'll go a-beggin' ony moor, aw will for sure! Mon, it's sich a nasty, dirty job; aw'd as soon clem! . . . See yo, lasses; we set off this mornin' Martha an' me, we set eawt this mornin' to go to Gorton Tank, becose we yerd that it wur sich a good place.
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