I’ve sca’ce a thing a-left in pleäce.
’Tis all a-tore vrom pin an’ leäce.
My bonnet’s like a wad, a-beät up to a dod,
An’ all my heäir’s about my feäce.
HER BROTHER.
Here, come an’ zit out here a bit,
An’ put yourzelf to rights.
JOHN.
No, Jeäne; no, no! Now you don’t show
The very wo’st o’ plights.
HER BROTHER.
Come, come, there’s little harm adone;
Your hoops be out so roun’s the zun.
JOHN.
An’ there’s your bonnet back in sheäpe.
HER BROTHER.
An’ there’s your pin, and there’s your ceäpe.
JOHN.
An’ there your curls do match, an’ there
’S the vittiest maïd in all the feäir.
JEÄNE.
Now look, an’ tell us who’s a-spied
Vrom Sturminster, or Manston zide.
HER BROTHER.
There’s rantèn Joe! How he do stalk,
An’ zwang his whip, an’ laugh, an’ talk!
JOHN.
An’ how his head do wag, avore his steppèn lag.
Jist like a pigeon’s in a walk!
HER BROTHER.
Heigh! there, then, Joey, ben’t we proud
