Though he mid hold ’ithin his hands
The zwarmèn vo’k o’ many lands;
Or goo in drough the iron-geäte
Avore the house o’ lofty steäte;
Or reach the miser that do smile
A-buildèn up his goolden pile;
Or else mid smite the lowly,
That have noo pow’r to loose or bind
Another’s body, or his mind,
But only hands to help mankind.
If there is rest ’ithin the breast,
’Tis where the heart is holy.
GRUFFMOODY GRIM.
Aye, a sad life his wife must ha’ led,
Vor so snappish he’s leätely a-come,
That there’s nothèn but anger or dread
Where he is, abroad or at hwome;
He do wreak all his spite on the bwones
O’ whatever do vlee, or do crawl;
He do quarrel wi’ stocks, an’ wi’ stwones,
An’ the rain, if do hold up or vall;
There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night
Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.
Woone night, in his anger, he zwore
At the vier, that didden burn free:
An’ he het zome o’t out on the vloor,
Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.
Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child,
An’ het it among the cat’s heaïrs;
An’ then beät the cat, a-run wild,
Wi’ a spark on her back up the steaïrs:
Vor even the vier an’ fleäme
Be to bleäme wi’ Gruffmoody Grim.
