Classic Poem

Coom, wenches, git to work!
Now, Keziah, theer's thy fork,
And the waggin's in the corn!
When the craws tum-poäke that waäy
And are yawlin' soä, they saäy
It 'ull chaänge befoor the morn.

Howr Betsey got a plaäce,
But she pulled an awkard faäce —
Nivver 'lowed howt to the Fair —
And they've silver laäid fur dinner,
And sez graäce! If she graws thinner
Work weänt hurt — she's flesh to spare.

But Jemima — she's at home;
We was foorced to let her come,
She was dithery of her 'ead.
Poor lass! she hed a stroäke —
Let the teä-things down — they broäke —
Wasn't saäfe i' hand, they sed.

And they meant kind when they sacked her, —
Gev the gell a good character, —
Quoite content, they told our Ben;
But when squoire's wife coomed by
And axed questions — mebbe I
Was'nt saäfe i' hand mysen.

Fur she saäys, sez she, " I hear
Your Jemima's head is queer,
And Jemima she hes fits. "
And I pulls mysen oop straight,
Reight i' front of my oarn grate,
Fit to teear her into bits.

" Marm, " I sez, " it is a shaäme
Fur to naäme the very naäme!
Howr Jemima maäy be weeäk,
And when silver cooms to taäble,
Not honwillin but honhaäble —
Unheppen, soä to speeäk.

" If the gell weänt wesh a plaäte,
If she ligs till hoäver laäte,
Can't sarve pigs nor milk a cow —
Why, then, marm, I've nowt to saäy
When you taäke her naäme awaäy
By the things you've menshuned now.

" No, marm, noä! we maäy be poor,
And my maister sez, what's moor,
We are poor as rats, and wuss!
And he sez theer's noä disgraäce —
He would tell it to your faäce —
In bein' poor like hus.

" But howr famly nivver hed
Fits! it nivver shall be sed
Fits howr gell from sarvice sent.
Noä, Jemima in 'er wits
Maäy be weeäk — she doänt hev fits!
And the squoire's wife she went. "