It wor e black twenty-six when I wor reight in a fix,
An’ trade it wor bad an’ are poor hearts wor sad,
An’ we’d nout else to due bud to starve or to flee,
An’ leave are poor hoams, or stop there an’ dee.
Aw wor freating an’ thinking what wod be the end,
Baht meil or potatoes, or money or friend—
When my wife stagger’d in at are poor cottage door,
Gav a stare raand the house an’ fell on the floor,
We a cry at made me both tremble an’ shake;—
Sho wor more like a Specktor ner poor Betty Blake.

It spite ov her troubles, aw lifted her up
To are poor wretched bed, an’ gav her a sup
O coud watter—an’ thinking, it happen mud ease her—
An’ try’d my indevors to mend her an’ please her;
For aw talked o’ that day that aw used to coart her,
Bud little thowt then at aw couldn’t support her;
Or that panic wod come like a dark thunner claad,
An’ scatter the homes o’ the poor an’ the praad:
Bud my heart burned we grief, fer aw wanted to save her,
Fer aw knew at my Betty wor mad in the faver.

Aw sat by her side fer two neets an’ two days,
An’ aw thowt sho might mend, as on her aw gazed;
Sho catched hod o’ my hand, an’ her senses returned,
Bud net her gooid health, fer her fingers still burned,—
“Awn going,” sho said—“where no hunger or pain
Al be we us, Johny, when we meet again.
The angels have whispered my spirit to free,
We voices as soft as the hum of the bee;
It wor pining at did it, done fer thy sake,
In heaven you’ll meet we your poor Betty Blake.”

We a groan an’ a rattle sho dropt her poor heead,
Aw could hardly believe at my Betty wor deead;
An’ aw felt at her side, fer aw wanted to save her,
An’ like her at wor goan—aw wor mad we the faver.
Bud they tuke her away the varry next day,
To a little church yard, an’ it seemed fearful hard,
At aw couldn’t follow my wife
At aw loved as my life.
Bud aw’ve put up a tombstone o’ peeats fer her sake,
An aw mark’d on it letters at means Betty Blake.