To Âll that sholl theeÄze storry read,
The Truth must vor it chiefly plead;
I gee not here a tale o' ort,
Nor snip-snap wit, nor lidden smort.
But Ôten, Ôten by thie river,
Have I a pass'd; yet niver, niver,
Athout a thought o' Doctor Cox—
His dog—his death—his floatin locks!
The mooÄst whun Brue war deep and clear,
And Lammas d an harras near;—
Whun zummer vleng'd his light abroad,—
The zun in all his glory rawd;
How beautiful mid be the dÂ
A zumthin ÂllÈs zim'd to zÂ,
"Whar whing! the wÂter's deep an' clear,
But death mid be a lurkin near!"