I zeng o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
"Thic little theng!"—Why 'tis'n much
It's true, but still I like ta touch
Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
She zed, wheniver she shood die,
Er little crutch she'd gee ta I.
Did Mary love me? eese a b'leeve.
She died—a veo vor her did grieve,—
An but a veo—vor Mary awld,
Outliv'd er friends, or voun 'em cawld.
Thic crutch I had—I ha it still,
An port wi't wont—nor niver will.
O' her I lorn'd tha cris-cross-lÂin;
I haup that't word'n quite in vÂin!
'Twar her who teach'd me vust ta read
Jitch little words as beef an bread;
An I da thenk 'twar her that, Âter,
Lorn'd I ta read tha single zÂter.
Poor Mary Ôten used ta tell
O' das a past that pleas'd er well;
An mangst tha rest war zum o' jay
When I look'd up a little bway.
She zed I war a good one too,
An lorn'd my book athout tha rue.
[Footnote: This Lady, when her scholars neglected their duty, or
behaved ill, rubbed their fingers with the leaves of rue!]
Poor Mary's gwon!—a longful time
Zunz now!—er little scholard's prime
A-mÂ-be's past.—It must be zaw;—
There's nothin stable here belaw!
O' Mary—Âll left is—er crutch!
An thaw a gift, an 'tword'n much
'Tis true, still I da like ta touch
Tha cap o' Mary Ramsey's Crutch!
That I lov'd Mary, this ool tell.
I'll z na moor—zaw, fore well! [Footnote: Fare ye well.]