Wot’s the matter? – wot’s the matter? –
Wot’s theas folks, all staning raond?
Hez ther sum’uddy bin feightin,
Ur ther’s sum’uddy kill’d ur draown’d?
Oh! aw know, naoh, - aw’d forgettun –
Welly six-months, fur ur nar,
Heer aor parlyment’s bin meetin,
Bizzy settling o’ th’ war.
Chaps wi’ noddles full o’ larninng;
Yeds ut’s brasting wi’ ther wit,
Heer yo’ll find, boath neet un morning,
Gie’ing the world the benefit.
One owd mon, seys “it’s noa wundther
That all t’ roagues, ut’s goan fra heer;
You, should get tu differin, feightin;
That’s no’at natteral, un clear.”
“It’s theas steom looms,” seys, another,
“Cotton for th’ hond-loos at whoam,
Wi’ full time, we’ve hed tu last uz
For a hunther’d yeors tu cum.
Un, bi weighving upo’ th’ hond-looms,
We’d a hed anuff tu dun:
‘Cause this steom-loom stuff’s like cobwebs;
‘T weors aot – ten tu hond-wove one.”
Un another, seys, “theas haythen
Ar’ent larn’d like gradely foaks,
Un they’re awful wicked craturs,-
That yo know, ut reads I’ books.-
“Furriners, kicking up ther rumpus,
Mony a time we’n hed tu lick;
Un theas ‘Merikans weont bi quiet,
Till John Bull goas wi’ a stick.”
Soa they argy, tone geon tother,-
Baon tu hev it , right ur wrong,
Till o’d a ‘most think they’d at it
Wi’ ther neohves, uz weel uz’t tongue:
This mon threopin, all for Davis,
T’other Lincoln, fair ur faol,-
Tongs un poker, whang, bang at it,
Spit un sputter, gern un groawl.
Well! chaps, hurry up the bizness,
(Let’s hoap th’ end on’t’s getting nar)
Spout away at Nuttall’s corner,
Finish th’ job, un settle th’ war.