Tha turnpick than is jist belaw,
An Cock-hill strait avaur ye."
Za Jerry doff'd his hat an bow'd,
An thank'd er vor er storry.
Bit moor o' this I need not zAc,
Vor off went Jerry Nutty;
In his right hand a wAckin stick,
An in hiz qut a tutty.
Bit I vorgot to zAc that Jer
A zatchel wi' en took
To hauld zum bird an cheese ta ate;--
Iz drink war o' tha brook.
Za when a got upon Cock-hill
Upon a linch a zawt;
The zun had climmer'd up tha sky;
A voun it very hot.
An, as iz stomick war za good,
A made a horty meal;
An werry war wi' wAckin, zaw
A sleepid zoon did veel.
That blessed power o' bAcmy sleep,
Which auver ivery sense
Da wi' wild whiverin whings extend
A happy influence;
Now auver Jerry Nutty drow'd
Er lissom mantle wide;
An down a drapp'd in zweetest zleep,
Iz zatchel by iz zide.
Not all tha nasty stouts could wAcke
En vrom iz happy zleep,
Nor emmets thick, nor vlies that buz,
An on iz hons da creep.
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