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Then th' childer laff'd an' clapp'd their hands,
To them it seem'd rare fun;
But th' grocer ommost lost his wits
When he saw th' traitle run.
He stamp'd an' raved, an' then declared
He wodn't pay a meg!
An' th' carter vow'd until he did
He wodn't stir a peg.
He said he'd done his business reight,--
He'd brought it up to th' door,
An' thear it wor, an' noa fair chap
Wod want him to do moor.
But wol they stamped, an' raved, an' swore,
An' vented aght ther spleen,
Th' childer wor thrang enough, you're sure,
All plaisterd up to th' een.
A neighbor chap saw th' state o' things,
An' pitied ther distress,
An' begg'd em not to be soa sour
Abaht soa sweet a mess;
"An' tha'd be sour," th' owd grocer sed,
"If th' job wor thine owd lad,
An' somdy wanted thee to pay
For what tha'd niver had."
"Th' fault isn't mine," said th' cart driver,
"My duty's done I hope?
I've brought him traitle, thear it is,
An' he mun sam it up."
Soa th' neighbor left em to thersen,
He'd nowt noa moor to say,
But went to guard what ther wor left,
An' send th' young brood away.


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