Iv his rwoad heàm he went roond by Jūrtinsyke to tell Jobby of his mwornin’s wark. Jobby leuk’t rayder strūcken iv a heap when he hārd it; but efter considerin a lāl bit, he said, “Weel, maister,” (he oalas spack respectful-like to pooar Wilfrid, dūd Jobby hissel, an’ he wadn’t let any body else dee udder ways when he was theear.) “Weel, maister,” says Jobby, “I willn’t oalas be here to mannish for yé, an’ yé may as weel begin noo as efter I’s geàn to try yer fist at tradin. But what gat yé for t’ Scots?” “I dūd bravely, lad,” says Wiff, “I dūd bravely. I gat nine pūnd ten a heid for them.” “Nine pūnd ten!” Jobby shootit, “Whey, that’s what I geh for them, mair nor five mūnth sen!” “I ken that,” says Wiff, “I teùk a peep into t’ girt beùk, an’ fūnd theear what thu’d gi’én for them.” “An yé jūst gat what they cost i’ t’ spring?” says Jobby. “I think if yé carry on a trade like that owte sa lang, yé’ll be mackin’ t’ oald maister’s mūnny bags leùk gaily wankle.” “Mūnny bags,” says Wiff, “What’s t’ use o’ toakin aboot mūnny bags? T’ mūnny bags is seàf aneùf sa lang as I git as mūch for beasts as I _gi’_ for them. I think I’ve meàd a varra fair trade, whativer thoo may think.” “Aih dear! aih dear!” says Job, “it wad mack t’ oald maister git up oot o’ his grave, if he cūd hear this. Whoar’s t’ rent o’ t’ land to cūm fray wid yer fair trade?” “T’ rent o’ t’ land, thoo oald neudles,” says Wiff, “t’ rent o’ what land? T’ land’s my oan!”
Sooa Mistress Wanklethet fūnd ’at her fadder-in-lo’, kent his sūn better nor she dūd her man; an’ o’ ’at com of her middlin was to git her husband a nickneàm an’ mack him a by-wūrd; for iver sen, when any body theear aboots macks a queerish bargin, somebody else is suer to say, “T’ land’s my oan, says Wise Wiff!”
Lal Dinah Grayson’s fresh, fewsome, an’ free, Wid a lilt iv her step an’ a glent iv her e’e; She glowers ebbem at mé whativer I say An’ meàstly mak’s answer wid “M’appen I may!” “M’appen I may,” she says, “m’appen I may; Thou thinks I believe the’, an’ m’appen I may!”
Gay offen, when Dinah I mannish to meet O’ Mūndays, i’ t’ market i’ Cockerm’uth street, I whisper “Thou’s nicer nor owte here to day,” An’ she cocks up her chin an’ says, “M’appen I may! M’appen I may, my lad, m’appen I may; There’s nowte here to crack on, an’ m’appen I may!”