At t’last two figures com to t’spot Where I hed hid mesel, Then walkers-heath and brimstone, Most horridly did smell.
Wun on em hed a nine-tail’d cat, His face as black as soit, His name, I think, wor Nickey Ben, He hed a clovven fooit.
An t’other wor all skin an bone His name wor Mr. Deeath; Withaat a stitch o’ clothes he wor, An seem’d quite aght o’ breeath.
He hed a scythe, I plainly saw, He held it up aloft, Just same as he wor bahn to maw Oud Jack Keilie’s Croft.
“Where are ta bahn to neet, grim fiz?” Sed Nickey, wi a grin, “Tha knaws I am full up below, An cannot tack more in.”
“What is’t to thee?” sed Spinnle Shenks, “Tha ruffin ov a dog, I’m nobbut bahn me rhaands agean, To see wun John o’ t’Bog.
I cannot see it fer me life, What it’s to do wi thee; Go mind thi awn affairs, oud Nick, An nivver thee heed me.”
“It is my business, Spinnle Shenks, Whativver tha may say, For I been roasting t’human race For mony a weary day.”
Just luke what wark I’ve hed wi thee, This last two years or so; Wi Germany an Italy, An even Mexico.
An’ then tha knaws that Yankey broil Browt in some thaasands more; An sooin fra Abysinnia, Tha’ll bring black Theodore.
So drop that scythe, oud farren Death, Let’s rest a toathree wick; Fer what wi t’seet o’ t’fryring-pan, Tha knaws I’m ommost sick.”
“I sall do nowt o t’sort,” says Deeath, Who spack it wi a grin, “Ise just do as I like fer thee, So tha can hod thi din.”
This made oud Nick fair raging mad, An lifting up his whip, He gav oud Spinnle Shenks a lash Across o t’upper lip.
Then, like a neighing steed, oud Shenks, To give oud Nick leg bail, He started off towards the tahn, An Nick stuck aht his tail.
Then helter-skelter off they went, As ower t’fence I lape; I thowt—well, if it matters owt, I’ve made a nice escape.
But nah the mooin began to shine As breet as it cud be; An dahn the vale ov t’Aire I luk’d, Where I cud plainly see.
The trees wur deeadly pale wi snaw, An t’winding Aire wor still, An all wor quite save t’hullats, At wor screaming up o’ t’hill.
Oud Rivvock End an all araand Luk’d like some fiendish heead, Fer more I stared, an more I thowt It did resemble t’deead.
The Friendly Oaks wor altered nah, To what I’d seen afore; An luk’d as though they’d never be T’oud friendly Oaks no more.