Lyr Add: Jimmy's Deeth

Subject: Lyr Add: Jimmy's Deeth
From: *#1 PEASANT*
Date: 21 Jun 04 - 07:47 PM

Jimmy's Deeth

Jimmy Wright deed se suddin, Mall thowt it but reet
To send to the krooner that varry syem neet;
So she sent up te Hoyle, an' accordin' te laws
He order'd post mortim te find oot the caws.

Syuen a doctor was browt, and wivoot much aboot,
He rowl'd up his sleeves an' had Jim open'd oot;
But all that he fund, an' as deed as a nail,
Was a small "eelea" wiv a queer brocken tail.

Now Hoyle was sair puzzled, an' scratch'd his awd heed,
Furst lyuked at the joory, then lyuk'd at the deed;
Swore the witnesses byeth-for thur only was two,
Poor Mally, Jim's wife, an' his marrow, Billoo.

Billoo was first call'd for, an' said "Lyuk ye heer,
When Jim, like his marrows, drunk nowt else but beer,
He was reet as a trippet, an' riddy for owt,
But tyekin' the wettor, he syuen went te nowt.

"Aw mind weel one mornin', when aw cum te think,
The Whittle Dean stuff had a queer sort o' stink;
Jim tyekin' a drink said, 'Hoo strange aw dee feel,
Begox! aw beleev that aw've swally'd an eel.'

"An' ivvor since then aw've notes'd he 'pined;
Oft tyun wi' the gripes, hoo he twitch'd an' he twined;
He gorned at the wettor, se seldim 'twas sweet,
An' tyuk on te porter, but nivvor gat reet."

Poor Mally blair'd loodly, an' swor "A' was troo
What had been browt forrid bi Billy Billoo;
But aw knaw 'twas a Sunday, ye awl may dippend,
That Jim gat the clincher that hyesten'd his end.

"We wor gawn up be Rye Hill, just like other folk,
And byeth fund the stink o' the nasty gas smoke;
Poor Jim held his breeth and clapp'd his hand so,
Turn'd as bloo as gas-leet, an' nobbit sayed 'Oh!"

The krooner then, in a few words, summ'd all up:
"The furst caws nee doot, is the wettor we sup;
The eel mevvies lowp'd wi' the tyest o' the smoke,
And that was the way that his tailley gat broke.

The joory just whispor'd, an' haddin't lang sat,
'Twas varry syuen knaw when a vardick they gat,
For the foreman cough'd twice, an' said, when he spoke:
"The Whittle Dene wetor an' nasty gas smoke!"

Moral

Noo, all ye Newcassellors, mind what ye drink,
An' weer resporators te keep oot the stink;
Or "eeleas" and sulfor ye'll find is nee joke,
Frev Whittle Dene wettor an' naty gas smoke.

-Ralph Blackett, "Weekly Chronicle, 1870.