I stoode beside Tim Bobbin' grave
'At looks o'er Ratchda' teawn;
An' th' owd lad 'woke within his yerth,
An' sed, 'Wheer arto' beawn?'

'Awm gooin' into th' Packer-street,
As far as th' Gowden Bell;
To taste o' Daniel's Kesmus ale.'
TIM.—'I cud like o saup mysel'.'

'An' by this hont o' my reet arm,
If fro' that hole theaw'll reawk,
Theaw'st have o saup o'th' best breawn ale
'At ever lips did seawk.'

The greawnd it sturr'd beneath my feet,
An' then I yerd o groan;
He shook the dust fro' off his skull,
An' rowlt away the stone.

I brought him op o deep breawn jug,
'At o gallon did contain;
An' he took it at one blessed draught,
An' laid him deawn again!