Wynte whistles in his empty hottil sooar
His jug is wawtit, glass con ting no mooar.
Mall-stick an pallett booath lye on the greawnd,
Punch-bow's keel upport, an has lost its seawnd
Sad Pleagues are theese—yets had be empty purse,
Boh whot is that to that, ots ten times worse?
For see! the pyrates creep behunt an steyl
What shou'd be clooas, an furnish e'ery meel.
If that's naw wur, Tim's breans are addle groon
For mine is mine, an yoars is yoars, yo known.
Theese make his crook'd-rib bleawnge e dolefo dumps,
On winnaw speke be neither signs nor mumps ;
Hoe seys 'tis vein, an so hoo'l worch no mooar,
An's thrown hur sleeve an knitting on the floor ;
Hur weel ne'er sturs, on winnaw yield a cop ;
On as for punch, Tim munnaw tutch a drop !—
Ah!— that oytch pyrate, with the will, had heart,
With pistil cock'd, to act the foot-bad's part :
Then choance sometimes met throw the tyke his dew,
An clasp'd in ir'n, heng hee, for aw to view.
Boh sin the law is deawmp eh this sad kese
On they steyl on, beawt redd'ning in the fece,
Bowd methodist I'll turn, on thus presume
Weh whining sob, belch eawt their future doom.
Thew justice mey these rogues, when deawn they're hurl'd,
Cheer-men to eauthers in another world.