Jwosep’ Thompson leev’t lang up at Harrin’ton toon,
17An’ a weel to dee, throughly oald marrow was Joe,
Wid a neive like a neàf, an’ a feàce like a moon,
An’ a shap’, standin’ ūp, like a tee-tak-up-o’.
Jwosep’ Thompson hed ola’s been hearty an’ stoot,
But trūbble o’ sūm mak’s gay sarten to cūm,
An’ when threescwore an’ two he hed jūst coontit oot,
He was terrably tyl’t wid a gedderin’ thūmb.
For it feister’t an’ wark’t wid sa beàdless a stoon,
’At rist he gat nin for’t by neet nor by day;
But he rantit aboot, or he reàv’t ūp an’ doon,
Fairly greànin’ his life an’ fwokes patience away.
Ther’ wer’ pokey oald wives aboot Harrin’ton than,
An’ a varst of advice, o’ free gratis, he gat;
But he gat nèa ’mends, dudn’t pooar oāld man,
An’ he fail’t varra sair iv his leùks an’ his fat.
He seeken’t at meat,—nay, he’d bowk at a speùn!
An’ his beùrd he let growe like a Turk or a gwoat,
An’ he squeak’t iv his toak like a fiddle oot o’ teùn,
An’ like bags full o’ nowte hung his britches an’ cwoat.
But o’ things they telt him Joe triet tūll his thūmb—
Sec as cerat’, an’ yal-grūnds, an’ turmets an’ skarn,
Screàp’t taties, an’ ’bacca, an’ pooder wid rūm,
An’ reūts ’at they raik’t oot o’ t’ boddom o’ t’ tarn.
An’ fegs, an’ bog-unnion, an’ blackberry buds,
An’ carrots, an’ pūppies, an’ teàdsteùls, an’ sneels,
An’ soave meàd wid rozzle an’ meal boil’t i’ sūds,
An’ t’ fat rwoastit oot o’ beàth hag-wūrms an’ eels.
An’ strang reisty bakin, an’ boil’t cabbish skrūnt,
An’ broon seàp an’ sugger, an’ typstic, an’ tar,
An’ he keept an’ oald pūltess of o’ mak’s upon’t,
18Till Joe an’ his thūmb warn’t nice to cū’ nār.
It was o’ nèa use-nūt a crūmb dūd he mend!
An’ t’ parson co’ tūll him to pray an’ to read,
An’ whisper, “I say, Jwosep’! think o’ thy end”—
But he wadn’t—he thowte of a doctor asteed.
An’ tul’t’ doctor he dreàv iv his car—thumb an’ o’—
An’ t’ doctor said, “Well, my lad—off this mūn cūm!”
An’ he haggelt an’ cot at his pultess-bleach’t po’,
Till Joe was weel shot of his mūrderin’ thumb.
T’ doctor lapt ūp his hand varra fewsome an’ reet,
An’ Joe, like a man, pait him weel for his job,
An’, creùnin’, “I’s m’appen git sūm rist to-neet,”
Joggelt heàm, pleased as Punch, wid his thumb in his fob.
An’ to t’ wife says he, “Tak’ ’t to t’ churchyard oot o’ geàt,
An’ bury ’t whoar I’ll lig mysel’ when I dee.”
An’ she went wid a trooin an’ lantern, leàt,
An’ left it i’ t’ spot whoar Joe said it mud be.
Jwosep’ to’k till his meat, for his hand mendit weel—
(He hed gud healin’ flesh, an’ fine natur’, hed Joe,)
19He screàp’t off his beùrd—he gev ow’r wid his squeel,
An’ was gittin’ as pūbble an’ roond as a bo’.
But jūst when he thowte o’ his trūbble was geàn,
A pain com’ ageàn, wār nor iver he’d fund,
An’ theear it keept burnin’ an’ bworin’ i’ t’ beàn
O’ t’ thumb ’at was buriet an’ coald under t’ grūnd.
20
Jwosep’ went back to t’ doctor, an’t’ oald wicket teul
H’ard his teàl, an’ says he, wid a snūrt an’ a gūrn,
“If thy thumb’s i’ t’ churchyard, thoo pooar priest-bodder’t feùl,
Thoo ma’ mak’ thysel’ suer while it bides it ’ill būrn.”
He laid him sūm plaisters o’ soav on his po’,
An’ gev him sūm stuff to lig on tūl’t at heàm;
But nowte putten on tul’t gev easement tūll Joe,
For t’ būrnin’ an’ bworin’ wer’ iverly t’ seàm.
An’ it keept on sa bad, he tūrn’t maffelt an’ maiz’t,
An’ sa wankle an’ wake ’at he to’k tull his bed,
Whoar, liggin’ hoaf deid, ey, an’ mair nor hoaf craiz’t,
He cūd think aboot nowte but what t’ doctor hed said.
He triet nūt to speak on’t—He knew ’twasn’t reet,
But it ola’s beàd by him—his uppermor’ thowte;
An’ he yammer’t at t’ wife tull she went back at neet
To dig ūp t’ oald thūmb, an’ brong’t heàm iv a cloot.
They laid it i’ t’ gardin, an’ hoo ’t com’ aboot
Nowder t’ mistress nor t’ parson cūd under-cum-stand,
But sarten it was, fray that varra time oot,
Sairy Jwosep’ was bodder’t na mair wid his hand.
But Jwosep’ was niver ageàn his oald sel’.
An’ a questi’n com’ ūp still whativer he tried,
“If a thùmb i’ t’ churchyard was sa bad, whoa cūd tell
What a corp’ pùtten in’t o’togidder mūd bide!”
This he maddel’t aboot ebben endways away—
As lang as he breath’t it was ola’s his drone;
An’ t’ wife hed na peace till he gat her to say
He sud lig by his-sel’ iv a field o’ the’r oan.
An’ Joe tiet her up till her wūrd iv his will,
For theear suer aneuf when he dee’t it was fūnd
’At he’d left o’ tull hūr, no’but if she’d fulfil
His craze ageàn liggin’ i’ consecrate grūnd.
An’ Joe hed his way, for a square roughish steàn
21By t’ dike, i’ t’ Sco’-lonnin’, at this varra day,
Tell’s whoar Jwosep’ Thompson ligs whyet an’ leàn—
Keep us weel fray sec doctors as Jwosep’s, I pray!
An’ keep us, I pray, fray o’ wild wicket toak,
Bringan’ bodder an’ fashment tull oald an’ tull yūng.
Jwosep’ Thompson wad ristit wid Christian fwoke,
If t’ doctor he went tull hed hodden his tūng!