Loard! uncle Jan Trudle, dost a hire the news

How belike we shall stompey in temberan shoes?

For the Franchmen and Spangars be coaming, they saey,

For to carry us ale from ould Inglant away!

Hould tha toang, tha’ great toatledum pattick of Newlyn,

What becaze the old wemmen be dwailing and druling,

And fright’ning one tother with goblins and goastes,

And a squaling “The Franchmen be got ’pon the coastes!”

Shoar thee beestu’n sich a whit-liver’d saft-bak’d Tim-doodle

As to think they’ll titch ground this ’em side of the poodle.

Noa—drat’em! they weant bring thick noashion to bear,

While there’s bould Coarnish curridge to give ’em a cheer.

And trust me, Job Munglar, I’ll weage me ould hat!

They have too much of slydom to venture ’pon that.

Besides ef they shud, as a body may saeya,

Dust a think that we’d let ’em goa deancing aweay?

Noa—Faith! thof I stand here so ould as thy vaather,

And thee and thy bastards ale reckon’d togeather;

Thof I’m lame in my click-hand, and blind ’pon one eye,

Yet by Gambers! Jan Trudle would scoarn to fight shy,

Or stand gogling for gapes, like an owl at an eagle,

Or yowling just ain like a Jany Tregeagle!

Noa—dost hire ma! Job Munglar, cheeld veane! dest a hire?

There’s no mortal can saey I’m afeard to stand fire.

And thee knawst et for sartin, as how, and so be,

When the marchants wor sheppin the bearley, dest see,

And we run’d off to Padsta to nack their purceedings;

Ded I mind the riat-act-man and ’es readings?

Noa, I called out the Hubbar—soa hard as I cud,

And cried, stand to et boys! tes for bearly or blood!

And when ale the soadgers ded loady their guns,

I made the purpoashals to dost ’an weth stoans.

Soa we cobb’d et away jest like lyants and tygars

Till we made am at laste fale a snapping the trigars.

And drat ’em! Job Munglar! I’m bould for to saey

That I steev’d down three rud-coats so ded as a daey.

But I scorn to stand speeching braggashans and soa,

As ale round the Bal here do very well knoaw.

Yet in caze, ef so be, as the Papishes coame,

For to roust us ale out from our houzen and hoam,

I’ll be cut up in slivers for meat for the crowas,

Ef I doant slam this tamlyn souse into their joaws.

Thof I’ve been ever sence that I noozled the nepple,

Durk as pitch a won side, and a hafe of a crepple;[174]

Yet I’ve heart’s-blood enow if we chance to fale too’t,

For to murder five Franch and a Spangar to boot!

But et es noa moar likely to coam unto pass,

Than thick moyle to fale talkeing like Balaamses ass!

Well! that maey be thickey suppoashal’s o’ thine;

But fath! ’tis noa mazedish condudle o’ mine!

Noa—soa sartin as thickey there place es Kearn Braey,

The Franchmen be coaming to car us awey.

They’ve five hundred great sheps, and mashes of men,

And sich powars of cannons, as ever was sen!

But the worstest of ale (sez a man cum’d from Famuth),

They have swared to burn ale from Tol Ped’n to Plemuth;

And to force ale the people, boath Chrestians and Jews,

For to live upon quilkins and pagetopooes;

And moar too than thickey, they’ll hitch in a roap

Every soual that weant pray to the Devel and Poap!

Thof I beant quite soa rich-like in cuyn as a squire,

Yet I’ve soam little cob-shans, Jan Trudle! dedst hire?

Soa for doubting, cheeld lookey! I’ve steev’d et, oak farm,

And “fast bind it, fast find it,” weant do one noa harm.

Soa for doubting cheeld vean! (as I tould tha afoar)

I’ve squadg’d et down ninety good fathoms and moar,

In a drang, where ould scratch, ef ha ever inclin’d et,

Might sclau ale his claws off afoar he wud find et.

For the outlandish Pagans, in caze they do landey,

Will go drifting for cuyn, like excise-men for brandey;

But ef ever they smill out the pleace where I’ve poat et,

May my corps like a pelchard be saleted and goated!

Why then zounds! let ’em coam, ef soo be they’ve a mind

Thee hast shanks for to skeyce with thy fardle behind.

Thee maeyest scamp wi’ the wemmen and cheldren, thee goose!

And the oather gret gaukums that take the same coose.

And may ale the 1big thunder-bolts up in the clouds

Tumble down ’pon my body, and squat ’em to jouds,

May I broyle like grain-tin in a blowing-house fire,

’Tell I’m rud as the smith makes the pieces of ire;

Ef I weant be shut ded, afoar enny soap-meagar,

Shall slavify me like a blackey-moor negar,

And make me ate quilkins and pagetepooes,

And worship the Devel and wear woaden shoes!2

Noa fath! by the sperit and soal of my body,

I’d rather be toarn’d to a hoddymandoddy!

Doan’t stand, tha’ great lutterpooch! chewing tha thumb;

For they’ll get a mayn dousting when ever they coam!