Peevish Poll.

Aw've heeard ov Mary Mischief,     An aw've read ov Natterin Nan;     An aw've known a Grumlin Judy,     An a cross-grained Sarah Ann;     But wi' all ther faults an failins,     They still seem varry tame,     Compared to one aw'll tell yo on,     But aw dursn't tell her name.     Aw'll simply call her Peevish Poll,     That name suits to a dot;     But if shoo thowt 'twor meant for her,     Yo bet, aw'st get it hot.     Shoo's fat an fair an forty,     An her smile's as sweet as spice,     An her voice is low an tender     When shoo's tryin to act nice.     Shoo's lots ov little winnin ways,     'At fit her like a glove;     An fowk say shoo's allus pleasant, -     Just a woman they could love.     But if they nobbut had her,     They'd find aght for a start,     It isn't her wi' th' sweetest smile     At's getten th' kindest heart.     Haivver her poor husband lives     An stands it, - that licks doll!     Aw'st ha been hung if aw'd been cursed     Wi' sich a wife as Poll!     Her children three, sneak in an aght     As if they wor hawf deead     They seem expectin, hawf ther time,     A claat o'th' side o'th' heead.     If they goa aght to laik, shoo storms     Abaat her looanly state;     If they stop in, then shoo declares     They're allus in her gate.     If they should start to sing or tawk     Shoo tells 'em, "hold yor din!"     An if they all sit mum, shoo says,     "It railly is a sin     To think ha shoo's to sit an mope,     All th' time at they're away,     An when they're hooam they sit like stoops     Withaat a word to say."     If feelin cold they creep near th' fire,     They'll varry sooin get floored;     Then shoo'll oppen th' door an winder     Declarin shoo's fair smoored.     When its soa swelterin an hot     They can hardly get ther breeath,     Shoo'll pile on coils an shut all cloise,     An sware shoo's starved to deeath.     Whativver's wrang when they're abaat,     Is their fault for bein thear;     An if owt's wrang when they're away,     It's coss they wornt near.     To keep 'em all i' misery,     Is th' only joy shoo knows;     An then shoo blames her husband,     For bein allus makkin rows.     Poor chap he's wearin fast away, -     He'll leeav us before long;     A castiron man wod have noa chonce     Wi' sich a woman's tongue.     An then shoo'll freeat and sigh, an try     His virtues to extol;     But th' mourner, mooast sincere will be     That chap 'at next weds Poll.