n't wed--aw wonder if ther petticoits an' stockins is as
cleean. An when aw see a lot o' white faced lads, 'a'ts hardly getten
ther hippins off, smokin cigars, an' spittin o'th' floor ivery two or
three yards,--aw wonder if they dooant wish they wor finished, an' aw
wonder what ther mothers is dooin to let 'em aat by thersen. An' when
aw hear tell ha mich brass they get at th' doors, aw wonder ha mich on
it wor borrow'd to goa wi'--an' sometimes aw wonder what they do wi'
it after they've getten it--but that's noa business o' mine;--its a
hungary job, aw know. Aw mony a time wonder, when aw hear th' bands
o' music strike up, what Lord Byron ment when he said, "When music
arose with its voluptuous swell;" for aw've booath seen an' heeard
monny a voluptuous swell at a flaar show. An' aw wonder sometimes ha
it is 'at fowk 'at goa wi a shawl o' ther heead to pick aat a sheep
heead i'th' market, can't be content unless they're donned i' silks
an' satins to goa see a twoathree marrygolds an' fushias. An'
sometimes aw wonder 'what i'th' name o' fortun aw'm dooin thear mysen,
an' if anybody axes me, aw wonder what business it is o' their's;--an'
its just a case o' wonderin throo beginnin to th' endin', an' aw
wonder when fowk 'll leearn a bit o' wit. Aw wonder if fowk think th'
same abaat me. Aw wonder if they do. Aw shouldn't wonder if they
did.

October Ale

They reckon to brew a gooid sup o' ale in October, an' they call it
"Prime owd October." Ther's monny a war thing i'th' world nor a sup
o' gooid drink. Landlords an' teetotal-lecturers manage to get a
livin' aat on it some way;--but it's th' same wi' ale as wi'
iverything else nah days,--it's nowt made on unless it's sharp. It's
a sharp age we live in;--hand-loom waivin' an' stage coaches are all
too slow; iverybody an' iverything keeps growin' sharper. But we
arn't as sharp as what they are i' 'Merica yet--they're too sharp.
They tell me they ha' to lapp thersen up i' haybands afoor they goa to
bed, for fear o' cuttin' th' sheets. Aw heeard tell o' one chap
runnin' a race wi' a flash o' leetnin', an' they say he'd ha' won but
for one ov his gallus buttons comin' off. An' another 'at used to mak
leather garters an' throw 'em ovver his heead, an' he could mak 'em
soa sharp 'at he allus kept one pair flyin'. He worn't a bad hand at
his job, he worn't that. One day aw axed a chap 'at had been, "if
they wor raylee as sharp as what fowk gave 'em credit for?