night
Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore
At the vier, that didden burn free:
An' he het zome o't out on the vloor,
Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee.
Then he kicked it vor burnen the child,
An' het it among the cat's heairs;
An' then beaet the cat, a-run wild,
Wi' a spark on her back up the steairs:
Vor even the vier an' fleaeme
Be to bleaeme wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup,
Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot,
But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up
Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scalden hot;
Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff
As noo hammer in parish could crack,
An' flung down the knife in a huff;
Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back.
Vor beaekers an' meaekers o' tools
Be all fools wi' Gruffmoody Grim.

Oone day as he vish'd at the brook,
He flung up, wi' a quick-handed knack,
His long line, an' his high-vleen hook
Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back.
Then he zwore at the brembles, an' prick'd
His beaere hand, as he pull'd the hook free;
An' ageaen, in a rage, as he kick'd
At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee.
An' he wish'd ev'ry bremble an' briar
Wer o' vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

Oh! he's welcome, vor me, to breed dread
Wherever his sheaede mid alight,
An' to live wi' noo me'th round his head,
An' noo feaece wi' a smile in his zight;
But let vo'k be all merry an' zing
At the he'th where my own logs do burn,
An' let anger's wild vist never swing
In where I have a door on his durn;
Vor I'll be a happier man,
While I can, than Gruffmoody Grim.

To zit down by the vier at night,
Is my jay--vor I woon't call it pride,--
Wi' a brand on the bricks, all alight,
An' a pile o' zome mwore at the zide.
Then tell me o' zome'hat that's droll,
An' I'll laugh till my two zides do eaeche
Or o' naighbours in sorrow o' soul,
An' I'll tweil all the night vor their seaeke;
An' show that to teaeke things amiss
Idden bliss, to Gruffmoody Grim.

An' then let my child clim' my lag,
An' I'll lift en, wi' love, to my chin;
Or my maid come an' coax me to bag
Vor a frock, an' a frock she shall win;
Or, then if my wife do meaeke light
O' whatever the bwoys mid ha' broke,
It wull seem but so small in my zight,
As a leaf a-het down vrom a woak
An' not meaeke me ceaeper an' froth
Vull o' wrath, lik' Gruffmo