Greenen's penny till,
Wi' Mrs Bingham off o' drill.

Last year John Hinley's mother cried,
"Why my bwoy John is quite my pride!
Vor he've a-been so good to-year,
An' han't a-mell'd wi' any squabbles,
An' han't a-drown'd his wits in beer,
An' han't a-been in any hobbles.
I never thought he'd turn out bad,
He always wer so good a lad;
But now I'm sure he's better still,
Drough Mrs Bingham, off o' drill."

Jeaene Hart, that's Joey Duntley's chaice,
Do praise en up wi' her sweet vaice,
Vor he's so strait's a hollyhock
(Vew hollyhocks be up so tall),
An' he do come so true's the clock
To Mrs Bingham's coffee-stall;
An' Jeaene do write, an' brag o' Joe
To teaeke the young recruits in tow,
An' try, vor all their good, to bring em,
A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.

God speed the Colonel, toppen high,
An' officers wi' sworded thigh,
An' all the sargeants that do bawl
All day enough to split their droats,
An' all the corporals, and all
The band a-playen up their notes,
An' all the men vrom vur an' near
We'll gi'e em all a hearty cheer.
An' then another cheeren still
Vor Mrs Bingham, off o' drill.

[Footnote D: Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.]

[Footnote E: The colonel's wife, who opened a room with a
coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.]

A DO'SET SALE.

WITH A MISTAKE.

(_Thomas and Mr Auctioneer._)

_T._ Well here, then, Mister auctioneer,
Be theaese the virs, I bought, out here?

_A._ The firs, the fir-poles, you bought? Who?
'Twas _furze_, not _firs_, I sold to you.

_T._ I bid vor _virs_, and not vor _vuzzen_,
Vor vir-poles, as I thought, two dozen.

_A._ Two dozen faggots, and I took
Your bidding for them. Here's the book.

_T._ I wont have what I didden buy.
I don't want _vuzzen_, now. Not I.
Why _firs_ an' _furze_ do sound the seaeme.
Why don't ye gi'e a thing his neaeme?
Aye, _firs_ and _furze_! Why, who can tell
Which 'tis that you do meaen to zell?
No, no, be kind enough to call
Em _virs_, and _vuzzen_, then, that's all.

DON'T CEAeRE.

At the feaest, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks
Wer a-took in a happeren storm,
But we chaps took the maidens, an' kept em wi' clokes
Under shelter, all dry an' all warm;
An' to my lot vell Jeaene, that's my bride,
That did titter, a-hung at my zide;