They be Seven

A simple man
Who never cut a dash,
And feels an ache in every limb—
What should he know of cash?

I met an ancient cottager,
He was sixty-nine, he said;
He had a few untidy locks
Still hanging on his head.

« Your weekly shillings, ancient man,
How many may they be? »
« How many? Seven in all, » he said,
And, wondering, looked at me.

« One on 'em gaws to pay the rent,
And food and claws tak vour,
And two gaws to the Vox and Goose,
To pay the weekly score. »

Said I, « If one goes for your rent,
And you can then contrive
To make four do for for food and clothes,
You really have but five. »

Said he, « I get seven baub a week,
And one gaws for the rent,—
And then, d'ye see, in food and claws,
Another vour is spent;

And two gaws to the Vox and Goose,
The house beside the way;
And thaw I baint no scholard, sir,
It comes to seven, I say. »

« But they are gone—those two are gone;
Why, really, man alive!
If two go in the landlord's till,
You really have but five! »

Said he, « Two gaws to Vox and Goose,
Vor often, I declare,
I taks me bread and cheese along,
And chaws me supper there.

« And ther I meets some jolly pals,
Ther's Beel, and Jim, and Shem,
And oft I takes me feedle down
And scrapes a chune to them. »

« But they are gone—those two are gone—
They're to the landlord given. »
'Twas throwing words away, for still
That stupid man would have his will;
And said, « Zur, they be seven! »