Here, here it was (a wae light on the place!)
'At first I got a gliff o' Betty's feace:
Blyth on this trod the smurker tripp'd, and theer
At the deail-head unluckily we shear,
Heedless I glim'd, nor could my een command,
Till gash the sickle went into my hand:
Down hell'd the bluid; the shearers aw' brast out
In sweels of laughter; Betty luik'd about-
Reed grew my fingers, reder [reeder] far my feace-
What could I de in seek [seck] a dispert kease?
Away I sleeng'd; to grandy meade my neame [mean];
My grandy (God be wud her now she's geane)
Skilfu' the gushen bluid wi' cockwebs staid;
Then on the sair a healen plaister laid;
The healen plaister eas'd the paanful sair-
The arr indeed remains, but neathing mair.
Not sae the other wound, that inward smart-
My grandy could not cure a bleedin heart.
I've bworn the bitter torment three lang year,
And aw' my life-time mun be fworc'd to bear,
Less Betty will a kind physician pruive;
For nin but she has skill to medcin luive.
But how should honest Betty give relief?
Betty's a parfet stranger to my grief: