The Poor Wee Mouse Poem by Dianne Feaver

Her poure, wee tuckirt mouse,
Too much in use, now dyth oute

Long 'twas favirt by goode wife
Of poet's cottage and wee fine life.

Now her mouse would'na prevail,
Causeth weep, causeth wail.

Misfortune taketh right hand friende,
Knowth not why it shold ende,

Checkth cord, buyth gadget,
Click and click, nought wold haypen,

God helpth me-wife swearth low-
Nay take me poure, wee mouse now!

For truly she did treat it rightly,
Warmed it daily, warmed it nightly,

'Til husband sayth-Wife, dear idgit,
Nay play so long at bein' poet.

Nought is done! Wee house in ruin!
Cryth he- No supper stewth!

Hunger causeth man to greete,
Idgit wife cares nought for this.

Grieves wee mouse, nay ruined house,
Tellth husband-Eat take-out! -

Now goode man doth lose good wit,
Prepares goode wife great purgative.

Nay fixth mouse as wife fair begs,
He drinkth ale, she drinkth dregs.

Then, witness she how husband grins
And kens the way of mouse's end.

Husband nay fools with mouse again!
Unstoppered wife lifts jamjar lid,

Counts her share and God her witness,
Taketh half, nay more, nay less.

Goode wife content, new mousee workth,
Joyful cottage, husband cleanth,

Now writes goode wife, one eye on friend
And one eye on goode husband.

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