The Bridge

I 'gree to thet; she's nigh us to wut France is; But then she'll hev to make the fust advances; We've gut pride, tu, an' gut it by good rights, An' ketch me stoopin' to pick up the mites O' condescension she'll be lettin' fall When she finds out we ain't dead arter all! I tell ye wut, it takes more'n one good week Afore my nose forgits it's hed a tweak.