No, I'm a man, I'm vull a man, You beät my manhood, if you can. You'll be a man if you can teäke All steätes that household life do meäke. The love-toss'd child, a-croodlèn loud, The bwoy a-screamèn wild in plaÿ, The tall grown youth a-steppèn proud, The father staïd, the house's staÿ. No; I can boast if others can, I'm vull a man.
A young-cheäk'd mother's tears mid vall, When woone a-lost, not half man-tall, Vrom little hand, a-called vrom plaÿ, Do leäve noo tool, but drop a taÿ, An' die avore he's father-free To sheäpe his life by his own plan; An' vull an angel he shall be, But here on e'th not vull a man, No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man.
I woonce, a child, wer father-fed, An' I've a vound my childern bread; My eärm, a sister's trusty crook, Is now a faïthvul wife's own hook; An' I've a-gone where vo'k did zend, An' gone upon my own free mind, An' of'en at my own wits' end. A-led o' God while I wer blind. No; I could boast if others can I'm vull a man.
An' still, ov all my tweil ha' won, My lovèn maïd an' merry son, Though each in turn's a jaÿ an' ceäre, 'Ve a-had, an' still shall have, their sheäre: An' then, if God should bless their lives, Why I mid zend vrom son to son My life, right on drough men an' wives, As long, good now, as time do run. No; I could boast if others can, I'm vull a man.
O jaÿ betide the dear wold mill, My naïghbour plaÿmeätes' happy hwome, Wi' rollèn wheel, an' leäpèn foam, Below the overhangèn hill, Where, wide an' slow, The stream did flow, An' flags did grow, an' lightly vlee Below the grey-leav'd withy tree, While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour, Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
An' there in geämes by evenèn skies, When Meäry zot her down to rest, The broach upon her pankèn breast, Did quickly vall an' lightly rise, While swans did zwim In steätely trim. An' swifts did skim the water, bright Wi' whirlèn froth, in western light; An' clack, clack, clack, that happy hour, Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
Now mortery jeints, in streaks o' white, Along the geärdèn wall do show In Maÿ, an' cherry boughs do blow, Wi' bloomèn tutties, snowy white, Where rollèn round, Wi' rumblèn sound, The wheel woonce drown'd the vaïce so dear To me. I faïn would goo to hear The clack, clack, clack, vor woone short hour, Wi' whirlèn stwone, an' streamèn flour, Bezide the mill on cloty Stour.