An' there the jeints o' beef did stand, Lik' cliffs o' rock, in goodly row; Where woone mid quarry till his hand Did tire, an' meäke but little show; An' after we'd a-took our seat, An' greäce had been a-zaid vor meat, We zet to work, an' zoo begun Our feäst an' fun at Herrenston.
An' mothers there, bezide the bwoards, Wi' little childern in their laps, Did stoop, wi' lovèn looks an' words, An' veed em up wi' bits an' draps; An' smilèn husbands went in quest O' what their wives did like the best; An' you'd ha' zeed a happy zight, Thik merry night, at Herrenston.
An' then the band, wi' each his leaf O' notes, above us at the zide, Play'd up the praïse ov England's beef An' vill'd our hearts wi' English pride; An' leafy chaïns o' garlands hung, Wi' dazzlèn stripes o' flags, that swung Above us, in a bleäze o' light, Thik happy night, at Herrenston.
An' then the clerk, avore the vier, Begun to lead, wi' smilèn feäce, A carol, wi' the Monkton quire, That rung drough all the crowded pleäce. An' dins' o' words an' laughter broke In merry peals drough clouds o' smoke; Vor hardly wer there woone that spoke, But pass'd a joke, at Herrenston.
Then man an' maïd stood up by twos, In rows, drough passage, out to door, An' gaïly beät, wi' nimble shoes, A dance upon the stwonèn floor. But who is worthy vor to tell, If she that then did bear the bell, Wer woone o' Monkton, or o' Ceäme, Or zome sweet neäme ov Herrenston.
Zoo peace betide the girt vo'k's land, When they can stoop, wi' kindly smile, An' teäke a poor man by the hand, An' cheer en in his daily tweil. An' oh! mid He that's vur above The highest here, reward their love, An' gi'e their happy souls, drough greäce, A higher pleäce than Herrenston.
Though cool avore the sheenèn sky Do vall the sheädes below the copse, The timber-trees, a-reachèn high, Ha' zunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder land's a-lyèn plow'd, An' red, below the snow-white cloud, An' vlocks o' pitchèn rooks do vwold Their wings to walk upon the mwold. While floods be low, An' buds do grow, An' aïr do blow, a-broad, O.
But though the aïr is cwold below The creakèn copses' darksome screen, The truest sheäde do only show How strong the warmer zun do sheen; An' even times o' grief an' païn, Ha' good a-comèn in their traïn, An' 'tis but happiness do mark The sheädes o' sorrow out so dark. As tweils be sad, Or smiles be glad, Or times be bad, at hwome, O