His bwony eärm an' knuckly vist ('Tis best to meäke a friend o't) Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd, Half backward wi' the wind o't. Wi' such a chap at hand, a maïd Would never goo a nun, min; She'd have noo call to be afraïd Bezide a farmer's son, min.
He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, So straïght as eyes can look, Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth, At ev'ry pitch a pook; An' then goo vower mile, or vive, To vind his friends in fun, min, Vor maïden's be but dead alive 'Ithout a farmer's son, min.
Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light, An' manly feäce so brown; An' health goo wi' en hwome at night, Vrom meäd, or wood, or down. O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low, When all's a-said an' done, min, The smartest chap that I do know, 'S a workèn farmer's son, min.
We now mid hope vor better cheer, My smilèn wife o' twice vive year. Let others frown, if thou bist near Wi' hope upon thy brow, Jeäne; Vor I vu'st lov'd thee when thy light Young sheäpe vu'st grew to woman's height; I loved thee near, an' out o' zight, An' I do love thee now, Jeäne.
An' we've a-trod the sheenèn bleäde Ov eegrass in the zummer sheäde, An' when the leäves begun to feäde Wi' zummer in the weäne, Jeäne; An' we've a-wander'd drough the groun' O' swayèn wheat a-turnèn brown, An' we've a-stroll'd together roun' The brook an' drough the leäne, Jeane.
An' nwone but I can ever tell Ov all thy tears that have a-vell When trials meäde thy bosom zwell, An' nwone but thou o' mine, Jeäne; An' now my heart, that heav'd wi' pride Back then to have thee at my zide, Do love thee mwore as years do slide, An' leäve them times behine, Jeäne.
By the brow o' thik hangèn I spent all my youth, In the house that did peep out between The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth, An' in zummer their sheäde to the green; An' there, as in zummer we play'd at our geämes, We [=e]ach own'd a tree, Vor we wer but dree, An' zoo the dree woaks wer a-call'd by our neämes.
An' two did grow scraggy out over the road, An' they wer call'd Jimmy's an' mine; An' tother wer Jeännet's, much kindlier grow'd, Wi' a knotless an' white ribbèd rine. An' there, o' fine nights avore gwäin in to rest, We did dance, vull o' life, To the sound o' the fife, Or plaÿ at some geäme that poor Jeännet lik'd best.