Aye, if a young chap, woonce, had any wit To try an' scrape together zome vew pound, To buy some cows an' teäke a bit o' ground, He mid become a farmer, bit by bit. But, hang it! now the farms be all so big, An' bits o' groun' so skeä'ce, woone got no scope; If woone could seäve a poun', woone couldden hope To keep noo live stock but a little pig.
Why here wer vourteen men, zome years agoo, A-kept a-drashèn half the winter drough; An' now, woone's drashels be'n't a bit o' good. They got machines to drashy wi', plague teäke em! An' he that vu'st vound out the way to meäke em, I'd drash his busy zides vor'n if I could! Avore they took away our work, they ought To meäke us up the bread our leäbour bought.
They hadden need meäke poor men's leäbour less, Vor work a'ready is uncommon skeä'ce.
Ah! Robert! times be badish vor the poor; An' worse will come, I be a-fear'd, if Moore In theäse year's almanick do tell us right.
Why then we sartainly must starve. Good night!
Come, run up hwome wi' us to night, Athirt the vield a-vroze so white, Where vrosty sheädes do lie below The winter ricks a-tipp'd wi' snow, An' lively birds, wi' waggèn taïls, Do hop upon the icy raïls, An' rime do whiten all the tops O' bush an' tree in hedge an' copse, In wind's a-cuttèn keen.
Come, maïdens, come: the groun's a-vroze Too hard to-night to spweil your clothes. You got noo pools to waddle drough, Nor clay a-pullèn off your shoe: An' we can trig ye at the zide, To keep ye up if you do slide: Zoo while there's neither wet nor mud, 'S the time to run an' warm your blood, In winds a-cuttèn keen.
Vor young men's hearts an' maïden's eyes Don't vreeze below the cwoldest skies, While they in twice so keen a blast Can wag their brisk lim's twice so vast! Though vier-light, a-flick'rèn red Drough vrosty window-peänes, do spread Vrom wall to wall, vrom he'th to door, Vor us to goo an' zit avore, Vrom winds a-cuttèn keen.
We thought you woulden leäve us quite So soon as what you did last night; Our fun jist got up to a height As you about got hwome. The friskèn chaps did skip about, An' cou'se the maïdens in an' out, A-meäkèn such a randy-rout, You coulden hear a drum.
An' Tom, a-springèn after Bet Blind-vwolded, whizz'd along, an' het Poor Grammer's zide, an' overzet Her chair, at blind-man's buff; An' she, poor soul, as she did vall, Did show her snags o' teeth an' squall, An' what, she zaid, wer wo'se than all, She shatter'd all her snuff.