Ah! yesterday, d'ye know, I voun' Tom Dumpy's cwoat an' smock-frock, down Below the pollard out in groun'; An' zoo I slyly stole An' took the smock-frock up, an' tack'd The sleeves an' collar up, an' pack'd Zome nice sharp stwones, all fresh a-crack'd 'Ithin each pocket-hole.
An' in the evenèn, when he shut Off work, an' come an' donn'd his cwoat, Their edges gi'ed en sich a cut, How we did stan' an' laugh! An' when the smock-frock I'd a-zow'd Kept back his head an' hands, he drow'd Hizzelf about, an' teäv'd, an' blow'd, Lik' any up-tied calf.
Then in a veag away he flung His frock, an' after me he sprung, An' mutter'd out sich dreats, an' wrung His vist up sich a size! But I, a-runnèn, turn'd an' drow'd Some doust, a-pick'd up vrom the road, Back at en wi' the wind, that blow'd It right into his eyes.
An' he did blink, an' vow he'd catch Me zomehow yet, an' be my match. But I wer nearly down to hatch Avore he got vur on; An' up in chammer, nearly dead Wi' runnèn, lik' a cat I vled, An' out o' window put my head To zee if he wer gone.
An' there he wer, a-prowlèn roun' Upon the green; an' I look'd down An' told en that I hoped he voun' He mussen think to peck Upon a body zoo, nor whip The meäre to drow me off, nor tip Me out o' cart ageän, nor slip Cut hoss-heäir down my neck.
Sweet Be'mi'ster, that bist a-bound By green an' woody hills all round, Wi' hedges, reachèn up between A thousan' vields o' zummer green, Where elems' lofty heads do drow Their sheädes vor haÿ-meakers below, An' wild hedge-flow'rs do charm the souls O' maïdens in their evenèn strolls.
When I o' Zunday nights wi' Jeäne Do saunter drough a vield or leäne, Where elder-blossoms be a-spread Above the eltrot's milk-white head, An' flow'rs o' blackberries do blow Upon the brembles, white as snow, To be outdone avore my zight By Jeän's gaÿ frock o' dazzlèn white;
Oh! then there's nothèn that's 'ithout Thy hills that I do ho about,-- Noo bigger pleäce, noo gaÿer town, Beyond thy sweet bells' dyèn soun', As they do ring, or strike the hour, At evenèn vrom thy wold red tow'r. No: shelter still my head, an' keep My bwones when I do vall asleep.
As I wer out in meäd last week, A-thatchèn o' my little rick, There green young ee-grass, ankle-high, Did sheen below the cloudless sky; An' over hedge in tother groun', Among the bennets dry an' brown, My dun wold meäre, wi' neck a-freed Vrom Zummer work, did snort an' veed; An' in the sheäde o' leafy boughs, My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows Did rub their zides upon the raïls, Or switch em wi' their heäiry taïls.