He won my heart! There, John, don't talk sich stuff; Don't talk noo mwore, vor you've a-zaid enough. If I'd a-lik'd another mwore than you, I'm sure I shoulden come to meet ye zoo; Vor I've a-twold to father many a storry, An' took o' mother many a scwoldèn vor ye. [_weeping._] But 'twull be over now, vor you shan't zee me Out wi' ye noo mwore, to pick a quarrel wi' me.
Well, Fanny, I woon't zay noo mwore, my dear. Let's meäke it up. Come, wipe off thik there tear. Let's goo an' zit o' top o' theäse here stile, An' rest, an' look about a little while.
Now goo away, you crabbed jealous chap! You shan't kiss me,--you shan't! I'll gi' ye a slap.
Then you look smilèn; don't you pout an' toss Your head so much, an' look so very cross.
Now, John! don't squeeze me roun' the middle zoo. I woon't stop here noo longer, if you do. Why, John! be quiet, wull ye? Fie upon it! Now zee how you've a-wrumpl'd up my bonnet! Mother'ill zee it after I'm at hwome, An' gi'e a guess directly how it come.
Then don't you zay that I be jealous, Fanny.
I wull: vor you _be_ jealous, Mister Jahnny. There's zomebody a-comèn down the groun' Towards the stile. Who is it? Come, get down I must run hwome, upon my word then, now; If I do staÿ, they'll kick up sich a row. Good night. I can't staÿ now.
Then good night, Fanny! Come out a-bit to-morrow evenèn, can ye?
Now the sheädes o' the elems do stratch mwore an' mwore, Vrom the low-zinkèn zun in the west o' the sky; An' the maïdens do stand out in clusters avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.
An' their cwombs be a-zet in their bunches o' heäir, An' their currels do hang roun' their necks lily-white, An' their cheäks they be rwosy, their shoulders be beäre, Their looks they be merry, their limbs they be light.
An' the times have a-been--but they cant be noo mwore-- When I had my jaÿ under evenèn's dim sky, When my Fanny did stan' out wi' others avore Her door, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.
An' up there, in the green, is her own honey-zuck, That her brother traïn'd up roun' her window; an' there Is the rwose an' the jessamy, where she did pluck A flow'r vor her bosom or bud vor her heäir.
An' zoo smile, happy maïdens! vor every feäce, As the zummers do come, an' the years do roll by, Will soon sadden, or goo vur away vrom the pleäce, Or else, lik' my Fanny, will wither an' die.