We'll wind up roun' the hill, an' look All down the thickly-timber'd nook, Out where the squier's house do show His grey-wall'd peaks up drough the row O' sheädy elems, where the rook Do build her nest; an' where the brook Do creep along the meäds, an' lie To catch the brightness o' the sky; An' cows, in water to theïr knees, Do stan' a-whiskèn off the vlees.
Mother o' blossoms, and ov all That's feäir a-yield vrom Spring till Fall, The gookoo over white-weäv'd seas Do come to zing in thy green trees, An' buttervlees, in giddy flight, Do gleäm the mwost by thy gaÿ light Oh! when, at last, my fleshly eyes Shall shut upon the vields an' skies, Mid zummer's zunny days be gone, An' winter's clouds be comèn on: Nor mid I draw upon the e'th, O' thy sweet aïr my leätest breath; Alassen I mid want to staÿ Behine' for thee, O flow'ry May!
Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride O' chaps an' maïdens vur an' wide; They can't keep up a merry tide, But Bob is in the middle. If merry Bob do come avore ye, He'll zing a zong, or tell a story; But if you'd zee en in his glory, Jist let en have a fiddle.
Aye, let en tuck a crowd below His chin, an' gi'e his vist a bow, He'll dreve his elbow to an' fro', An' plaÿ what you do please. At Maypolèn, or feäst, or feäir, His eärm wull zet off twenty peäir, An' meäke em dance the groun' dirt-beäre, An' hop about lik' vlees.
Long life to Bob! the very soul O' me'th at merry feäst an' pole; Vor when the crowd do leäve his jowl, They'll all be in the dumps. Zoo at the dance another year, At _Shillinston_ or _Hazelbur'_, Mid Bob be there to meäke em stir, In merry jigs, their stumps!
In happy times a while agoo, My lively hope, that's now a-gone Did stir my heart the whole year drough, But mwost when green-bough'd spring come on; When I did rove, wi' litty veet, Drough deäisy-beds so white's a sheet, But still avore I us'd to meet The blushèn cheäks that bloom'd vor me!
An' afterward, in lightsome youth, When zummer wer a-comèn on, An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth, An' dippèn zwallows skimm'd the pon'; Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jaÿ, An' tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ, There still would come a brighter Maÿ, Wi' blushèn cheäks to bloom vor me!