An’ zome big apple, Jimmy flung
To squaïl me, gi’ed me sich a crack;
But very shortly his ear rung,
Wi’ woone I zent to paÿ en back.
An’ after we’d a-had our squaïls,
Poor Tom, a-jumpèn in a bag,
Wer pinch’d by all the maïden’s naïls,
An’ rolled down into hwome-groun’ quag.
An’ then they carr’d our Fan all roun’,
’Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump
Upset en over on the groun’,
An’ drow’d her out along-straïght, plump.
An’ in the cider-house we zot
Upon the windlass Poll an’ Nan,
An’ spun ’em roun’ till they wer got
So giddy that they coulden stan’.
MEAPLE LEAVES BE YOLLOW.
Come, let’s stroll down so vur’s the poun’,
Avore the sparklèn zun is down:
The zummer’s gone, an’ days so feäir
As theäse be now a-gettèn reäre.
The night, wi’ mwore than daylight’s sheäre
O’ wat’ry sky, do wet wi’ dew
The ee-grass up above woone’s shoe,
An’ meäple leaves be yollow.
The last hot doust, above the road,
An’ vu’st dead leaves ha’ been a-blow’d
By plaÿsome win’s where spring did spread
The blossoms that the zummer shed;
An’ near blue sloos an’ conkers red
The evenèn zun, a zettèn soon,
Do leäve a-quiv’rèn to the moon,
The meäple leaves so yollow.
