THE HWOMESTEAD.
If I had all the land my zight
Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill,
Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right,
Why I could be but happy still.
An’ I be happy wi’ my spot
O’ freehold ground an’ mossy cot,
An’ shoulden get a better lot
If I had all my will.
My orcha’d’s wide, my trees be young;
An’ they do bear such heavy crops,
Their boughs, lik’ onion-rwopes a-hung,
Be all a-trigg’d to year, wi’ props.
I got some geärden groun’ to dig,
A parrock, an’ a cow an’ pig;
I got zome cider vor to swig,
An’ eäle o’ malt an’ hops.
I’m landlord o’ my little farm,
I’m king ’ithin my little pleäce;
I don’t break laws, an’ don’t do harm,
An’ bent afeär’d o’ noo man’s feäce.
When I’m a-cover’d wi’ my thatch,
Noo man do deäre to lift my latch;
Where honest han’s do shut the hatch,
There fear do leäve the pleäce.
My lofty elem trees do screen
My brown-ruf’d house, an’ here below,
My geese do strut athirt the green,
An’ hiss an’ flap their wings o’ snow;
As I do walk along a rank
Ov apple trees, or by a bank,
Or zit upon a bar or plank,
To see how things do grow.
