He wont gi’e up when things don’t faÿ,
But turn em into fun, min;
An’ what’s hard work to zome, is plaÿ
Avore a farmer’s son, min.
His bwony eärm an’ knuckly vist
(’Tis best to meäke a friend o’t)
Would het a fellow, that’s a-miss’d,
Half backward wi’ the wind o’t.
Wi’ such a chap at hand, a maïd
Would never goo a nun, min;
She’d have noo call to be afraïd
Bezide a farmer’s son, min.
He’ll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,
So straïght as eyes can look,
Or pitch all day, wi’ half his strangth,
At ev’ry pitch a pook;
An’ then goo vower mile, or vive,
To vind his friends in fun, min,
Vor maïden’s be but dead alive
’Ithout a farmer’s son, min.
Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light,
An’ manly feäce so brown;
An’ health goo wi’ en hwome at night,
Vrom meäd, or wood, or down.
O’ rich an’ poor, o’ high an’ low,
When all’s a-said an’ done, min,
The smartest chap that I do know,
’S a workèn farmer’s son, min.
JEÄNE.
We now mid hope vor better cheer,
My smilèn wife o’ twice vive year.
Let others frown, if thou bist near
L
