1. Why, I gi’ed en his run, an’ he shook his wold meäne,
An’ he rambled a-veedèn in Westergap Leäne;
An’ there he must needs goo a-riggèn, an’ crope
Vor a vew bleädes o’ grass up the wo’st o’ the slope;
Though I should ha’ thought his wold head would ha’ know’d
That vor stiff lags, lik’ his, the best pleäce wer the road.
2. An’ you hadden a-kept en so short, he must clim’,
Lik’ a gwoat, vor a bleäde, at the risk ov a lim’.
1. Noo, but there, I’m a-twold, he did clim’ an’ did slide,
An’ did screäpe, an’ did slip, on the shelvèn bank-zide,
An’ at langth lost his vootèn, an’ roll’d vrom the top,
Down, thump, kick, an’ higgledly, piggledly, flop.
2. Dear me, that is bad! I do veel vor your loss,
Vor a vew years agoo, Thomas, I lost my ho’se.
1. How wer’t? If I heärd it, I now ha’ vorgot;
Wer the poor thing bewitch’d or a-pweison’d, or what?
2. He wer out, an’ a-meäkèn his way to the brink
O’ the stream at the end o’ Church Leäne, vor to drink;
An’ he met wi’ zome yew-twigs the men had a-cast
Vrom the yew-tree, in churchyard, the road that he past.
He wer pweison’d. (1.) O dear, ’tis a hard loss to bear,
Vor a tranter’s whole bread is a-lost wi’ his meäre;
But ov all churches’ yew-trees, I never zet eyes
On a tree that would come up to thik woone vor size.
2. Noo, ’tis long years agone, but do linger as clear
In my mind though as if I’d a-heärd it to year.
When King George wer in Do’set, an’ show’d us his feäce
By our very own doors, at our very own pleäce,
That he look’d at thik yew-tree, an’ nodded his head,
An’ he zaid,—an’ I’ll tell ye the words that he zaid:—
“I’ll be bound, if you’ll sarch my dominions all drough,
That you woon’t vind the fellow to thik there wold yew.”
