Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won,
By heads o’ sundry sizes,
Why, who can slight what we’ve a-done?
We’ve all a-won head prizes.
Then teäke a drap vor harmless fun,
But not enough to quarrel;
Though where a man do like the gun,
He can’t but need the barrel.
O’ goodly feäre, avore we’ll start,
We’ll zit an’ teäke our vill, min;
Our supper-bill can be but short,
’Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.
GAMMONY GAŸ.
Oh! thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll,
That if he’s at hwome by the he’th,
Or wi’ vo’k out o’ door, he’s the soul
O’ the meetèn vor antics an’ me’th;
He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck
As the water’s a-shot vrom a duck;
He do zing where his naïghbours would cry—
He do laugh where the rest o’s would sigh:
Noo other’s so merry o’ feäce,
In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ.
An’ o’ workèn days, Oh! he do wear
Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t—
Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his heäir,
An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t;
An’ a cwoat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee
In the wind ov his walk, round his knee;
An’ a peäir o’ girt pockets lik’ bags,
That do swing an’ do bob at his lags:
While me’th do walk out drough the pleäce,
In the feäce o’ Gammony Gaÿ.
