The love-toss’d child, a-croodlèn loud,
The bwoy a-screamèn wild in plaÿ,
The tall grown youth a-steppèn proud,
The father staïd, the house’s staÿ.
No; I can boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
A young-cheäk’d mother’s tears mid vall,
When woone a-lost, not half man-tall,
Vrom little hand, a-called vrom plaÿ,
Do leäve noo tool, but drop a taÿ,
An’ die avore he’s father-free
To sheäpe his life by his own plan;
An’ vull an angel he shall be,
But here on e’th not vull a man,
No; I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
I woonce, a child, war father-fed,
An’ I’ve avound my childern bread;
My eärm, a sister’s trusty crook,
Is now a faïthvul wife’s own hook;
An’ I’ve a-gone where vo’k did zend,
An’ gone upon my own free mind,
An’ of’en at my own wits’ end.
A-led o’ God while I wer blind.
No; I could boast if others can
I’m vull a man.
An’ still, ov all my tweil ha’ won,
My lovèn maïd an’ merry son,
Though each in turn’s a jaÿ an’ ceäre,
’Ve a-had, an’ still shall have, their sheäre;
An’ then, if God should bless their lives,
