At feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce,
The pertiest in all the pleäce,
As you did look, wi’ eyes as blue
As yonder southern hills in view,
Vrom Paladore—O Polly dear,
Wi’ you up there,
How merry then wer I at feäir.
Since vu’st I trod thik steep hill-zide
My grievèn soul ’v a-been a-tried
Wi’ païn, an’ loss o’ worldly geär,
An’ souls a-gone I wanted near;
But you be here to goo up still,
An’ look to Blackmwore vrom the hill
O’ Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear.
We’ll goo up there,
An’ spend an hour or two at feäir.
The wold brown meäre’s a-brought vrom grass,
An’ rubb’d an’ cwomb’d so bright as glass;
An’ now we’ll hitch her in, an’ start
To feäir upon the new green cart,
An’ teäke our little Poll between
Our zides, as proud’s a little queen,
To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear,
Vor now ’tis feäir,
An’ she’s a-longèn to goo there.
While Paladore, on watch, do straïn
Her eyes to Blackmwore’s blue-hill’d pläin,
While Duncliffe is the traveller’s mark,
Or cloty Stour’s a-rollèn dark;
Or while our bells do call, vor greäce,
The vo’k avore their Seävior’s feäce,
Mid Paladore, an’ Poll a dear,
Vor ever know
O’ peäce an’ plenty down below.
