An’ mid it never be too high
Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
When we do hear our childern cry
Vor bread, avore nex’ Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Wi’ jaÿ o’ heart mid shooters start
The whirrèn pa’tridges in vlocks;
While shots do vlee drough bush an’ tree,
An’ dogs do stan’ so still as stocks.
An’ let em ramble round the farms
Wi’ guns ’ithin their bended eärms,
In goolden zunsheen free o’ storms,
Rejaïcèn vor the Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men’s delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
POLL’S JACK-DAW.
Ah! Jimmy vow’d he’d have the law
Ov ouer cousin Poll’s Jack-daw,
That had by day his withy jaïl
A-hangèn up upon a naïl,
Ageän the elem tree, avore
The house, jist over-right the door.
An’ twitted vo’k a-passèn by
A-most so plaïn as you or I;
Vor hardly any day did pass
’Ithout Tom’s teachèn o’m zome sa’ce;
Till by-an’-by he call’d em all
‘Soft-polls’ an’ ‘gawkeys,’ girt an’ small.
An’ zoo, as Jim went down along
The leäne a-whisslèn ov a zong,
The saucy Daw cried out by rote
