It’s so monny year to-day, Jim Wreet, Sin oud Joe Constantine— An’ Daniel Ackroyd, thee an’ me, An’ other friends o’ thine, Went up ta sing at Squire’s haase, Net a hauf-a-mile fro’ here; An’ t’ Squire made us welcome To his brown October beer, Jim Wreet; To his brown October beer.
An’ oud Joe Booth tha knew, Jim Wreet, That kept the Old King’s Arms; Whear all t’ church singers used t’ meet, When they hed sung ther Psalms; An’ thee an’ me amang um, Jim, Sometimes hev chang’d the string, An’ with a merry chorus join’d, We’ve made yond tav’ren ring, Jim Wreet, We’ve made yond tav’ren ring.
But nearly three score years, Jim Wreet, As past away sin then; When Keethlah in Appolo’s Art, Cud boast her musick men; Bud musick nah meeans money, Jim, An’ that tha’s sense to knaw; Bud just fer oud acquaintance sake, Come geas a wag o’ thy paw, Jim Wreet, Jim Wreet, Com geas a wag o’ thee paw.
Song of the Months, from January to December.
High o’er the hill-tops moans the wild breezes, As from the dark branches I hear the sad strain: See the lean pauper by his grim hearth he freezes, While comfort and plenty in palaces reign.
Dark is the visage of the rugged old ocean, To the caves in the billow he rides his foamed steed: As over the grim surges with his chariot in motion, He spreads desolation, and laughs at the deed.
No more with the tempest the river is swelling, No angry clouds frown, nor sky darkly lower; The bee sounds her horn, and the gay news is telling That spring is established with sunshine and showers.
In the pride of its beauty the young year is shining, And nature with blossom is wreathing the trees; The white and the green in rich clusters entwining, And sprinkling their sweetness on the wings of the breeze.
O May, lovely goddess! what name can be grander? What sunbeam so bright as thine own smiling eye; With thy mantle of green, richly spangled in splendour, At whose sight the last demon of winter does fly.
From her home in the grass see the primrose is peeping, While diamond dew-drops around her is spread; She smiles thro’ her tears like an infant that’s sleeping, And to laughter is changed as her sorrows are fled.
The landscape around is now sprinkled with flowers, The mountains are blue in their distant array; The wreaths of green leaves are refreshed with the showers, Like a moth in the sunshine the lark flees away.