But when our work is right, a jaÿ Do come to bless us in its traïn, An' hardships ha' zome good to paÿ The thoughtvul soul vor all their päin: The het do sweetèn sheäde, An' weary lim's ha' meäde A bed o' slumber, still an' sound, By woody hill or grassy mound.
An' while I zot in sweet delay Below an elem on a hill, Where boughs a-halfway up did swaÿ In sheädes o' lim's above em still, An' blue sky show'd between The flutt'rèn leäves o' green; I woulden gi'e that gloom an' sheäde Vor any room that weälth ha' meäde.
But oh! that vo'k that have the roads Where weary-vooted souls do pass, Would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads, A little strip vor zummer grass; That when the stwones do bruise An' burn an' gall our tooes, We then mid cool our veet on beds O' wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads.
They do zay that a travellèn chap Have a-put in the newspeäper now, That the bit o' green ground on the knap Should be all a-took in vor the plough. He do fancy 'tis easy to show That we can be but stunpolls at best, Vor to leäve a green spot where a flower can grow, Or a voot-weary walker mid rest. Tis hedge-grubbèn, Thomas, an' ledge-grubbèn, Never a-done While a sov'rèn mwore's to be won.
The road, he do zay, is so wide As 'tis wanted vor travellers' wheels, As if all that did travel did ride An' did never get galls on their heels. He would leäve sich a thin strip o' groun', That, if a man's veet in his shoes Wer a-burnèn an' zore, why he coulden zit down But the wheels would run over his tooes. Vor 'tis meäke money, Thomas, an' teäke money, What's zwold an' bought Is all that is worthy o' thought.
Years agoo the leäne-zides did bear grass, Vor to pull wi' the geeses' red bills, That did hiss at the vo'k that did pass, Or the bwoys that pick'd up their white quills. But shortly, if vower or vive Ov our goslèns do creep vrom the agg, They must mwope in the geärden, mwore dead than alive, In a coop, or a-tied by the lag. Vor to catch at land, Thomas, an' snatch at land, Now is the plan; Meäke money wherever you can.
The childern wull soon have noo pleäce Vor to plaÿ in, an' if they do grow, They wull have a thin musheroom feäce, Wi' their bodies so sumple as dough. But a man is a-meäde ov a child, An' his limbs do grow worksome by plaÿ; An' if the young child's little body's a-spweil'd, Why, the man's wull the sooner decaÿ. But wealth is wo'th now mwore than health is wo'th; Let it all goo, If't 'ull bring but a sov'rèn or two.