Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they've a-took The common in, our lew wold nook Don't seem a-bit as used to look When we had runnèn room; Girt banks do shut up ev'ry drong, An' stratch wi' thorny backs along Where we did use to run among The vuzzen an' the broom.
Ees; while the ragged colts did crop The nibbled grass, I used to hop The emmet-buts, vrom top to top, So proud o' my spry jumps: Wi' thee behind or at my zide, A-skippèn on so light an' wide 'S thy little frock would let thee stride, Among the vuzzy humps.
Ah while the lark up over head Did twitter, I did search the red Thick bunch o' broom, or yollow bed O' vuzzen vor a nest; An' thou di'st hunt about, to meet Wi' strawberries so red an' sweet, Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet, Or wild thyme vor thy breast;
Or when the cows did run about A-stung, in zummer, by the stout, Or when they plaÿ'd, or when they foüght, Di'st stand a-lookèn on: An' where white geese, wi' long red bills, Did veed among the emmet-hills, There we did goo to vind their quills Alongzide o' the pon'.
What fun there wer among us, when The haÿward come, wi' all his men, To drève the common, an' to pen Strange cattle in the pound; The cows did bleäre, the men did shout An' toss their eärms an' sticks about, An' vo'ks, to own their stock, come out Vrom all the housen round.
Oh! when the friends we us'd to know, 'V a-been a-lost vor years; an' when Zome happy day do come, to show Their feäzen to our eyes ageän, Do meäke us look behind, John, Do bring wold times to mind, John, Do meäke hearts veel, if they be steel, All warm, an' soft, an' kind, John.
When we do lose, still gaÿ an' young, A vaïce that us'd to call woone's neäme, An' after years ageän his tongue Do sound upon our ears the seäme, Do kindle love anew, John, Do wet woone's eyes wi' dew, John, As we do sheäke, vor friendship's seäke, His vist an' vind en true, John.
What tender thoughts do touch woone's soul, When we do zee a meäd or hill Where we did work, or plaÿ, or stroll, An' talk wi' vaïces that be still; 'Tis touchèn vor to treäce, John, Wold times drough ev'ry pleäce, John; But that can't touch woone's heart so much, As zome wold long-lost feäce, John.
Poor Jenny wer her Robert's bride Two happy years, an' then he died; An' zoo the wold vo'k meäde her come, Vorseäken, to her maïden hwome. But Jenny's merry tongue wer dum'; An' round her comely neck she wore A murnèn kerchif, where avore The rwose did deck her breast.
