An' yet, while things do come an' goo, God's love is steadvast, John, an' true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, 'Tis but to bring the zummer round, All's well a-lost where He's a-vound, Vor if 'tis right, vor Christes seäke He'll gi'e us mwore than he do teäke,-- His goodness don't gi'e out, John.
Vorgi'e me, Jenny, do! an' rise Thy hangèn head an' teary eyes, An' speak, vor I've a-took in lies, An' I've a-done thee wrong; But I wer twold,--an' thought 'twer true,-- That Sammy down at Coome an' you Wer at the feäir, a-walkèn drough The pleäce the whole day long.
An' tender thoughts did melt my heart, An' zwells o' viry pride did dart Lik' lightnèn drough my blood; a-peärt Ov your love I should scorn, An' zoo I vow'd, however sweet Your looks mid be when we did meet, I'd trample ye down under veet, Or let ye goo forlorn.
But still thy neäme would always be The sweetest, an' my eyes would zee Among all maïdens nwone lik' thee Vor ever any mwore; Zoo by the walks that we've a-took By flow'ry hedge an' zedgy brook, Dear Jenny, dry your eyes, an' look As you've a-look'd avore.
Look up, an' let the evenèn light But sparkle in thy eyes so bright, As they be open to the light O' zunzet in the west; An' let's stroll here vor half an hour, Where hangèn boughs do meäke a bow'r Above theäse bank, wi' eltrot flow'r An' robinhoods a-drest.
'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, Where vo'k be out a-meäkèn haÿ; Where men an' women, in a string, Do ted or turn the grass, an' zing, Wi' cheemèn vaïces, merry zongs, A-tossèn o' their sheenèn prongs Wi' eärms a-zwangèn left an' right, In colour'd gowns an' shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reäkèn round The rwosy hedges o' the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneäke, An' try to kill en wi' his reäke; An' Poll do jump about an' squall, To zee the twistèn slooworm crawl.
'Tis merry where a gaÿ-tongued lot Ov haÿ-meäkers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlèn haÿ, a-spread Below an elem's lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an' munch Their bit o' dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reäkes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground. An' wi' their vittles in their laps, An' in their hornen cups their draps O' cider sweet, or frothy eäle, Their tongues do run wi' joke an' teäle.