Aw’ve worn my bits o’ shoon away,
Wi’ roving up an’ deawn,
To see yon moorlan’ valleys, an’
Yon little country teawn:
The dule tak shoon, and stockins too!
My heart feels warm an’ fain;
An’, if aw trudge it bar-fuut, lads,
Aw’ll see yon teawn again!
It’s what care I for cities grand,—
We never shall agree;
Aw’d rayther live where th’ layrock sings,—
A country teawn for me!
A country teawn, where one can meet
Wi’ friends, an’ neighbours known;
Where one can lounge i’th market-place,
An’ see the meadows mown.
Yon rollin’ hills are very fine,
At th’ end o’ sweet July;
Yon woodlan’ cloofs, an valleys green,—
The bonnist under th’ sky;
Yon dainty rindles, dancin’ deawn
Fro’ th’ meawntains into th’ plain;—
As soon as th’ new moon rises, lads,
Aw’m off to th’ moors again!
There’s jolly lads among yon hills,
An’ in yon country teawn;
They’n far moor sense than preawder folk,—
Aw’ll peawnd it for a creawn;
They’re wick an’ warm at wark an’ fun,
Wherever they may go,—
The primest breed o’ lads i’th world,—
Good luck attend ’em o’!
Last neet aw laft the city thrung,
An’ climbed yon hillock green;
An’ sat me deawn to look at th’ hills,
Wi’ th’ wayter i’ my e’en;—
Wi’ th’ wayter wellin’ i’ my e’en;—
Aw’ll bundle up, an’ go,
An’ live an’ dee i’ my own countrie,
Where moorlan’ breezes blow!