Come down to-morrow night; an' mind,
Don't leaeve thy fiddle-bag behind;
We'll sheaeke a lag, an' drink a cup
O' eaele, to keep wold Chris'mas up.
An' let thy sister teaeke thy eaerm,
The walk won't do her any harm;
There's noo dirt now to spweil her frock,
The ground's a-vroze so hard's a rock.
You won't meet any stranger's feaece,
But only naighbours o' the pleaece,
An' Stowe, an' Combe; an' two or dree
Vrom uncle's up at Rookery.
An' thou wu'lt vind a rwosy feaece,
An' peaeir ov eyes so black as sloos,
The prettiest woones in all the pleaece,—
I'm sure I needen tell thee whose.
We got a back-bran', dree girt logs
So much as dree ov us can car;
We'll put em up athirt the dogs,
An' meaeke a vier to the bar.
An' ev'ry woone shall tell his teaele,
An' ev'ry woone shall zing his zong,
An' ev'ry woone wull drink his eaele
To love an' frien'ship all night long.
We'll snap the tongs, we'll have a ball,
We'll sheaeke the house, we'll lift the ruf,
We'll romp an' meaeke the maidens squall,
A catchen o'm at blind-man's buff.
Zoo come to-morrow night; an' mind,
Don't leaeve thy fiddle-bag behind;
We'll sheaeke a lag, an' drink a cup
O' eaele, to keep wold Chris'mas up.