I don't want to sleep abrode, John,
I do like my hwomeward road, John;
An' like the sound o' Knowlwood bells the best.
Zome would rove vrom pleaece to pleaece, John,
Zome would goo from feaece to feaece, John,
But I be happy in my hwomely nest;
An' slight's the hope vor any pleaece bezide,
To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide.
Where the shelven knap do vall, John,
Under trees a-springen tall, John;
'Tis there my house do show his sheenen zide,
Wi' his walls vor ever green, John,
Under ivy that's a screen, John,
Vrom wet an' het, an' ev'ry changen tide,
An' I do little ho vor goold or pride,
To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide.
There the benden stream do flow, John,
By the mossy bridge's bow, John;
An' there the road do wind below the hill;
There the miller, white wi' meal, John,
Deafen'd wi' his foamy wheel, John,
Do stan' o' times a-looken out o' mill:
The while 'ithin his lightly-sheaeken door.
His wheaten flour do whiten all his floor.
When my daily work's a-done, John,
At the zetten o' the zun, John,
An' I all day 've a-play'd a good man's peaert,
I do vind my ease a-blest, John,
While my conscience is at rest, John;
An' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart;
An' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride,
Would pass the plain abode where peace do bide?
By a windor in the west, John,
There upon my fiddle's breast, John,
The strings do sound below my bow's white heaeir;
While a zingen drush do sway, John,
Up an' down upon a spray, John,
An' cast his sheaede upon the window square;
Vor birds do know their friends, an' build their nest,
An' love to roost, where they can live at rest.
Out o' town the win' do bring, John,
Peals o' bells when they do ring, John,
An' roun' me here, at hand, my ear can catch
The maid a-zingen by the stream, John,
Or carter whislen wi' his team, John,
Or zingen birds, or water at the hatch;
An' zoo wi' sounds o' vaice, an' bird an' bell,
Noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell.
An' when the darksome night do hide, John,
Land an' wood on ev'ry zide, John;
An' when the light's a-burnen on my bwoard,
Then vor pleasures out o' door, John,
I've enough upon my vloor, John:
My Jenny's loven deed, an' look, an' word,
An' we be lwoth, lik' culvers zide by zide,
To leaeve the plain abode where love do bide.