Tum Rindle lope fro’ the chimbley nook,
As th’ winter sun wur sinkin’;
Aw’m tire’t o’ keawrin’ here i’th smooke,
An’ wastin’ time i’ thinkin’:
It frets my heart, an’ racks my broo—
It sets my yed a-stewin’:
A mon that wouldn’t dee a foo,
Mun up, an’ start a-doin’!
Then, Mally, reitch my Sunday shoon,
To rom my bits o’ toes in;
An’ hond mo th’ jug, fro’ top o’th oon,—
An’ let mo dip my nose in!
An’, come, an’ fill it up again;
An’ dunnot look so deawldy;
There’s nought can lick a marlock, when
One’s brains are gettin’ meawldy.
Aw’ll laithe a rook o’ neighbour lads,—
Frisky cowts, an’ bowd uns;
An’ let ’em bring their mams an’ dads;
We’n have it pranked wi’ owd uns?
An’ th’ lads an’ lasses they sha’n sing
An’ fuut it, leet an’ limber;
An’ Robin Lilter, he shall bring
His merry bit o’ timber!
An’ Joe shall come, an’ Jone, an’ Ben;
An’ poor owd limpin’ ’Lijah;
An’ Mall, an’ Sall, an’ Fan, an’ Nan,
An’ curly-pated ’Bijah;
An’ gentle Charlie shall be theer;
An’ little Dick, the ringer;
An’ Moston Sam,—aw like to yer
A snowy-yedded singer!
Aw’ll poo mi gronny eawt o’th nook,
An’ send for Dolly Maybo’,
For, when hoo’s gradely donned, hoo’ll look
As grand as th’ queen o’ Shayba;
An’ little Nell shall doance wi’ me,—
Eawr Nelly’s yung an’ bonny;
An’ when aw’ve had a doance wi’ thee,
Aw’ll caper wi’ my gronny!
Then, Mally, fill it up again;
An’ dunnot look so deawldy;
There’s nought can lick a marlock, when
One’s brains are gettin’ meawldy!
We’re yung an’ hearty; dunnot croak
Let’s frisk it neaw, or never;
So, here’s good luck to country folk
An’ country fun, for ever!