Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/177

Rh He wont gi’e up when things don’t faÿ, &emsp;But turn em into fun, min; An’ what’s hard work to zome, is plaÿ &emsp;Avore a farmer’s son, min.

His bwony eärm an’ knuckly vist &emsp;(’Tis best to meäke a friend o’t) Would het a fellow, that’s a-miss’d, &emsp;Half backward wi’ the wind o’t. Wi’ such a chap at hand, a maïd &emsp;Would never goo a nun, min; She’d have noo call to be afraïd &emsp;Bezide a farmer’s son, min.

He’ll turn a vurrow, drough his langth, &emsp;So straïght as eyes can look, Or pitch all day, wi’ half his strangth, &emsp;At ev’ry pitch a pook; An’ then goo vower mile, or vive, &emsp;To vind his friends in fun, min, Vor maïden’s be but dead alive &emsp;’Ithout a farmer’s son, min.

Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light, &emsp;An’ manly feäce so brown; An’ health goo wi’ en hwome at night, &emsp;Vrom meäd, or wood, or down. O’ rich an’ poor, o’ high an’ low, &emsp;When all’s a-said an’ done, min, The smartest chap that I do know, &emsp;’S a workèn farmer’s son, min.

now mid hope vor better cheer, My smilèn wife o’ twice vive year. Let others frown, if thou bist near &emsp;Wi’ hope upon thy brow, Jeäne;