Page:Barnes (1879) Poems of rural life in the Dorset dialect (combined).djvu/341

Rh Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won, &emsp;By heads o’ sundry sizes, Why, who can slight what we’ve a-done? &emsp;We’ve all a-won head prizes.

Then teäke a drap vor harmless fun, &emsp;But not enough to quarrel; Though where a man do like the gun, &emsp;He can’t but need the barrel. O’ goodly feäre, avore we’ll start, &emsp;We’ll zit an’ teäke our vill, min; Our supper-bill can be but short, &emsp;’Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.

thik Gammony Gaÿ is so droll, That if he’s at hwome by the he’th, Or wi’ vo’k out o’ door, he’s the soul O’ the meetèn vor antics an’ me’th; He do cast off the thoughts ov ill luck As the water’s a-shot vrom a duck; He do zing where his naïghbours would cry— He do laugh where the rest o’s would sigh: Noo other’s so merry o’ feäce, In the pleäce, as Gammony Gaÿ.

An’ o’ workèn days, Oh! he do wear Such a funny roun’ hat,—you mid know’t— Wi’ a brim all a-strout roun’ his heäir, An’ his glissenèn eyes down below’t; An’ a cwoat wi’ broad skirts that do vlee In the wind ov his walk, round his knee; An’ a peäir o’ girt pockets lik’ bags, That do swing an’ do bob at his lags: While me’th do walk out drough the pleäce, In the feäce o’ Gammony Gaÿ.