Eawr Alick keeps a badger’s shop,
An’ teyches Sunday schoo’;
Eawr Joseph’s welly blynt, poor lad;
Eawr Timothy’s—a foo’;—
He’s tried three different maks o’ trades,
An’ olez missed his tip;
But, then, he’s th’ nicest whistler
That ever cocked a lip!
Eawr Matty helps my mother, an’
Hoo sews, an’ tents eawr Joe;
At doin’ sums, an’ sich as that,
My feyther licks ’em o’!
Eawr Charley,—eh, there connot be
Another pate like his;
It’s o’ crom-full o’ ancientry,
An’ Roman haw-pennies!
Eawr Tummy’s taen to preitchin’,—
He’s a topper at it, too!
But then,—what’s th’ use,—eawr Bill comes in
An’ swears it winnut do:
When t’one’s bin strivin’ o’ he con
To awter wicked men,
Then t’other mays some marlocks, an
Convarts ’em o’er again.
Eawr Abel’s th’ yung’st; an’ next to Joe,
My mother likes him t’ best;
Hoo gi’s him brass, aboon his share,
To keep him nicely drest;—
He’s gettin in wi’ th’ quality,
An’ when his clarkin’s done,
He’s olez oather cricketin’,
Or shootin’ wi’ a gun.
My uncle Sam’s a fiddler; an’
Aw fain could yer him play
Fro’ set o’ sun till winter neet
Had melted into day;
For eh,—sich glee!—sich tenderness!
Through every changin’ part,
It’s th’ heart ’at stirs his fiddle,—
An’ his fiddle stirs his heart.
When th’ owd brid touches th’ tremblin’ streng,
It knows his thowt so weel,
It seawnds as iv an angel tried
To tell what angels feel;
An’, sometimes, th’ water in his e’en,
’At fun has made to flow,
Can hardly roll away, afore
It’s weet wi’ drops o’ woe.
Then, here’s to Jone, an’ Ab, an’ Ned,
An’ Matty,—an’ eawr Joe,—
My feyther, an’ my mother; an’
Eawr t’other lads an’ o’;
An’ thee, too, owd musicianer,—
Aw wish lung life to thee,—
A mon ’at plays a fiddle weel
Should never awse to dee!