An’ there in het, an’ there in wet,
We tweil’d wi’ busy hands, John;
Vor ev’ry stroke o’ work we het,
Did better our own lands, John.
But after me, ov all my kin,
Not woone can hold em on;
Vor we can’t get a life put in
Vor mine, when I’m a-gone
Vrom thik wold brown
Thatch ruf, a-boun’
By elem trees a-growèn roun’.
Ov eight good hwomes, where, I can mind
Vo’k liv’d upon their land, John,
But dree be now a-left behind;
The rest ha’ vell in hand, John,
An’ all the happy souls they ved
Be scatter’d vur an’ wide.
An’ zome o’m be a-wantèn bread,
Zome, better off, ha’ died,
Noo mwore to ho,
Vor homes below
The trees a-swaÿen to an’ fro.
An’ I could leäd ye now all round
The parish, if I would, John,
An’ show ye still the very ground
Where vive good housen stood, John,
In broken orcha’ds near the spot,
A vew wold trees do stand;
But dew do vall where vo’k woonce zot
About the burnèn brand
In housen warm,
A-kept vrom harm
By elems that did break the storm.
