An’ peas an’ beäns; bezides a store
O’ heärbs vor ev’ry païn an’ zore.
JOHN.
An’ over hedge the win’s a-heärd,
A-ruslèn drough my barley’s beard;
An’ swaÿen wheat do overspread
Zix ridges in a sheet o’ red;
An’ then there’s woone thing I do call
The girtest handiness ov all:
My ground is here at hand, avore
My eyes, as I do stand at door;
An’ zoo I’ve never any need
To goo a mile to pull a weed.
THOMAS.
No, sure, a miël shoulden stratch
Between woone’s geärden an’ woone’s hatch.
A man would like his house to stand
Bezide his little bit o’ land.
JOHN.
Ees. When woone’s groun’ vor geärden stuff
Is roun’ below the house’s ruf,
Then woone can spend upon woone’s land
Odd minutes that mid lie on hand,
The while, wi’ night a-comèn on,
The red west sky’s a-wearèn wan;
Or while woone’s wife, wi’ busy hands,
Avore her vier o’ burnèn brands,
Do put, as best she can avword,
Her bit o’ dinner on the bwoard.
An’ here, when I do teäke my road,
At breakfast-time, agwaïn abrode,
Why, I can zee if any plot
O’ groun’ do want a hand or not;
An’ bid my childern, when there’s need,
