Come down to morrow night; an’ mind,
Don’t leave thy fiddle-bag behind;
We’ll sheäke a lag an’ drink a cup
0′ eäle, to keep wold Chris’mas up.
An’ let thy sister teake thy eärm,
The walk won’t do her any harm;
There’s noo dirt now to spweil her frock,
The ground’s a-vroze so hard’s a rock.
You won’t meet any stranger’s feäce,
But only naïghbours o’ the pleäce,
An’ Stowe, an” Combe; an’ two or dree
Vrom uncle’s up at Rookery.
An’ thou wu’lt vind a rwosy feäce,
An’ peäir ov eyes so black as sloos,
The prettiest woones in all the pleäce, —
I’m sure I needen tell thee whose.
We got a back-bran’, dree gre’t logs
So much as dree ov us can car;
We’ll put em up athirt the dogs,
An’ meäke a vier to the bar.
An’ ev’ry woone shall tell his teäle,
An’ ev’ry woone shall zing his zong,
An’ ev’ry woone wull drink his eäle
To love an’ frien’ship all night long.
We’ll snap the tongs, we’ll have a ball,
We’ll sheäke the house, we’ll lift the ruf
We’ll romp an’ meäke the maidens squall,
A catchen o’m at blind-man’s buff.
Zoo come to morrow night; an’ mind,
Don’t leave thy fiddle-bag behind:
We’ll sheäke a lag, an’ drink a cup
0′ eäle, to keep wold Chris’mas up.
William Barnes
