Mid zummer’s zunny days be gone,
An’ winter’s clouds be comèn on:
Nor mid I draw upon the e’th,
O’ thy sweet aïr my leätest breath;
Alassen I mid want to staÿ
Behine’ for thee, O flow’ry May!
BOB THE FIDDLER.
Oh! Bob the fiddler is the pride
O’ chaps an’ maïdens vur an’ wide;
They can’t keep up a merry tide,
But Bob is in the middle.
If merry Bob do come avore ye,
He’ll zing a zong, or tell a story;
But if you’d zee en in his glory,
Jist let en have a fiddle.
Aye, let en tuck a crowd below
His chin, an’ gi’e his vist a bow,
He’ll dreve his elbow to an’ fro’,
An’ plaÿ what you do please.
At Maypolèn, or feäst, or feäir,
His eärm wull zet off twenty peäir,
An’ meake em dance the groun’ dirt-beäre,
An’ hop about lik’ vlees.
Long life to Bob! the very soul
O’ me’th at merry feäst an’ pole;
Vor when the crowd do leäve his jowl,
They’ll all be in the dumps.
Zoo at the dance another year,
At Shillinston or Hazelbur’,
Mid Bob be there to meäke em stir,
In merry jigs, their stumps!
