Ov all the chaps a-burnt so brown
By zunny hills an' hollors,
Ov all the whindlèn chaps in town
Wi' backs so weak as rollers,
There's narn that's half so light o' heart,
(I'll bet, if thou't zay "done," min,)
An' narn that's half so strong an' smart,
'S a merry farmer's son, min.
He'll fling a stwone so true's a shot,
He'll jump so light's a cat;
He'll heave a waïght up that would squot
A weakly fellow flat.
He wont gi'e up when things don't faÿ,
But turn em into fun, min;
An' what's hard work to zome, is plaÿ
Avore a farmer's son, min.
His bwony eärm an' knuckly vist
('Tis best to meäke a friend o't)
Would het a fellow, that's a-miss'd,
Half backward wi' the wind o't.
Wi' such a chap at hand, a maïd
Would never goo a nun, min;
She'd have noo call to be afraïd
Bezide a farmer's son, min.
He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,
So straïght as eyes can look,
Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth,
At ev'ry pitch a pook;
An' then goo vower mile, or vive,
To vind his friends in fun, min,
Vor maïden's be but dead alive
'Ithout a farmer's son, min.
Zoo jaÿ be in his heart so light,
An' manly feäce so brown;
An' health goo wi' en hwome at night,
Vrom meäd, or wood, or down.
O' rich an' poor, o' high an' low,
When all's a-said an' done, min,
The smartest chap that I do know,
'S a workèn farmer's son, min.
