CHIRRUP.
YYoung Chirrup wur a mettled cowt:His heart an’ limbs wur true;At foot race, or at wrostlin’-beawt,Or aught he buckled toAt wark or play, reet gallantlyHe laid into his game:An’ he’re very fond o’ singing-brids—That’s heaw he geet his name.He’re straight as ony pickin’-rod,An’ limber as a snig:He’re th’ heartist cock o’ th’ village clod,At every country rig:His shinin’ e’en wur clear an’ blue;His face wur frank an’ bowd;An’ th’ yure abeawt his monly brooWur crispt i’ curls o’ gowd.Young Chirrup donned his clinker’t shoon,An’ startin’ off to th’ fair,He swore by th’ leet o’th’ harvest moon,He’d have a marlock there;He poo’d a sprig fro th’ hawthorn-tree,That blossomed by the way;—“Iv ony mon says wrang to me,Aw’ll tan his hide to-day!”Full sorely mony a lass would sigh,That chanced to wander near,An’ peep into his e’en to spyIv love were lurkin’ theer:So fair an’ free he stept o’th green,An’ trollin’ eawt a song,Wi’ leetsome heart, an’ twinklin’ e’en,Went chirrupin’ along.Young Chirrup woo’d a village maid,—An’ hoo wur th’ flower ov o’,—Wi’ kisses kind, i’th’ woodlan’ shade,An’ whispers soft an’ low;I’ Matty’s ear twur th’ sweetest chimeThat ever mortal sung;An’ Matty’s heart beat pleasant timeTo th’ music of his tung.Oh, th’ kindest mates, this world within,Mun sometimes meet wi’ pain;But, if this pair could life begin,They’d buckle to again;For, though he’re hearty, blunt, an’ tough,An’ Matty sweet an’ mild;For three-score year, through smooth an’ rough,Hoo led him like a child.
YYoung Chirrup wur a mettled cowt:His heart an’ limbs wur true;At foot race, or at wrostlin’-beawt,Or aught he buckled toAt wark or play, reet gallantlyHe laid into his game:An’ he’re very fond o’ singing-brids—That’s heaw he geet his name.He’re straight as ony pickin’-rod,An’ limber as a snig:He’re th’ heartist cock o’ th’ village clod,At every country rig:His shinin’ e’en wur clear an’ blue;His face wur frank an’ bowd;An’ th’ yure abeawt his monly brooWur crispt i’ curls o’ gowd.Young Chirrup donned his clinker’t shoon,An’ startin’ off to th’ fair,He swore by th’ leet o’th’ harvest moon,He’d have a marlock there;He poo’d a sprig fro th’ hawthorn-tree,That blossomed by the way;—“Iv ony mon says wrang to me,Aw’ll tan his hide to-day!”Full sorely mony a lass would sigh,That chanced to wander near,An’ peep into his e’en to spyIv love were lurkin’ theer:So fair an’ free he stept o’th green,An’ trollin’ eawt a song,Wi’ leetsome heart, an’ twinklin’ e’en,Went chirrupin’ along.Young Chirrup woo’d a village maid,—An’ hoo wur th’ flower ov o’,—Wi’ kisses kind, i’th’ woodlan’ shade,An’ whispers soft an’ low;I’ Matty’s ear twur th’ sweetest chimeThat ever mortal sung;An’ Matty’s heart beat pleasant timeTo th’ music of his tung.Oh, th’ kindest mates, this world within,Mun sometimes meet wi’ pain;But, if this pair could life begin,They’d buckle to again;For, though he’re hearty, blunt, an’ tough,An’ Matty sweet an’ mild;For three-score year, through smooth an’ rough,Hoo led him like a child.
YYoung Chirrup wur a mettled cowt:His heart an’ limbs wur true;At foot race, or at wrostlin’-beawt,Or aught he buckled toAt wark or play, reet gallantlyHe laid into his game:An’ he’re very fond o’ singing-brids—That’s heaw he geet his name.
Y
He’re straight as ony pickin’-rod,An’ limber as a snig:He’re th’ heartist cock o’ th’ village clod,At every country rig:His shinin’ e’en wur clear an’ blue;His face wur frank an’ bowd;An’ th’ yure abeawt his monly brooWur crispt i’ curls o’ gowd.
Young Chirrup donned his clinker’t shoon,An’ startin’ off to th’ fair,He swore by th’ leet o’th’ harvest moon,He’d have a marlock there;He poo’d a sprig fro th’ hawthorn-tree,That blossomed by the way;—“Iv ony mon says wrang to me,Aw’ll tan his hide to-day!”
Full sorely mony a lass would sigh,That chanced to wander near,An’ peep into his e’en to spyIv love were lurkin’ theer:So fair an’ free he stept o’th green,An’ trollin’ eawt a song,Wi’ leetsome heart, an’ twinklin’ e’en,Went chirrupin’ along.
Young Chirrup woo’d a village maid,—An’ hoo wur th’ flower ov o’,—Wi’ kisses kind, i’th’ woodlan’ shade,An’ whispers soft an’ low;I’ Matty’s ear twur th’ sweetest chimeThat ever mortal sung;An’ Matty’s heart beat pleasant timeTo th’ music of his tung.
Oh, th’ kindest mates, this world within,Mun sometimes meet wi’ pain;But, if this pair could life begin,They’d buckle to again;For, though he’re hearty, blunt, an’ tough,An’ Matty sweet an’ mild;For three-score year, through smooth an’ rough,Hoo led him like a child.