'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
When vo'k be out a-haul'n hay,
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
Do me'ke the staddle big an' round;
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
In long-backed we'les or parsels, dry.
There I do vind it stir my heart
To hear the froth'n hosses snort,
A-haul'n on, wi' sleek he'ir'd hides,
The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
An' hear the linky harness clink,
An' then my blood do run so warm,
An' put sich strangth 'ithin my e'rm,
That I do long to toss a pick,
A-pitch'n or a-me'k'n rick.
The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
An' up upon the waggon bed
The lwoaders, strong o' e'rm do stan',
At head, an' back at ta'l, a man,
Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
An' bind the vwolded corners tight;
An' at each zide o'm, sprack an' strong,
A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,
Avore the best two women now
A-call'd to re'ky after plough.
When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride
Vor Jenny Hine to re'ke my zide,
An' zee her fling her re'ke, an' reach
So vur, an' te'ke in sich a streech;
An' I don't shatter hay, an' me'ke
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's re'ke.
I'd sooner zee the we'les' high rows
Lik' hedges up above my nose,
Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
Poor Je'ne a-be't an' left behind;
Vor she would sooner drop down dead,
Than let the pitchers get a-head.
'Tis merry at the rick to zee
How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee.
While woone's unlwoad'n, woone do te'ke
The pitches in; an' zome do me'ke
The lofty rick upright an' roun',
An' tread en hard, an' re'ke en down,
An' tip en, when the zun do zet,
To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.
An' zoo 'tis merry any day
Where vo'k be out a-carr'n hay.