They selled him up, lock stock an' stoan,
An' off he went away, aloan;
Because he sung but couldn't save.
I think his feyther in the grave
Must sure a-stirred, 'owever deep:
That smash would waken any sleep!
Young Aaron went—
I dunno where—
They say he's gone to Manchester,
An' there, mayhap, mid soot an' smoke,
Makes music for the city folk;
Plays on his fiddle, time, agen
Them tunes he larned down Martin Fen
From shepherds or from waggon-boys
Or men at plough,—or any noise:
He made his tunes out of the air,
From birds or beasts—he didn't care!
An' Parson, says he'll make a name
(Our Parson, what's the one to blame!)
As if he ever could agen
Find such a hoam as Martin Fen;
As if he could, by fiddle fad,
Get half the name his feyther had.
Lost in some smoky town he plays
An' thinks, I lay, on sunny days,
Of all the things what makes life dear
Like beans and bacon, cheese and beer;
A dreamy good-for-nothing lad,
Sure bound to lose all what he had.
He might a-riz, an' come to be
As high as you, or even me!
An' bin well known the country round
As comfortable, warm, an' sound.
His name is known for many a mile,
It raises far-an'-wide, a smile:
While folk they whisper 'Not right sharp'!
A fool! a fool! wor Aaron Tharp.
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