Twar zaw begin'd their zweetortin;
Booäth still liv'd in their places;
Zometimes thâ met bezides tha stile;
Wi' pleasant look an tender smile
Gaz'd in each wither's faces.
In spreng-time oten on tha nap
Ood Jan and Fanny linger;
An when war vooäs'd to zâ "good bwye,"
Ood meet again, wi' draps in eye,
While haup ood pwint er vinger.
Zo pass'd tha dâs—tha moons awâ,
An haup still whiver'd nigh;
Nif Fanny's dreams high pleasures vill,
Of her Jan's thawts the lidden still,
An oten too the zigh.
Bit still Jan had not got wherewi'
To venter eet to morry;
Alas-a-dâ! when poor vawk love,
How much restraint how many pruv;
How zick zum an how zorry.
Aw you who live in houzen grate,
An wherewi' much possessin,
You knaw not, mâ-be, care not you,
What pangs jitch tender horts pursue,
How grate nor how distressin.
Jan sar'd a varmer vour long years,
An now iz haups da brighten:
A gennelman of high degree
Choos'd en iz hunsman vor to be;
His Fanny's hort da lighten!
"Now, Fan," zed he, "nif I da live,
Nex zummer thee bist mine;
Sir John ool gee me wauges good,
Amâ-be too zum viër ood!"
His Fan's dork eyes did shine.
"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried,
"I iver sholl delight;
Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride
To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride—
My lidden dâ an night."
A took er gently in iz orms
An kiss'd er za zweetly too;
His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak,
Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak,
It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break—
She cood hordly thenk it true.
To zee our hunsman goo abroad,
His houns behind en volly;
His tossel'd cap—his whip's smort smack,
His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack,
His whissle, horn, an holler, back!
Ood cure âll malancholy.