As he do hear his vier roar,
Or nimbly catch his hot white batch,
A-reekèn vrom the oven door.
An' mid it never be too high
Vor our vew zixpences to buy,
When we do hear our childern cry
Vor bread, avore nex' Harvest Hwome.
The happy zight,—the merry night,
The men's delight,—the Harvest Hwome.
Wi' jaÿ o' heart mid shooters start