Would never goo a nun, min;
She'd have noo call to be afraïd
Bezide a farmer's son, min.
He'll turn a vurrow, drough his langth,
So straïght as eyes can look,
Or pitch all day, wi' half his strangth,
At ev'ry pitch a pook;
An' then goo vower mile, or vive,
To vind his friends in fun, min,
Vor maïden's be but dead alive