An' I all day 've a-plaÿ'd a good man's peärt,
I do vind my ease a-blest, John,
While my conscience is at rest, John;
An' while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart;
An' who vor finer hwomes o' restless pride,
Would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide?
By a windor in the west, John,
There upon my fiddle's breast, John,
The strings do sound below my bow's white heäir;
While a zingèn drush do swaÿ, John,