A-waïtèn vor the zun to rise,
Ha' too much love to let em know
The ling'rèn night did goo so slow.
But if my wife did catch a zight
O' zome queer pollard, or a post,
Poor soul! she took en in her fright
To be a robber or a ghost.
A two-stump'd withy, wi' a head,
Mus' be a man wi' eärms a-spread;
An' foam o' water, round a rock,