Last night the merry farmers’ sons,
Vrom biggest down to leäst, min,
Gi’ed in the work of all their guns,
An’ had their sparrow feäst, min.
An’ who vor woone good merry soul
Should goo to sheäre their me’th, min,
But Gammon Gaÿ, a chap so droll,
He’d meäke ye laugh to death, min.
Vor heads o’ sparrows they’ve a-shot
They’ll have a prize in cwein, min,
That is, if they can meäke their scot,
Or else they’ll paÿ a fine, min.
An’ all the money they can teäke
‘S a-gather’d up there-right, min,
An’ spent in meat an’ drink, to meäke
A supper vor the night, min.
Zoo when they took away the cloth,
In middle of their din, min,
An’ cups o’ eäle begun to froth,
Below their merry chin, min.
An’ when the zong, by turn or chaïce,
Went roun’ vrom tongue to tongue, min,
Then Gammon pitch’d his merry vaïce,
An’ here’s the zong he zung, min.
_Zong._
If you’ll but let your clackers rest
Vrom jabberèn an’ hootèn,
I’ll teäke my turn, an’ do my best,
To zing o’ sparrow shootèn.
Since every woone mus’ pitch his key,
An’ zing a zong, in coo’se, lads,
Why sparrow heads shall be to-day
The heads o’ my discoo’se, lads.
We’ll zend abroad our viery haïl
Till ev’ry foe’s a-vled, lads,
An’ though the rogues mid all turn taïl,
We’ll quickly show their head, lads.
In corn, or out on oben ground,
In bush, or up in tree, lads,
If we don’t kill em, I’ll be bound,
We’ll meäke their veathers vlee, lads.
Zoo let the belted spwortsmen brag
When they’ve a-won a neäme, so’s,
That they do vind, or they do bag,
Zoo many head o’ geäme, so’s;
Vor when our cwein is woonce a-won,
By heads o’ sundry sizes,
Why, who can slight what we’ve a-done?
We’ve all a-won _head_ prizes.
Then teäke a drap vor harmless fun,
But not enough to quarrel;
Though where a man do like the gun,
He can’t but need the barrel.
O’ goodly feäre, avore we’ll start,
We’ll zit an’ teäke our vill, min;
Our supper-bill can be but short,
‘Tis but a sparrow-bill, min.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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