Hay-Carren

'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, When vo'k be out a-hauln hay, Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, Do meke the staddle big an' round; An' grass do stand in pook, or lie In long-backed weles or parsels, dry. There I do vind it stir my heart To hear the frothn hosses snort, A-hauln on, wi' sleek heir'd hides, The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides. Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink, An' hear the linky harness clink, An' then my blood do run so warm, An' put sich strangth 'ithin my erm, That I do long to toss a pick, A-pitchn or a-mekn rick. The bwoy is at the hosse's head, An' up upon the waggon bed The lwoaders, strong o' erm do stan', At head, an' back at tal, a man, Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright An' bind the vwolded corners tight; An' at each zide o'm, sprack an' strong, A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong, Avore the best two women now A-call'd to reky after plough. When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride Vor Jenny Hine to reke my zide, An' zee her fling her reke, an' reach So vur, an' teke in sich a streech; An' I don't shatter hay, an' meke Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reke. I'd sooner zee the weles' high rows Lik' hedges up above my nose, Than have light work myzelf, an' vind Poor Jene a-bet an' left behind; Vor she would sooner drop down dead, Than let the pitchers get a-head. 'Tis merry at the rick to zee How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee. While woone's unlwoadn, woone do teke The pitches in; an' zome do meke The lofty rick upright an' roun', An' tread en hard, an' reke en down, An' tip en, when the zun do zet, To shoot a sudden vall o' wet. An' zoo 'tis merry any day Where vo'k be out a-carrn hay.