Fall: Harvest Hwome
The vu’st peaert. The Supper.
Since we wer striplens naighbour John,
The good wold merry times be gone:
But we do like to think upon
What we’ve a-zeed an’ done.
When I wer up a hardish lad,
At harvest hwome the work-vo’k had
Sich suppers, they wer jumpen mad
Wi’ feaesten an’ wi’ fun.
At uncle’s, I do mind, woone year,
I zeed a vill o’ hearty cheer;
Fat beef an’ pudden, eaele an’ beer,
Vor ev’ry workman’s crop
An’ after they’d a-gie’d God thanks,
They all zot down, in two long ranks,
Along a teaeble-bwoard o’ planks,
Wi’ uncle at the top.
An’ there, in platters, big and brown,
Wer red fat beaecon, an’ a roun’
O’ beef wi’ gravy that would drown
A little rwoasten pig;
Wi’ beaens an’ teaeties vull a zack,
An’ cabbage that would meaeke a stack,
An’ puddens brown, a-speckled black
Wi’ figs, so big’s my wig.
An’ uncle, wi’ his elbows out,
Did carve, an’ meaeke the gravy spout;
An’ aunt did gi’e the mugs about
A-frothen to the brim.
Pleaetes werden then ov e’then ware,
They ate off pewter, that would bear
A knock; or wooden trenchers, square,
Wi’ zalt-holes at the rim.
An’ zoo they munch’d their hearty cheer,
An’ dipp’d their beards in frothy-beer,
An’ laugh’d, an’ jok’d—they couldden hear
What woone another zaid.
An’ all o’m drink’d, wi’ woone accword,
The wold vo’k’s health: an’ beaet the bwoard,
An’ swung their eaerms about, an’ roar’d,
Enough to crack woone’s head.
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