We took the apples in last week,
An’ got, by night, zome eaechen backs
A-stoopen down all day to pick
So many up in mawns an’ zacks.
An’ there wer Liz so proud an’ prim,
An’ dumpy Nan, an’ Poll so sly;
An’ dapper Tom, an’ loppen Jim,
An’ little Dick, an’ Fan, an’ I.
An’ there the lwoaded tree bent low,
Behung wi’ apples green an’ red;
An’ springen grass could hardly grow,
Drough windvalls down below his head.
An’ when the maidens come in roun’
The heavy boughs to vill their laps,
We slily shook the apples down
Lik’ hail, an’ gi’ed their backs some raps.
An’ zome big apple, Jimmy flung
To squail me, gi’ed me sich a crack;
But very shortly his ear rung,
Wi’ woone I zent to pay en back.
An’ after we’d a-had our squails,
Poor Tom, a-jumpen in a bag,
Wer pinch’d by all the maiden’s nails,
An’ rolled down into hwome-groun’ quag.
An’ then they carr’d our Fan all roun’,
‘Ithin a mawn, till zome girt stump
Upset en over on the groun’,
An’ drow’d her out along-straight, plump.
An’ in the cider-house we zot
Upon the windlass Poll an’ Nan,
An’ spun 'em roun’ till they wer got
So giddy that they coulden stan’.
Other works by William Barnes...
