An shall I drap tha Reed—an shall I,
Athout one nawte about my SALLY?
Althaw we Pawets Âll be zingers,
We like, wi' enk, ta dye our vingers;
Bit mooÄst we like in vess ta pruv
That we remimber those we love.
Sim-like-it than, that I should iver
Vorgit my SALLY.—Niver, niver!
Vor, while I've wander'd in tha West—
At mornin tide—at evenin rest—
On Quantock's hills—in Mendip's vales—
On Parret's banks—in zight o' Wales—
In thic awld mansion whaur tha bÂll
Once vrighten'd Lady Drake an Âll;—
When wi' tha Ladies o' thic dell
Whaur witches spird ther 'ticin spell—
[Footnote: COMBE SYDENHAM, the residence of my Friend, GEORGE
NOTLEY, Esq. The history of the Magic Ball, as it has been
called, is now pretty generally known, and therefore need not
be here repeated.]
Amangst tha rocks on Watchet shaur
When did tha wine an wÂters raur—
In Banwell's cave—on Loxton hill—
At Clifton g—at Rickford rill—
In Compton ood—in Hartree coom—
At Crispin's cot wi' little room;—
At Upton—Lansdown's lofty brow—
At Bath, whaur pleasure flÂnts enow;
At Trowbridge, whaur by Friendship's heed,
I blaw'd again my silent Reed,
An there enjay'd, wi' quiet, rest,
Jitch recollections o' tha West;
Whauriver stapp'd my voot along
I thawt o' HER.—Here ends my zong.