  Y Young Chirrup wur a mettled cowt: His heart an’ limbs wur true; At foot race, or at wrostlin’-beawt, Or aught he buckled to At wark or play, reet gallantly He laid into his game: An’ he’re very fond o’ singing-brids— That’s heaw he geet his name. He’re straight as ony pickin’-rod, An’ limber as a snig: He’re th’ heartist cock o’ th’ village clod, At every country rig: His shinin’ e’en wur clear an’ blue; His face wur frank an’ bowd; An’ th’ yure abeawt his monly broo Wur crispt i’ curls o’ gowd. Young Chirrup donned his clinker’t shoon, An’ startin’ off to th’ fair, He swore by th’ leet o’th’ harvest moon, He’d have a marlock there; He poo’d a sprig fro th’ hawthorn-tree, That blossomed by the way;— “Iv ony mon says wrang to me, Aw’ll tan his hide to-day!” Full sorely mony a lass would sigh, That chanced to wander near, An’ peep into his e’en to spy Iv love were lurkin’ theer: So fair an’ free he stept o’th green, An’ trollin’ eawt a song, Wi’ leetsome heart, an’ twinklin’ e’en, Went chirrupin’ along. Young Chirrup woo’d a village maid,— An’ hoo wur th’ flower ov o’,— Wi’ kisses kind, i’th’ woodlan’ shade, An’ whispers soft an’ low; I’ Matty’s ear twur th’ sweetest chime That ever mortal sung; An’ Matty’s heart beat pleasant time To th’ music of his tung. Oh, th’ kindest mates, this world within, Mun sometimes meet wi’ pain; But, if this pair could life begin, They’d buckle to again; For, though he’re hearty, blunt, an’ tough, An’ Matty sweet an’ mild; For three-score year, through smooth an’ rough, Hoo led him like a child. |
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