Eawr Jenny’s bin a-buyin’ in, An’ every day hoo brings Knives an’ forks, an’ pots; or irons For smoothin’ caps an’ things; My gronny’s sent a chist o’ drawers, Sunday clooas to keep; An’ little Fanny’s bought a glass For thee an’ me to peep. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. Eawr Tum has sent a bacon-flitch; Eawr Jem a load o’ coals; Eawr Charlie’s bought some pickters, an’ He’s hanged ’em upo’ th’ woles; Owd Posy’s white-weshed th’ cottage through; Eawr Matty’s made it sweet; An Jack’s gan mo his Jarman flute, To play by th’ fire at neet! So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. There’s cups an’ saucers; porritch-pons, An’ tables, greyt an’ smo’; There’s brushes, mugs, an’ ladin-cans; An eight days’ clock an’ o’; There’s a cheer for thee, an’ one for me, An’ one i’ every nook; Thi mother’s has a cushion on’t— It’s th’ nicest cheer i’th’ rook. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. My mother’s gan me th’ four-post bed, Wi’ curtains to’t an’ o’; An’ pillows, sheets, an’ bowsters, too, As white as driven snow; It isn’t stuffed wi’ fither-deawn; But th’ flocks are clen an’ new; Hoo says there’s daycent folk i’th’ teawn That’s made a warse un do. So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. Aw peeped into my cot last neet; It made me hutchin’ fain: A bonny fire were winkin’ breet I’ every window-pane; Aw marlocked upo’ th’ white hearth-stone, An’ drummed o’th’ kettle lid, An’ sung, “My neest is snug an’ sweet, Aw’ll go and fotch my brid!” So, Mary, link thi arm i’ mine. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHIRRUP. 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.