AT the feäst, I do mind very well, all the vo'ks folk

Wer a-took in a happerèn storm, pelting like hail

But we chaps took the maïdens, an’ kept em wi’ clokes

Under shelter, all dry an’ all warm;

An’ to my lot vell Jeäne, that's my bride,

That did titter, a-hung at my zide;

Zaid her aunt, “Why the vo'k 'ull talk finely o’ you,”

An’, cried she, “I don't ceäre if they do.”

When the time o’ the feäst wer ageän a-come round,

An’ the vo'k wer a-gather'd woonce mwore, once

Why she guess'd if she went there, she'd soon be a-vound

An’ a-took seäfely hwome to her door.

Zaid her mother, “'Tis sure to be wet.”

Zaid her cousin, “'T'ull raïn by zunzet.”

Zaid her aunt, “Why the clouds there do look black an’ blue,”

An’ zaid she, “I don't ceäre if they do.”

An’ at last, when she own'd I mid meäke her my bride, might

Vor to help me, an’ sheäre all my lot,

An’ wi’ faïthvulness keep all her life at my zide,

Though my waÿ mid be happy or not,

Zaid her naïghbours, “Why wedlock's a clog,

An’ a wife's a-tied up lik’ a dog.”

Zaid her aunt, “You'll vind trials enough vor to rue,”

An’, zaid she, “I don't ceäre if I do.”

Now she's married, an’ still in the midst ov her tweils toils

She's as happy's the daylight is long,

She do goo out abroad wi’ her feäce vull o’ smiles,

An’ do work in the house wi’ a zong.

An’, zays woone, “She don't grieve, you can tell.” one

Zays another, “Why, don't she look well!”

Zays her aunt, “Why the young vo'k do envy you two,”

An’, zays she, “I don't ceäre if they do.”

Now vor me I can zing in my business abrode, out and about

Though the storm do beät down on my poll, head

There's a wife-brighten'd vier at the end o’ my road, fire

An’ her love vor the jaÿ o’ my soul. joy

Out o’ door I wi’ rogues mid be tried: may

Out o’ door be brow-beäten wi’ pride;

Men mid scowl out o’ door, if my wife is but true—

Let em scowl, “I don't ceäre if they do.”