'Tis merry ov a zummer's day,
When vo'k be out a-haulèn hay,
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground,
Do meà¤ke the staddle big an' round;
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie
In long-backed weà¤les or parsels, dry.
There I do vind it stir my heart
To hear the frothèn hosses snort,
A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heà¤ir'd hides,
The red-wheel'd waggon's deep-blue zides.
Aye; let me have woone cup o' drink,
An' hear the linky harness clink,
An' then my blood do run so warm,
An' put sich strangth 'ithin my eà¤rm,
That I do long to toss a pick,
A-pitchèn or a-meà¤kèn rick.

The bwoy is at the hosse's head,
An' up upon the waggon bed
The lwoaders, strong o' eà¤rm do stan',
At head, an' back at taà¯l, a man,
Wi' skill to build the lwoad upright
An' bind the vwolded corners tight;
An' at each zide o'm, sprack an' strong,
A pitcher wi' his long-stem'd prong,
Avore the best two women now
A-call'd to reà¤ky after plough.

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride
Vor Jenny Hine to reà¤ke my zide,
An' zee her fling her reà¤ke, an' reach
So vur, an' teà¤ke in sich a streech;
An' I don't shatter hay, an' meà¤ke
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reà¤ke.
I'd sooner zee the weà¤les' high rows
Lik' hedges up above my nose,
Than have light work myzelf, an' vind
Poor Jeà¤ne a-beà¤t an' left behind;
Vor she would sooner drop down dead,
Than let the pitchers get a-head.

'Tis merry at the rick to zee
How picks do wag, an' hay do vlee.
While woone's unlwoadèn, woone do teà¤ke
The pitches in; an' zome do meà¤ke
The lofty rick upright an' roun',
An' tread en hard, an' reà¤ke en down,
An' tip en, when the zun do zet,
To shoot a sudden vall o' wet.
An' zoo 'tis merry any day
Where vo'k be out a-carrèn hay.