"To haw vor thee, my Fan," a cried,
"I iver sholl delight;
Thawf I be poor, 'tool be my pride
To ha my Fan vor a buxom bride--
My lidden dAc an night."
A took er gently in iz orms
An kiss'd er za zweetly too;
His Fan, vor jay, not a word cood speak,
Bit a big roun tear rawl'd down er cheak,
It zimm'd as thawf er hort ood break--
She cood hordly thenk it true.
To zee our hunsman goo abroad,
His houns behind en volly;
His tossel'd cap--his whip's smort smack,
His hoss a prancin wi' tha crack,
His whissle, horn, an holler, back!
Ood cure Acll malancholy.
It happ'd on a dork an wintry night,
Tha stormy wine a blawin;
Tha houns made a naise an a dismal yell;
Jitch as zum vawk zAc da death vaurtell,
The cattle loud war lawin.
Tha hunsman wAckid an down a went;
A thawt ta keep 'em quiet;
A niver stopped izzel ta dress,
Bit a went in iz shirt vor readiness
A voun a dirdful riot.
Bit Acll thic night a did not come back;
All night tha dogs did raur;
In tha mornin thAc look'd on tha kannel stwons
An zeed 'em cover'd wi' gaur an bwons,
The vlesh Acll vrom 'em a taur.
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