Richard Blakeborough

Fire coom,
Fire gan,
Curlin' smeak
Keep oot o' t' pan.
...

Here's health to t' lass whea donn'd this band
To grace her leg,
An' ivvery garter'd braade i' t' land:
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'T Were a dree neet, a dree neet,
as t' squire's end drew nigh,
A dree neet, a dree neet,
to watch, an pray, an' sigh.
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This ya neet, this ya neet,
Ivvery neet an' all;
Fire an' fleet an' can'le leet,
An' Christ tak up thy saul.
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It's neet an' naa we're here, lads,
We're in for gooid cheer, lads;
Yorkshiremen we all on us are,
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I' t' merry taame o' harvestin'
Lang sen, aye well a day!
Oar Nancy, t' bonniest lass i' t' field
Had varra laal to say.
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Hey dilly, how dilly, hey dilly, dang!
It's nayther for thy part, nor my part,
That I ride the stang.
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Blushing, theer oor Peggy sits,
Stitchin', faane stitchin',
Love-knots roond her braadal bands,
Witchin', bewitchin'.
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