'Tis merry ov a zummer's day, 
When vo'k be out a-haulèn hay, 
Where boughs, a-spread upon the ground, 
Do meäke the staddle big an' round; 
An' grass do stand in pook, or lie 
In long-backed weäles or parsels, dry. 
There I do vind it stir my heart 
To hear the frothèn hosses snort, 
A-haulèn on, wi' sleek heäir'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 eärm, 
That I do long to toss a pick, 
A-pitchèn or a-meäkèn rick. 

The bwoy is at the hosse's head, 
An' up upon the waggon bed 
The lwoaders, strong o' eärm do stan', 
At head, an' back at taïl, 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 reäky after plough. 

When I do pitchy, 'tis my pride 
Vor Jenny Hine to reäke my zide, 
An' zee her fling her reäke, an' reach 
So vur, an' teäke in sich a streech; 
An' I don't shatter hay, an' meäke 
Mwore work than needs vor Jenny's reäke. 
I'd sooner zee the weäles' high rows 
Lik' hedges up above my nose, 
Than have light work myzelf, an' vind 
Poor Jeäne a-beät 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 teäke 
The pitches in; an' zome do meäke 
The lofty rick upright an' roun', 
An' tread en hard, an' reäke 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.