I’m fond o’ my hoein’, and ploughin’, and drill,
  And my hosses all knows me and works with a will;
  I’m fond o’ my ‘chinin’, and thackin’ and drainin’,
  For when work’s to be done, ‘taint no use a complainin.’

  I whistles a tune if the mornins be dark;
  When I goes home o’ nights, I sings sweet as a lark;
  And you’ll travel some distance afore you can find
  A chap more contented and happy in mind.

  And I’ll tell ye the reason, I’ve got a good wife,
  The joy o’ my heart, and the pride o’ my life. 
  She ain’t made o’ gold, nor ain’t much of a beauty,
  But she’s allers a tryin’ to dew of her duty.

  And a tidier home there ain’t none in the town
  Than mine and my Polly’s—­I’ll lay you a crown! 
  If it ain’t quite a palace, I’m sure ’tis as clean: 
  And I’m King o’ my cottage, and Polly’s the Queen.

  But things wasn’t allers as lively as now—­
  There’s thirty good years since I fust went to plough;
  I wor then but a lad, and a bad’un, I fear,
  Just a trifle tew partial to baccy and beer.

  So my maister he very soon gone me the sack,
  And my faither he gone me the stick to my back;
  But I cared for his bangins and blows not a rap;
  I wor sich a queer onaccountable chap!

  To make a long story as short as I can;
  When I’d done as a boy, I became a young man;
  And, as happens to most men at that time o’ life,
  I axed a young ’ooman if she’d be my wife.

  And Poll she consented.  O, how my heart beat,
  When she gone me her hand, smilin’ wonderful sweet! 
  I could hear my heart beatin’, just like a Church bell,
  Till I thought as my weskit ’ud bust pretty well.

  But worn’t I main happy, and well nigh a crazy,
  When I heard her her say “Yes,” blushin’ sweet as a daisy! 
  We was axed in the church—­no one dared to say nay;
  So The Rector he spliced us, one fine soommer day.

  My Poll wor a steady young gal, and a good ’un
  For washin’ and scrubbin’, and makin’ a pudden;
  Not one o them gossiping gals, wot I hate,
  But a quoietish ‘ooman, wi’ brains in her pate.

  But soom how or other things didn’t go right;
  There wasn’t atwixt us no manner o’ spite;
  But I stayed out o’ Saturdays nights, and I fear
  Spent more nor I’d ought on my baccy and beer.

  And Poll she look’d sadly, but didn’t say nought;
  She was one as ’ud allers say less than she thought;
  But I know’d what she thought—­so a cloud kind o’ come,
  And darkened the sun as once shone in our home,

  But it come to a pass—­’twas the fifth o’ November,
  The day and the year I shall allers remember: 
  Twas midnight and past when I come to my door,
  Scarce able to stan’—­well, I won’t say no more?

  Next mornin’ my head it wor well nigh a splitten,
  And I stagger’d and stagger’d, as weak as a kitten;
  But the wust of it all wor the dressin’ I got
  From Polly—­oh, worn’t it main spicy and hot?