One queer thing abaght him wor he delighted i’ singing, an’ if he heeard a song ’at took his fancy he could remember it word for word.  His mother says ’at he’s tramped mony a scoor mile to hear a song at pleased him, an’ if ony body’d sing for him he’d give’ em owt he had.  One day, as he wor gooin his raands he met wi a chap ’at wor hummin a bit ov a tune, an’ he hearken’d to him for a bit, an’ at last he sed, “Maister, aw should like to know that song, ha mich will yo taich it me for?” “Oh, it’s a patent is that, lad, aw should want a gooid deal if aw towt thee that.”  “Why,” he said, “aw’l gie thi a bunch o’ turnips an’ four pund o’ puttates if tha’ll sing it me twice ovver.”  “Nay,” he sed, “wheniver aw engage to sing, aw allus charge double, if aw’m honcoord; but I’ll sing it’ once if tha’ll throw a rooap o’ onions into th’ bargain.”  “Well, tha’rt rather up i’ thi price,” he sed, “but aw’l agree soa start off.”  They booath set daan o’th’ rooad side, an’ th’ chap (he luk’d like a gipsy), began: 

   Aw’m as rich as a Jew, tho aw hav’nt a meg,
   But aw’m free as a burd, an’ aw shak a loise leg;
   Aw’ve noa haase, an’ noa barns, soa aw niver pay rent,
   But still aw feel rich, for aw’m bless’d wi content,
     Aw live, an’ aw’m jolly,
     An’ if it is folly,
   Let others be wise, but aw’l follow mi bent.

   Mi kitchen aw find amang th’ rocks up o’th’ moor,
   An’ at neet under th’ edge ov a haystack aw snoor,
   An’ a wide spreeadin branch keeps th’ cold rain off mi nop,
   Wol aw listen to th’ stormcock ’at pipes up o’th top;
     Aw live, an’ aw’m jolly, &c.

   Aw niver fear thieves, for aw’ve nowt they can tak,
   Unless it’s thease tatters’ at hing o’ mi back;
   An’ if they prig them, they’lt get suck’d do yo see,
   They’ll be noa use to them, for they’re little to me,
     Aw live, an’ aw’m jolly, &c.

   Fowk may turn up ther nooas as they pass me i’th’ road,
   An’ get aght o’th’ gate as if feear’d ov a tooad,
   But aw laff i’ mi sleeve, like a snail in its shell,
   For th’ less room they tak up, ther’s all th’ moor for misel,
     Aw live, an’ aw’m jolly, &c.

   Tho philosiphers tawk, an’ church parsons may praich,
   An’ tell us true joy is far aght ov us raich;
   Yet aw niver tak heed o’ ther cant o’ ther noise,
   For he’s nowt to be fear’d on ’at’s nowt he can loise,
     Aw live, an’ aw’m jolly, &c.

“By th’ heart!” sed Billy, “aw nivver heeard sich a song as that i’ all mi life!  Tha mun sing it ageean for me, wi’ ta?” “Nay lad, aw’m nooan soa fond o’ singin as that comes to.”  “By gow, but tha mun!” “Well if aw do aw’st want all th’ puttates tha has left an’ th’ donkey an’ all.”  “Nay, Maister, that’s rayther too hard, yo willn’t want all th’ lot aw’l niver believe, yo’l throw me summat off?” “Well, aw dooant want to be hard o’ ony body, but tha knows it’s net to be expected aw shall taich thee a song like