When aw listen to th’ lark as he sings
      Far aboon, ommost lost to mi view,
   Aw lang for a pair ov his wings,
      To fly wi him, an sing like him, too.

   When aw sit under th’ shade ov a tree,
      Wi mi book, or mi pipe, or mi pen,
   Aw think them ’at’s sooary for me
      Had far better pitty thersen.

   When wintry storms howl ovver th’ moor,
      An snow covers all, far an wide,
   Aw carefully festen mi door,
      An creep claise up to th’ fire inside.

   A basin o’ porridge may be,
      To some a despisable dish,
   But it allus comes welcome to me,
      If aw’ve nobbut as mich as aw wish

   Mi cloas are old-fashioned, they say,
      An aw havn’t a daat but it’s true;
   Yet they answer ther purpose to-day
      Just as weel as if th’ fashion wor new.

   Let them ’at think joys nobbut dwell
      Wheear riches are piled up i’ stoor,
   Try to get a gooid share for thersel’,
      But leave me mi snug cot up o’ th’ moor

   Mi ’bacca’s all done, soa aw’ll creep
      Off to bed, just as quiet as a maase
   For if Dolly’s disturbed ov her sleep,
      Ther’n be a fine racket i’ th’ haase.

   Aw mun keep th’ band i’ th’ nick if aw can,
      For if shoo gets her temper once crost,
   All comforts an joys aw may plan
      Is just soa mich labour ’at’s lost.

“Weel, aw call that a varry nice piece; an if yo’re aullus soa contented, yo must have a happy time on it.”

“Awm happy enuff as things goa, an aw dar say aw’m as contented as th’ mooast; but it isn’t allus safe to judge ov a chap bi what he writes, for fowk often pen what they’d like things to be nor what they find ’em to be.”

He led th’ way into another raam ‘at wor filled wi boxes full o’ butterflies, an buzzards, an twitch clocks, an rare an praad he wor on ’em; an then he showed me what he called his wild beeasts, but they wor tame enuff, for they wor nowt but catterpillers, but aw believe ther wor thaasands on ’em, all alive an feedin o’ one sooart o’ stuff or another; an he tell’d me they ait a barraload o’ greens ivvery day.  He said he kept ’em till they come into butterflies, an then he cured ’em an sent ‘em away to London an sometimes to Paris.  Th’ year befoor he sent 15,000 to one man.  “Soa, yo see, awm a butterfly merchant as weel as a cobbler,” he sed.

As we wor lukkin at ’em Dolly coom up to tell us we’d better goa to us drinkin’ if we wanted ony, for, as Rubensrembrantvandyke had started, ther’d varry sooin be nooan left.  We tuk her advice, an awm thankful to say ther wor plenty for us all, an when we’d finished we went an sat ith garden, an David filled his pipe an sed if awd noa objections he’d tell me hah it happened ‘at he coom to live oth moor, an th’ reason fowk called him Owd Moorcock.  Aw sed nowt could suit me better, soa he began.