Classic Poem

In the field where the Nettle burdock and Sowthistles
Ramp up by the hovel where builds the small wren
When summer winds rustle and winter storms whistle
I gang over a Week to meet Katey agen
I'm all over eager on fine Sunday mornings
To seek the old shed on the path beaten track
And I lose both my shoe strings the weeds and the corn in
Every day seems a twelve month e'er Sunday comes back.

I love at my labour each bunch o' keen nettles
That grow where I work as the finest o' flowers
I love Kate begrimed with her black pots and kettles
And kiss her sweet face i' the shed at all hours
The milky sowthistles their pale tops I kiss
The burdocks broad leaves are my summers delight
For the good natured prickle burs Katey cant miss
They stick to her stockings both morning and night.

Before me she takes up her gown in my sight
To pull the inquisitive creepers away
Her calf is so large and her stockings so white
I do nought but worship the rest o the day
O' sweet bonny Katey what maiden's so fair
The sun stoops to westward the clouds come wi' night
These wind shaken cowslips I'll leave and repair
To the shed and court Katey my joy and delight.