Classic Poem

I be the work buoy o' the farm,
I be so proud out any where:
To git a hoss whip in my yarm,
As ef I carr'd a sceptre there.

I be a huff'd, an' zent about
By âl the mâidens drough the mud;
An' zometimes I da git a clout
In head; an zometimes milk an' crud.

An' I da help the carter tiake
The harness off, an' put it on,
An' let down hây into the rack,
An' liead the hosses to the pon'.

An' I da sar the pigs, and pen
The vowls, an' bring in wood to burn:
An' turn, for mâidens ar var men,
The grinen stuone, ar butter churn.

Ef missess any when da send
I any where, then I da start
Awoy lik' wind; var in the end
She'll âlways gi'e me zome'hat var't.

An' when the hâymiakers da zwarm
A-vield, then I da use my pick,
Ar car the riakens in my yarm,
Ar liead the team, ar trud the rick.

An' I da vetch the cows, an' bring
Vrom mill the bags o' flour an' bran,
An' I be zet at any thing
By miaster, missess, mâid an' man.

An' tha da try to gally I;
But I don't kiare var mâids ar men;
When tha da huff I, da try
To huff tha jist the same agen.

I be the work buoy o' the farm,
I be so proud out any where:
To git a hoss whip in my yarm,
As ef I carr'd a sceptre there.