Classic Poem

Now, gatherin' 'ounds is a job I like
W'en the winter day draws in,
W'en shadows are lyin' by every dyke
An' creepin' out o' the whin ;
W'en 'Armony 's missin' an' Houtcast too,
An' the Master 'e says to me-
'Jim, you go back to that gorse we drew,
For it's there them beggars 'll be ! '
Oh, gatherin' 'ounds is the job I love,
W'en the dark comes down on the thorn
An' the moon is 'ung in the sky above
Like a glitterin' 'untin' 'orn
W'en I ride the banks like a glidin' ghost
An' the dips like a witch o' fear-
This is the job wot I loves the most
In the darkest days o' the year.
Though it's me that knows that the cunnin' old rags
Will be 'alfway 'ome by now,
0' course if you're sent for a 'ound wot lags
You must do as you're ordered 'ow;
An' it's allus the custom, so I've found,
With a pack worth callin' a pack
That a Whip goes back for the missin' 'ound-
An' it's mostly me goes back!
Though I know the beggars is runnin' the road
On a breast-high scent o' soup,
Will I use my brains ? - No, I 'll be blowed
If I 'd ever so 'umble stoop;
If they think that a fox'ound don't have wits,
Let 'em think so, then, I say!
Some folk must gather up sense by bits
As a fed 'oss gathers 'is 'ay.
No, I don't 'alf mind keepin' long late hours,
For it's all in the day for me,
An' I know there's a glass to be 'ad at the Towers,
An' there's Oakwood Farm for tea,
With a pail o' gruel all mixed, I guess,
An' a stall that the old 'oss knows,
An' a seat by the kitchen fire wi' Bess
W'en the cook an' the 'ousemaid goes!
An' that's wy I ride so cheery back
W'en the Master says to me -
'Jim ' - wi' 'is keen heye hover the pack - ,
I am two' ounds short, or three.'
An' that's wy I 'm Houtcast's honly friend
An' 'Armony's life-long pal,
Because if they kept wi' the pack to the end,
Well - 'ow would I see my gal?