Wiltshire

I died o' cider and taters When I wer a-turned four-score. Us always were hearty aters, My feyther he wer afore.

And the Laard dun't hold I a sinner, The neighbourly angel said, Because I wer set on my dinner, For a man must goo full-fed.

But now I be done wi' feedin', And a taaste at the market-town. This all so idle as Eden In the great grey lift o' the down.

Over the turf and the tillage The angels gossip in pairs, Most like to folk in the village When the pigs was fat for the fairs.

Over the hill goos Master, Wi' a tarrible flock o' sheep, Peace is the chosen pastur', The Laard He doth us keep.

Now I be laid in the grasses, For I come a gaate of a way, And I hear how the Master passes The folk wi' the time o' day.

But I wun't be idle longer, Laid here i' the bloom and the seed, I'll goo to He when I'm stronger. He'll give I lambs to lead.

I'll ask but six or seven, And I'll lay, when the hurdling's done, On the great green downs o' heaven, And sleep in the livin' Sun.