My Luve a-Laikin

When throstles sing in ivery copse,
An' blackies* vie wi' them,
Roundy green are sycamore tops,
An' meadows flower-trim,
Then my luve goes a-laikin',
a-laikin', a-laikin',
Then my luve goes a-laikin'.

She pelts me wi' her cowslip ball,
Then runs away, an' whiles I hearken
Her mimicking a cuckoo's call,
Or lapwing cry as t' moors darken;
Fra' morn while3 neet she's laikin' ;
she's laikin', she's laikin',
Fra mom while neet she's laikin'.

Times she will kiss, times she will not,
Gentle ane hour an' pawky* t' next;
Times she blows cold, times she blows hot,
Wiv ony ither I'd be vexed.
But I mun go a-laikin',
a-laikin', a-laikin',
When my luve goes a-laikin'.