Yo were but a little un, Crowner my lad,
When th' huntsman he said yo'd be t' spit o' yo'r dad,
An' now yo're a big un, an' Spring comin' round,
Time's come for partin', lad! - mak' a good hound!

I thowt I'd ne'er rear yo, lad, six month ago,
But I'se warrant to-day yo'll be pick out o' t' show.
Yo're wick an' yo're gradely, as ever was found,
An' time's come for partin', lad! - mak' a good hound!

There's noan o' our folk but'll miss yo to-neet,
Th' owd slat o' your tongue, lad, an' pat o' your feet,
An' th' childer'll fair cry for thee, marlockin' round; -
But time's come for partin', lad! - mak' a good hound!

Eh, t' pots 'at yo've broken, lad, tongue cannot tell,
But yo're reet sort o' stuff, lad, we know it fu' well:
Yo'll stand up wi' t' best on 'em, ay, I'se be bound,
An' time's come for partin', lad! - mak' a good hound!