AYE, vull my heart's blood now do roll,

An’ gaÿ do rise my happy soul,

An’ well they mid, vor here our veet may

Avore woone vier ageän do meet; one fire

Vor you've avoun’ my feäce, to greet

Wi’ welcome words my startlèn ear. startled

An’ who be you, but John o’ Weer,

An’ I, but William Wellburn.

Here, light a candle up, to shed

Mwore light upon a wold friend's head,

An’ show the smile, his feäce woonce mwore once

Ha’ brought us vrom another shore.

An’ I'll heave on a brand avore

The vier back, to meäke good cheer, fire

O’ roarèn fleämes, vor John o’ Weer

To chat wi’ William Wellburn.

Aye, aye, it mid be true that zome,

When they do wander out vrom hwome,

Do leäve their nearest friends behind,

Bwoth out o’ zight, an’ out o’ mind;

But John an’ I ha’ ties to bind

Our souls together, vur or near, far

For, who is he but John o’ Weer,

An’ I, but William Wellburn.

Look, there he is, with twinklèn eyes,

An’ elbows down upon his thighs,

A-chucklèn low, wi’ merry grin.

Though time ha’ roughen'd up his chin,

'Tis still the seäme true soul 'ithin,

As woonce I know'd, when year by year, once

Thik very chap, thik John o’ Weer, that

Did plaÿ wi’ William Wellburn.

Come, John, come; don't be dead-alive half-dead

Here, reach us out your clust'r o’ vive. cluster of five (fingers)

Oh! you be happy. Ees, but that yes

Woon't do till you can laugh an’ chat.

Don't blinky, lik’ a purrèn cat,

But leäp an’ laugh, an’ let vo'k hear folk

What's happen'd, min, that John o’ Weer mate

Ha’ met wi’ William Wellburn.

Vor zome, wi’ selfishness too strong

Vor love, do do each other wrong;

An’ zome do wrangle an’ divide

In hets ov anger, bred o’ pride; heats

But who do think that time or tide

Can breed ill-will in friends so dear,

As William wer to John o’ Weer,

An’ John to William Wellburn?

'TWER out at Penley I'd a-past

A zummer day that went too vast, fast

An’ when the zettèn zun did spread

On western clouds a vi'ry red, fiery

The elems’ leafy limbs wer still

Above the gravel-bedded rill,

An’ under en did warble sh'ill, it, tunefully

Avore the dusk, the blackbird.

An’ there, in sheädes o’ darksome yews, shadows

Did vlee the maïdens on their tooes, fly, toes

A-laughèn sh'ill wi’ merry feäce loudly

When we did vind their hidèn pleäce,

'Ithin the loose-bough'd ivy's gloom,

Or lofty lilac, vull in bloom,

Or hazzle-wrides that gi'ed em room hazel-clumps, gave

Below the zingèn blackbird.

Above our heads the rooks did vlee fly

To reach their nested elem-tree,

An’ splashèn vish did rise to catch

The wheelèn gnots above the hatch; gnats, wicket-gate

An’ there the miller went along,

A-smilèn, up the sheädy drong, lane

But yeet too deaf to hear the zong yet

A-zung us by the blackbird.

An’ there the sh'illy-bubblèn brook musically-

Did leäve behind his rocky nook,

To run drough meäds a-chill'd wi’ dew, through

Vrom hour to hour the whole night drough;

But still his murmurs wer a-drown'd

By vaïces that mid never sound might

Ageän together on that ground,

Wi’ whislèns o’ the blackbird.

As light do gleäre in ev'ry ground, field

Wi’ boughy hedges out a-round

A-climmèn up the slopèn brows climbing

O’ hills, in rows o’ sheädy boughs:

The while the hawthorn buds do blow

As thick as stars, an’ white as snow;

Or cream-white blossoms be a-spread

About the guelder-rwoses’ head;

How cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, shelter

Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth. bloom

When we've a-work'd drough longsome hours, through

Till dew's a-dried vrom dazzlèn flow'rs,

The while the climmèn zun ha’ glow'd

Drough mwore than half his daily road:

Then where the sheädes do slily pass shadows

Athirt our veet upon the grass, across

As we do rest by lofty ranks

Ov elems on the flow'ry banks;

How cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth,

Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.

But oh! below woone hedge's zide one

Our jaÿ do come a-most to pride; joy

Out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand, tall-trunked

In row bezide our own free land,

An’ where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim yellow water-lily, may

'Ithin our water's rushy rim:

An’ raïn do vall, an’ zuns do burn,

An’ each in season, and in turn,

To cool the sheäde or warm the lewth

Ov our own zummer hedge in blooth.

How soft do sheäke the zummer hedge—

How soft do sway the zummer zedge—

How bright be zummer skies an’ zun—

How bright the zummer brook do run;

An’ feäir the flowers do bloom, to feäde

Behind the swaÿen mower's bleäde;

An’ sweet be merry looks o’ jaÿ,

By weäles an’ pooks o’ June's new haÿ, ridges and cones

Wi’ smilèn age, an laughèn youth,

Bezide the zummer hedge in blooth.

WHERE the western zun, unclouded,

Up above the grey hill-tops,

Did sheen drough ashes, lofty sh'ouded, shine through, high-topped

On the turf bezide the copse,

In zummer weather,

We together,

Sorrow-slightèn, work-vorgettèn,

Gambol'd wi’ the zun a-zettèn.

There, by flow'ry bows o’ bramble, curved stems

Under hedge, in ash-tree sheädes, shadows

The dun-heaïr'd ho'se did slowly ramble horse

On the grasses’ dewy bleädes,

Zet free o’ lwoads,

An’ stwony rwoads,

Vorgetvul o’ the lashes frettèn, stinging

Grazèn wi’ the zun a-zettèn.

There wer rooks a-beätèn by us

Drough the aïr, in a vlock, through

An’ there the lively blackbird, nigh us,

On the meäple bough did rock,

Wi’ ringèn droat, throat

Where zunlight smote

The yollow boughs o’ zunny hedges

Over western hills’ blue edges.

Waters, drough the meäds a-purlèn,

Glissen'd in the evenèn's light,

An’ smoke, above the town a-curlèn,

Melted slowly out o’ zight;

An’ there, in glooms

Ov unzunn'd rooms,

To zome, wi’ idle sorrows frettèn,

Zuns did set avore their zettèn.

We were out in geämes and reäces,

Loud a-laughèn, wild in me'th, mirth

Wi’ windblown heäir, an’ zunbrown'd feäces,

Leäpen on the high-sky'd e'th, earth

Avore the lights

Wer tin'd o’ nights, lost

An’ while the gossamer's light nettèn

Sparkled to the zun a-zettèn.

I BORN in town! oh no, my dawn

O’ life broke here beside theäse lawn; this glade

Not where pent aïr do roll along,

In darkness drough the wall-bound drong, through, lane

An’ never bring the goo-coo's zong, cuckoo's

Nor sweets o’ blossoms in the hedge,

Or bendèn rush, or sheenèn zedge, shining

Or sounds o’ flowèn water.

The aïr that I've a-breath'd did sheäke

The draps o’ raïn upon the breäke, brushwood

An’ bear aloft the swingèn lark,

An’ huffle roun’ the elem's bark, blow in gusts

In boughy grove, an’ woody park,

An’ brought us down the dewy dells,

The high-wound zongs o’ nightingeäles, intricate

An’ sounds o’ flowèn water.

An’ when the zun, wi’ vi'ry rim, fiery

's a-zinkèn low, an’ wearèn dim,

Here I, a-most too tired to stand,

Do leäve my work that's under hand

In pathless wood or oben land,

To rest 'ithin my thatchèn oves, eaves

Wi’ ruslèn win's in leafy groves,

An’ sounds o’ flowèn water.

As evenèn aïr, in green-treed Spring,

Do sheäke the new-sprung pa'sley bed,

An’ wither'd ash-tree keys do swing

An’ vall a-flutt'rèn roun’ our head:

There, while the birds do zing their zong

In bushes down the ash-tree drong, lane

Come Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce

Your vaïce an’ feäce can meäke vor me.

Below the buddèn ashes’ height

We there can linger in the lew, shelter

While boughs, a-gilded by the light,

Do sheen avore the sky o’ blue: shine

But there by zettèn zun, or moon

A-risèn, time wull vlee too soon fly

Wi’ Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce

Her vaïce an’ feäce can meäke vor me.

Down where the darksome brook do flow,

Below the bridge's archèd wall,

Wi’ alders dark, a-leanèn low,

Above the gloomy watervall;

There I've a-led ye hwome at night,

Wi’ noo feäce else 'ithin my zight

But yours so feäir, an’ sweet's the pleäce

Your vaïce an’ feäce ha’ meäde me there.

An’ oh! when other years do come,

An’ zettèn zuns, wi’ yollow gleäre,

Drough western window-peänes, at hwome, through

Do light upon my evenèn chair:

While day do weäne, an’ dew do vall, wane

Be wi’ me then, or else in call,

As time do vlee, vor sweet's the pleäce fly

Your vaïce an’ feäce do meäke vor me.

Ah! you do smile, a-thinkèn light

O’ my true words, but never mind;

Smile on, smile on, but still your flight

Would leäve me little jaÿ behind: joy

But let me not be zoo a-tried so

Wi’ you a-lost where I do bide,

O Jessie Lee, in any pleäce

Your vaïce an’ feäce ha’ blest vor me.

I'm sure that when a soul's a-brought

To this our life ov aïr an’ land,

Woone mwore's a-mark'd in God's good thought, one

To help, wi’ love, his heart an’ hand.

An’ oh! if there should be in store

An angel here vor my poor door,

'Tis Jessie Lee, vor sweet's the pleäce

Her vaïce an’ feäce can meäke vor me.

WHERE cows did slowly seek the brink

O’ Stour, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; through

Wi’ vishèn float, that there did zink fishing

An’ rise, I zot as in a dream. sat

The dazzlèn zun did cast his light

On hedge-row blossom, snowy white,

Though nothèn yet did come in zight,

A-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream;

Till, out by sheädy rocks there show'd

A bwoat along his foamy road,

Wi’ thik feäir maïd at mill, a-row'd that

Wi’ Jeäne behind her brother's oars.

An’ steätely as a queen o’ vo'k, folk

She zot wi’ floatèn scarlet cloak, sat

An’ comèn on, at ev'ry stroke,

Between my withy-sheäded shores. willow-shaded

The broken stream did idly try

To show her sheäpe a-ridèn by,

The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply,

As if they bow'd to her by will.

The rings o’ water, wi’ a sock, sigh

Did break upon the mossy rock,

An’ gi'e my beätèn heart a shock, give

Above my float's up-leapèn quill.

Then, lik’ a cloud below the skies,

A-drifted off, wi’ less'nèn size,

An’ lost, she floated vrom my eyes,

Where down below the stream did wind;

An’ left the quiet weäves woonce mwore once

To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor,

Wi’ all so still's the clote they bore, yellow water-lily

Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.

IF theäse day's work an’ burnèn sky this

'V'a-zent hwome you so tired as I,

Let's zit an’ rest 'ithin the screen

O’ my wold bow'r upon the green; old

Where I do goo myself an’ let

The evenèn aiër cool my het, heat

When dew do wet the grasses bleädes,

A-quiv'rèn in the dusky sheädes.

There yonder poplar trees do plaÿ

Soft music, as their heads do swaÿ,

While wind, a-rustlèn soft or loud,

Do stream ageän their lofty sh'oud; canopy

An’ seem to heal the ranklèn zore

My mind do meet wi’ out o’ door,

When I've a-bore, in downcast mood,

Zome evil where I look'd vor good.

O’ they two poplars that do rise

So high avore our naïghbours’ eyes,

A-zet by gramfer, hand by hand, Grandpa

Wi’ grammer, in their bit o’ land; Grandma

The woone upon the western zide one

Wer his, an’ woone wer grammer's pride,

An’ since they died, we all do teäke

Mwore ceäre o'm vor the wold vo'k's seäke. of them, old folk's

An’ there, wi’ stems a-growèn tall trunks

Avore the houses mossy wall,

The while the moon ha’ slowly past

The leafy window, they've a-cast

Their sheädes 'ithin the window peäne; shadows

While childern have a-grown to men,

An’ then ageän ha’ left their beds,

To bear their childern's heavy heads.

WHEN starbright maïdens be to zit

In silken frocks, that they do wear,

The room mid have, as 'tis but fit, may

A han'some seat vor vo'k so feäir; folk

But we, in zun-dried vield an’ wood,

Ha’ seats as good's a goolden chair.

Vor here, 'ithin the woody drong, lane

A ribbèd elem-stem do lie, elm-trunk

A-vell'd in Spring, an’ stratch'd along

A bed o’ grægles up knee-high, bluebells

A sheädy seat to rest, an’ let

The burnèn het o’ noon goo by. heat

Or if you'd look, wi’ wider scope,

Out where the gray-tree'd plaïn do spread,

The ash bezide the zunny slope,

Do sheäde a cool-aïr'd deäisy bed,

An’ grassy seat, wi’ spreadèn eaves

O’ rus'lèn leaves, above your head.

An’ there the traïn mid come in zight, may

Too vur to hear a-rollèn by, far

A-breathèn quick, in heästy flight,

His breath o’ tweil, avore the sky, toil

The while the waggon, wi’ his lwoad,

Do crawl the rwoad a-winden nigh.

Or now theäse happy holiday this

Do let vo'k rest their weary lim's,

An’ lwoaded haÿ's a-hangèn gray,

Above the waggon-wheels’ dry rims,

The meäd ha’ seats in weäles or pooks, ridges or cones

By windèn brooks, wi’ crumblèn brims.

Or if you'd gi'e your thoughtvul mind give

To yonder long-vorseäken hall,

Then teäke a stwonèn seat behind stone

The ivy on the broken wall,

An’ learn how e'thly wealth an’ might earthly

Mid clim’ their height, an’ then mid vall.

I DON't want to sleep abrode, John, away from home

I do like my hwomeward road, John;

An’ like the sound o’ Knowlwood bells the best.

Zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, John,

Zome would goo from feäce to feäce, John,

But I be happy in my hwomely nest;

An’ slight's the hope vor any pleäce bezide,

To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.

Where the shelvèn knap do vall, John, sloping hillock

Under trees a-springèn tall, John;

'Tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide, shining

Wi’ his walls vor ever green, John,

Under ivy that's a screen, John,

Vrom wet an’ het, an’ ev'ry changèn tide, heat

An’ I do little ho vor goold or pride, care

To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.

There the bendèn stream do flow, John,

By the mossy bridge's bow, John; arch

An’ there the road do wind below the hill;

There the miller, white wi’ meal, John,

Deafen'd wi’ his foamy wheel, John,

Do stan’ o’ times a-lookèn out o’ mill:

The while 'ithin his lightly-sheäken door,

His wheatèn flour do whiten all his floor.

When my daily work's a-done, John,

At the zettèn o’ the zun, John,

An’ I all day 've a-plaÿ'd a good man's peärt,

I do vind my ease a-blest, John,

While my conscience is at rest, John;

An’ while noo worm's a-left to fret my heart; gnaw

An’ who vor finer hwomes o’ restless pride,

Would pass the plaïn abode where peace do bide?

By a windor in the west, John,

There upon my fiddle's breast, John,

The strings do sound below my bow's white heäir;

While a zingèn drush do swaÿ, John, thrush

Up an’ down upon a spraÿ, John,

An’ cast his sheäde upon the window square; shadow

Vor birds do know their friends, an’ build their nest,

An’ love to roost, where they can live at rest.

Out o’ town the win’ do bring, John,

Peals o’ bells when they do ring, John,

An’ roun’ me here, at hand, my ear can catch

The maïd a-zingèn by the stream, John,

Or carter whislèn wi’ his team, John,

Or zingèn birds, or water at the hatch; wicket-gate

An’ zoo wi’ sounds o’ vaïce, an’ bird an’ bell, so

Noo hour is dull 'ithin our rwosy dell.

I'VE a-come by the Maÿ-tree all times o’ the year,

When leaves wer a-springèn,

When vrost wer a-stingèn,

When cool-winded mornèn did show the hills clear,

When night wer bedimmèn the vields vur an’ near. far

When, in zummer, his head wer as white as a sheet,

Wi’ white buds a-zwellèn,

An’ blossom, sweet-smellèn,

While leaves wi’ green leaves on his bough-zides did meet,

A-sheädèn the deäisies down under our veet.

When the zun, in the Fall, wer a-wanderèn wan,

An’ haws on his head

Did sprinkle en red, it

Or bright drops o’ raïn wer a-hung loosely on,

To the tips o’ the sprigs when the scud wer a-gone. sudden shower

An’ when, in the winter, the zun did goo low,

An’ keen win’ did huffle, blow in gusts

But never could ruffle

The hard vrozen feäce o’ the water below,

His limbs wer a-fringed wi’ the vrost or the snow.

AYE, a sad life his wife must ha’ led,

Vor so snappish he's leätely a-come,

That there's nothèn but anger or dread

Where he is, abroad or at hwome; away

He do wreak all his spite on the bwones

O’ whatever do vlee, or do crawl; fly

He do quarrel wi’ stocks, an’ wi’ stwones,

An’ the raïn, if do hold up or vall;

There is nothèn vrom mornèn till night

Do come right to Gruffmoody Grim.

Woone night, in his anger, he zwore one

At the vier, that didden burn free: fire, didn't

An’ he het zome o't out on the vloor, hit some of it

Vor a vlanker it cast on his knee. spark

Then he kicked it vor burnèn the child,

An’ het it among the cat's heaïrs;

An’ then beät the cat, a-run wild,

Wi’ a spark on her back up the steaïrs:

Vor even the vier an’ fleäme

Be to bleäme wi’ Gruffmoody Grim.

Then he snarl'd at the tea in his cup,

Vor 'twer all a-got cwold in the pot,

But 'twer woo'se when his wife vill'd it up worse

Vrom the vier, vor 'twer then scaldèn hot;

Then he growl'd that the bread wer sich stuff

As noo hammer in parish could crack,

An’ flung down the knife in a huff;

Vor the edge o'n wer thicker'n the back. of it

Vor beäkers an’ meäkers o’ tools bakers and makers

Be all fools wi’ Gruffmoody Grim.

Oone day as he vish'd at the brook,

He flung up, wi’ a quick-handed knack,

His long line, an’ his high-vleèn hook -flying

Wer a-hitch'd in zome briars at his back.

Then he zwore at the brembles, an’ prick'd

His beäre hand, as he pull'd the hook free; bare

An’ ageän, in a rage, as he kick'd

At the briars, wer a-scratch'd on the knee.

An’ he wish'd ev'ry bremble an’ briar

Wer o’ vier, did Gruffmoody Grim.

'ITHIN the woodlands, flow'ry gleäded,

By the woak tree's mossy moot, oak, stump

The sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded, shining

Now do quiver under voot;

An’ birds do whissle over head,

An’ water's bubblèn in its bed,

An’ there vor me the apple tree

Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leätely wer a-springèn

Now do feäde 'ithin the copse,

An’ païnted birds do hush their zingèn

Up upon the timber's tops;

An’ brown-leav'd fruit's a-turnèn red,

In cloudless zunsheen, over head, sunshine

Wi’ fruit vor me, the apple tree

Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo'k meäke money vaster folk, faster

In the aïr o’ dark-room'd towns,

I don't dread a peevish meäster;

Though noo man do heed my frowns,

I be free to goo abrode, out and about

Or teäke ageän my hwomeward road

To where, vor me, the apple tree

Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

'TWER when the busy birds did vlee, fly

Wi’ sheenèn wings, vrom tree to tree, shining

To build upon the mossy lim’

Their hollow nestes’ rounded rim;

The while the zun, a-zinkèn low,

Did roll along his evenèn bow, arc

I come along where wide-horn'd cows,

'Ithin a nook, a-screen'd by boughs,

Did stan’ an’ flip the white-hoop'd païls

Wi’ heäiry tufts o’ swingèn taïls;

An’ there wer Jenny Coom a-gone

Along the path a vew steps on, few

A-beärèn on her head, upstraïght,

Her païl, wi’ slowly-ridèn waïght,

An’ hoops a-sheenèn, lily-white,

Ageän the evenèn's slantèn light;

An’ zo I took her païl, an’ left

Her neck a-freed vrom all his heft; its weight

An’ she a-lookèn up an’ down,

Wi’ sheäpely head an’ glossy crown,

Then took my zide, an’ kept my peäce pace

A-talkèn on wi’ smilèn feäce,

An’ zettèn things in sich a light,

I'd faïn ha’ heär'd her talk all night;

An’ when I brought her milk avore

The geäte, she took it in to door,

An’ if her païl had but allow'd

Her head to vall, she would ha’ bow'd,

An’ still, as 'twer, I had the zight

Ov her sweet smile droughout the night.

WHEN zummer's burnèn het's a-shed heat's

Upon the droopèn grasses head,

A-drevèn under sheädy leaves driving

The workvo'k in their snow-white sleeves, workfolk

We then mid yearn to clim’ the height, may

Where thorns be white, above the vern; fern

An’ aïr do turn the zunsheen's might sunshine's

To softer light too weak to burn—

On woodless downs we mid be free,

But lowland trees be company.

Though downs mid show a wider view

O’ green a-reachèn into blue

Than roads a-windèn in the glen,

An’ ringèn wi’ the sounds o’ men;

The thissle's crown o’ red an’ blue

In Fall's cwold dew do wither brown,

An’ larks come down 'ithin the lew, shelter

As storms do brew, an’ skies do frown—

An’ though the down do let us free,

The lowland trees be company.

Where birds do zing, below the zun,

In trees above the blue-smok'd tun, chimney-top

An’ sheädes o’ stems do overstratch shadows, tree-trunks

The mossy path 'ithin the hatch; wicket-gate

If leaves be bright up over head,

When Maÿ do shed its glitt'rèn light;

Or, in the blight o’ Fall, do spread

A yollow bed avore our zight—

Whatever season it mid be, may

The trees be always company.

When dusky night do nearly hide

The path along the hedge's zide,

An’ dailight's hwomely sounds be still

But sounds o’ water at the mill; except for

Then if noo feäce we long'd to greet

Could come to meet our lwonesome treäce

Or if noo peäce o’ weary veet, pace

However fleet, could reach its pleäce—

However lwonesome we mid be, might

The trees would still be company.

DEAR lilac-tree, a-spreadèn wide

Thy purple blooth on ev'ry zide, bloom

As if the hollow sky did shed

Its blue upon thy flow'ry head;

Oh! whether I mid sheäre wi’ thee may

Thy open aïr, my bloomèn tree,

Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom,

'Ithin my zunless workèn-room,

My heart do leäp, but leäp wi’ sighs,

At zight o’ thee avore my eyes,

For when thy grey-blue head do swaÿ

In cloudless light, 'tis Spring, 'tis Maÿ.

'Tis Spring, 'tis Maÿ, as Maÿ woonce shed once

His glowèn light above thy head—

When thy green boughs, wi’ bloomy tips,

Did sheäde my childern's laughèn lips;

A-screenèn vrom the noonday gleäre

Their rwosy cheäks an’ glossy heäir;

The while their mother's needle sped,

Too quick vor zight, the snow-white thread,

Unless her han’, wi’ lovèn ceäre,

Did smooth their little heads o’ heäir;

Or wi’ a sheäke, tie up anew

Vor zome wild voot, a slippèn shoe;

An’ I did leän bezide thy mound

Ageän the deäsy-dappled ground,

The while the woaken clock did tick made of oak

My hour o’ rest away too quick,

An’ call me off to work anew,

Wi’ slowly-ringèn strokes, woone, two. one

Zoo let me zee noo darksome cloud so

Bedim to-day thy flow'ry sh'oud, canopy

But let en bloom on ev'ry spraÿ, it

Drough all the days o’ zunny Maÿ.

OH! there be angels evermwore,

A-passèn onward by the door,

A-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come

To bring us zome—O Meärianne.

Though doors be shut, an’ bars be stout,

Noo bolted door can keep em out;

But they wull leäve us ev'ry thing

They have to bring—My Meärianne.

An’ zoo the days a-stealèn by, so

Wi’ zuns a-ridèn drough the sky, through

Do bring us things to leäve us sad,

Or meäke us glad—O Meärianne.

The day that's mild, the day that's stern,

Do teäke, in stillness, each his turn;

An’ evils at their worst mid mend, may

Or even end—My Meärianne.

But still, if we can only bear

Wi’ faïth an’ love, our païn an’ ceäre,

We shan't vind missèn jaÿs a-lost,

Though we be crost—O Meärianne.

But all a-took to heav'n, an’ stow'd

Where we can't weäste em on the road,

As we do wander to an’ fro,

Down here below—My Meärianne.

But there be jaÿs I'd soonest choose

To keep, vrom them that I must lose;

Your workzome hands to help my tweil, toil

Your cheerful smile—O Meärianne.

The Zunday bells o’ yonder tow'r,

The moonlight sheädes o’ my own bow'r, shadows

An’ rest avore our vier-zide, fireside

At evenèn-tide—My Meärianne.

OH! no, I quite injaÿ'd the ride enjoyed

Behind wold Dobbin's heavy heels, old

Wi’ Jeäne a-prattlèn at my zide,

Above our peäir o’ spinnèn wheels,

As grey-rin'd ashes’ swaÿèn tops -barked

Did creak in moonlight in the copse,

Above the quiv'rèn grass, a-beät

By wind a-blowèn drough the geät. through the gate

If weary souls did want their sleep,

They had a-zent vor sleep the night;

Vor vo'k that had a call to keep folk

Awake, lik’ us, there still wer light.

An’ He that shut the sleepers’ eyes,

A-waïtèn vor the zun to rise,

Ha’ too much love to let em know

The ling'rèn night did goo so slow.

But if my wife did catch a zight

O’ zome queer pollard,3 or a post,

Poor soul! she took en in her fright it

To be a robber or a ghost.

A two-stump'd withy, wi’ a head, willow

Mus’ be a man wi’ eärms a-spread; arms

An’ foam o’ water, round a rock,

Wer then a drownèn leädy's frock.

Zome staddle stwones to bear a mow, stones for the base of a haystack

Wer dancèn veäries on the lag; fairies

An’ then a snow-white sheeted cow

Could only be, she thought, their flag,

An owl a-vleèn drough the wood flying through

Wer men on watch vor little good;

An’ geätes a slam'd by wind, did goo,

She thought, to let a robber drough.

But after all, she lik'd the zight

O’ cows asleep in glitt'rèn dew;

An’ brooks that gleam'd below the light,

An’ dim vield paths 'ithout a shoe.

An’ gaïly talk'd bezide my ears,

A-laughèn off her needless fears:

Or had the childern uppermost

In mind, instead o’ thief or ghost.

An’ when our house, wi’ open door,

Did rumble hollow round our heads,

She heästen'd up to tother vloor,

To zee the childern in their beds;

An’ vound woone little head awry, one

Wi’ woone a-turn'd toward the sky;

An’ wrung her hands ageän her breast,

A-smilèn at their happy rest.