Above the leafless hazzle-wride The wind-drove raïn did quickly vall, An' on the meäple's ribby zide Did hang the raïn-drops quiv'rèn ball; Out where the brook o' foamy yollow Roll'd along the meäd's deep hollow, An' noo birds wer out to beät, Wi' flappèn wings, the vleèn wet O' zunless clouds on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!
The moss, a-beät vrom trees, did lie Upon the ground in ashen droves, An' western wind did huffle high, Above the sheds' quick-drippèn oves. An' where the ruslèn straw did sound So dry, a-shelter'd in the lew, I staïed alwone, an' weather-bound, An' thought on times, long years agoo, Wi' water-floods on flow'rless ground. How time do bring the seasons round!
We then, in childhood plaÿ, did seem In work o' men to teäke a peärt, A-drevèn on our wild bwoy team, Or lwoadèn o' the tiny cart. Or, on our little refters, spread The zedgen ruf above our head, But coulden tell, as now we can, Where each would goo to tweil a man. O jaÿs a-lost, an' jaÿs a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!
Where woonce along the sky o' blue The zun went roun' his longsome bow, An' brighten'd, to my soul, the view About our little farm below. There I did plaÿ the merry geäme, Wi' childern ev'ry holitide, But coulden tell the vaïce or neäme That time would vind to be my bride. O hwome a-left, O wife a-vound, How Providence do bring things round!
An' when I took my manhood's pleäce, A husband to a wife's true vow, I never thought by neäme or feäce O' childern that be round me now. An' now they all do grow vrom small, Drough life's feäir sheäpes to big an' tall, I still be blind to God's good plan, To pleäce em out as wife, or man. O thread o' love by God unwound, How He in time do bring things round;
Well, aye, last evenèn, as I shook My locks ov haÿ by Leecombe brook. The yollow zun did weakly glance Upon the winter meäd askance, A-castèn out my narrow sheäde Athirt the brook, an' on the meäd. The while ageän my lwonesome ears Did russle weatherbeäten spears, Below the withy's leafless head That overhung the river's bed; I there did think o' days that dried The new-mow'd grass o' zummer-tide, When white-sleev'd mowers' whetted bleädes Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes, An' maïdens gaÿ, wi' plaÿsome chaps, A-zot wi' dinners in their laps, Did talk wi' merry words that rung Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue; An' welcome, when the leaves ha' died, Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.