I went hwome in the dead o' the night, When the vields wer all empty o' vo'k, An' the tuns at their cool-winded height Wer all dark, an' all cwold 'ithout smoke; An' the heads o' the trees that I pass'd Wer a-swayèn wi' low-ruslèn sound, An' the doust wer a-whirl'd wi' the blast, Aye, a smeech wi' the wind on the ground.
Then I come by the young widow's hatch, Down below the wold elem's tall head, But noo vinger did lift up the latch, Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead; But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low, An' a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast, Aye, a-swung by the win' to an' fro.
Vor the childern, wi' pillow-borne head, Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn, An' their father, asleep wi' the dead, Had vorgotten his work at the dawn; An' their mother, a vew stilly hours, Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound, Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs, Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.
Oh! the moon, wi' his peäle lighted skies, Have his sorrowless sleepers below. But by day to the zun they must rise To their true lives o' tweil an' ov ho. Then the childern wull rise to their fun, An' their mother mwore sorrow to veel, While the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun, Aye, the win' by the day's vi'ry wheel.
Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown, When sheädes o' swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an' vind 'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall, Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, To meäke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav'd, wi' grassy breast, The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.
An' when a high day broke, to call A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi' thoughtvul mind, The feäirest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greäve, an' show To other souls her love an' loss, An' meäde a Seävior's little cross O' brightest flow'rs that then did blow, A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, Among the dew, in mornèn light
An' woone sweet bud her han' did pleäce Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce; An' two she zet a-bloomèn bright, Where reach'd His hands o' left an' right; Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed, Did mark the pleäces ov his veet, An' woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.