I don't stand out 'tis only feäte Do gi'e to each his wedded meäte; But eet there's woone above the rest, That every soul can like the best. An' my wold love's a-kindled new, An' my wold dream's a-come out true; But while I had noo soul to sheäre My good an' ill, an' jäy an ceäre, Should I have bliss below, In gleämèn pleäte an' lofty steäte 'Ithin the lofty pillar'd geäte, Wi' feäirest flow'rs, an' ponds an' tow'rs? Oh, no! my heart, no, no.
Ah! then the grassy-meäded Maÿ Did warm the passèn year, an' gleam Upon the yellow-grounded stream, That still by beech-tree sheädes do straÿ. The light o' weäves, a-runnèn there, Did plaÿ on leaves up over head, An' vishes sceäly zides did gleäre, A-dartèn on the shallow bed, An' like the stream a-slidèn on, My zun out-measur'd time's agone.
There by the path, in grass knee-high, Wer buttervlees in giddy flight, All white above the deäisies white, Or blue below the deep blue sky. Then glowèn warm wer ev'ry brow, O' maïd, or man, in zummer het, An' warm did glow the cheäks I met That time, noo mwore to meet em now. As brooks, a-slidèn on their bed, My season-measur'd time's a-vled.
Vrom yonder window, in the thatch, Did sound the maïdens' merry words, As I did stand, by zingèn birds, Bezide the elem-sheäded hatch. 'Tis good to come back to the pleäce, Back to the time, to goo noo mwore; 'Tis good to meet the younger feäce A-mentèn others here avore. As streams do glide by green mead-grass, My zummer-brighten'd years do pass.
The bright-tunn'd house, a-risèn proud, Stood high avore a zummer cloud, An' windy sheädes o' tow'rs did vall Upon the many-window'd wall; An' on the grassy terrace, bright Wi' white-bloom'd zummer's deaïsy beds, An' snow-white lilies noddèn heads, Sweet Linda Deäne did walk in white; But ah! avore too high a door, Wer Linda Deäne ov Ellendon.
When sparklèn brooks an' grassy ground, By keen-aïr'd Winter's vrost wer bound, An' star-bright snow did streak the forms O' beäre-lim'd trees in darksome storms, Sweet Linda Deäne did lightly glide, Wi' snow-white robe an' rwosy feäce, Upon the smooth-vloor'd hall, to treäce The merry dance o' Chris'mas tide; But oh! not mine be balls so fine As Linda Deäne's at Ellendon.