Theäse year do show, wi' snow-white cloud, An' deäsies in a sprinkled bed, An' green-bough birds a-whislèn loud, The looks o' zummer days a-vled; An' grass do grow, An' men do mow, An' all do show the wold times' feäce Wi' new things in the wold things' pleäce.
Oh! if my ling'rèn life should run, Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten, Below the never-tirèn zun, Till beäbes ageän be wives an' men; An' stillest deafness should ha' bound My ears, at last, vrom ev'ry sound; Though still my eyes in that sweet light, Should have the zight o' sky an' ground: Would then my steäte In time so leäte, Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ?
When Zunday then, a-weänèn dim, As theäse that now's a-clwosèn still, Mid lose the zun's down-zinkèn rim, In light behind the vier-bound hill; An' when the bells' last peal's a-rung, An' I mid zee the wold an' young A-vlockèn by, but shoulden hear, However near, a voot or tongue: Mid zuch a zight, In that soft light Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ.
If I should zee among em all, In merry youth, a-glidèn by, My son's bwold son, a-grown man-tall, Or daughter's daughter, woman-high; An' she mid smile wi' your good feäce, Or she mid walk your comely peäce, But seem, although a-chattèn loud, So dumb's a cloud, in that bright pleäce: Would youth so feäir, A-passèn there, Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ.
'Tis seldom strangth or comeliness Do leäve us long. The house do show Men's sons wi' mwore, as they ha' less, An' daughters brisk, vor mothers slow. A dawn do clear the night's dim sky, Woone star do zink, an' woone goo high, An' livèn gifts o' youth do vall, Vrom girt to small, but never die: An' should I view, What God mid do, Wi' jaÿ or païn, wi' païn or jaÿ?
In zummer, leäte at evenèn tide, I zot to spend a moonless hour 'Ithin the window, wi' the zide A-bound wi' rwoses out in flow'r, Bezide the bow'r, vorsook o' birds, An' listen'd to my true-love's words.
A-risèn to her comely height, She push'd the swingèn ceäsement round; And I could hear, beyond my zight, The win'-blow'd beech-tree softly sound, On higher ground, a-swayèn slow, On drough my happy hour below.
An' tho' the darkness then did hide The dewy rwose's blushèn bloom, He still did cast sweet aïr inside To Jeäne, a-chattèn in the room; An' though the gloom did hide her feäce, Her words did bind me to the pleäce.