"Oh! then," we answer'd, "never fret, If we shall be a-blest, We'll work vull hard drough het an' wet To keep your heart at rest: To woaken chair's vor you to vill, For you shall glow the coal, An' when the win' do whissle sh'ill We'll screen it vrom your poll." Cried Grammer, "God is true. I can't but feel He smote to heal My wounded heart in you; An' zoo 'tis well, if 'tis His will, That I be here 'ithin a wall."
A happy day at Whitsuntide, As soon's the zun begun to vall, We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide To Meldon, girt an' small; Out where the castle wall stood high A-mwoldrèn to the zunny sky.
An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll Her youngest sister, Poll, so gaÿ, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul, An' mid her wedlock faÿ; An' at our zides did play an' run My little maïd an' smaller son.
Above the beäten mwold upsprung The driven doust, a-spreadën light, An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung, Wer wool a-quiv'rèn white; An' corn, a sheenèn bright, did bow, On slopèn Meldon's zunny brow.
There, down the rufless wall did glow The zun upon the grassy vloor, An' weakly-wandrèn winds did blow, Unhinder'd by a door; An' smokeless now avore the zun Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.
My bwoy did watch the daws' bright wings A-flappèn vrom their ivy bow'rs; My wife did watch my maïd's light springs, Out here an' there vor flow'rs; And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleäce Vor him had only Polly's feäce.
An' there, of all that pried about The walls, I overlook'd em best, An' what o' that? Why, I meäde out Noo mwore than all the rest: That there wer woonce the nest of zome That wer a-gone avore we come.
When woonce above the tun the smoke Did wreathy blue among the trees, An' down below, the livèn vo'k, Did tweil as brisk as bees; Or zit wi' weary knees, the while The sky wer lightless to their tweil.
_Jeäne; her Brother; John, her Sweetheart; and Racketèn Joe_
I'm thankvul I be out o' that Thick crowd, an' not asquot quite flat. That ever we should plunge in where the vo'k do drunge So tight's the cheese-wring on the veät! I've sca'ce a thing a-left in pleäce. 'Tis all a-tore vrom pin an' leäce. My bonnet's like a wad, a-beät up to a dod, An' all my heäir's about my feäce.
Here, come an' zit out here a bit, An' put yourzelf to rights.