But often when the western zide O' trees did glow at evenèn-tide, Or when the leäter moon did light The beeches' eastern boughs at night, An' in the grove, where vo'k did rove The crumpled leaves did vlee an' spin, You couldèn sheäre the pleasure there: Your work or childern kept ye in. Come, Etty dear, come out o' door, An' teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
But ceäres that zunk your oval chin Ageän your bosom's lily skin, Vor all they meäde our life so black, Be now a-lost behind our back. Zoo never mwope, in midst of hope, To slight our blessèns would be sin. Ha! ha! well done, now this is fun; When you do like I'll bring ye in. Here, Etty dear; here, out o' door, We'll teäke a sweetheart's walk woonce mwore.
'Twer Maÿ, but ev'ry leaf wer dry All day below a sheenèn sky; The zun did glow wi' yollow gleäre, An' cowslips blow wi' yollow gleäre, Wi' grægles' bells a-droopèn low, An' bremble boughs a-stoopèn low; While culvers in the trees did coo Above the vallèn dew.
An' there, wi' heäir o' glossy black, Bezide your neck an' down your back, You rambled gaÿ a-bloomèn feäir; By boughs o' maÿ a-bloomèn feäir; An' while the birds did twitter nigh, An' water weäves did glitter nigh, You gather'd cowslips in the lew, Below the vallèn dew.
An' now, while you've a-been my bride As years o' flow'rs ha' bloom'd an' died, Your smilèn feäce ha' been my jaÿ; Your soul o' greäce ha' been my jaÿ; An' wi' my evenèn rest a-come, An' zunsheen to the west a-come, I'm glad to teäke my road to you Vrom vields o' vallèn dew.
An' when the raïn do wet the maÿ, A-bloomèn where we woonce did straÿ, An' win' do blow along so vast, An' streams do flow along so vast; Ageän the storms so rough abroad, An' angry tongues so gruff abroad, The love that I do meet vrom you Is lik' the vallèn dew.
An' you be sprack's a bee on wing, In search ov honey in the Spring: The dawn-red sky do meet ye up; The birds vu'st cry do meet ye up; An' wi' your feäce a-smilèn on, An' busy hands a-tweilèn on, You'll vind zome useful work to do Until the vallèn dew.
Since I noo mwore do zee your feäce, Up steäirs or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome pleäce, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow: Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't look to meet ye now, As I do look at hwome.