As light do gleäre in ev'ry ground, Wi' boughy hedges out a-round A-climmèn up the slopèn brows O' hills, in rows o' sheädy boughs: The while the hawthorn buds do blow As thick as stars, an' white as snow; Or cream-white blossoms be a-spread About the guelder-rwoses' head; How cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.
When we've a-work'd drough longsome hours, Till dew's a-dried vrom dazzlèn flow'rs, The while the climmèn zun ha' glow'd Drough mwore than half his daily road: Then where the sheädes do slily pass Athirt our veet upon the grass, As we do rest by lofty ranks Ov elems on the flow'ry banks; How cool's the sheäde, or warm's the lewth, Bezide a zummer hedge in blooth.
But oh! below woone hedge's zide Our jaÿ do come a-most to pride; Out where the high-stemm'd trees do stand, In row bezide our own free land, An' where the wide-leav'd clote mid zwim 'Ithin our water's rushy rim: An' raïn do vall, an' zuns do burn, An' each in season, and in turn, To cool the sheäde or warm the lewth Ov our own zummer hedge in blooth.
How soft do sheäke the zummer hedge-- How soft do sway the zummer zedge-- How bright be zummer skies an' zun-- How bright the zummer brook do run; An' feäir the flow'rs do bloom, to feäde Behind the swaÿen mower's bleäde; An' sweet be merry looks o' jaÿ, By weäles an' pooks o' June's new haÿ, Wi' smilèn age, an laughèn youth, Bezide the zummer hedge in blooth.
O' small-feäc'd flow'r that now dost bloom To stud wi' white the shallow Frome, An' leäve the clote to spread his flow'r On darksome pools o' stwoneless Stour, When sof'ly-rizèn aïrs do cool The water in the sheenèn pool, Thy beds o' snow-white buds do gleam So feäir upon the sky-blue stream, As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high Avore the blueness o' the sky; An' there, at hand, the thin-heäir'd cows, In aïry sheädes o' withy boughs, Or up bezide the mossy raïls, Do stan' an' zwing their heavy taïls, The while the ripplèn stream do flow Below the dousty bridge's bow; An' quiv'rèn water-gleams do mock The weäves, upon the sheäded rock; An' up athirt the copèn stwone The laïtren bwoy do leän alwone, A-watchèn, wi' a stedvast look, The vallèn waters in the brook, The while the zand o' time do run An' leäve his errand still undone. An' oh! as long's thy buds would gleam Above the softly-slidèn stream, While sparklèn zummer-brooks do run Below the lofty-climèn zun, I only wish that thou could'st staÿ Vor noo man's harm, an' all men's jaÿ. But no, the waterman 'ull weäde Thy water wi' his deadly bleäde, To slay thee even in thy bloom, Fair small-feäced flower o' the Frome.