Why is it, friends that we've a-met By zuns that now ha' long a-zet, Or winter vires that bleäzed for wold An' young vo'k, now vor ever cwold, Be met wi' jaÿ that can't be twold? Why, 'tis because they friends have all Our youthvul spring ha' left our fall,-- The looks we know'd avore, John.
'Tis lively at a feäir, among The chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong, When wold an' young, an' high an' low, Do streamy round, an' to an' fro; But what new feäce that we don't know, Can ever meäke woone's warm heart dance Among ten thousan', lik' a glance O' looks we know'd avore, John.
How of'en have the wind a-shook The leaves off into yonder brook, Since vu'st we two, in youthvul strolls, Did ramble roun' them bubblèn shoals! An' oh! that zome o' them young souls, That we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi' then Could come back now, an' bring ageän The looks we know'd avore, John.
So soon's the barley's dead an' down, The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun', An' wolder feäzen do but goo To be a-vollow'd still by new; But souls that be a-tried an' true Shall meet ageän beyond the skies, An' bring to woone another's eyes The looks they know'd avore, John.
When music, in a heart that's true, Do kindle up wold loves anew, An' dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights, Do zee but inward fancy's zights; When creepèn years, wi' with'rèn blights, 'V a-took off them that wer so dear, How touchèn 'tis if we do hear The tuèns o' the dead, John.
When I, a-stannèn in the lew O' trees a storm's a-beätèn drough, Do zee the slantèn mist a-drove By spitevul winds along the grove, An' hear their hollow sounds above My shelter'd head, do seem, as I Do think o' zunny days gone by. Lik' music vor the dead, John.
Last night, as I wer gwaïn along The brook, I heärd the milk-maïd's zong A-ringèn out so clear an' shrill Along the meäds an' roun' the hill. I catch'd the tuèn, an' stood still To hear 't; 'twer woone that Jeäne did zing A-vield a-milkèn in the spring,-- Sweet music o' the dead, John.
Don't tell o' zongs that be a-zung By young chaps now, wi' sheämeless tongue: Zing me wold ditties, that would start The maïden's tears, or stir my heart To teäke in life a manly peärt,-- The wold vo'k's zongs that twold a teäle, An' vollow'd round their mugs o' eäle, The music o' the dead, John.