An' when the last swaÿèn lwoad's a-started Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted, Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reäke an' pick, Wi' empty flagon, Behind the waggon, To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow'd.
When church is out, an' we all so slowly About the knap be a-spreadèn wide, How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly Along the leäne an' the hedge's zide; But nwone's a voun', O, Up hill or down, O, So gaÿ's the road drough the meäd a-mow'd.
An' when the visher do come, a-drowèn His flutt'ren line over bleädy zedge, Drough groun's wi' red thissle-heads a-blowèn, An' watchèn o't by the water's edge; Then he do love, O, The best to rove, O, Along his road drough the meäd a-mow'd.
The drevèn scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An' softer aïr, a-blowèn drough The quiv'rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew Last raïn drops off the leaves lik' dew; An' peäviers, now a-gettèn dry, Do steam below the zunny sky That's now so vast a-cleärèn.
The sheädes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageän do show Their mockèn sheäpes below the light; An' house-walls be a-lookèn white, An' vo'k do stir woonce mwore in zight, An' busy birds upon the wing Do whiver roun' the boughs an' zing, To zee the sky a-clearèn.
Below the hill's an ash; below The ash, white elder-flow'rs do blow: Below the elder is a bed O' robinhoods o' blushèn red; An' there, wi' nunches all a-spread, The haÿ-meäkers, wi' each a cup O' drink, do smile to zee hold up The raïn, an' sky a-cleärèn.
'Mid blushèn maïdens, wi' their zong, Still draw their white-stemm'd reäkes among The long-back'd weäles an' new-meäde pooks, By brown-stemm'd trees an' cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks By work, that God could never meäke Their weaker han's to underteäke, Though skies mid be a-cleärèn.
'Tis wrong vor women's han's to clips The zull an' reap-hook, speädes an' whips; An' men abroad, should leäve, by right, Woone faïthful heart at hwome to light Their bit o' vier up at night, An' hang upon the hedge to dry Their snow-white linen, when the sky In winter is a-cleärèn.
When vu'st along theäse road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straïght an' tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An' in the leäze the cows wer all A-lyèn down to teäke their rest An' slowly zunk towárd the west The evenèn star o' zummer.