Drough evenèn sheädes that trees cast down
Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun’:
An’ in at house the mug went roun’,
While ev’ry merry man praïs’d up
The pretty maïd that vill’d his cup,
The maïd o’ Grenley Water.
There I do seem ageän to ride
The hosses to the water-zide,
An’ zee the visher fling his hook
Below the withies by the brook;
Or Fanny, wi’ her blushèn look,
Car on her païl, or come to dip
Wi’ ceäreful step, her pitcher’s lip
Down into Grenley Water.
If I’d a farm wi’ vower ploughs,
An’ vor my deäiry fifty cows;
If Grenley Water winded down
Drough two good miles o’ my own groun’;
If half ov Ashknowle Hill wer brown
Wi’ my own corn,—noo growèn pride
Should ever meäke me cast azide
The maïd o’ Grenley Water.
THE VEAIRY VEET THAT I DO MEET.
When dewy fall’s red leaves do vlee
Along the grass below the tree,
Or lie in yollow beds a-shook
Upon the shallow-water’d brook,
Or drove ’ithin a sheädy nook;
Then softly, in the evenèn, down
The knap do steal along the groun’
The veäiry veet that I do meet
Below the row o’ beech trees.
