Vor ever,—vor he left noo son
To teäke the house o’ mossy stwone.
An’ zoo he vell to other hands,
An’ gramfer took en wi’ the lands:
An’ there when he, poor man, wer dead,
My father shelter’d my young head.
An’ if I wer a squier, I
Should like to spend my life, an’ die
In thik wold house o’ mossy stwone,
Up there upon the knap alwone.
Don’t talk ov housen all o’ brick,
Wi’ rockèn walls nine inches thick,
A-trigg’d together zide by zide
In streets, wi’ fronts a straddle wide,
Wi’ yards a-sprinkled wi’ a mop,
Too little vor a vrog to hop;
But let me live an’ die where I
Can zee the ground, an’ trees, an’ sky.
The girt wold house o’ mossy stwone
Had wings vor either sheäde or zun:
Woone where the zun did glitter drough,
When vu’st he struck the mornèn dew;
Woone feäced the evenèn sky, an’ woone
Push’d out a pworch to zweaty noon:
Zoo woone stood out to break the storm,
An’ meäde another lew an’ warm.
An’ there the timber’d copse rose high,
Where birds did build an’ heäres did lie,
An’ beds o’ grægles in the lew,
Did deck in Maÿ the ground wi’ blue.
An’ there wer hills an’ slopèn grounds,
That they did ride about wi’ hounds;
An’ drough the meäd did creep the brook
