The backs of all our zilv’ry hills,
The brook that still do dreve our mills,
The roads a-climèn up the brows
O’ knaps, a-screen’d by meäple boughs,
War all a-mark’d in sheäde an’ light
Avore our wolder fathers’ zight,
In zunny days, a-gied their hands
For happy work, a-tillèn lands,
That now do yield their childern bread
Till they do rest wi’ wold vo’k dead.
But livèn vo’k, a-grievfen on,
Wi’ lwonesome love, vor souls a-gone,
Do zee their goodness, but do vind
All else a-stealèn out o’ mind;
As air do meäke the vurthest land
Look feäirer than the vield at hand,
An’ zoo, as time do slowly pass,
So still’s a sheäde upon the grass,
Its wid’nèn speäce do slowly shed
A glory roun’ the wold vo’k dead.
An’ what if good vo’ks’ life o’ breath
Is zoo a-hallow’d after death,
That they mid only know above,
Their times o’ faith, an’ jaÿ, an’ love,
While all the evil time ha’ brought
’S a-lost vor ever out o’ thought;
As all the moon that idden bright,
’S a-lost in darkness out o’ zight;
And all the godly life they led
Is glory to the wold vo’k dead.
If things be zoo, an’ souls above
Can only mind our e’thly love,
