They zot to rest their litty veet
Upon the window’s woaken seat,
An’ chatted there, in light that shone
In drough the window freäm’d wi’ stwone.
An’ as the seasons, in a ring,
Roll’d slowly roun’ vrom Spring to Spring,
An’ brought em on zome holy-tide,
When they did cast their tools azide;
How glad it meäde em all to spy
In Stwonylands their friends draw nigh,
As they did know em all by neäme
Out drough the window’s stwonèn freäme.
O evenèn zun, a-ridèn drough
The sky, vrom Sh’oton Hill o’ blue,
To leäve the night a-broodèn dark
At Stalbridge, wi’ its grey-wall’d park;
Small jaÿ to me the vields do bring,
Vor all their zummer birds do zing,
Since now thy beams noo mwore do fleäme
In drough the window’s stwonèn freäme.
THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.
Oh! aye! the spring ’ithin the leäne,
A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook;
An’ still a-nesslèn in his nook,
As weeks do pass, an’ moons do weäne.
Nwone the drier,
Nwone the higher,
Nwone the nigher to the door
Where we did live so long avore.
An’ oh! what vo’k his mossy brim
