Did zing in zummer wind that stirr’d
The spreädèn linden on the lawn.
An’ now ov all the trees wi’ sheädes
A-wheelèn round in Blackmwore gleädes,
There’s noo tall poplar by the brook,
Nor elem that do rock the rook,
Nor ash upon the shelvèn ledge,
Nor low-bough’d woak bezide the hedge,
Nor withy up above the zedge,
So dear’s thik linden on the lawn.
Vor there, o’ zummer nights, below
The wall, we zot when aïr did blow,
An’ sheäke the dewy rwose a-tied
Up roun’ the window’s stwonèn zide.
An’ while the carter rod’ along
A-zingèn, down the dusky drong,
There you did zing a sweeter zong
Below the linden on the lawn.
An’ while your warbled ditty wound
Drough plaÿsome flights o’ mellow sound,
The nightèngeäle’s sh’ill zong, that broke
The stillness ov the dewy woak,
Rung clear along the grove, an’ smote
To sudden stillness ev’ry droat;
As we did zit, an’ hear it float
Below the linden on the lawn.
Where dusky light did softly vall
’Ithin the stwonèn-window’d hall,
Avore your father’s blinkèn eyes,
His evenèn whiff o’ smoke did rise,
