Then John, a-praïs’d, flung up his crown,
All back a-laughèn in a roar.
They praïs’d his wife, an’ she look’d down
A-simperèn towards the vloor.
Then up they sprung a-dancèn reels,
An’ up went tooes, an’ up went heels,
A-windèn roun’ in knots an’ wheels.
“Brisk, brisk,”—the maidens cried;
“Frisk, frisk,”—the men replied;
“Quick, quick,—there wi’ your fiddle-stick,”
Cried merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.
An’ when the morrow’s zun did sheen,
John Bleäke beheld, wi’ jaÿ an’ pride,
His bricèn house, an’ pworch, an’ green.
Above the Stour’s rushy zide.
The zwallows left the lwonesome groves,
To build below the thatchèn oves,
An’ robins come vor crumbs o’ lwoaves:
“Tweet, tweet,”—the birds all cried;
“Sweet, sweet,”—John’s wife replied;
“Dad, dad,”—the childern cried so glad,
To merry Bleäke o’ Blackmwore.
JOHN BLEÄKE AT HWOME AT NIGHT.
No: where the woak do overspread,
The grass begloom’d below his head,
An’ water, under bowèn zedge,
A-springèn vrom the river’s edge,
Do ripple, as the win’ do blow,
An’ sparkle, as the sky do glow;
An’ grey-leav’d withy-boughs do cool,
Wi’ darksome sheädes, the clear-feäced pool,
