An’ smilèn feäir avore my zight,
She blush’d bezide the yollow light
O’ bleäzèn brands, while winds o’ night
Do sheäke the Winter’s Willow.
An’ if there’s readship in her smile,
She don’t begrudge to speäre, O,
To zomebody, a little while,
The empty woaken chair, O;
An’ if I’ve luck upon my zide,
Why, I do think she’ll be my bride
Avore the leaves ha’ twice a-died
Upon the Winter’s Willow.
Above the coach-wheels’ rollèn rims
She never rose to ride, O,
Though she do zet her comely lim’s
Above the mare’s white zide, O;
But don’t become too proud to stoop
An’ scrub her milkèn païl’s white hoop,
Or zit a-milkèn where do droop,
The wet-stemm’d Winter’s Willow.
An’ I’ve a cow or two in leäze,
Along the river-zide, O,
An’ païls to zet avore her knees,
At dawn an’ evenèn-tide, O;
An’ there she still mid zit, an’ look
Athirt upon the woody nook
Where vu’st I zeed her by the brook
Bezide the Winter’s Willow.
Zoo, who would heed the treeless down,
A-beät by all the storms, O,
Or who would heed the busy town,
