Since I do miss your vaïce an’ feäce
In praÿer at eventide,
I’ll praÿ wi’ woone said vaïce vor greäce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an’ bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An’ be a-waitèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
THE THORNS IN THE GEÄTE.
Ah! Meäster Collins overtook
Our knot o’ vo’k a-stannèn still,
Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill,
To zee how strong the corn did look.
An’ he staÿ’d back awhile an’ spoke
A vew kind words to all the vo’k,
Vor good or joke, an’ wi’ a smile
Begun a-plaÿèn wi’ a chile.
The zull, wi’ iron zide awry,
Had long a-vurrow’d up the vield;
The heavy roller had a-wheel’d
It smooth vor showers vrom the sky;
The bird-bwoy’s cry, a-risèn sh’ill,
An’ clacker, had a-left the hill,
All bright but still, vor time alwone
To speed the work that we’d a-done.
Down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen,
Did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky,
An’ corn in bleäde, up ancle-high,
’Ithin the geäte did quiver green;
An’ in the geäte a-lock’d there stood
A prickly row o’ thornèn wood
