An’ oh! mid He that’s vur above
The highest here, reward their love,
An’ gi’e their happy souls, drough greäce,
A higher pleäce than Herrenston.
OUT AT PLOUGH.
Though cool avore the sheenèn sky
Do vail the sheädes below the copse,
The timber-trees, a-reachèn high,
Ha’ zunsheen on their lofty tops,
Where yonder land’s a-lyèn plow’d,
An’ red, below the snow-white cloud,
An’ vlocks o’ pitchèn rooks do vwold
Their wings to walk upon the mwold,
While floods be low,
An’ buds do grow.
An’ aïr do blow, a-broad, O.
But though the aïr is cwold below
The creakèn copses’ darksome screen,
The truest sheäde do only show
How strong the warmer zun do sheen;
An’ even times o’ grief an’ païn,
Ha’ good a-comèn in their traïn,
An’ ’tis but happiness do mark
The sheädes o’ sorrow out so dark.
As tweils be sad,
Or smiles be glad,
Or times be bad, at hwome, O.
An’ there the zunny land do lie
Below the hangèn, in the lew,
Wi’ vurrows now a-crumblèn dry,
Below the plowman’s dousty shoe;
