There, in eegrass new a-shootèn,
I did run on even vootèn,
Happy, over new-mow’d land;
Or did zing wi’ zingèn drushes
While I plaïted, out o’ rushes,
Little baskets vor my hand;
Bezide the clote that there did float,
Wi’ yollow blossoms, on the river.
When the western zun’s a vallèn,
What sh’ill vaïce is now a-callèn
Hwome the deaïry to the païls;
Who do dreve em on, a-flingèn
Wide-bow’d horns, or slowly zwingèn
Right an’ left their tufty taïls?
As they do goo a-huddled drough
The geäte a-leädèn up vrom river.
Bleäded grass is now a-shootèn
Where the vloor wer woonce our vootèn,
While the hall wer still in pleäce.
Stwones be looser in the wallèn;
Hollow trees be nearer vallèn;
Ev’ry thing ha’ chang’d its feäce.
But still the neäme do bide the seäme—
’Tis Pentridge—Pentridge by the river.
WHEAT.
In brown-leav’d Fall the wheat a-left
’Ithin its darksome bed,
Where all the creakèn roller’s heft
Seal’d down its lowly head,
Sprung sheäkèn drough the crumblèn mwold,
Green-yollow, vrom below,
An’ bent its bleädes, a-glitt’rfen cwold,
At last in winter snow.
