The path, wi’ healthy-bloomèn feäce,
A-whis’lèn shrill his last new zong;
An’ when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.
Now you that war the daughter there,
Be mother on a husband’s vloor,
An’ mid ye meet wi’ less o’ ceäre
Than what your hearty mother bore;
An’ if abroad I have to rue
The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,
Mid I come hwome to sheäre wi’ you
What’s needvul free o’ pinchèn need:
An’ vind that you ha’ still in store,
My evenèn meal, an’ woone smile mwore.
THE ECHO.
About the tow’r an’ churchyard wall,
Out nearly overright our door,
A tongue ov wind did always call
Whatever we did call avore.
The vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers,
Our merry laughs, our hands’ loud claps,
An’ mother’s call “Come, come, my dears”
—my dears;
Or “Do as I do bid, bad chaps”
—bad chaps.
An’ when o’ Zundays on the green,
In frocks an’ cwoats as gaÿ as new,
We walk’d wi’ shoes a-meäde to sheen
So black an’ bright’s a vull-ripe slooe
