An’ then the bank, wi’ risèn back,
That’s now a-most a-troddèn down,
Bore thorns wi’ rind o’ sheeny black,
An’ meäple stems o’ ribby brown;
An’ in the lewth o’ theäse tree heads,
Wer primrwose beds a-sprung in blooth,
An’ here a geäte, a-slammèn to,
Did let the slow-wheel’d plough roll drough.
Ov all that then went by, but vew
Be now a-left behine’, to beät
The mornèn flow’rs or evenèn dew,
Or slam the woakèn vive-bar’d geäte;
But woone, my wife, so litty-stepp’d,
That have a-kept my path o’ life,
Wi’ her vew errands on the road,
Where woonce she bore her mother’s lwoad.
IN THE SPRING.
My love is the maïd ov all maïdens,
Though all mid be comely,
Her skin’s lik’ the jessamy blossom
A-spread in the Spring.
Her smile is so sweet as a beäby’s
Young smile on his mother,
Her eyes be as bright as the dew drop
A-shed in the Spring.
O grey-leafy pinks o’ the geärden,
Now bear her sweet blossoms;
Now deck wi’ a rwose-bud, O briar,
Her head in the Spring.
