Or the childern, wi’ little red hands,
Wer a-tyèn em up in their bands;
Vor noo squier or farmer turn’d off
Little childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.
There wer woone bloomèn child wi’ a cloak
On her shoulders, as green as the ground;
An’ another, as gray as the woak,
Wi’ a bwoy in a brown frock, a-brown’d.
An’ woone got up, in plaÿ, vor to taït,
On a woak-limb, a-growèn out straïght.
But she soon wer a-taïted down off,
By her meätes out a-pickèn o’ scroff.
When they childern do grow to staïd vo’k,
An’ goo out in the worold, all wide
Vrom the copse, an’ the zummerleäze woak,
Where at last all their elders ha’ died,
They wull then vind it touchèn to bring,
To their minds, the sweet springs o’ their spring,
Back avore the new vo’k did turn off
The poor childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.
GOOD NIGHT.
While down the meäds wound slow,
Water vor green-wheel’d mills,
Over the streams bright bow,
Win’ come vrom dark-back’d hills.
Birds on the win’ shot along down steep
Slopes, wi’ a swift-swung zweep.
Dim weän’d the red streak’d west.
Lim’-weary souls “Good-rest.”
