A-risèn to her comely height,
She push’d the swingèn ceäsement round;
And I could hear, beyond my zight,
The win’-blow’d beech-tree softly sound,
On higher ground, a-swaÿèn slow,
On drough my happy hour below.
An’ tho’ the darkness then did hide
The dewy rwose’s blushèn bloom,
He still did cast sweet air inside
To Jeäne, a-chattèn in the room;
An’ though the gloom did hide her feäce,
Her words did bind me to the pleäce.
An’ there, while she, wi’ runnèn tongue,
Did talk unzeen ’ithin the hall,
I thought her like the rwose that flung
His sweetness vrom his darken’d ball,
’Ithout the wall, an’ sweet’s the zight
Ov her bright feäce by mornèn light.
COME.
Wull ye come in eärly Spring,
Come at Easter, or in Maÿ?
Or when Whitsuntide mid bring
Longer light to show your waÿ?
Wull ye come, if you be true,
Vor to quicken love anew.
Wull ye call in Spring or Fall?
Come now soon by zun or moon?
Wull ye come ?
Come wi’ vaïce to vaïce the while
All their words be sweet to hear;
Come that feäce to feäce mid smile,
