But there’s a worold still to bless
The good, where zickness never rose;
An’ there’s a year that’s winterless,
Where glassy waters never vroze;
An’ there, if true but e’thly love
Do seem noo sin to God above,
’S a smilèn still my harmless dove,
So feäir as when she bloom’d vor me!
THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.
When hot-beam’d zuns do strik right down,
An’ burn our zweaty feäzen brown;
An’ zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh,
Be back’d by hills so blue’s the sky;
Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem
Upon the champèn high-neck’d team,
How lively, wi’ a friend, do seem
The white road up athirt the hill.
The zwellèn downs, wi’ chalky tracks
A-climmèn up their zunny backs,
Do hide green meads an’ zedgy brooks,
An’ clumps o’ trees wi’ glossy rooks,
An’ hearty vo’k to laugh an’ zing,
An’ parish-churches in a string,
Wi’ tow’rs o’ merry bells to ring,
An’ white roads up athirt the hills.
At feäst, when uncle’s vo’k do come
To spend the day wi’ us at hwome,
An’ we do lay upon the bwoard
The very best we can avvword,
The wolder woones do talk an’ smoke,
An’ younger woones do plaÿ an’ joke,
An’ in the evenèn all our vo’k
Do bring em gwaïn athirt the hill.
