But He that meäde the wind, an’ meäde
The lewth, an’ zent wi’ het the sheäde,
Can keep my childern, all alwone
O’ under me, an’ though vull grown
Or little lispers, wi’ their whispers,
There a-lyèn in the lew.
THE WIND IN WOONE’S FEÄCE.
There lovely Jenny past,
While the blast did blow
On over Ashknowle Hill
To the mill below;
A-blinkèn quick, wi’ lashes long,
Above her cheäks o’ red,
Ageän the wind, a-beätèn strong,
Upon her droopèn head.
Oh! let dry win’ blow bleäk,
On her cheäk so heäle,
But let noo raïn-shot chill
Meäke her ill an’ peäle;
Vor healthy is the breath the blast
Upon the hill do yield,
An’ healthy is the light a cast
Vrom lofty sky to vield.
An’ mid noo sorrow-pang
Ever hang a tear
Upon the dark lash-heäir
Ov my feäirest dear;
An’ mid noo unkind deed o’ mine
Spweil what my love mid gaïn,
Nor meäke my merry Jenny pine
At last wi’ dim-ey’d païn.
