If there, avore the dusk o’ night,
The evenèn zup, a-sheenèn bright,
Would paÿ my leäbors wi’ the zight
O’ Ruth—o’ Ruth a-ridèn.
Her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir,
She’s comely in her gaït an’ lim’,
An’ sweet’s the smile her feäce do wear,
Below her cap’s well-rounded brim;
An’ while her skirt’s a-spreädèn wide,
In vwolds upon the ho’se’s zide,
He’ll toss his head, an’ snort wi’ pride,
To trot wi’ Ruth a-ridèn.
An’ as her ho’se’s rottlèn peäce
Do slacken till his veet do beät
A slower trot, an’ till her feäce
Do bloom avore the tollman’s geäte;
Oh! he’d be glad to oben wide
His high-back’d geäte, an’ stand azide,
A-givèn up his toll wi’ pride,
Vor zight o’ Ruth a-ridèn.
An’ oh! that Ruth could be my bride,
An’ I had ho’ses at my will,
That I mid teäke her by my zide,
A-ridèn over dell an’ hill;
I’d zet wi’ pride her litty tooe
’Ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new,
An’ leäve all other jaÿs to goo
Along wi’ Ruth a-ridèn.
If maïdens that be weak an’ peäle
A-mwopèn in the house’s sheäde,
Would wish to be so blithe and heäle
As you did zee young Ruth a-meäde;
