’Tis lively at a feäir, among
The chattèn, laughèn, shiften drong,
When wold an’ young, an’ high an’ low,
Do streamy round, an’ to an’ fro;
But what new feäce that we don’t know,
Can ever meäke woone’s warm heart dance
Among ten thousan’, lik’ a glance
O’ looks we know’d avore, John.
How of’en have the wind a-shook
The leaves off into yonder brook,
Since vu’st we two, in youthvul strolls,
Did ramble roun’ them bubblèn shoals!
An’ oh! that zome o’ them young souls,
That we, in jaÿ, did plaÿ wi’ then
Could come back now, an’ bring ageän
The looks we know’d avore, John.
So soon’s the barley’s dead an’ down,
The clover-leaf do rise vrom groun’,
An’ wolder feäzen do but goo
To be a-vollow’d still by new;
But souls that be a-tried an’ true
Shall meet ageän beyond the skies,
An’ bring to woone another’s eyes
The looks they know’d avore, John.
THE MUSIC O’ THE DEAD.
When music, in a heart that’s true,
Do kindle up wold loves anew,
An’ dim wet eyes, in feäirest lights,
Do zee but inward fancy’s zights;
When creepèn years, wi’ with’rèn blights,
’V a-took off them that wer so dear,
How touchèn ’tis if we do hear
The tuèns o’ the dead, John.
