Gwaïn down the steps vor water! No!
How handsome it do meäke her grow.
If she’d be straïght, or walk abrode,
To tread her road wi’ comely gaït,
She coulden do a better thing
To zet herzelf upright, than bring
Her pitcher on her head, vrom spring
Upon the steps, wi’ water.
No! don’t ye neäme in woone seäme breath
Wi’ bachelors, the husband’s he’th;
The happy pleäce, where vingers thin
Do pull woone’s chin, or pat woone’s feäce.
But still the bleäme is their’s, to slight
Their happiness, wi’ such a zight
O’ maïdens, mornèn, noon, an’ night,
A-gwaïn down steps vor water.
ELLEN BRINE OV ALLENBURN.
Noo soul did hear her lips complaïn,
An’ she’s a-gone vrom all her païn,
An’ others’ loss to her is gaïn
For she do live in heaven’s love;
Vull many a longsome day an’ week
She bore her aïlèn, still, an’ meek;
A-workèn while her strangth held on,
An’ guidèn housework, when ’twer gone.
Vor Ellen Brine ov Allenburn,
Oh! there be souls to murn.
The last time I’d a-cast my zight
Upon her feäce, a-feäded white,
Wer in a zummer’s mornèn light
In hall avore the smwold’rèn vier,
