That roun’ the risèn tow’r do wind,
Like withwind roun’ the saplèn’s rind,
An’ reach a landèn, wi’ a seat,
To rest at last your weary veet,
’Ithin a breast be-screenèn wall,
To keep ye vrom a longsome vall.
An’ roun’ the windèn steäirs do spring
Aïght stwonèn pillars in a ring,
A-reachèn up their heavy strangth
Drough forty veet o’ slender langth,
To end wi’ carvèd heads below
The broad-vloor’d landèn’s aïry bow.
Aïght zides, as you do zee, do bound
The lower buildèn on the ground,
An’ there in woone, a two-leav’d door
Do zwing above the marble vloor:
An’ aÿe, as luck do zoo betide
Our comèn, wi’ can goo inside.
The door is oben now. An’ zoo
The keeper kindly let us drough.
There as we softly trod the vloor
O’ marble stwone, ’ithin the door,
The echoes ov our vootsteps vied
Out roun’ the wall, and over head;
An’ there a-païnted, zide by zide,
In memory o’ the squier’s bride,
In zeven païntèns, true to life,
Wer zeven zights o’ wedded life.”
Then Meäster Collins twold me all
The teäles a-païntèd roun’ the wall;
An’ vu’st the bride did stan’ to plight
Her weddèn vow, below the light
A-shootèn down, so bright’s a fleäme,
