An’ near the bride, on either hand,
You’d zee her comely bridemaïds stand,
Wi’ eyelashes a-bent in streäks
O’ brown above their bloomèn cheäks:
An’ sheenèn feäir, in mellow light,
Wi’ flowèn heäir, an’ frocks o’ white.
“An’ here,” good Meäster Collins cried,
“You’ll zee a creädle at her zide,
An’ there’s her child, a-lyèn deep
’Ithin it, an’ a-gone to sleep,
Wi’ little eyelashes a-met
In fellow streäks, as black as jet;
The while her needle, over head,
Do nimbly leäd the snow-white thread,
To zew a robe her love do meäke
Wi’ happy leäbor vor his seäke.
“An’ here a-geän’s another pleäce,
Where she do zit wi’ smilèn feäce,
An’ while her bwoy do leän, wi’ pride,
Ageän her lap, below her zide,
Her vinger tip do leäd his look
To zome good words o’ God’s own book.
“An’ next you’ll zee her in her pleäce,
Avore her happy husband’s feäce,
As he do zit, at evenèn-tide,
A-restèn by the vier-zide.
An’ there the childern’s heads do rise,
Wi’ laughèn lips, an’ beamèn eyes,
Above the bwoard, where she do lay
Her sheenèn tacklèn, wi’ the tea.
“An’ here another zide do show
