An’ lifted stwones an’ beams to keep
The raïn an’ cwold vrom us asleep.
Zoo now mid nwone ov us vorget
The pattern our vorefathers zet;
But each be fäin to underteäke
Some work to meäke vor others’ gaïn,
That we mid leäve mwore good to sheäre,
Less ills to bear, less souls to grieve,
An’ when our hands do vall to rest,
It mid be vrom a work a-blest.
THE WOLD VO’K DEAD.
My days, wi’ wold vo’k all but gone,
An’ childern now a-comèn on,
Do bring me still my mother’s smiles
In light that now do show my chile’s;
An’ I’ve a-sheär’d the wold vo’ks’ me’th,
Avore the burnèn Chris’mas he’th,
At friendly bwoards, where feäce by feäce,
Did, year by year, gi’e up its pleäce,
An’ leäve me here, behind, to tread
The ground a-trod by wold vo’k dead.
But wold things be a-lost vor new,
An’ zome do come, while zome do goo;
As wither’d beech-tree leaves do cling
Among the nesh young buds o’ Spring;
An’ frettèn worms ha’ slowly wound,
Droo beams the wold vo’k lifted sound,
An’ trees they planted little slips
Ha’ stems that noo two eärms can clips;
An’ grey an’ yollow moss do spread
On buildèns new to wold vo’k dead.
P
