An’ while the woäk, wi’ spreadèn head,
Did sheäde the foxes’ verny bed;
An’ runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes,
Did beät the grasses’ quiv’rèn’ bleädes;
An’ speckled pa’tridges took flight
In stubble vields a-feädèn white;
Or he could zee the pheasant strut
In sheädy woods, wi’ painted cwoat;
Or long-tongued dogs did love to run
Among the leaves, bezide his gun;
We didden want vor call to dwell
At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.
But now I hope his kindly feäce
Is gone to vind a better pleäce;
But still, wi’ vo’k a-left behind
He’ll always be a-kept in mind,
Vor all his springy-vooted hounds
Ha’ done o’ trottèn round his grounds,
An’ we have all a-left the spot,
To teäke, a-scatter’d, each his lot;
An’ even Father, lik’ the rest,
Ha’ left our long vorseäken nest;
An’ we should vind it sad to dwell,
Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.
The aïry mornèns still mid smite
Our windows wi’ their rwosy light,
An’ high-zunn’d noons mid dry the dew
On growèn groun’ below our shoe;
The blushèn evenèn still mid dye,
Wi’ viry red, the western sky;
The zunny spring-time’s quicknèn power
Mid come to oben leaf an’ flower;
An’ days an’ tides mid bring us on
Woone pleasure when another’s gone.
But we must bid a long farewell
To days an’ tides in Culver Dell.
