The while the zand o’ time do run
An’ leäve his errand still undone.
An’ oh! as long’s thy buds would gleam
Above the softly-slidèn stream,
While sparklèn zummer-brooks do run
Below the lofty-climèn zun,
I only wish that thou could’st staÿ
Vor noo man’s harm, an’ all men’s jaÿ.
But no, the waterman ’ull weäde
Thy water wi’ his deadly bleäde,
To slaÿ thee even in thy bloom,
Fair small-feäced flower o’ the Frome.
THE LILAC.
Dear lilac-tree, a-spreadèn wide
Thy purple blooth on ev’ry zide,
As if the hollow sky did shed
Its blue upon thy flow’ry head;
Oh! whether I mid sheäre wi’ thee
Thy open aïr, my bloomèn tree,
Or zee thy blossoms vrom the gloom,
’Ithin my zunless workèn-room,
My heart do leäp, but leäp wi’ sighs,
At zight o’ thee avore my eyes,
For when thy grey-blue head do swaÿ
In cloudless light, ’tis Spring, ’tis Maÿ.
’Tis Spring, ’tis Maÿ, as Maÿ woonce shed
His glowèn light above thy head—
When thy green boughs, wi’ bloomy tips,
Did sheäde my childern’s laughèn lips;
A-screenèn vrom the noonday gleäre
