We went a-rottlèn on, an’ meäde
Our way along to Brookwell Sleäde;
An’ then we vound ourselves draw nigh
The Leädy’s Tow’r that rose on high,
An’ seem’d a-comèn on to meet,
Wi’ growfen height, wold Dobbin’s veet.
BROOKWELL.
Well, I do zay ’tis wo’th woone’s while
To beät the doust a good six mile
To zee the pleäce the squier plann’d
At Brookwell, now a-meäde by hand;
Wi’ oben lawn, an’ grove, an’ pon’,
An’ gravel-walks as clean as bron;
An’ grass a’most so soft to tread
As velvet-pile o’ silken thread;
An’ mounds wi’ mæsh, an’ rocks wi’ flow’rs,
An’ ivy-sheäded zummer bow’rs,
An’ dribblèn water down below
The stwonèn archès lofty bow.
An’ there do sound the watervall
Below a cavern’s mæshy wall,
Where peäle-green light do struggle down
A leafy crevice at the crown.
An’ there do gush the foamy bow
O’ water, white as driven snow;
An’ there, a zittèn all alwone,
A little maïd o’ marble stwone
Do leän her little cheäk azide
Upon her lily han’, an’ bide
Bezide the vallèn stream to zee
Her pitcher vill’d avore her knee.
An’ then the brook, a-rollèn dark
