My life, right on drough men an’ wives,
As long, good now, as time do run.
No; I could boast if others can,
I’m vull a man.
NAIGHBOUR PLAŸMEÄTES.
O jaÿ betide the dear wold mill,
My naïghbour plaÿmeätes’ happy hwome,
Wi’ rollèn wheel, an’ leäpèn foam,
Below the overhangèn hill,
Where, wide an’ slow,
The stream did flow,
An’ flags did grow, an’ lightly vlee
Below the grey-leav’d withy tree,
While clack, clack, clack, vrom hour to hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
An’ there in geämes by evenèn skies,
When Meäry zot her down to rest,
The broach upon her pankèn breast,
Did quickly vall an’ lightly rise,
While swans did zwim
In steätely trim.
An’ swifts did skim the water, bright
Wi’ whirlèn froth, in western light;
An’ clack, clack, clack, that happy hour,
Wi’ whirlèn stwone, an’ streamèn flour,
Did goo the mill by cloty Stour.
Now mortery jeints, in streaks o’ white,
Along the geärdfen wall do show
In Maÿ, an’ cherry boughs do blow,
