There the copse-wood, a-grow’d to a height,
Wer a-vell’d, an’ the primrwose in blooth,
Among chips on the ground a-turn’d white,
Wer a-quiv’rfen, all beäre ov his lewth.
The green moss wer a-spread on the thatch,
That I left yollow reed, an’ avore
The small green, there did swing a new hatch,
Vor to let me walk into the door.
Oh! the rook did still rock o’er the rick,
But wi’ Meäry a-married awaÿ.
PICKEN O’ SCROFF.
Oh! the wood wer a-vell’d in the copse,
An’ the moss-bedded primrwose did blow;
An’ vrom tall-stemmèd trees’ leafless tops,
There did lie but slight sheädes down below.
An’ the sky wer a-showèn, in drough
By the tree-stems, the deepest o’ blue,
Wi’ a light that did vall on an’ off
The dry ground, a-strew’d over wi’ scroff.
There the hedge that wer leätely so high,
Wer a-plush’d, an’ along by the zide,
Where the waggon ’d a-haul’d the wood by,
There did reach the deep wheelrouts, a-dried.
An’ the groun’ wi’ the sticks wer bespread,
Zome a-cut off alive, an’ zome dead.
An’ vor burnèn, well wo’th reäkèn off,
By the childern a-pickèn o’ scroff.
In the tree-studded leäze, where the woak
Wer a-spreadèn his head out around,
There the scrags that the wind had a-broke,
