That woonce they wore would be too small
To teäke em in, so big an’ tall.
Theäse year do show, wi’ snow-white cloud,
An’ deäsies in a sprinkled bed,
An’ green-bough birds a-whislèn loud,
The looks o’ zummer days a-vled;
An’ grass do grow,
An’ men do mow,
An’ all do show the wold times’ feäce
Wi’ new things in the wold things’ pleäce.
CHILDERN’S CHILDERN.
Oh! if my ling’rèn life should run,
Drough years a-reckoned ten by ten,
Below the never-tirèn zun,
Till beäbes ageän be wives an’ men;
An’ stillest deafness should ha’ bound
My ears, at last, vrom ev’ry sound;
Though still my eyes in that sweet light,
Should have the zight o’ sky an’ ground:
Would then my steäte
In time so leäte,
Be jaÿ or païn, be païn or jaÿ?
When Zunday then, a-weänèn dim,
As theäse that now’s a-clwosèn still,
Mid lose the zun’s down-zinkèn rim,
In light behind the vier-bound hill;
An’ when the bells’ last peal’s a-rung,
An’ I mid zee the wold an’ young
A-vlockèn by, but shoulden hear,
