THE WHEEL ROUTS.
’Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome
Wi’ Jenny, vor her honey-moon,
But still a goodish hansel come
Behind her perty soon,
Vor stick, an’ dish, an’ spoon, all vell
To Jeäne, vrom Aunt o’ Camwy dell.
Zoo all the lot o’ stuff a-tied
Upon the plow, a tidy tod,
On gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride,
Wi’ ho’ses, iron-shod,
That, as their heads did nod, my whip
Did guide along wi’ lightsome flip.
An’ there it rod ’ithin the rwope,
Astraïn’d athirt, an’ straïn’d along,
Down Thornhay’s evenèn-lighted slope
An’ up the beech-tree drong;
Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out
On either zide a deep-zunk rout.
An’ when at Fall the trees wer brown,
Above the bennet-bearèn land,
When beech-leaves slowly whiver’d down,
By evenèn winds a-fann’d;
The routs wer each a band o’ red,
A-vill’d by drifted beech-leaves dead.
An’ when, in Winter’s leafless light,
The keener eastern wind did blow,
An’ scatter down, avore my zight,
A chilly cwoat o’ snow;
The routs ageän did show vull bright,
In two long streaks o’ glitt’rèn white.
