Low the evenèn zun do sheen
By the boughs,
Where the cows do swing their taïls
Over the merry milkers’ païls.
FALL.
Now the yollow zun, a-runnèn
Daily round a smaller bow,
Still wi’ cloudless sky’s a-zunnèn
All the sheenèn land below.
Vewer blossoms now do blow,
But the fruit’s a-showèn
Reds an’ blues, an’ purple hues,
By the leaves a-glowèn.
Now the childern be a-pryèn
Roun’ the berried bremble-bow,
Zome a-laughèn, woone a-cryèn
Vor the slent her frock do show.
Bwoys be out a-pullèn low
Slooe-boughs, or a-runnèn
Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides,
Nuts do hang a-zunnèn.
Where do reach roun’ wheat-ricks yollow
Oves o’ thatch, in long-drawn ring,
There, by stubbly hump an’ hollow,
Russet-dappled dogs do spring.
Soon my apple-trees wull fling
Bloomèn balls below em,
That shall hide, on ev’ry zide
Ground where we do drow em.
