But days so feäir in hope’s bright eyes
Do often come wi’ zunless skies:
Woone’s fancy can but be out-done,
Where trees do swaÿ an’ brooks do run,
By risèn moon or zettèn zun.
Vor when at evenèn I do look
All down theäse hangèn on the brook,
Wi’ weäves a-leäpèn clear an’ bright,
Where boughs do swaÿ in yollow light;
Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams,
A-voun’ by daÿ or zeed in dreams,
Can ever seem so fit to be
Good angel’s hwomes, though they do gi’e
But païn an’ tweil to such as we.
An’ when by moonlight darksome sheädes
Do lie in grass wi’ dewy bleädes,
An’ worold-hushèn night do keep
The proud an’ angry vast asleep,
When I can think, as I do rove,
Ov only souls that I do love;
Then who can dream a dream to show,
Or who can think o’ moons to drow,
A sweeter light to rove below?
WHITSUNTIDE AN’ CLUB WALKEN.
Ees, last Whit-Monday, I an’ Meäry
Got up betimes to mind the deäiry;
An’ gi’ed the milkèn païls a scrub,
An’ dress’d, an’ went to zee the club.
Vor up at public-house, by ten
O’clock the pleäce wer vull o’ men,
A-dress’d to goo to church, an’ dine,
An’ walk about the pleäce in line.
