THATCHEN O’ THE RICK.
As I wer out in meäd last week,
A-thatchèn o’ my little rick,
There green young ee-grass, ankle-high,
Did sheen below the cloudless sky;
An’ over hedge in tother groun’,
Among the bennets dry an’ brown,
My dun wold meäre, wi’ neck a-freed
Vrom Zummer work, did snort an’ veed;
An’ in the sheäde o’ leafy boughs,
My vew wold ragged-cwoated cows
Did rub their zides upon the raïls,
Or switch em wi’ their heäiry taïls.
An’ as the mornèn zun rose high
Above my mossy roof clwose by,
The blue smoke curreled up between
The lofty trees o’ feädèn green:
A zight that’s touchèn when do show
A busy wife is down below,
A-workèn hard to cheer woone’s tweil
Wi’ her best feäre, an’ better smile.
Mid women still in wedlock’s yoke
Zend up, wi’ love, their own blue smoke,
An’ husbands vind their bwoards a-spread
By faïthvul hands when I be dead,
An’ noo good men in ouer land
Think lightly o’ the weddèn band.
True happiness do bide alwone
Wi’ them that ha’ their own he’th-stwone
To gather wi’ their childern roun’,
A-smilèn at the worold’s frown.
