An' all the trees wer white wi' blooth,
An' dippèn zwallows skimm'd the pon';
Sweet hope did vill my heart wi' jaÿ,
An' tell me, though thik spring wer gaÿ,
There still would come a brighter Maÿ,
Wi' blushèn cheäks to bloom vor me!
An' when, at last, the time come roun',
An' brought a lofty zun to sheen
Upon my smilèn Fanny, down
Drough nēsh young leaves o' yollow green;
How charmèn wer the het that glow'd,
How charmèn wer the sheäde a-drow'd,
How charmèn wer the win' that blow'd
Upon her cheäks that bloom'd vor me!
But hardly did they times begin,
Avore I vound em short to staÿ:
An' year by year do now come in,
To peärt me wider vrom my jaÿ,
Vor what's to meet, or what's to peärt,
Wi' maïdens kind, or maïdens smart,
When hope's noo longer in the heart,
An' cheäks noo mwore do bloom vor me!
[page 24]
But there's a worold still to bless
The good, where zickness never rose;
An' there's a year that's winterless,
Where glassy waters never vroze;
An' there, if true but e'thly love
Do seem noo sin to God above,
'S a smilèn still my harmless dove,
So feäir as when she bloom'd vor me!
THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.
When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down,
An' burn our zweaty feäzen brown;
An' zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh,
Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky;
Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem
Upon the champèn high-neck'd team,
How lively, wi' a friend, do seem
The white road up athirt the hill.
The zwellèn downs, wi' chalky tracks
A-climmèn up their zunny backs,
Do hide green meäds an' zedgy brooks.
An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks,
An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing,
An' parish-churches in a string,
Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring,
An' white roads up athirt the hills.
At feäst, when uncle's vo'k do come
To spend the day wi' us at hwome,
An' we do lay upon the bwoard
The very best we can avvword,
The wolder woones do talk an' smoke,
An' younger woones do plaÿ an' joke,
An' in the evenèn all our vo'k
Do bring em gwaïn athirt the hill.
[page 25]
An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold
An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold,
The bellows in the blacksmith's shop,
An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop,
An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed
'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed;
While zwarms o' comèn friends do tread
The white road down athirt the hill.
An' when the windèn road so white,
A-climmèn up the hills in zight,
Do leäd to pleäzen, east or west,
The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best,
How touchèn in the zunsheen's glow,
Or in the sheädes that clouds do drow
Upon the zunburnt downs below,
'S the white road up athirt the hill.
What peaceful hollows here the long
White roads do windy round among!
Wi' deäiry cows in woody nooks,
An' haymeäkers among their pooks,
An' housen that the trees do screen
From zun an' zight by boughs o' green!
Young blushèn beauty's hwomes between
The white roads up athirt the hills.
THE WOODY HOLLOW.
If mem'ry, when our hope's a-gone,
Could bring us dreams to cheat us on,
Ov happiness our hearts voun' true
In years we come too quickly drough;
What days should come to me, but you,
That burn'd my youthvul cheäks wi' zuns
O' zummer, in my plaÿsome runs
About the woody hollow.
[page 26]
When evenèn's risèn moon did peep
Down drough the hollow dark an' deep,
Where gigglèn sweethearts meäde their vows
In whispers under waggèn boughs;
When whisslèn bwoys, an' rott'lèn ploughs
Wer still, an' mothers, wi' their thin
Shrill vaïces, call'd their daughters in,
From walkèn in the hollow;
What souls should come avore my zight,
But they that had your zummer light?
The litsome younger woones that smil'd
Wi' comely feäzen now a-spweil'd;
Or wolder vo'k, so wise an' mild,
That I do miss when I do goo
To zee the pleäce, an' walk down drough
The lwonesome woody hollow?
When wrongs an' overbearèn words
Do prick my bleedèn heart lik' swords,
Then I do try, vor Christes seäke,
To think o' you, sweet days! an' meäke
My soul as 'twer when you did weäke
My childhood's eyes, an' when, if spite
Or