But pinèn souls, wi’ heads a-hung
In heavy sorrow vor the young,
The sister ov the brother dead,
The father wi’ a child a-vled,
The husband when his bride ha’ laid
Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn,
Have all a-vound the time to murn
Vor youth that died in beauty.
An’ yeet the church, where praÿer do rise
Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi’ downcast eyes,
An’ village greens, a-beät half beäre
By dancers that do meet, an’ weär
Such merry looks at feäst an’ feäir,
Do gather under leätest skies,
Their bloomèn cheäks an’ sparklèn eyes,
Though young ha’ died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep
The beauty ov their eärly sleep;
Where comely looks shall never weär
Uncomely, under tweil an’ ceäre.
The feäir at death be always feäir,
Still feäir to livers’ thought an’ love,
An’ feäirer still to God above,
Than when they died in beauty.
FAIR EMILY OV YARROW MILL.
Dear Yarrowham, ’twer many miles
Vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk,
I met a maïd wi’ winnèn smiles,
That talk’d as vo’k at hwome do talk;
An’ who at last should she be vound,
Ov all the souls the sky do bound,
But woone that trod at vu’st thy groun’
Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
