The stars that clim’d our skies all dark,
Above our sleepèn eyes all dark,
An’ zuns a-rollèn round to bring
The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,
Ha’ vled, wi’ never-restèn flight,
Drough green-bough’d day, an’ dark-tree’d night;
Till now our childhood’s pleäces there,
Be gaÿ wi’ other feäces there,
An’ we ourselves do vollow on
Our own vorelivers dead an’ gone.
THE WINDOW FREÄM’D WI’ STWONE.
When Pentridge House wer still the nest
O’ souls that now ha’ better rest,
Avore the viër burnt to ground
His beams an’ walls, that then wer sound,
’Ithin a naïl-bestudded door,
An’ passage wi’ a stwonèn vloor,
There spread the hall, where zun-light shone
In drough a window fream’d wi’ stwone.
A clavy-beam o’ sheenèn woak
Did span the he’th wi’ twistèn smoke,
Where fleämes did shoot in yollow streaks,
Above the brands, their flashèn peaks;
An’ aunt did pull, as she did stand
O’-tip-tooe, wi’ her lifted hand,
A curtain feäded wi’ the zun,
Avore the window freäm’d wi’ stwone.
When Hwome-ground grass, below the moon,
Wer damp wi’ evenèn dew in June,
An’ aunt did call the maïdens in
Vrom walkèn, wi’ their shoes too thin,
