But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast,
Wer the childern’s light swing, a-hung low,
An’ a-rock’d by the brisk-blowèn blast,
Aye, a-swung by the win’ to an’ fro.
Vor the childern, wi’ pillow-borne head,
Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn,
An’ their father, asleep wi’ the dead,
Had vorgotten his work at the dawn;
An’ their mother, a vew stilly hours,
Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound,
Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow’rs,
Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.
Oh! the moon, wi’ his peäle lighted skies,
Have his sorrowless sleepers below.
But by day to the zun they must rise
To their true lives o’ tweil an’ ov ho.
Then the childern wull rise to their fun,
An’ their mother mwore sorrow to veel,
While the aïr is a-warm’d by the zun,
Aye, the win’ by the day’s vi’ry wheel.
THE CHILD’S GREÄVE.
Avore the time when zuns went down
On zummer’s green a-turn’d to brown,
When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell
Upon the scarlet pimpernel;
The while you still mid goo, an’ vind
’Ithin the geärden’s mossy wall,
Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall,
To meäke a tutty to your mind,
In churchyard heav’d, wi’ grassy breast,
The greäve-mound ov a beäby’s rest.
