THE MAID O’ NEWTON.
In zummer, when the knaps wer bright
In cool-aïr’d evenèn’s western light,
An’ haÿ that had a-dried all day,
Did now lie grey, to dewy night;
I went, by happy chance, or doom,
Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb,
An’ met a maïd in all her bloom:
The feaïrest maïd o’ Newton.
She bore a basket that did ride
So light, she didden leän azide;
Her feäce wer oval, an’ she smil’d
So sweet’s a child, but walk’d wi’ pride.
I spoke to her, but what I zaid
I didden know; wi’ thoughts a-vled,
I spoke by heart, an’ not by head,
Avore the maïd o’ Newton.
I call’d her, oh! I don’t know who,
’Twer by a neäme she never knew;
An’ to the heel she stood upon,
She then brought on her hinder shoe,
An’ stopp’d avore me, where we met,
An’ wi’ a smile woone can’t vorget,
She zaid, wi’ eyes a-zwimmèn wet,
“No, I be woone o’ Newton.”
Then on I rambled to the west,
Below the zunny hangèn’s breast,
Where, down athirt the little stream,
The brudge’s beam did lie at rest:
But all the birds, wi’ lively glee,
