But come now, bring us in your hand,
A heavy brand o’ woak a-dried,
To cheer us wi’ his het an’ light,
While vrosty night, so starry-skied,
Go gather souls that time do speäre
To zit an’ sheäre our vier-zide.
KNOWLWOOD.
I don’t want to sleep abrode, John,
I do like my hwomeward road, John;
An’ like the sound o’ Knowlwood bells the best.
Zome would rove vrom pleäce to pleäce, John,
Zome would goo from feäce to feäce, John,
But I be happy in my hwomely nest;
An’ slight’s the hope vor any pleäce bezide,
To leäve the plain abode where love do bide.
Where the shelvèn knap do vall, John,
Under trees a-springèn tall, John;
’Tis there my house do show his sheenèn zide,
Wi’ his walls vor ever green, John,
Under ivy that’s a screen, John,
Vrom wet an’ het, an’ ev’ry changèn tide,
An’ I do little ho vor goold or pride,
To leäve the plaïn abode where love do bide.
There the bendèn stream do flow, John,
By the mossy bridge’s bow, John;
An’ there the road do wind below the hill;
There the miller, white wi’ meal, John,
Deafen’d wi’ his foamy wheel, John,
Do stan’ o’ times a-lookèn out o’ mill:
The while ’ithin his lightly-sheäken door,
His wheatèn flour do whitèn all his floor.
