HALLOWED PLEÄCES.
At Woodcombe farm, wi’ ground an’ tree
Hallow’d by times o’ youthvul glee,
At Chris’mas time I spent a night
Wi’ feäces dearest to my zight;
An’ took my wife to tread, woonce mwore,
Her maïden hwome’s vorseäken vloor,
An’ under stars that slowly wheel’d
Aloft, above the keen-aïr’d vield,
While night bedimm’d the rus’lèn copse,
An’ darken’d all the ridges’ tops,
The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung
Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
There, on the he’th’s well-hetted ground,
Hallow’d by times o’ zittèn round,
The brimvul mug o’ cider stood
An’ hiss’d avore the bleäzèn wood;
An’ zome, a-zittèn knee by knee,
Did tell their teäles wi’ hearty glee,
An’ others gamboll’d in a roar
O’ laughter on the stwonèn vloor;
An’ while the moss o’ winter-tide
Clung chilly roun’ the house’s zide,
The hall, a-hung wi’ holly, rung
Wi’ many a tongue o’ wold an’ young.
There, on the pworches bench o’ stwone,
Hallow’d by times o’ youthvul fun,
We laugh’d an’ sigh’d to think o’ neämes
