Zoo when, at last, I hung my head
Wi’ thirsty lips a-burnèn dry,
I come bezide a river-bed
Where water flow’d so blue’s the sky;
An’ there I meäde me up
O’ coltsvoot leaf a cup,
Where water vrom his lip o’ gray,
Wer sweet to sip thik burnèn day.
But when our work is right, a jaÿ
Do come to bless us in its traïn,
An’ hardships ha’ zome good to paÿ
The thoughtvul soul vor all their païn:
The het do sweetèn sheäde,
An’ weary lim’s ha’ meäde
A bed o’ slumber, still an’ sound,
By woody hill or grassy mound.
An’ while I zot in sweet delaÿ
Below an elem on a hill,
Where boughs a-halfway up did swaÿ
In sheädes o’ lim’s above em still,
An’ blue sky show’d between
The flutt’rèn leäves o’ green;
I woulden gi’e that gloom an’ sheäde
Vor any room that wealth ha’ meäde.
But oh! that vo’k that have the roads
Where weary-vooted souls do pass,
Would leäve bezide the stwone vor lwoads,
A little strip vor zummer grass;
That when the stwones do bruise
An’ burn an’ gall our tooes,
We then mid cool our veet on beds
O’ wild-thyme sweet, or deäisy-heads.
