An’ there be sons in youthvul pride,
An’ fathers weak wi’ years an’ païn,
An’ daughters in their mother’s traïn,
The tall wi’ smaller at their zide;
Heads in murnèn
Never turnèn,
Cheäks a-burnèn, wi’ the het
O’ youth, an’ eyes noo tears do wet.
There friends do settle, zide by zide,
The knower speechless to the known;
Their vaïce is there vor God alwone
To flesh an’ blood their tongues be tied.
Grief a-wringèn,
Jaÿ a-zingèn,
Pray’r a-bringèn welcome rest
So softly to the troubled breast.
WOONE RULE.
An’ while I zot, wi’ thoughtvul mind,
Up where the lwonesome Coombs do wind,
An’ watch’d the little gully slide
So crookèd to the river-zide;
I thought how wrong the Stour did zeem
To roll along his ramblèn stream,
A-runnèn wide the left o’ south,
To vind his mouth, the right-hand zide.
But though his stream do teäke, at mill,
An’ eastward bend by Newton Hill,
An’ goo to lay his welcome boon
