An’ there the bwoy do whissel sh’ill,
Below the skylark’s merry bill,
Where primrwose beds do deck the zides
O’ banks below the meäple wrides.
As trees be bright
Wi’ bees in flight,
An’ weather’s bright, abroad, O.
An’ there, as sheenèn wheels do spin
Vull speed along the dousty rwoad,
He can but stan’, an’ wish ’ithin
His mind to be their happy lwoad,
That he mid gaïly ride, an’ goo
To towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough,
An’ zee, for woonce, the zights behind
The bluest hills his eyes can vind,
O’ towns, an’ tow’rs,
An’ downs, an’ flow’rs,
In zunny hours, abroad, O.
But still, vor all the weather’s feäir,
Below a cloudless sky o’ blue,
The bwoy at plough do little ceäre
How vast the brightest day mid goo;
Vor he’d be glad to zee the zun
A-zettèn, wi’ his work a-done,
That he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ
His happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ,
So light’s a lark
Till night is dark,
U
