An' there, the while the tree did sheäde Their gigglèn heads, my knife's keen bleäde Carved out, in turf avore my knee, J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley. 'Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meän, T. D. did stan' vor Thomas Deäne; The "L" I scratch'd but slight, vor he Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.
An' when the vields o' wheat did spread Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o' red. An' bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown. Upon the down at Meldonley, We stroll'd ageän along the hill, An' at the hawthorn-tree stood still, To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee, An' my T. D., at Meldonley.
The grey-poll'd bennet-stems did hem Each half-hid letter's zunken rim, By leädy's-vingers that did spread In yollow red, at Meldonley. An' heärebells there wi' light blue bell Shook soundless on the letter L, To ment the bells when L vor Lee Become a D at Meldonley.
Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive Wi' me in life, an' we do thrive; Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull My waggon vull, at Meldonley; An' small-hoof'd sheep, in vleeces white, Wi' quickly-pankèn zides, do bite My thymy grass, a-mark'd vor me In black, T. D., at Meldonley.
Ah! when our wedded life begun, Theäse clean-wall'd house of ours wer new; Wi' thatch as yollor as the zun Avore the cloudless sky o' blue; The sky o' blue that then did bound The blue-hilled worold's flow'ry ground.
An' we've a-vound it weather-brown'd, As Spring-tide blossoms oben'd white, Or Fall did shed, on zunburnt ground, Red apples from their leafy height: Their leafy height, that Winter soon Left leafless to the cool-feäced moon.
An' raïn-bred moss ha' staïn'd wi' green The smooth-feäced wall's white-morter'd streaks, The while our childern zot between Our seats avore the fleäme's red peaks: The fleäme's red peaks, till axan white Did quench em vor the long-sleep'd night.
The bloom that woonce did overspread Your rounded cheäk, as time went by, A-shrinkèn to a patch o' red, Did feäde so soft's the evenèn sky: The evenèn sky, my faithful wife, O' days as feäir's our happy life.
In zummer, when the sheädes do creep Below the Zunday steeple, round The mossy stwones, that love cut deep Wi' neämes that tongues noo mwore do sound, The leäne do lose the stalkèn team, An' dry-rimm'd waggon-wheels be still, An' hills do roll their down-shot stream Below the restèn wheel at mill. O holy day, when tweil do ceäse, Sweet day o' rest an' greäce an' peäce!