An' there the zunny land do lie Below the hangèn, in the lew, Wi' vurrows now a-crumblèn dry, Below the plowman's dousty shoe; 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, While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.
Where cows did slowly seek the brink O' _Stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; Wi' vishèn float, that there did zink An' rise, I zot as in a dream. The dazzlèn zun did cast his light On hedge-row blossom, snowy white, Though nothèn yet did come in zight, A-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream;
Till, out by sheädy rocks there show'd, A bwoat along his foamy road, Wi' thik feäir maïd at mill, a-row'd Wi' Jeäne behind her brother's oars. An' steätely as a queen o' vo'k, She zot wi' floatèn scarlet cloak, An' comèn on, at ev'ry stroke, Between my withy-sheäded shores.
The broken stream did idly try To show her sheäpe a-ridèn by, The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply, As if they bow'd to her by will. The rings o' water, wi' a sock, Did break upon the mossy rock, An' gi'e my beätèn heart a shock, Above my float's up-leapèn quill.
Then, lik' a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi' less'nèn size, An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes, Where down below the stream did wind; An' left the quiet weäves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor, Wi' all so still's the clote they bore, Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.
Well! thanks to you, my faïthful Jeäne, So worksome wi' your head an' hand, We seäved enough to get ageän My poor vorefather's plot o' land. 'Twer folly lost, an' cunnèn got, What should ha' come to me by lot. But let that goo; 'tis well the land Is come to hand, by be'th or not.