Since you noo mwore be at my zide, In walks in zummer het, I'll goo alwone where mist do ride, Drough trees a-drippèn wet: Below the raïn-wet bough, my love, Where you did never come, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I do grieve at home.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard Your vaïce do never sound, I'll eat the bit I can avword, A-vield upon the ground; Below the darksome bough, my love, Where you did never dine, An' I don't grieve to miss ye now, As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your vaïce an' feäce In praÿer at eventide, I'll praÿ wi' woone said vaïce vor greäce To goo where you do bide; Above the tree an' bough, my love, Where you be gone avore, An' be a-waïtèn vor me now, To come vor evermwore.
Ah! Meäster Collins overtook Our knot o' vo'k a-stannèn still, Last Zunday, up on Ivy Hill, To zee how strong the corn did look. An' he stay'd back awhile an' spoke A vew kind words to all the vo'k, Vor good or joke, an' wi' a smile Begun a-plaÿèn wi' a chile.
The zull, wi' iron zide awry, Had long a-vurrow'd up the vield; The heavy roller had a-wheel'd It smooth vor showers vrom the sky; The bird-bwoy's cry, a-risèn sh'ill, An' clacker, had a-left the hill, All bright but still, vor time alwone To speed the work that we'd a-done.
Down drough the wind, a-blowèn keen, Did gleäre the nearly cloudless sky, An' corn in bleäde, up ancle-high, 'lthin the geäte did quiver green; An' in the geäte a-lock'd there stood A prickly row o' thornèn wood Vor vo'k vor food had done their best, An' left to Spring to do the rest.
"The geäte," he cried, "a-seal'd wi' thorn Vrom harmvul veet's a-left to hold The bleäde a-springèn vrom the mwold, While God do ripen it to corn. An' zoo in life let us vulvil Whatever is our Meäker's will, An' then bide still, wi' peacevul breast, While He do manage all the rest."
Oh! there be angels evermwore, A-passèn onward by the door, A-zent to teäke our jaÿs, or come To bring us zome--O Meärianne. Though doors be shut, an' bars be stout, Noo bolted door can keep em out; But they wull leäve us ev'ry thing They have to bring--My Meärianne.
An' zoo the days a-stealèn by, Wi' zuns a-ridèn drough the sky, Do bring us things to leäve us sad, Or meäke us glad--O Meärianne. The day that's mild, the day that's stern, Do teäke, in stillness, each his turn; An' evils at their worst mid mend, Or even end--My Meärianne.