The work begun, an' trowels rung, An' up the brickèn wall did rise, An' up the slantèn refters sprung, Wi' busy blows, an' lusty cries! An' woone brought planks to meäke a vloor, An' woone did come wi' durns or door, An' woone did zaw, an' woone did bore, "Brick, brick,--there down below, Quick, quick,--why b'ye so slow?" "Lime, lime,--why we do weäste the time, Vor merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore."
The house wer up vrom groun' to tun, An' thatch'd ageän the raïny sky, Wi' windows to the noonday zun, Where rushy Stour do wander by. In coo'se he had a pworch to screen The inside door, when win's wer keen, An' out avore the pworch, a green. "Here! here!"--the childern cried: "Dear! dear!"--the wife replied; "There, there,--the house is perty feäir," Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.
Then John he ax'd his friends to warm His house, an' they, a goodish batch, Did come alwone, or eärm in eärm, All roads, a-meäkèn vor his hatch: An' there below the clavy beam The kettle-spout did zing an' steam; An' there wer ceäkes, an' tea wi' cream. "Lo! lo!"--the women cried; "Ho! ho!"--the men replied; "Health, health,--attend ye wi' your wealth, Good merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore."
Then John, a-praïs'd, flung up his crown, All back a-laughèn in a roar. They praïs'd his wife, an' she look'd down A-simperèn towards the vloor. Then up they sprung a-dancèn reels, An' up went tooes, an' up went heels, A-windèn roun' in knots an' wheels. "Brisk, brisk,"--the maïdens cried; "Frisk, frisk,"--the men replied; "Quick, quick,--there wi' your fiddle-stick," Cried merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.
An' when the morrow's zun did sheen, John Bleäke beheld, wi' jaÿ an' pride, His brickèn house, an' pworch, an' green, Above the Stour's rushy zide. The zwallows left the lwonesome groves, To build below the thatchèn oves, An' robins come vor crumbs o' lwoaves: "Tweet, tweet,"--the birds all cried; "Sweet, sweet,"--John's wife replied; "Dad, dad,"--the childern cried so glad, To merry Bleäke o' Blackmwore.
No: where the woak do overspread, The grass begloom'd below his head, An' water, under bowèn zedge, A-springèn vrom the river's edge, Do ripple, as the win' do blow, An' sparkle, as the sky do glow; An' grey-leav'd withy-boughs do cool, Wi' darksome sheädes, the clear-feäced pool, My chimny smoke, 'ithin the lew O' trees is there arisèn blue; Avore the night do dim our zight, Or candle-light, a-sheenèn bright, Do sparkle drough the window.