An' what if good vo'ks' life o' breath Is zoo a-hallow'd after death, That they mid only know above, Their times o' faïth, an' jaÿ, an' love, While all the evil time ha' brought 'S a-lost vor ever out o' thought; As all the moon that idden bright, 'S a-lost in darkness out o' zight; And all the godly life they led Is glory to the wold vo'k dead.
If things be zoo, an' souls above Can only mind our e'thly love, Why then they'll veel our kindness drown The thoughts ov all that meäde em frown. An' jaÿ o' jaÿs will dry the tear O' sadness that do trickle here, An' nothèn mwore o' life than love, An' peace, will then be know'd above. Do good, vor that, when life's a-vled, Is still a pleasure to the dead.
There's noo pleäce I do like so well, As Elem Knap in Culver Dell, Where timber trees, wi' lofty shouds, Did rise avore the western clouds; An' stan' ageän, wi' veathery tops, A-swayèn up in North-Hill Copse. An' on the east the mornèn broke Above a dewy grove o' woak: An' noontide shed its burnèn light On ashes on the southern height; An' I could vind zome teäles to tell, O' former days in Culver Dell.
An' all the vo'k did love so well The good wold squire o' Culver Dell, That used to ramble drough the sheädes O' timber, or the burnèn gleädes, An' come at evenèn up the leäze Wi' red-eär'd dogs bezide his knees. An' hold his gun, a-hangèn drough His eärmpit, out above his tooe. Wi' kindly words upon his tongue, Vor vo'k that met en, wold an' young, Vor he did know the poor so well 'S the richest vo'k in Culver Dell.
An' while the woäk, wi' spreadèn head, Did sheäde the foxes' verny bed; An' runnèn heäres, in zunny gleädes, Did beät the grasses' quiv'rèn' bleädes; An' speckled pa'tridges took flight In stubble vields a-feädèn white; Or he could zee the pheasant strut In sheädy woods, wi' païnted cwoat; Or long-tongued dogs did love to run Among the leaves, bezide his gun; We didden want vor call to dwell At hwome in peace in Culver Dell.
But now I hope his kindly feäce Is gone to vind a better pleäce; But still, wi' vo'k a-left behind He'll always be a-kept in mind, Vor all his springy-vooted hounds Ha' done o' trottèn round his grounds, An' we have all a-left the spot, To teäke, a-scatter'd, each his lot; An' even Father, lik' the rest, Ha' left our long vorseäken nest; An' we should vind it sad to dwell, Ageän at hwome in Culver Dell.