But when woone's lim's ha' lost their strangth A-tweilèn drough a lifetime's langth, An' over cheäks a-growèn wold The slowly-weästen years ha' rolled, The deep'nèn wrinkle's hollow vwold; When life is ripe, then death do call Vor less ov thought, than when do vall On young vo'ks in their beauty.
But pinèn souls, wi' heads a-hung In heavy sorrow vor the young, The sister ov the brother dead, The father wi' a child a-vled, The husband when his bride ha' laid Her head at rest, noo mwore to turn, Have all a-vound the time to murn Vor youth that died in beauty.
An' yeet the church, where praÿer do rise Vrom thoughtvul souls, wi' downcast eyes. An' village greens, a-beät half beäre By dancers that do meet, an' weär Such merry looks at feäst an' feäir, Do gather under leàtest skies, Their bloomèn cheäks an' sparklèn eyes, Though young ha' died in beauty.
But still the dead shall mwore than keep The beauty ov their eärly sleep; Where comely looks shall never weär Uncomely, under tweil an' ceäre. The feäir at death be always feäir, Still feäir to livers' thought an' love, An' feäirer still to God above, Than when they died in beauty.
Dear Yarrowham, 'twer many miles Vrom thy green meäds that, in my walk, I met a maïd wi' winnèn smiles, That talk'd as vo'k at hwome do talk; An' who at last should she be vound, Ov all the souls the sky do bound, But woone that trod at vu'st thy groun' Fair Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
But thy wold house an' elmy nook, An' wall-screen'd geärden's mossy zides, Thy grassy meäds an' zedgy brook, An' high-bank'd leänes, wi' sheädy rides, Wer all a-known to me by light Ov eärly days, a-quench'd by night, Avore they met the younger zight Ov Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
An' now my heart do leäp to think O' times that I've a-spent in plaÿ, Bezide thy river's rushy brink, Upon a deäizybed o' Maÿ; I lov'd the friends thy land ha' bore, An' I do love the paths they wore, An' I do love thee all the mwore, Vor Emily ov Yarrow Mill.
When bright above the e'th below The moon do spread abroad his light, An' aïr o' zummer nights do blow Athirt the vields in plaÿsome flight, 'Tis then delightsome under all The sheädes o' boughs by path or wall, But mwostly thine when they do vall On Emily ov Yarrow Mill.