Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o' the green, Till we lost sister Jeännet, our pride; Vor when she wer come to her last blushèn _teen_, She suddenly zicken'd an' died. An' avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by, The lightnèn struck dead Her woaken tree's head, An' left en a-stripp'd to the wintery sky.
But woone ov his eäcorns, a-zet in the Fall, Come up the Spring after, below The trees at her head-stwone 'ithin the church-wall, An' mother, to see how did grow, Shed a tear; an' when father an' she wer bwoth dead, There they wer laid deep, Wi' their Jeännet, to sleep, Wi' her at his zide, an' her tree at her head.
An' vo'k do still call the wold house the dree woaks, Vor thik is a-reckon'd that's down, As mother, a-neämèn her childern to vo'ks, Meäde dree when but two wer a-voun'; An' zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee Why God, that's above, Vound fit in his love To strike wi' his han' the poor maïd an' her tree.
The house where I wer born an' bred, Did own his woaken door, John, When vu'st he shelter'd father's head, An' gramfer's long avore, John. An' many a ramblèn happy chile, An' chap so strong an' bwold, An' bloomèn maïd wi' plaÿsome smile, Did call their hwome o' wold Thik ruf so warm, A kept vrom harm By elem trees that broke the storm.
An' in the orcha'd out behind, The apple-trees in row, John, Did swaÿ wi' moss about their rind Their heads a-noddèn low, John. An' there, bezide zome groun' vor corn, Two strips did skirt the road; In woone the cow did toss her horn, While tother wer a-mow'd, In June, below The lofty row Ov trees that in the hedge did grow.
A-workèn in our little patch O' parrock, rathe or leäte, John, We little ho'd how vur mid stratch The squier's wide esteäte, John. Our hearts, so honest an' so true, Had little vor to fear; Vor we could pay up all their due An' gi'e a friend good cheer At hwome, below The lofty row O' trees a-swaÿèn to an' fro.
An' there in het, an' there in wet, We tweil'd wi' busy hands, John; Vor ev'ry stroke o' work we het, Did better our own lands, John. But after me, ov all my kin, Not woone can hold em on; Vor we can't get a life put in Vor mine, when I'm a-gone Vrom thik wold brown Thatch ruf, a-boun' By elem trees a-growèn roun'.