O' grassy meäd an' woody nook, An' waters o' the windèn brook, That sprung below the vu'st dark sky That raïn'd, to run till seas be dry; An' hills a-stannèn on while all The works o' man do rise an' vall; An' trees the toddlèn child do vind At vu'st, an' leäve at last behind; I wish that you could now unvwold The peace an' jäy o' times o' wold; An' tell, when death do still my tongue, O' happy days when I wer young. Vrom where wer all this venom brought, To kill our hope an' taïnt our thought? Clear brook! thy water coulden bring Such venom vrom thy rocky spring; Nor could it come in zummer blights, Or reävèn storms o' winter nights, Or in the cloud an' viry stroke O' thunder that do split the woak.
O valley dear! I wish that I 'D a-liv'd in former times, to die Wi' all the happy souls that trod Thy turf in peäce, an' died to God; Or gone wi' them that laugh'd an' zung In happy days when I wer young!
Ov all the housen o' the pleäce, There's woone where I do like to call By day or night the best ov all, To zee my Fanny's smilèn feäce; An' there the steätely trees do grow, A-rockèn as the win' do blow, While she do sweetly sleep below, In the stillness o' the night.
An' there, at evenèn, I do goo A-hoppèn over geätes an' bars, By twinklèn light o' winter stars, When snow do clumper to my shoe; An' zometimes we do slyly catch A chat an hour upon the stratch, An' peärt wi' whispers at the hatch In the stillness o' the night.
An' zometimes she do goo to zome Young naïghbours' housen down the pleäce, An' I do get a clue to treäce Her out, an' goo to zee her hwome; An' I do wish a vield a mile, As she do sweetly chat an' smile Along the drove, or at the stile, In the stillness o' the night.
Ah! naïghbour John, since I an' you Wer youngsters, ev'ry thing is new. My father's vires wer all o' logs O' cleft-wood, down upon the dogs Below our clavy, high, an' brode Enough to teäke a cart an' lwoad, Where big an' little all zot down At bwoth zides, an' bevore, all roun'. An' when I zot among em, I Could zee all up ageän the sky Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch The zalt-box an' the beäcon-vlitch, An' watch the smoke on out o' vier, All up an' out o' tun, an' higher. An' there wer beäcon up on rack, An' pleätes an' dishes on the tack; An' roun' the walls wer heärbs a-stowed In peäpern bags, an' blathers blowed. An' just above the clavy-bwoard Wer father's spurs, an' gun, an' sword; An' there wer then, our girtest pride, The settle by the vier zide. Ah! gi'e me, if I wer a squier, The settle an' the girt wood vier.