There we do plaÿ 'thread the woman's needle.' An' slap the maïdens a-dartèn drough: Or try who'll ax em the hardest riddle, Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true; Or zit an' ring, O, The bells, ding, ding, O, Upon our knee by the welshnut tree.
An' zome do goo out, an' hide in orcha't, An' tothers, slily a-stealèn by, Where there's a dark cunnèn pleäce, do sarch it, Till they do zee em an' cry, "I spy," An' thik a-vound, O, Do gi'e a bound, O, To get off free to the welshnut tree.
Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her, Inzide a woak wi' a hollow moot, An' drough a hole near the groun' behind her, I pok'd a stick in, an' catch'd her voot; An' out she scream'd, O, An' jump'd, an' seem'd, O, A-móst to vlee to the welshnut tree.
An' when, at last, at the drashel, mother Do call us, smilèn, in-door to rest, Then we do cluster by woone another, To zee hwome them we do love the best: An' then do sound, O, "Good night," all round, O, To end our glee by the welshnut tree.
O wild-reävèn west winds; as you do roar on, The elems do rock an' the poplars do ply, An' weäve do dreve weäve in the dark-water'd pon',-- Oh! where do ye rise vrom, an' where do ye die?
O wild-reävèn winds I do wish I could vlee Wi' you, lik' a bird o' the clouds, up above The ridge o' the hill an' the top o' the tree, To where I do long vor, an' vo'k I do love.
Or else that in under theäse rock I could hear, In the soft-zwellèn sounds you do leäve in your road, Zome words you mid bring me, vrom tongues that be dear, Vrom friends that do love me, all scatter'd abrode.
O wild-reävèn winds! if you ever do roar By the house an' the elems vrom where I'm a-come, Breathe up at the window, or call at the door, An' tell you've a-voun' me a-thinkèn o' hwome.
The sheädeless darkness o' the night Can never blind my mem'ry's zight; An' in the storm, my fancy's eyes Can look upon their own blue skies. The laggèn moon mid faïl to rise, But when the daylight's blue an' green Be gone, my fancy's zun do sheen At hwome at Grenley Water.
As when the work-vo'k us'd to ride In waggon, by the hedge's zide, Drough evenèn sheädes that trees cast down Vrom lofty stems athirt the groun'; An' in at house the mug went roun', While ev'ry merry man praïs'd up The pretty maïd that vill'd his cup, The maïd o' Grenley Water.