But when you be a-lost vrom the parish, zome mwore Will come on in your pleäzen to bloom an' to die; An' the zummer will always have maïdens avore Their doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.
Vor daughters ha' mornèn when mothers ha' night, An' there's beauty alive when the feäirest is dead; As when woone sparklèn weäve do zink down vrom the light, Another do come up an' catch it instead.
Zoo smile on, happy maïdens! but I shall noo mwore Zee the maïd I do miss under evenèn's dim sky; An' my heart is a-touch'd to zee you out avore The doors, vor to chatty an' zee vo'k goo by.
Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep-dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, Here I do rove below the lark.
An' I do bide all day among The bleäten sheep, an' pitch their vwold; An' when the evenèn sheädes be long, Do zee em all a-penn'd an' twold.
An' I do zee the friskèn lam's, Wi' swingèn taïls an' woolly lags, A-playèn roun' their veedèn dams An' pullèn o' their milky bags.
An' I bezide a hawthorn tree, Do' zit upon the zunny down, While sheädes o' zummer clouds do vlee Wi' silent flight along the groun'.
An' there, among the many cries O' sheep an' lambs, my dog do pass A zultry hour, wi' blinkèn eyes, An' nose a-stratch'd upon the grass;
But, in a twinklèn, at my word, He's all awake, an' up, an' gone Out roun' the sheep lik' any bird, To do what he's a-zent upon.
An' I do goo to washèn pool, A-sousèn over head an' ears, The shaggy sheep, to cleän their wool An' meäke em ready vor the sheärs.
An' when the shearèn time do come, Then we do work vrom dawn till dark; Where zome do shear the sheep, and zome Do mark their zides wi' meästers mark.
An' when the shearèn's all a-done, Then we do eat, an' drink, an' zing, In meäster's kitchen till the tun Wi' merry sounds do sheäke an' ring.
Oh! I be shepherd o' the farm, Wi' tinklèn bells an' sheep dog's bark, An' wi' my crook a-thirt my eärm, Here I do rove below the lark.
Woone's heart mid leäp wi' thoughts o' jaÿ In comèn manhood light an' gaÿ When we do teäke the worold on Vrom our vore-elders dead an' gone; But days so feäir in hope's bright eyes Do often come wi' zunless skies: Woone's fancy can but be out-done, Where trees do swaÿ an' brooks do run, By risèn moon or zettèn zun.