An' when, at last, the time come roun', An' brought a lofty zun to sheen Upon my smilèn Fanny, down Drough n[=e]sh young leaves o' yollow green; How charmèn wer the het that glow'd, How charmèn wer the sheäde a-drow'd, How charmèn wer the win' that blow'd Upon her cheäks that bloom'd vor me!
But hardly did they times begin, Avore I vound em short to staÿ: An' year by year do now come in, To peärt me wider vrom my jaÿ, Vor what's to meet, or what's to peärt, Wi' maïdens kind, or maïdens smart, When hope's noo longer in the heart, An' cheäks noo mwore do bloom vor me!
But there's a worold still to bless The good, where zickness never rose; An' there's a year that's winterless, Where glassy waters never vroze; An' there, if true but e'thly love Do seem noo sin to God above, 'S a smilèn still my harmless dove, So feäir as when she bloom'd vor me!
When hot-beam'd zuns do strik right down, An' burn our zweaty feäzen brown; An' zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh, Be back'd by hills so blue's the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champèn high-neck'd team, How lively, wi' a friend, do seem The white road up athirt the hill.
The zwellèn downs, wi' chalky tracks A-climmèn up their zunny backs, Do hide green meäds an' zedgy brooks. An' clumps o' trees wi' glossy rooks, An' hearty vo'k to laugh an' zing, An' parish-churches in a string, Wi' tow'rs o' merry bells to ring, An' white roads up athirt the hills.
At feäst, when uncle's vo'k do come To spend the day wi' us at hwome, An' we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an' smoke, An' younger woones do plaÿ an' joke, An' in the evenèn all our vo'k Do bring em gwaïn athirt the hill.
An' while the green do zwarm wi' wold An' young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith's shop, An' miller's moss-green wheel do stop, An' lwonesome in the wheelwright's shed 'S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o' comèn friends do tread The white road down athirt the hill.
An' when the windèn road so white, A-climmèn up the hills in zight, Do leäd to pleäzen, east or west, The vu'st a-known, an' lov'd the best, How touchèn in the zunsheen's glow, Or in the sheädes that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below, 'S the white road up athirt the hill.