In all our plaÿ-geämes we did bruise The dock-leaves wi' our nimble shoes; Bwoth where we merry chaps did fling You maïdens in the orcha'd swing, An' by the zaw-pit's dousty bank, Where we did taït upon a plank. --(D'ye mind how woonce, you cou'den zit The bwoard, an' vell off into pit?) An' when we hunted you about The grassy barken, in an' out Among the ricks, your vlèe-èn frocks An' nimble veet did strik' the docks. An' zoo they docks, a-spread so wide Up yonder zunny bank's green zide, Do bring to mind what we did do, Among the dock-leaves years agoo.
Ov all the birds upon the wing Between the zunny show'rs o' spring,-- Vor all the lark, a-swingèn high, Mid zing below a cloudless sky. An' sparrows, clust'rèn roun' the bough, Mid chatter to the men at plough,-- The blackbird, whisslèn in among The boughs, do zing the gaÿest zong.
Vor we do hear the blackbird zing His sweetest ditties in the spring, When nippèn win's noo mwore do blow Vrom northern skies, wi' sleet or snow, But dr[=e]ve light doust along between The leäne-zide hedges, thick an' green; An' zoo the blackbird in among The boughs do zing the gaÿest zong.
'Tis blithe, wi' newly-open'd eyes, To zee the mornèn's ruddy skies; Or, out a-haulèn frith or lops Vrom new-pl[=e]sh'd hedge or new-vell'd copse, To rest at noon in primrwose beds Below the white-bark'd woak-trees' heads; But there's noo time, the whole däy long, Lik' evenèn wi' the blackbird's zong.
Vor when my work is all a-done Avore the zettèn o' the zun, Then blushèn Jeäne do walk along The hedge to meet me in the drong, An' staÿ till all is dim an' dark Bezides the ashen tree's white bark; An' all bezides the blackbird's shrill An' runnèn evenèn-whissle's still.
An' there in bwoyhood I did rove Wi' pryèn eyes along the drove To vind the nest the blackbird meäde O' grass-stalks in the high bough's sheäde: Or clim' aloft, wi' clingèn knees, Vor crows' aggs up in swaÿèn trees, While frighten'd blackbirds down below Did chatter o' their little foe. An' zoo there's noo pleäce lik' the drong, Where I do hear the blackbird's zong.
Come, Fanny, come! put on thy white, 'Tis Woodcom' feäst, good now! to-night. Come! think noo mwore, you silly maïd, O' chickèn drown'd, or ducks a-straÿ'd; Nor mwope to vind thy new frock's taïl A-tore by hitchèn in a naïl; Nor grieve an' hang thy head azide, A-thinkèn o' thy lam' that died. The flag's a-vleèn wide an' high, An' ringèn bells do sheäke the sky; The fifes do play, the horns do roar, An' boughs be up at ev'ry door: They 'll be a-dancèn soon,--the drum 'S a-rumblèn now. Come, Fanny, come! Why father's gone, an' mother too. They went up leäne an hour agoo; An' at the green the young and wold Do stan' so thick as sheep in vwold: The men do laugh, the bwoys do shout,-- Come out you mwopèn wench, come out, An' go wi' me, an' show at leäst Bright eyes an' smiles at Woodcom' feäst.