An' God do meäke his win' to blow An' raïn to vall vor high an' low, An' bid his mornèn zun to rise Vor all alike, an' groun' an' skies Ha' colors vor the poor man's eyes: An' in our trials He is near, To hear our mwoan an' zee our tear, An' turn our clouds to zunsheen.
An' many times when I do vind Things all goo wrong, an' vo'k unkind, To zee the happy veedèn herds, An' hear the zingèn o' the birds, Do soothe my sorrow mwore than words; Vor I do zee that 'tis our sin Do meäke woone's soul so dark 'ithin, When God would gi'e woone zunsheen.
O spread ageän your leaves an' flow'rs, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! Here underneath the dewy show'rs O' warm-aïr'd spring-time, zunny woodlands! As when, in drong or open ground, Wi' happy bwoyish heart I vound The twitt'rèn birds a-buildèn round Your high-bough'd hedges, zunny woodlands.
You gie'd me life, you gie'd me jaÿ, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands You gie'd me health, as in my plaÿ I rambled through ye, zunny woodlands! You gie'd me freedom, vor to rove In aïry meäd or sheädy grove; You gie'd me smilèn Fannèy's love, The best ov all o't, zunny woodlands!
My vu'st shrill skylark whiver'd high, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! To zing below your deep-blue sky An' white spring-clouds, O zunny woodlands! An' boughs o' trees that woonce stood here, Wer glossy green the happy year That gie'd me woone I lov'd so dear, An' now ha' lost, O zunny woodlands!
O let me rove ageän unspied, Lwonesome woodlands! zunny woodlands! Along your green-bough'd hedges' zide, As then I rambled, zunny woodlands! An' where the missèn trees woonce stood, Or tongues woonce rung among the wood, My memory shall meäke em good, Though you've a-lost em, zunny woodlands!
Aye, back at Leädy-Day, you know, I come vrom Gullybrook to Stowe; At Leädy-Day I took my pack O' rottletraps, an' turn'd my back Upon the weather-beäten door, That had a-screen'd, so long avore, The mwost that theäse zide o' the greäve, I'd live to have, or die to seäve! My childern, an' my vier-pleäce, Where Molly wi' her cheerful feäce, When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode, Wi' nimble hands, at evenèn, blest Wi' vire an' vood my hard-won rest; The while the little woones did clim', So sleek-skinn'd, up from lim' to lim', Till, strugglèn hard an' clingèn tight, They reach'd at last my feäce's height. All tryèn which could soonest hold My mind wi' little teäles they twold. An' riddèn house is such a caddle, I shan't be over keen vor mwore [=o]'t, Not yet a while, you mid be sure [=o]'t,-- I'd rather keep to woone wold staddle.