Last Easter Jim put on his blue Frock cwoat, the vu’st time—vier n… Wi’ yollow buttons all o’ brass, That glitter’d in the zun lik’ gla… An’ pok’d 'ithin the button-hole

In brown-leav’d Fall the wheat a-… 'Ithin its darksome bed, Where all the creaken roller’s hef… Seal’d down its lowly head, Sprung sheaeken drough the crumble…

Upon the hedge theaese bank did be… Wi’ lwonesome thought untwold in w… I woonce did work, wi’ noo sound t… But my own strokes, an’ chirpen bi… As down the west the zun went wan,

A. Back here, but now, the jobber Jo… Come by, an’ cried, 'Well done, z… I thought as I come down the hill… An’ heärd your zongs a-ringèn sh’i…

News o’ grief had overteaken Dark-eyed Fanny, now vorseaken; There she zot, wi’ breast a-heaven… While vrom zide to zide, wi’ griev… Vell her head, wi’ tears a-creepen

When vu’st the breaken day is red, An’ grass is dewy wet, An’ roun’ the blackberry’s a-sprea… The spider’s gliss’nen net, Then I do dreve the cows across

The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheaede his bank… A-runnen down to dreve the mill Below the knap, 's a runnen still; The creepen days an’ weeks do vill

Sweet Be’mi’ster, that bist a-bou… By green an’ woody hills all round… Wi’ hedges, reachen up between A thousan’ vields o’ zummer green, Where elems’ lofty heads do drow

No, no! I ben’t a-runnen down The pretty maiden’s o’ the town, Nor wishen o’m noo harm; But she that I would marry vu’st, To sheaere my good luck or my crus…

A happy day, a happy year. A zummer Zunday, dazzlen clear, I went athirt vrom Lea to Noke. To goo to church wi’ Fanny’s vo’k… The sky o’ blue did only show

Now the sheaedes o’ the elems do s… Vrom the low-zinken zun in the wes… An’ the maidens do stand out in cl… The doors, vor to chatty an’ zee v… An’ their cwombs be a-zet in their…

Ah! naighbour John, since I an’ y… Wer youngsters, ev’ry thing is new… My father’s vires wer all o’ logs O’ cleft-wood, down upon the dogs Below our clavy, high, an’ brode

When from the child, that still is… By hand, a father’s hand is gone,— Or when a few-year’d mother dead Has left her children growing on,— When men have left their children…

The church do zeem a touchen zight… When vo’k, a-comen in at door, Do softly tread the long-ail’d vlo… Below the pillar’d arches’ height, Wi’ bells a-pealen,

Though cool avore the sheenen sky Do vall the sheaedes below the cop… The timber-trees, a-reachen high, Ha’ zunsheen on their lofty tops, Where yonder land’s a-lyen plow’d,