Out at Plough
Though cool avore the sheenen sky
Do vall the sheaedes below the copse,
The timber-trees, a-reachen high,
Ha’ zunsheen on their lofty tops,
Where yonder land’s a-lyen plow’d,
An’ red, below the snow-white cloud,
An’ vlocks o’ pitchen rooks do vwold
Their wings to walk upon the mwold.
While floods be low,
An’ buds do grow,
An’ air do blow, a-broad, O.
But though the air is cwold below
The creaken copses’ darksome screen,
The truest sheaede do only show
How strong the warmer zun do sheen;
An’ even times o’ grief an’ pain,
Ha’ good a-comen in their train,
An’ ’tis but happiness do mark
The sheaedes o’ sorrow out so dark.
As tweils be sad,
Or smiles be glad,
Or times be bad, at hwome, O
An’ there the zunny land do lie
Below the hangen, in the lew,
Wi’ vurrows now a-crumblen dry,
Below the plowman’s dousty shoe;
An’ there the bwoy do whissel sh’ill,
Below the skylark’s merry bill,
Where primrwose beds do deck the zides
O’ banks below the meaeple wrides.
As trees be bright
Wi’ bees in flight,
An’ weather’s bright, abroad, O.
An’ there, as sheenen wheels do spin
Vull speed along the dousty rwoad,
He can but stan’, an’ wish 'ithin
His mind to be their happy lwoad,
That he mid gaily ride, an’ goo
To towns the rwoad mid teaeke en drough,
An’ zee, for woonce, the zights behind
The bluest hills his eyes can vind,
O’ towns, an’ tow’rs,
An’ downs, an’ flow’rs,
In zunny hours, abroad, O.
But still, vor all the weather’s feaeir,
Below a cloudless sky o’ blue,
The bwoy at plough do little ceaere
How vast the brightest day mid goo;
Vor he’d be glad to zee the zun
A-zetten, wi’ his work a-done,
That he, at hwome, mid still injay
His happy bit ov evenen play,
So light’s a lark
Till night is dark,
While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.
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