Fall: The Ivy
Upon theaese knap I’d sooner be
The ivy that do climb the tree,
Than bloom the gayest rwose a-tied
An’ trimm’d upon the house’s zide.
The rwose mid be the maidens’ pride,
But still the ivy’s wild an’ free;
An’ what is all that life can gi’e,
'Ithout a free light heart, John?
The creepen sheaede mid steal too soon
Upon the rwose in afternoon;
But here the zun do drow his het
Vrom when do rise till when do zet,
To dry the leaves the rain do wet.
An’ evenen air do bring along
The merry deaeiry-maiden’s zong,
The zong of free light hearts, John.
Oh! why do vo’k so often chain
Their pinen minds vor love o’ gain,
An’ gi’e their innocence to rise
A little in the worold’s eyes?
If pride could lift us to the skies,
What man do value God do slight,
An’ all is nothen in his zight
'Ithout an honest heart, John.
An ugly feaece can’t bribe the brooks
To show it back young han’some looks,
Nor crooked vo’k intice the light
To cast their zummer sheaedes upright:
Noo goold can blind our Meaeker’s zight.
An’ what’s the odds what cloth do hide
The bosom that do hold inside
A free an’ honest heart, John?
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