Summer: The Mead A-Mow’d
When sheaedes do vall into ev’ry hollow,
An’ reach vrom trees half athirt the groun’;
An’ banks an’ walls be a-looken yollow,
That be a-turn’d to the zun gwain down;
Drough hay in cock, O,
We all do vlock, O,
Along our road vrom the meaed a-mow’d.
An’ when the last swayen lwoad’s a-started
Up hill so slow to the lofty rick,
Then we so weary but merry-hearted,
Do shoulder each [=o]'s a reaeke an’ pick,
Wi’ empty flagon,
Behind the waggon,
To teaeke our road vrom the meaed a-mow’d.
When church is out, an’ we all so slowly
About the knap be a-spreaden wide,
How gay the paths be where we do strolly
Along the leaene an’ the hedge’s zide;
But nwone’s a voun’, O,
Up hill or down, O,
So gay’s the road drough the meaed a-mow’d.
An’ when the visher do come, a-drowen
His flutt’ren line over bleaedy zedge,
Drough groun’s wi’ red thissle-heads a-blowen,
An’ watchen o’t by the water’s edge;
Then he do love, O,
The best to rove, O,
Along his road drough the meaed a-mow’d.
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