Fall: The Weather-Beaten Tree
The woaken tree, a-beaet at night
By stormy winds wi’ all their spite,
Mid toss his lim’s, an’ ply, an’ mwoan,
Wi’ unknown struggles all alwone;
An’ when the day do show his head,
A-stripp’d by winds at last a-laid,
How vew mid think that didden zee,
How night-time had a-tried thik tree.
An’ happy vo’k do seldom know
How hard our unknown storms do blow,
The while our heads do slowly bend
Below the trials God do zend,
Like shiv’ren bennets, beaere to all
The dreven winds o’ dark’nen fall.
An’ zoo in tryen hardships we
Be lik’ the weather beaeten tree.
But He will never meaeke our sheaere
O’ sorrow mwore than we can bear,
But meaeke us zee, if ’tis His will,
That He can bring us good vrom ill;
As after winter He do bring,
In His good time, the zunny spring,
An’ leaves, an’ young vo’k vull o’ glee
A-dancen roun’ the woaken tree.
True love’s the ivy that do twine
Unwith’ren roun’ his mossy rine,
When winter’s zickly zun do sheen
Upon its leaves o’ glossy green,
So patiently a-holden vast
Till storms an’ cwold be all a-past,
An’ only liven vor to be
A-meaeted to the woaken tree.
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