Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom, An' the men be at hwome vrom ground; An' the bells be a-zend'n all down the Coombe From tower, their mwoansome sound. An' the wind is still,...
We Do'set, though we mid be hwomely, Be'nt asheamed to own our pleace; An' we've zome women not uncomely; Nor asheamed to show their feace; We've a mead or two wo'th mowen,...
'Ithin the woodlands, flow'ry gleaded, By the woak tree's mossy moot, The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded, Now do quiver under voot; An' birds do whissle over head, An' water's bubblen in its bed,...
The girt woak tree that's in the dell! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young, I there've a-climbed, an' there've a-zwung, An' picked the eacorns green, a-shed...
If souls should only sheen so bright In heaven as in e'thly light, An' nothen better wer the cease, How comely still, in sheape an' feace, Would many reach thik happy pleace,...