'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,...
Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride, Wi' his wide arches' cool she'ded bow, Up above the clear brook that did slide By the poppies, befoam'd white as snow; As the gilcups did quiver among...
Since I noo mwore do zee your fe'ce, Up ste'rs or down below, I'll zit me in the lwonesome ple'ce, Where flat-bough'd beech do grow; Below the beeches' bough, my love, Where you did never come,...