AVORE the time when zuns went down

On zummer's green a-turn'd to brown,

When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell shadows

Upon the scarlet pimpernel;

The while you still mid goo, an’ vind might

'Ithin the geärden's mossy wall,

Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall,

To meäke a tutty to your mind, nosegay

In churchyard heav'd, wi’ grassy breast,

The greäve-mound ov a beäby's rest.

An’ when a high day broke, to call

A throng 'ithin the churchyard wall,

The mother brought, wi’ thoughtvul mind,

The feäirest buds her eyes could vind,

To trim the little greäve, an’ show

To other souls her love an’ loss,

An’ meäde a Seävior's little cross

O’ brightest flow'rs that then did blow, bloom

A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, shining

Among the dew, in mornèn light.

An’ woone sweet bud her han’ did pleäce one

Up where did droop the Seävior's feäce;

An’ two she zet a-bloomèn bright,

Where reach'd His hands o’ left an’ right;

Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,

Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,

An’ woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet,

Up where the spear did wound the zide

Ov Him that is the life ov all

Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.

The mother that in faïth could zee

The Seävior on the high cross tree

Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, might

But not to grieve vor evermwore,

Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind,

His chaïce is all that she should choose,

An’ love that here do grieve to lose,

Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, joy

Wi’ Him that evermwore shall keep

The souls that He do lay asleep.