As clouds did ride wi’ heästy flight,

An’ woods did swäy upon the height,

An’ bleädes o’ grass did sheäke, below

The hedge-row bremble's swingèn bow, arc

I come back hwome where winds did zwell,

In whirls along the woody gleädes,

On primrwose beds, in windy sheädes,

To Burnley's dark-tree'd dell.

There hills do screen the timber's bough,

The trees do screen the leäze's brow, meadow's

The timber-sheäded leäze do bear

A beäten path that we do wear.

The path do stripe the leäze's zide,

To willows at the river's edge,

Where hufflèn winds did sheäke the zedge, gusty

An’ sparklèn weäves did glide.

An’ where the river, bend by bend,

Do draïn our meäd, an’ mark its end,

The hangèn leäze do teäke our cows, sloping

An’ trees do sheäde em wi’ their boughs,

An’ I the quicker beät the road,

To zee a-comèn into view,

Still greener vrom the sky-line's blue,

Wold Burnley our abode. old