WELL, aye, last evenèn, as I shook

My locks ov haÿ by Leecombe brook,

The yollow zun did weakly glance

Upon the winter meäd askance,

A-castèn out my narrow sheäde shadow

Athirt the brook, an’ on the meäd. across

The while ageän my lwonesome ears

Did russle weatherbeäten spears,

Below the withy's leafless head willow's

That overhung the river's bed;

I there did think o’ days that dried

The new-mow'd grass o’ zummer-tide,

When white-sleev'd mowers’ whetted bleädes

Rung sh'ill along the green-bough'd gleädes, clearly

An’ maïdens gaÿ, wi’ plaÿsome chaps,

A-zot wi’ dinners in their laps, siting down

Did talk wi’ merry words that rung

Around the ring, vrom tongue to tongue;

An’ welcome, when the leaves ha’ died,

Be zummer thoughts in winter-tide.