How dear's the door a latch do shut,

An’ geärden that a hatch do shut, wicket-gate

Where vu'st our bloomèn cheäks ha’ prest first

The pillor ov our childhood's rest;

Or where, wi’ little tooes, we wore toes

The paths our fathers trod avore;

Or clim'd the timber's bark aloft,

Below the zingèn lark aloft,

The while we heärd the echo sound

Drough all the ringèn valley round. through

A lwonesome grove o’ woak did rise, oak

To screen our house, where smoke did rise,

A-twistèn blue, while yeet the zun yet

Did langthen on our childhood's fun;

An’ there, wi’ all the sheäpes an’ sounds

O’ life, among the timber'd grounds,

The birds upon their boughs did zing,

An’ milkmaïds by their cows did zing,

Wi’ merry sounds, that softly died,

A-ringèn down the valley zide.

By river banks, wi’ reeds a-bound,

An’ sheenèn pools, wi’ weeds a-bound, shining

The long-neck'd gander's ruddy bill

To snow-white geese did cackle sh'ill; loudly

An’ stridèn peewits heästen'd by,

O’ tiptooe wi’ their screamèn cry;

An’ stalkèn cows a-lowèn loud,

An’ struttèn cocks a-crowèn loud,

Did rouse the echoes up to mock mimic

Their mingled sounds by hill an’ rock.

The stars that clim'd our skies all dark,

Above our sleepèn eyes all dark,

An’ zuns a-rollèn round to bring

The seasons on, vrom Spring to Spring,

Ha’ vled, wi’ never-restèn flight, flown

Drough green-bough'd day, an’ dark-tree'd night; through

Till now our childhood's pleäces there,

Be gaÿ wi’ other feäces there,

An’ we ourselves do vollow on

Our own vorelivers dead an’ gone.