AYE, Meäster Collins wer a-blest

Wi’ greäce, an’ now's a-gone to rest;

An’ though his heart did beät so meek

's a little child's, when he did speak,

The godly wisdom ov his tongue

Wer dew o’ greäce to wold an’ young. old

'Twer woonce, upon a zummer's tide, once

I zot at Brookwell by his zide, sat

Avore the leäke, upon the rocks,

Above the water's idle shocks,

As little plaÿsome weäves did zwim

Ageän the water's windy brim,

Out where the lofty tower o’ stwone

Did stan’ to years o’ wind an’ zun;

An’ where the zwellèn pillars bore

A pworch above the heavy door,

Wi’ sister sheädes a-reachèn cool shadows

Athirt the stwones an’ sparklèn pool. across

I spoke zome word that meäde en smile, him

O’ girt vo'k's wealth an’ poor vo'k's tweil, great folk's, toil

As if I pin'd, vor want ov greäce,

To have a lord's or squier's pleäce.

―No, no,” he zaid, ―what God do zend

Is best vor all o's in the end, of us

An’ all that we do need the mwost

Do come to us wi’ leäst o’ cost;—

Why, who could live upon the e'th earth

'Ithout God's gïft ov aïr vor breath?

Or who could bide below the zun

If water didden rise an’ run?

An’ who could work below the skies

If zun an’ moon did never rise?

Zoo aïr an’ water, an’ the light, so

Be higher gifts, a-reckon'd right,

Than all the goold the darksome claÿ

Can ever yield to zunny daÿ:

But then the aïr is roun’ our heads,

Abroad by day, or on our beds; outside

Where land do gi'e us room to bide, give

Or seas do spread vor ships to ride;

An’ He do zend his waters free,

Vrom clouds to lands, vrom lands to sea;

An’ mornèn light do blush an’ glow,

'Ithout our tweil—'ithout our ho.