WHEN sycamore leaves wer a-spreadèn,

Green-ruddy, in hedges,

Bezide the red doust o’ the ridges, dust

A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my goods all a-sheenèn shining

Wi’ long years o’ handlèn,

On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,

To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o’ the dwellèn, roof

I then wer a-leävèn,

Had shelter'd the sleek head o’ Meäry,

My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall

's a-lost vrom the vloorèn. floors

Too soon vor my jaÿ an’ my childern, joy

She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,

She do hover about us;

To ho vor her motherless childern, care

Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo—lest she should tell me hereafter so

I stole off ‘ithout her,

An’ left her, uncall'd at house-riddèn, moving house

To bide at Woak Hill—

I call'd her so fondly, wi’ lippèns lip-movements

All soundless to others,

An’ took her wi’ aïr-reachèn hand,

To my zide at Woak Hill.

On the road I did look round, a-talkèn

To light at my shoulder,

An’ then led her in at the door-way,

Miles wide vrom Woak Hill.

An’ that's why vo'k thought, vor a season, folk

My mind wer a-wandrèn

Wi’ sorrow, when I wer so sorely

A-tried at Woak Hill.

But no; that my Meäry mid never may

Behold herzelf slighted,

I wanted to think that I guided

My guide vrom Woak Hill.