I WENT hwome in the dead o’ the night,

When the vields wer all empty o’ vo'k, folk

An’ the tuns at their cool-winded height chimney-tops

Wer all dark, an’ all cwold 'ithout smoke;

An’ the heads o’ the trees that I pass'd

Wer a-swaÿèn wi’ low-ruslèn sound,

An’ the doust wer a-whirl'd wi’ the blast, dust

Aye, a smeech wi’ the wind on the ground. thick dust

Then I come by the young widow's hatch, wicket-gate

Down below the wold elem's tall head, old

But noo vinger did lift up the latch,

Vor the vo'k wer so still as the dead;

But inside, to a tree a-meäde vast, fast

Wer the childern's light swing, a-hung low,

An’ a-rock'd by the brisk-blowèn blast,

Aye, a-swung by the win’ to an’ fro.

Vor the childern, wi’ pillow-borne head,

Had vorgotten their swing on the lawn,

An’ their father, asleep wi’ the dead,

Had vorgotten his work at the dawn;

An’ their mother, a vew stilly hours, quiet

Had vorgotten where he sleept so sound,

Where the wind wer a-sheäkèn the flow'rs, shaking

Aye, the blast the feäir buds on the ground.

Oh! the moon, wi’ his peäle lighted skies,

Have his sorrowless sleepers below.

But by day to the zun they must rise

To their true lives o’ tweil an’ ov ho. toil, care

Then the childern wull rise to their fun,

An’ their mother mwore sorrow to veel,

While the aïr is a-warm'd by the zun,

Aye, the win’ by the day's vi'ry wheel.