Though cool avore the sheenèn sky
Do vall the sheädes below the copse,
The timber-trees, a-reachèn high,
Ha’ zunsheen on their lofty tops,
Where yonder land’s a-lyèn plow’d,
An’ red, below the snow-white cloud,
An’ vlocks o’ pitchèn rooks do vwold
Their wings to walk upon the mwold.
While floods be low,
An’ buds do grow,
An’ aïr do blow, a-broad, O.
But though the aïr is cwold below
The creakèn copses’ darksome screen,
The truest sheäde do only show
How strong the warmer zun do sheen;
An’ even times o’ grief an’ païn,
Ha’ good a-comèn in their traïn,
An’ ’tis but happiness do mark
The sheädes o’ sorrow out so dark.
As tweils be sad,
Or smiles be glad,
Or times be bad, at hwome, O
An’ there the zunny land do lie
Below the hangèn, in the lew,
Wi’ vurrows now a-crumblèn dry,
Below the plowman’s dousty shoe;
An’ there the bwoy do whissel sh’ill,
Below the skylark’s merry bill,
Where primrwose beds do deck the zides
O’ banks below the meäple wrides.
As trees be bright
Wi’ bees in flight,
An’ weather’s bright, abroad, O.
An’ there, as sheenèn wheels do spin
Vull speed along the dousty rwoad,
He can but stan’, an’ wish ‘ithin
His mind to be their happy lwoad,
That he mid gaïly ride, an’ goo
To towns the rwoad mid teäke en drough,
An’ zee, for woonce, the zights behind
The bluest hills his eyes can vind,
O’ towns, an’ tow’rs,
An’ downs, an’ flow’rs,
In zunny hours, abroad, O.
But still, vor all the weather’s feäir,
Below a cloudless sky o’ blue,
The bwoy at plough do little ceäre
How vast the brightest day mid goo;
Vor he’d be glad to zee the zun
A-zettèn, wi’ his work a-done,
That he, at hwome, mid still injaÿ
His happy bit ov evenèn plaÿ,
So light’s a lark
Till night is dark,
While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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