Second Collection. The Maïd o’ Newton
In zummer, when the knaps wer bright In cool-aïr’d evenèn’s western light, An’ haÿ that had a-dried all day, Did now lie grey, to dewy night; I went, by happy chance, or doom, Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, An’ met a maïd in all her bloom: The feaïrest maïd o’ Newton. She bore a basket that did ride So light, she didden leän azide; Her feäce wer oval, an’ she smil’d So sweet’s a child, but walk’d wi’ pride. I spoke to her, but what I zaid I didden know; wi’ thoughts a-vled, I spoke by heart, an’ not by head, Avore the maïd o’ Newton. I call’d her, oh! I don’t know who, ’Twer by a neäme she never knew; An’ to the heel she stood upon, She then brought on her hinder shoe, An’ stopp’d avore me, where we met, An’ wi’ a smile woone can’t vorget, She zaid, wi’ eyes a-zwimmèn wet, “No, I be woone o’ Newton.” Then on I rambled to the west, Below the zunny hangèn’s breast, Where, down athirt the little stream, The brudge’s beam did lie at rest: But all the birds, wi’ lively glee, Did chirp an’ hop vrom tree to tree, As if it war vrom pride, to zee Goo by the maïd o’ Newton. By fancy led, at evenèn’s glow, I woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow, Down where the elèms, stem by stem, Do stan’ to hem the grove below; But after that, my veet vorzook The grove, to seek the little brook At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look, To meet the maïd o’ Newton.
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