Third Collection. The Wheel Routs
’Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome Wi’ Jenny, vor her honey-moon, But still a goodish hansel come Behind her perty soon, Vor stick, an’ dish, an’ spoon, all vell To Jeäne, vrom Aunt o’ Camwy dell. Zoo all the lot o’ stuff a-tied Upon the plow, a tidy tod, On gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride, Wi’ ho’ses, iron-shod, That, as their heads did nod, my whip Did guide along wi’ lightsome flip. An’ there it rod ’ithin the rwope, Astraïn’d athirt, an’ straïn’d along, Down Thornhay’s evenèn-lighted slope An’ up the beech-tree drong; Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out On either zide a deep-zunk rout. An’ when at Fall the trees wer brown, Above the bennet-bearèn land, When beech-leaves slowly whiver’d down, By evenèn winds a-fann’d; The routs wer each a band o’ red, A-vill’d by drifted beech-leaves dead. An’ when, in Winter’s leafless light, The keener eastern wind did blow, An’ scatter down, avore my zight, A chilly cwoat o’ snow; The routs ageän did show vull bright, In two long streaks o’ glitt’rèn white. But when, upon our weddèn night, The cart’s light wheels, a-rollèn round, Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light To mark the yieldèn ground; Or welcome would be vound a peäir O’ green-vill’d routs a-runnèn there. Zoo let me never bring ’ithin My dwellèn what’s a-won by wrong, An’ can’t come in ’ithout a sin; Vor only zee how long The waggon marks in drong, did show Wi’ leaves, wi’ grass, wi’ groun’ wi’ snow.
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