When high-flown larks wer on the wing,
A warm-aïr’d holiday in Spring,
We stroll’d, ‘ithout a ceäre or frown,
Up roun’ the down at Meldonley;
An’ where the hawthorn-tree did stand
Alwone, but still wi’ mwore at hand,
We zot wi’ sheädes o’ clouds on high
A-flittèn by, at Meldonley.
An’ there, the while the tree did sheäde
Their gigglèn heads, my knife’s keen bleäde
Carved out, in turf avore my knee,
J. L., *T. D., at Meldonley.
‘Twer Jessie Lee J. L. did meän,
T. D. did stan’ vor Thomas Deäne;
The “L” I scratch’d but slight, vor he
Mid soon be D, at Meldonley.
An’ when the vields o’ wheat did spread
Vrom hedge to hedge in sheets o’ red.
An’ bennets wer a-sheäkèn brown.
Upon the down at Meldonley,
We stroll’d ageän along the hill,
An’ at the hawthorn-tree stood still,
To zee J. L. vor Jessie Lee,
An’ my T. D., at Meldonley.
The grey-poll’d bennet-stems did hem
Each half-hid letter’s zunken rim,
By leädy’s-vingers that did spread
In yollow red, at Meldonley.
An’ heärebells there wi’ light blue bell
Shook soundless on the letter L,
To ment the bells when L vor Lee
Become a D at Meldonley.
Vor Jessie, now my wife, do strive
Wi’ me in life, an’ we do thrive;
Two sleek-heäired meäres do sprackly pull
My waggon vull, at Meldonley;
An’ small-hoof’d sheep, in vleeces white,
Wi’ quickly-pankèn zides, do bite
My thymy grass, a-mark’d vor me
In black, T. D., at Meldonley.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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