When in the evenèn the zun’s a-zinkèn,
A drowèn sheädes vrom the yollow west,
An’ mother, weary, ‘s a-zot a thinkèn,
Wi’ vwolded eärms by the vire at rest,
Then we do zwarm, O,
Wi’ such a charm, O,
So vull o’ glee by the welshnut tree.
A-leävèn father in-doors, a-leinèn’
In his girt chair in his easy shoes,
Or in the settle so high behine en,
While down bezide en the dog do snooze,
Our tongues do run, O,
Enough to stun, O,
Your head wi’ glee by the welshnut tree.
There we do plaÿ ‘thread the woman’s needle.’
An’ slap the maïdens a-dartèn drough:
Or try who’ll ax em the hardest riddle,
Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true;
Or zit an’ ring, O,
The bells, ding, ding, O,
Upon our knee by the welshnut tree.
An’ zome do goo out, an’ hide in orcha’t,
An’ tothers, slily a-stealèn by,
Where there’s a dark cunnèn pleäce, do sarch it,
Till they do zee em an’ cry, “I spy,”
An’ thik a-vound, O,
Do gi’e a bound, O,
To get off free to the welshnut tree.
Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her,
Inzide a woak wi’ a hollow moot,
An’ drough a hole near the groun’ behind her,
I pok’d a stick in, an’ catch’d her voot;
An’ out she scream’d, O,
An’ jump’d, an’ seem’d, O,
A-móst to vlee to the welshnut tree.
An’ when, at last, at the drashel, mother
Do call us, smilèn, in-door to rest,
Then we do cluster by woone another,
To zee hwome them we do love the best:
An’ then do sound, O,
“Good night,” all round, O,
To end our glee by the welshnut tree.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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