be bad, at hwome, O

An' there the zunny land do lie
Below the hangen, in the lew,
Wi' vurrows now a-crumblen 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 meaeple wrides.
As trees be bright
Wi' bees in flight,
An' weather's bright, abroad, O.

An' there, as sheenen 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 gaily ride, an' goo
To towns the rwoad mid teaeke 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 feaeir,
Below a cloudless sky o' blue,
The bwoy at plough do little ceaere
How vast the brightest day mid goo;
Vor he'd be glad to zee the zun
A-zetten, wi' his work a-done,
That he, at hwome, mid still injay
His happy bit ov evenen play,
So light's a lark
Till night is dark,
While dogs do bark, at hwome, O.

THE BWOAT.

Where cows did slowly seek the brink
O' _Stour_, drough zunburnt grass, to drink;
Wi' vishen float, that there did zink
An' rise, I zot as in a dream.
The dazzlen zun did cast his light
On hedge-row blossom, snowy white,
Though nothen yet did come in zight,
A-stirren on the strayen stream;

Till, out by sheaedy rocks there show'd,
A bwoat along his foamy road,
Wi' thik feaeir maid at mill, a-row'd
Wi' Jeaene behind her brother's oars.
An' steaetely as a queen o' vo'k,
She zot wi' floaten scarlet cloak,
An' comen on, at ev'ry stroke,
Between my withy-sheaeded shores.

The broken stream did idly try
To show her sheaepe a-riden by,
The rushes brown-bloom'd stems did ply,
As if they bow'd to her by will.
The rings o' water, wi' a sock,
Did break upon the mossy rock,
An' gi'e my beaeten heart a shock,
Above my float's up-leapen quill.

Then, lik' a cloud below the skies,
A-drifted off, wi' less'nen size,
An' lost, she floated vrom my eyes,
Where down below the stream did wind;
An' left the quiet weaeves woonce mwore
To zink to rest, a sky-blue'd vloor,
Wi' all so still's the clote they bore,
Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.