Aye, at that time our days wer but vew,
An' our lim's wer but small, an' a-growen;
An' then the feaeir worold wer new,
An' life wer all hopevul an' gay;
An' the times o' the sprouten o' leaves,
An' the cheaek-burnen seasons o' mowen,
An' binden o' red-headed sheaves,
Wer all welcome seasons o' jay.
Then the housen seem'd high, that be low,
An' the brook did seem wide that is narrow,
An' time, that do vlee, did goo slow,
An' veelens now feeble wer strong,
An' our worold did end wi' the neaemes
Ov the Sha'sbury Hill or Bulbarrow;
An' life did seem only the geaemes
That we play'd as the days rolled along.
Then the rivers, an' high-timber'd lands,
An' the zilvery hills, 'ithout buyen,
Did seem to come into our hands
Vrom others that own'd em avore;
An' all zickness, an' sorrow, an' need,
Seem'd to die wi' the wold vo'k a-dyen,
An' leaeve us vor ever a-freed
Vrom evils our vorefathers bore.
But happy be childern the while
They have elders a-liven to love em,
An' teaeke all the wearisome tweil
That zome hands or others mus' do;
Like the low-headed shrubs that be warm,
In the lewth o' the trees up above em,
A-screen'd vrom the cwold blowen storm
That the timber avore em must rue.