The windless copse ha' sheaedy boughs,
Wi' blackbirds' evenen whistles;
The hills ha' sheep upon their brows,
The zummerleaeze ha' thistles:
The meaeds be gay in grassy May,
But, oh! vrom hill to hollow,
Let me look down upon a groun'
O' corn a-turnen yollow.
An' pease do grow in tangled beds,
An' beaens be sweet to snuff, O;
The teaeper woats do bend their heads,
The barley's beard is rough, O.
The turnip green is fresh between
The corn in hill or hollow,
But I'd look down upon a groun'
O' wheat a-turnen yollow.
'Tis merry when the brawny men
Do come to reap it down, O,
Where glossy red the poppy head
'S among the stalks so brown, O.
'Tis merry while the wheat's in hile,
Or when, by hill or hollow,
The leaezers thick do stoop to pick
The ears so ripe an' yollow.