The air to gi'e your cheaeks a hue
O' rwosy red, so feair to view,
Is what do sheaeke the grass-bleaedes gray
At breaek o' day, in mornen dew;
Vor vo'k that will be rathe abrode,
Will meet wi' health upon their road.
But biden up till dead o' night,
When han's o' clocks do stan' upright,
By candle-light, do soon consume
The feaece's bloom, an' turn it white.
An' light a-cast vrom midnight skies
Do blunt the sparklen ov the eyes.
Vor health do weaeke vrom nightly dreams
Below the mornen's eaerly beams,
An' leaeve the dead-air'd houses' eaves,
Vor quiv'ren leaves, an' bubblen streams,
A-glitt'ren brightly to the view,
Below a sky o' cloudless blue.