Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom,
An' the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An' the bells be a-zenden all down the Coombe
From tower, their mwoansome sound.
An' the wind is still,
An' the house-dogs do bark,
An' the rooks be a-vled to the elems high an' dark,
An' the water do roar at mill.
An' the flickeren light drough the window-peaene
Vrom the candle's dull fleaeme do shoot,
An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leaene,
A-playen his shrill-vaiced flute.
An' the miller's man
Do zit down at his ease
On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees.
Wi' his pipe an' his cider can.