Now the yollow zun, a-runnen
Daily round a smaller bow,
Still wi' cloudless sky's a-zunnen
All the sheenen land below.
Vewer blossoms now do blow,
But the fruit's a-showen
Reds an' blues, an' purple hues,
By the leaves a-glowen.
Now the childern be a-pryen
Roun' the berried bremble-bow,
Zome a-laughen, woone a-cryen
Vor the slent her frock do show.
Bwoys be out a-pullen low
Slooe-boughs, or a-runnen
Where, on zides of hazzle-wrides,
Nuts do hang a-zunnen.
Where do reach roun' wheat-ricks yollow
Oves o' thatch, in long-drawn ring,
There, by stubbly hump an' hollow,
Russet-dappled dogs do spring.
Soon my apple-trees wull fling
Bloomen balls below em,
That shall hide, on ev'ry zide
Ground where we do drow em.