"Can all be still, when win's do blow?
Look down the grove an' zee
The boughs a-swingen on the tree,
An' beaeten weaeves below.
Zee how the tweilen vo'k do bend
Upon their windward track,
Wi' ev'ry string, an' garment's end,
A-flutt'ren at their back."
I cried, wi' sorrow sore a-tried,
An' hung, wi' Jenny at my zide,
My head upon my breast.
Wi' strokes o' grief so hard to bear,
'Tis hard vor souls to rest.
Can all be dull, when zuns do glow?
Oh! no; look down the grove,
Where zides o' trees be bright above;
An' weaeves do sheen below;
An' neaeked stems o' wood in hedge
Do gleaem in streaeks o' light,
An' rocks do gleaere upon the ledge
O' yonder zunny height,
"No, Jeaene, wi' trials now withdrawn,
Lik' darkness at a happy dawn."
I cried, "Noo mwore despair;
Wi' our lost peace ageaen a-vound,
'Tis wrong to harbour ceaere."