When mornen winds, a-blowen high,
Do zweep the clouds vrom all the sky,
An' laurel-leaves do glitter bright,
The while the newly broken light
Do brighten up, avore our view,
The vields wi' green, an' hills wi' blue;
What then can highten to my eyes
The cheerful feaece ov e'th an' skies,
But Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.
An' when, at last, the evenen dews
Do now begin to wet our shoes;
An' night's a-riden to the west,
To stop our work, an' gi'e us rest,
Oh! let the candle's ruddy gleaere
But brighten up her sheenen heaeir;
Or else, as she do walk abroad,
Let moonlight show, upon the road,
My Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.
An' O! mid never tears come on,
To wash her feaece's blushes wan,
Nor kill her smiles that now do play
Like sparklen weaeves in zunny May;
But mid she still, vor all she's gone
Vrom souls she now do smile upon,
Show others they can vind woone jay
To turn the hardest work to play.
My Meaery's smile, o' Morey's Mill,
My rwose o' Mowy Lea.