'Twer when the vo'k wer out to hawl
A vield o' hay a day in June,
An' when the zun begun to vall
Toward the west in afternoon,
Woone only wer a-left behind
To bide indoors, at hwome, an' mind
The house, an' answer vo'k avore
The geaete or door,—young Fanny Deaene.
The air 'ithin the geaerden wall
Wer deadly still, unless the bee
Did hummy by, or in the hall
The clock did ring a-hetten dree,
An' there, wi' busy hands, inside
The iron ceaesement, oben'd wide,
Did zit an' pull wi' nimble twitch
Her tiny stitch, young Fanny Deaene.
As there she zot she heaerd two blows
A-knock'd upon the rumblen door,
An' laid azide her work, an' rose,
An' walk'd out feaeir, athirt the vloor;
An' there, a-holden in his hand
His bridled meaere, a youth did stand,
An' mildly twold his neaeme and pleaece
Avore the feaece o' Fanny Deaene.
He twold her that he had on hand
Zome business on his father's zide,
But what she didden understand;
An' zoo she ax'd en if he'd ride
Out where her father mid be vound,
Bezide the plow, in Cowslip Ground;
An' there he went, but left his mind
Back there behind, wi' Fanny Deaene.
An' oh! his hwomeward road wer gay
In air a-blowen, whiff by whiff,
While sheenen water-weaeves did play
An' boughs did sway above the cliff;
Vor Time had now a-show'd en dim
The jay it had in store vor him;
An' when he went thik road ageaen
His errand then wer Fanny Deaene.
How strangely things be brought about
By Providence, noo tongue can tell,
She minded house, when vo'k wer out,
An' zoo mus' bid the house farewell;
The bees mid hum, the clock mid call
The lwonesome hours 'ithin the hall,
But in behind the woaken door,
There's now noo mwore a Fanny Deaene.