A-swayen slow, the poplar's head,
Above the slopen thatch did ply,
The while the midnight moon did shed
His light below the spangled sky.
An' there the road did reach avore
The hatch, all vootless down the hill;
An' hands, a-tired by day, wer still,
Wi' moonlight on the door.
A-boomen deep, did slowly sound
The bell, a-tellen middle night;
The while the quiv'ren ivy, round
The tree, did sheaeke in softest light.
But vootless wer the stwone avore
The house where I, the maidens guest,
At evenen, woonce did zit at rest
By moonlight on the door.
Though till the dawn, where night's a-meaede
The day, the laughen crowds be gay,
Let evenen zink wi' quiet sheaede,
Where I do hold my little sway.
An' childern dear to my heart's core,
A-sleep wi' little heaven breast,
That pank'd by day in play, do rest
Wi' moonlight on the door.
But still 'tis good, woonce now an' then
To rove where moonlight on the land
Do show in vain, vor heedless men,
The road, the vield, the work in hand.
When curtains be a-hung avore
The glitt'ren windows, snowy white,
An' vine-leaf sheaedes do sheaeke in light
O' moonlight on the door.