Well, you mid keep the town an' street,
Wi' grassless stwones to beaet your veet,
An' zunless windows where your brows
Be never cooled by swayen boughs;
An' let me end, as I begun,
My days in oben air an' zun,
Where zummer win's a-blowen sweet,
Wi' blooth o' trees as white's a sheet;
Or swayen boughs, a-benden low
Wi' rip'nen apples in a row,
An' we a-risen rathe do meet
The bright'nen dawn wi' dewy veet,
An' leaeve, at night, the vootless groves,
To rest 'ithin our thatchen oves.
An' here our childern still do bruise
The deaeisy buds wi' tiny shoes,
As we did meet avore em, free
Vrom ceaere, in play below the tree.
An' there in me'th their lively eyes
Do glissen to the zunny skies,
As air do blow, wi' leaezy peaece
To cool, in sheaede, their burnen feaece.
Where leaves o' spreaden docks do hide
The zawpit's timber-lwoaded zide,
An' trees do lie, wi' scraggy limbs,
Among the deaeisy's crimson rims.
An' they, so proud, wi' eaerms a-spread
To keep their balance good, do tread
Wi' ceaereful steps o' tiny zoles
The narrow zides o' trees an' poles.
An' zoo I'll leaeve vor your light veet
The peaevement o' the zunless street,
While I do end, as I begun,
My days in oben air an' zun.