Though ice do hang upon the willows
Out bezide the vrozen brook,
An' storms do roar above our pillows,
Drough the night, 'ithin our nook;
Our evenen he'th's a-glowen warm,
Drough wringen vrost, an' roaren storm,
Though winds mid meaeke the wold beams sheaeke,
In our abode in Arby Wood.
An' there, though we mid hear the timber
Creake avore the windy rain;
An' climen ivy quiver, limber,
Up ageaen the window peaene;
Our merry vaices then do sound,
In rollen glee, or dree-vaice round;
Though wind mid roar, 'ithout the door,
Ov our abode in Arby Wood.