Pentridge!—oh! my heart's a-zwellen
Vull o' jay wi' vo'k a-tellen
Any news o' thik wold pleaece,
An' the boughy hedges round it,
An' the river that do bound it
Wi' his dark but glis'nen feaece.
Vor there's noo land, on either hand,
To me lik' Pentridge by the river.
Be there any leaves to quiver
On the aspen by the river?
Doo he sheaede the water still,
Where the rushes be a-growen,
Where the sullen Stour's a-flowen
Drough the meaeds vrom mill to mill?
Vor if a tree wer dear to me,
Oh! 'twer thik aspen by the river.
There, in eegrass new a-shooten,
I did run on even vooten,
Happy, over new-mow'd land;
Or did zing wi' zingen drushes
While I plaited, out o' rushes,
Little baskets vor my hand;
Bezide the clote that there did float,
Wi' yollow blossoms, on the river.
When the western zun's a vallen,
What sh'ill vaice is now a-callen
Hwome the deaeiry to the pails;
Who do dreve em on, a-flingen
Wide-bow'd horns, or slowly zwingen
Right an' left their tufty tails?
As they do goo a-huddled drough
The geaete a-leaeden up vrom river.
Bleaeded grass is now a-shooten
Where the vloor wer woonce our vooten,
While the hall wer still in pleaece.
Stwones be looser in the wallen;
Hollow trees be nearer vallen;
Ev'ry thing ha' chang'd its feaece.
But still the neaeme do bide the seaeme—
'Tis Pentridge—Pentridge by the river.