The woaken tree, so hollow now,
To souls ov other times wer sound,
An' reach'd on ev'ry zide a bough
Above their heads, a-gather'd round,
But zome light veet
That here did meet
In friendship sweet, vor rest or jay,
Shall be a-miss'd another May.
My childern here, in playvul pride
Did zit 'ithin his wooden walls,
A-menten steaetely vo'k inside
O' castle towers an' lofty halls.
But now the vloor
An' mossy door
That woonce they wore would be too small
To teaeke em in, so big an' tall.
Theaese year do show, wi' snow-white cloud,
An' deaesies in a sprinkled bed,
An' green-bough birds a-whislen loud,
The looks o' zummer days a-vled;
An' grass do grow,
An' men do mow,
An' all do show the wold times' feaece
Wi' new things in the wold things' pleaece.