As I, below the mornen sky,
Wer out a worken in the lew
O' black-stemm'd thorns, a-springen high,
Avore the worold-bounden blue,
A-reaeken, under woak tree boughs,
The orts a-left behin' by cows.
Above the grey-grow'd thistle rings,
An' deaeisy-buds, the lark, in flight,
Did zing a-loft, wi' flappen wings,
Tho' mwore in heaeren than in zight;
The while my bwoys, in playvul me'th,
Did run till they wer out o' breath.
Then woone, wi' han'-besheaeded eyes,
A-stoppen still, as he did run,
Look'd up to zee the lark arise
A-zingen to the high-gone zun;
The while his brother look'd below
Vor what the groun' mid have to show
Zoo woone did watch above his head
The bird his hands could never teaeke;
An' woone, below, where he did tread,
Vound out the nest within the breaeke;
But, aggs be only woonce a-vound,
An' uncaught larks ageaen mid sound.